Split Second (7 page)

He stood and waited, holding his breath, his head inclined to catch the faintest echo, eyes shut the better to smell Jason’s approach – a mix of sugar and mint from the gum he was always chewing and the cologne his mother had bought him last birthday. A better option than the Lynx body spray he’d favoured for years.

Andrew’s father found him on the stairs. ‘You need a hand with those?’

Andrew looked down, bewildered at the bags in his hands, felt the ache in his fingers and wrists, the numb pain across his back. He tried to remember what was in the luggage and where he was meant to be taking it.

‘There’s a site for Jason,’ Val said, her eyes glittering painfully, ‘on Facebook. Look.’ She pushed the laptop along the table. He turned away.

‘All his friends,’ she said, ‘and people who never even met him. Thirteen thousand already,’ she added.

Andrew stared down at the table. People jumping on the bandwagon, pseudo-grief, trite platitudes from strangers.

‘There are some lovely messages,’ Val went on, pulling the laptop back. ‘And photographs.’

The anger came without warning, a bolt of it, driving him to his feet, pushing him away from the table, roaring in his ears, drowning out the murmurs of shock and concern.

He bowled out into the conservatory and wrenched at the patio doors, locked of course. Beat at them with his fists. The garden beyond draped in snow, a splash of yellow on the witch-hazel, frilly flowers like shredded crêpe paper, the old stone bird table and footsteps leading to and back, the shocked flight of robins and magpies as he shook the doors.

‘Andrew.’ She was behind him, tears in her voice. Her hand on his shoulder, her head on his back. ‘We have to do this,’ she said. ‘We weren’t the only ones who loved him. And there are things we have to do: the arrangements, the funeral, work out what he’d have liked.’

What he’d have liked? Christ, the preposterous notion made him choke back a laugh. What he’d have liked! He’d have liked to live, he’d have liked to get a degree and drink too much with his mates and play the field, he’d have liked to grow up and get hitched and maybe have kids himself, see something of this world and smell the fucking daisies.

Andrew shifted, turned to her.

‘We’ll do it together,’ she said. She was always so strong, so sure. She put her hands to his face, kissed him.

* * *

Martine had information for them. The police were releasing the name of the victim – the one Jason had gone to help. Luke Murray.

Andrew felt a spike of anger, a needle inside, hot and piercing. ‘Why would they do this? Beat up this Luke and then take a knife . . .’ he demanded. ‘Why?’ He had to stand up. Move.

‘We don’t know,’ Martine said. ‘Once we’ve identified them—’

He spoke over her. ‘There must be a reason.’

‘Once we’ve apprehended the suspects, we might have more information.’

‘Was it a racist attack?’

‘That’s one avenue we are exploring. I understand it must be very frustrating for you both,’ Martine said.

‘It doesn’t matter why,’ Val said. ‘There probably isn’t any good reason. But they’ll pay for it.’ Her lips trembled.

Andrew’s anger drained away. He sat back down. Val took his hand. As Martine talked about the investigation and how it was going, Andrew was back in the garden, his feet cold and wet on the snow, seeing the lurid stain against the white, the ruin of Luke Murray’s face, watching Jason screaming for him to call the ambulance, seeing the smallest boy flailing and then running to the gate, his accomplices, their faces contorted as they screamed. He felt his throat spasm, mouth water, then a convulsion in his abdomen. He made it to the downstairs toilet and puked until he was spent. He gazed bleary-eyed at the face in the mirror, wiped the string of drool from his chin, his fingers white and bloodless. There was something odd; he stared, puzzled over it, then realized that he hadn’t shaved, his face was shadowed with thick stubble.

Someone came to find him eventually, someone always came after him even though he wanted to be left alone.

Their house was pictured on the news again, police tape fluttering in the slight breeze, which snatched the lightest dusting of snow and blew it round in a fine spiral. Outside their fence, bouquets of flowers and cards and candles. The photograph of Jason, and then two images of Luke Murray. The second one showing his horrific injuries. Val murmured in shock and Andrew groaned. The bare facts of the case were narrated, then the man leading the inquiry appealed for information.

When the next item came on, Val muted the sound. Turned to Martine. ‘When can we go home?’

