The Mother (13 page)

The judge ponders this, seemingly swayed by both arguments. Then, as if thinking aloud, he suggests to St. Clare that the jury may be able to reach their own conclusions if the evidence is correctly presented. St. Clare overplays his hand, snaps, rather peevishly, I think, that His Lordship's mind works very quickly, perhaps quicker than some of the jury members. From the judge's expression, it is clear he has taken as much affront at having his jury called stupid as he would have if St. Clare had thus insulted his kin. The judge decides the jury can be shown the body-mapping images and have the custody nurse talk them through. The jury is brought back in and the custody nurse practitioner is called to give her evidence.

As she gets into the witness box, Ms. Manley arrives alone, wearing her oversized dark glasses, dolled and made up in designer gear, reeking of perfume, carrying a different expensive handbag from the one she sported on Friday. Tyson Manley notices her, gives her a slight nod of the head in
acknowledgment, then returns to watching the case unfold. It is almost eleven and I am disgusted with this woman who managed yesterday not to show up at all and who today has shown up late.

The custody nurse practitioner takes the stand in full nursing uniform, as though she has worn it specifically to quell the doubts of anyone who suspects she may be lying about the work she does for a living. Quigg explains to the jury that the purpose of this witness is to catalogue the injuries on the defendant's person at the time of the arrest, but not to ascribe to each injury a cause. She takes the nurse through the essentials, her name, that she has been employed by the Metropolitan Police Service for twenty-six years, that her role is to examine, treat, advise, and take samples from people who have entered police custody. She was on duty on March 19 and was asked by the custody sergeant on that date to body-map any visible injuries on the defendant's person, including those caused by the police during arrest. Again, in case of suspicion that any of Tyson Manley's human rights were violated, she is asked whether the procedure was explained to him, his permission obtained, and whether verbal and written consent was given for blood samples to be taken. She replies to all in the affirmative.

Quigg takes her and the jury through the injuries visible on the defendant's torso at the time of the examination as documented on the body maps that form part of the jury bundle. There are two horizontal consistent and uniform marks on the back of his legs that could have been the result of being hit with a baton or stick; a purple bruise and slight swelling on the left side of the upper back consistent with a Taser injury; multiple scratches on his upper arms; red graz
ing with no unbroken skin on his forehead; and dried blood and broken skin on his right knee. The nurse confirms all of these injuries were cleaned and body-mapped and that there was nothing else wrong with him, no vomiting, sweats, or pain, the suspect was alert and oriented, and the paperwork was completed and signed by them both.

The dried blood and broken skin on his right knee are in keeping with Nadine Forrester's statement that the person she saw fell to his right knee hard enough to have bruised or grazed it, but Quigg does not point this out and I wish she had. I hope the judge's assessment of the jury is correct, and that at least one of them has picked up on this small but significant detail.

Then Quigg calls to the stand the detective sergeant who carried out the taped interview with Tyson Manley. He confirms he works in the homicide division, explains for the benefit of the jury how police interviews are carried out and recorded, that he had a police constable with him throughout, and persons present also included Mr. Manley and his solicitor. Quigg asks him to read his questions aloud from the interview transcripts and says she will read the defendant's responses. She makes it clear that the parts they are reading aloud do not constitute the entirety of the interview, which lasted some eleven hours over two days, excluding breaks; repetition has been removed where the same question was asked over again, and a large number of questions that were asked and the defendant did not answer, as was his entitlement, have also been left out. The questions and answers that have been left in have been done so with the agreement of both the prosecution and the crown defense.

The particulars first: date, time commenced and concluded, and the place, that the defendant was advised he had the right if he wished to speak to his solicitor alone at any time, or to sit in silence or make no comment; just like his entitlement to kill my son then choose whether or not to take the stand and discuss it.

The first question posed by the detective sergeant relates to the fact that on March 18 a chap by the name of Ryan Williams was killed at the Sports Ground at around 18:20; did he attack this person? Quigg reads Manley's response: No.

Does he know Ryan Williams? No.

Where was he at the time the murder took place? At his girlfriend's yard.

What time did he arrive there? He'd been there since about four in the afternoon.

What was he doing there? Watching a film. Having dinner and sex.

What film did he watch? He can't remember.

Can he remember what it was about? No, he was more interested in having sex than watching the film.

Did he leave the property at any time? No, officer, definitely not.

Are there any witnesses who can corroborate his story? Sweetie Nelson was with him the whole time, she can.

On it goes. He knows nothing about the murder, wasn't there, doesn't know Ryan, has no idea if Sweetie does or why anyone would want to kill him. He's not some kind of madman. Why would he just kill someone he doesn't even know? Yes, he owned a brown sweatshirt with a gold monogram on it up until about a fortnight ago. No, it's no longer in his possession. He washed it one day and when he took it out of the
machine it was ruined so he threw it out, yeah, about two weeks ago. Obviously it's not possible he could have worn it since. Did anyone see him dispose of it? He asks the detective sergeant whether he normally has a witness observe him every time he throws something in his own dustbin? What about the clothing he was wearing the day before, where is it and why isn't he wearing it now? It's at his girlfriend's house. She'd bought him the new clothing he was arrested in, and had washed the clothes he was wearing when he arrived at her house. What was it he had on? A jersey. A waistcoat. Jeans. And all of these have been washed and are at her home? Yes. As part of the package of new clothes she bought him, did Sweetie also buy him new underpants, trainers, and socks? Yes, she did. Where are his old trainers? He gave them to some homeless guy near the entrance of the estate Sweetie lives on that morning after leaving her yard to go home. The detective sergeant suggests that is very convenient. Yes, it was, Tyson Manley agrees; they had begun to stink.

Ms. Manley actually chuckles at that response. It is quiet but does not go unnoticed by me. She thinks this is humorous, her boy is funny, that his response is witty, makes him look clever. What kind of woman is she? What kind of mother? To concern herself with clothes and looking cool at her son's trial, to show up late and laughing when she must know if he's convicted he'll spend the rest of his youth behind bars. If she'd spent half as much time teaching him right from wrong as she clearly spends on her appearance, neither of us would be sitting here now. I don't realize I'm staring at her till I feel Lorna nudge my arm and I look away, blink several times, look back down at the courtroom.

As the interview is read out and Tyson Manley continues
taking the piss out of the police, my anger grows. The reading is a parody of what a sensible interview should sound like. This is the day after my son has been killed,
the following day
. He is so confident, so relaxed, joking even, having fun. I don't think he cares whether the police know he's laughing at them or not, because he doesn't care about anything. This is the boy I've been yearning would give evidence, willing him to speak to help me understand, but if this interview is anything to go by, it's probably better if he simply keeps his mouth closed. I can hardly bear to listen to this interview being read out. How much worse would it be to actually watch him stand in front of the court and speak these words himself?

He glances at his mother occasionally, whenever Quigg reads out what I assume he believes is a clever response, and though his expression is unchanged, they are sharing this, the accused and his flamboyant mother, sharing it telepathically, like I shared intimate moments of humor in the past with Ryan through eye contact, but never, ever at such an inappropriate time. In order for me to have some kind of relief, I need to see upset, I need to see Tyson Manley cry or suffer or show some indication in any shape or form that what's happened is not just one of those things of no consequence whatsoever, and I am beginning to see it will not happen. It will not happen because he just doesn't care. He killed my son and he really doesn't care at all.

I look at him sitting behind the glass gazing out. He could be any random member of the public who has popped in to watch the proceedings, a guy dragged along to the cinema to take in a film of another person's choosing, he's that disconnected. I try to imagine him as a fourteen-year-old watching his brother die. Did he exhibit emotion then? Did he weep or
wail or cry? I wonder if he ever did have counseling. I study his face. No. He has had no counseling, or if he did, it was not the right kind or enough. Is that the reason my son is dead? Because no one deemed it money well spent to provide counseling for the young sibling of a person horrifically and violently slain in front of him? No one anticipated that a young person in that circumstance could not just pick up the blood-splattered pieces of his life and become a model student who would grow into an outstanding citizen? No one could anticipate that he was already in a dehumanizing spiral of violence that required intervention of some kind to break and end it? That some action needed to be taken to restore this young boy's sensibilities, to fix him?