‘I’d suggest leaving it for a few more days,’ Martine said. ‘You’d be likely to be besieged by the press if you went back now.’

‘But you can’t stop us?’ There was grit in her tone.

‘Maybe we’re better here,’ Andrew ventured.

Val turned to him. ‘I want to be closer to Jason. I want to be where he was.’

He swallowed.

‘Let me check how things stand.’ Martine got up. ‘I’ll make a call.’

Andrew reached out a hand, covered Val’s. It was the best he could offer by way of support, but the prospect of returning home filled him with cold dread.

‘I need some air,’ he said to Val later. ‘I need to get out.’

‘Want company?’

Oh God. His heart contracted; he felt a pulse quicken in the roof of his mouth. He hesitated. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he felt trapped.

She understood. She let him go.

Andrew walked towards town, avoiding the centre of the pavement where the snow had been compacted to treacherous ice, stepping instead on the edges, on the untouched white. The snow creaking underfoot.

He could see his breath, milky smoke.

Dragon’s breath!
Jason chortling, six years old and his head full of dinosaurs and pirates.

The sun was hidden; clouds mottled pearly grey blanketed the sky. The bushes, each twig and leaf, were laced with frost. He walked north towards Withington. On the eighteenth-century maps, this was a toll road from Manchester to Oxford; Withington was where one of the turnpikes had been, a village surrounded by farmland before it had grown and fused with others to form the city. The route south was dotted with coaching inns every few miles, forerunners of the railway stations. He glimpsed a snowman on a side road, squat and plain, eyes but no other features, no hat or scarf. He passed the milestone outside the fire station:
4 miles to Manchester, to Centre of Saint Ann’s
on one face,
8 ¼ miles to Wilmslow
on the other.

He walked on; let his eyes roam over the buildings, shops and houses, apartment blocks. All this now charted in the A–Z, captured on Google Earth, in aerial or street view. He and Jason had looked up their house when they first downloaded the software; they had worked out when the photograph must have been taken, because it showed the old greenhouse, which had been wrecked by spring storms and had been taken down by Andrew shortly after and replaced with a polytunnel.

He reached Rusholme. The streets were chock-a-block here, the shops and Indian restaurants brightly lit and buzzing with people even though it was daytime. The traffic was loud, buses lumbering along the bus lane and taxis and cars snarled up in the narrow road. Someone sounded a horn repeatedly. People were shouting to each other, walking too close to Andrew; they were staring at him. A fine sweat broke out over the whole of his body and his heart hammered painfully.

He took the first turning right, away from the main thoroughfare. Soon he was on quiet streets, halls of residence empty for the holidays. Had anyone told Durham about Jason? Val would know; she was keeping a list, an A4 pad to help them stay on track. On track to where? Destination unknown. How could they know the right route? No one else had made this journey, not this exact same journey. Even if others had lost a child, they hadn’t lost Jason. Andrew didn’t want to be forced along any particular path. He wanted to wander in the wilderness. Yes, like some deranged prophet, grow a beard and rent his clothes and live on honey and locusts. Hah! The image, the pathetic self-pity, made him bark a laugh, and a woman across the street looked over in alarm.

He reached another arterial road, where the tall buildings on either side funnelled air into a wind. The pavements here had been treated, the brown grit mixed with slush, fudge coloured.

He felt cold, his back tense, shoulders raised. His nose was running but he had no tissues. He sniffed, and when that didn’t help, resorted to wiping his nose on the back of his glove.

He went in through the A&E entrance. They’d brought Jason here. He wasn’t here now; he was in the funeral parlour. Andrew’s eyes ached at the thought. Couldn’t bear it. He checked the hospital map and found the location he sought, then navigated his way among the visitors and staff, the walking wounded and the patients pushed in wheelchairs and on trolleys.

There was a buzzer entry system at the Intensive Care Unit. Andrew hesitated, then pressed the button. He could see through the glass to the reception desk. One of the nurses stretched out an arm, pressed the release for the door.

The phone was ringing inside the unit. Andrew’s eyes roamed over the chart behind the desk. The list of names and bed numbers, initials for consultants and care. He found the right name and felt an eddy of apprehension.

‘I wanted to check on visiting hours,’ he said.

The nurse smiled up at him. ‘We don’t have any restrictions, though we only allow two people per patient at any one time.’ She leant towards the phone. ‘Who is it you want?’

Andrew swallowed. ‘Luke Murray.’ Barely a whisper.

‘Sorry?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Luke Murray.’

‘Second on the left.’ She picked up the phone.

Andrew walked down the corridor, pulling off his gloves and loosening his scarf, his bowels turned to water. He used the gel dispenser at the door to Luke’s room.

He held his breath as he went in, released it with a shudder when he saw there was no one else there, just Luke. He stood staring at the figure on the bed, the boy utterly still, his face half covered with an oxygen mask. Machines and pumps and equipment ringed the bed, arrayed around him like so many mechanical vultures.

It was quiet in the room, just the click and shush of some of the equipment and distant sounds from the corridor muffled by the door. He looked, taking in the bandage on the head, the boy’s brown arms on the blanket, hands flat at his sides. Steeled himself to focus on the face, the places not hidden by the mask.

A rush of air. ‘You can sit down, you know.’

Andrew jumped, nerves flickering like lightning. The nurse smiled. ‘It’s quite safe.’

‘I have to go, I can’t stay.’ He almost bolted, his pulse racing, but he fought the urge and walked, legs unsteady, back up the ward.

A woman stood aside to let him pass, small and dark-haired, pallid, weary-looking. He nodded his thanks.

Seconds later he heard footsteps swift behind him, turned and saw the same woman, anxious, alert. ‘Oi!’

Andrew stopped, puzzled.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

‘Sorry?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘You will be,’ she snapped, ‘if you don’t tell me who you are.’

‘Andrew Barnes,’ he said.

She gave a little snort, shook her head, the name not registering. ‘What were you doing with Luke?’

‘Sorry, I—’

‘Tell me.’

‘I’m Andrew Barnes.’ He blinked. ‘Jason Barnes’ father.’

She closed her eyes, put her hand to her head. ‘Oh God. I’m sorry. I’d no idea who you were, and after what they’ve done to him already . . .’ She shuddered, faltered.

She thought he might have come to cause harm.

‘Could you . . .’ Her eyes were naked now, bright with pain. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

S
he tried to gather her scattered wits by the time they reached the hospital café. Frame yourself, as her grandma would say whenever Louise was slow or reluctant to do something. She framed herself now. Began by apologizing to Andrew Barnes. ‘I’m sorry I bit your head off. You must think I’m cracked, but my mind’s in bits. And your boy, Jason – I’m so sorry.’

He nodded, then stared down at his coffee.

‘He saved Luke’s life, doing what he did.’

Andrew nodded again. Not giving much away. Trying to hold it all in, perhaps fearing that if he started talking it might all come rolling out, like a bag of marbles tipped over, clattering every which way.

‘I’m so very sorry,’ she said again. She was painfully aware that she still had Luke. Upstairs, resting, getting stronger every hour. She still had such hope that he’d get well and come home, and although things would never be like they were before, there would still be everything to look forward to. The man opposite had none of that.

‘Have the police told you anything?’ she asked, testing her cup with her fingers, still too hot to drink.

He shrugged. ‘Not really.’

He was a wreck, she thought, greying hair dishevelled, unshaven. She guessed he was in his late forties or early fifties, something like that. The skin on his face blotchy, his eyes bloodshot, stubble peppering his jaw. A pleasant face beneath the stress, but no more than that. His clothes were decent enough, but it didn’t appear that anyone was looking after him. Maybe he wouldn’t let them. She had clients like that, people who felt that accepting help was a sign of weakness, that it undermined their independence, reduced their selfesteem, or those who were so angry at their failing abilities that they wouldn’t countenance assistance, denying there was a problem, bitter and hurt.

She’d showered today, washed her hair, even put a load in the washing machine. Seemed like a big deal at the time, functioning. But her clothes weren’t ironed and she knew she looked wiped out too.

‘Did he know them? Luke?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘But the descriptions,’ he went on. She saw a glint of anger in the cast of his eyes. ‘You read them?’

‘Yes, it didn’t sound like anyone I could think of.’

‘So you think it was random? They picked on him out of the blue?’