It happens at lunchtime. The boys go off on their own and Kwame comes with Nipa, Lorna, and me to Wagamama for lunch, where we are quickly shown to a table, given our menus, and I ask Lorna to order for me because I'm bursting, then hurry to the Ladies, where I find one of the booths free. I use it, and as I exit the cubicle, she is there, bent over a sink, splashing water on her face, reviving herself, freshening up. There are only two sinks so I go to the one beside her, turn the tap on, begin to wash my hands while watching her in the mirror till she turns the tap off and looks up, and my eyes meet those of the woman whose son has killed mine. It is the first time we have been in such close proximity, alone.

I don't know if she has some kind of medical problem or smokes weed, but the whites of her eyes are intensely yellow, broken only by thin red veins. They are the kind of eyes that make people glad they've not had her life. They are tired and worn and at the same time, filled with anger. They easily add
a decade to her face, and now I have seen them I understand better why she might choose to conceal them with fancy specs. For the first time I feel something akin to sympathy for this woman who has had one child taken from her violently and had to find the strength, a way to hang on, keep going, raise the living children still in her care, this woman who is no stranger to the uniqueness of the pain I bear. We inhabit a common ground, which is only crumbling around the edges because of our sons; mine is dead and hers has brought me to this pariah's place. We maintain eye contact as I wash my hands and she dries her face without speaking.

When she has finished she asks, “What?”

I have no idea of the answer, no idea what I want from her or would like her to say, or would like to say to her. I have no experience of what a person in her circumstances might think or be moved to articulate. She surely knows her son committed this act. Is it an apology I expect? If she offered one, would it make a difference?

She takes her comb out of her bag, tidies up around the edges of her hair—lucky her to still have hair left to tidy. When she finishes, she says, “There's a war going on out there. Your son was collateral damage.” She puts on her sunglasses. Then leaves.

A moment later, Nipa and Lorna crash into the women's toilets in a panic, presumably having seen her as she passed them on her way out. Maybe they thought the killing gene was hereditary and that she had attacked me in the toilets. They would have been right. She did attack me, with the most powerful of weapons, words.

“Collateral damage,” Lorna repeats when I tell her what Ms. Manley said. “Collateral fucking damage? What a bitch!”

WHEN SHE RETURNS TO THE
gallery after lunch she has a young man with her who is dressed like he thinks he's a rap star. They are late and have already missed the beginning of the agreed facts, which include the coroner's report, and that at the time of his death, Ryan was carrying a knife. It was discovered at the base of his schoolbag covered in his fingerprints. It is unsheathed from the evidence bag, described as a flick knife with a ten-centimeter folding blade, and is paraded back and forth across the front of the jury box for a period of time which really isn't that long, but is nonetheless excruciating. Then there's the record of Tyson Manley's previous convictions. The convictions the jury are informed of do not include the unrelated convictions I am familiar with, the handling of stolen goods, criminal damage, loitering with intent, nor does the list include charges of which he has been acquitted in the past; possession with intent to supply. Only those convictions deemed relevant to the charges in this case are made public; possession of a class B drug, and aggra
vated possession of a knife. Quigg works her way through these details, bringing the prosecution case to a close. The judge suggests a short break of fifteen minutes, and when we return, St. Clare stands to commence the defense's case, calling Sweetie Nelson as his first witness.

She looks tiny in the witness box, the girl without a proper name and the brawling laugh, who gave my son the gift of a knife and her boyfriend not only the motive to kill him but the alibi also to cover his tracks. She is simply attired, in a white shirt and short office skirt, like an office temp or admin assistant, more conservatively dressed than I have ever seen her. Her kinky afro gives her an indomitable look, but her body language is defensive. She glances at Tyson Manley briefly. I can see no difference in his body language in response to her though I really cannot say how much I wish I could. Perhaps if I saw a flash of something, love, desire, possessiveness, feeling, the murder of my son might have some point. Instead it's just more indifference, more and the same. He killed my son not because he was enraged or jealous or slighted; he killed him simply because he could.

I wrote a Victim Personal Statement about a month after Ryan died. It is a document that is read out to the court after the trial if the accused is found guilty, taken into account by the judge before sentencing. In it I wrote about the impact Ryan's death has had on me, on all of us, the many people who loved my son. I struggled to find the words to explain, wanted so desperately to make his killer know the exact degree of devastation his death has had upon us. I talked about Ryan in it, wanted him to be more than merely “the deceased,” wanted his murderer to know, as I did, how bright
Ryan's light burned, how gentle he was, how much he cared for others, for every living creature. I said in my statement that the killer's act took my son and changed my world. I hoped to look his killer in the eyes and read it aloud myself. In the event that I could not, the plan was for Lorna to read it on my behalf.

I should have saved myself the effort and paper. My Victim Personal Statement is only worthwhile reading to a person who has the capacity for remorse; on this defendant it is wasted. I need to speak to Nipa, find out if it can be withdrawn, if I can write another one. I have no idea what exactly I will say in it instead, just know that I could not bear to see the indifference on Tyson Manley's face as I stood there and poured my heart out. It would be like giving him my son again and I will not do that. I must remember to ask Nipa later, see what can be done.

Sweetie takes the Bible from the usher standing close by and begins to read the oath on it in a low voice, then begins again, louder this time, after the judge asks her to speak up a little and more directly into the microphone. St. Clare leads her through the essentials, her name and age and occupation; she's currently unemployed, and she gives her address reluctantly. She feels vulnerable making this information public, I can see it, and I don't really know why St. Clare thinks it necessary. She is the first of the witnesses to be asked to do this, but then she is the first witness who has been called to the stand by St. Clare.

Does she live alone? No, she lives with her mother but she's away at the moment, in rehab. She should be out soon, maybe sometime in the next month. I wonder how long her
mother has been a drug addict. If her mother was taking drugs while she was pregnant she may have given birth prematurely and it would explain why Sweetie is so little. She would likely have been a small baby and her development would have been slowed if she had to go through withdrawal from whatever drugs her mother was on. It would also explain why her mother thought “Sweetie” was a good name to give her newborn daughter. But it's all supposition, as the court would say. I know nothing about her or her life, never found out much during the two short occasions I've spoken to her. For all I know, her mother was always healthy and focused one hundred percent on being a good parent. Conjecture again, but this time I doubt it. Somehow Sweetie gives the impression of a life where things have never really quite gone to plan.

St. Clare cuts to the chase fairly swiftly. Can she remember where she was on March 18?

“At home.”

From when she awoke?

“I weren't feeling well. I weren't well enough to go out. I was at home the whole day.”

Alone?

“Yeah.”

“Where was your mother?”

“She weren't there.”

“For the entire day?”

“She was in prison. On remand.”

“For?”

“Soliciting.”

“I see.”

Never ask a question to which you do not know the answer. It's the code solicitors and barristers live by, even I know that. A barrister of his caliber would have known her answer. It doesn't add anything to his case or the alibi, except possibly to make Sweetie appear honest to a fault, but the effect it has on her is embarrassment. She looks at the jury quickly, then away. What a horrible thing to have to admit in front of a roomful of strangers. It makes me despise St. Clare a little more, and I can see it hasn't gone down well with the women in the jury either. Silly obnoxious man.

“So, on March 18, the day Ryan Williams was killed, you were at home and alone?”

“Yeah, in bed.”

“And at some point during that day, Mr. Manley visited you?”

“That's right.”

“Can you remember the time of day he arrived?”

“It was quarter to seven.”

St. Clare, who has been slowly pacing back and forth, abruptly stops and looks directly at Sweetie. I sit forward. I am holding my breath.

St. Clare says, “I beg your pardon?”

“Quarter to seven.”

“In the morning?”

“In the night.”

I feel physically disoriented. The courtroom abruptly blurs then tilts before coming back upright and returning to focus. There is a rushing in my ears, impossibly the sound of my blood moving around my body more swiftly, forced to by the acceleration of my heart. I gasp, realizing the implication of Sweetie's words.

“May I remind you of the statement you made to the police on March 19—”

“I lied. Tyson told me to say he got there at four, so that's what I said.”

“My Lord,” St. Clare says to the judge, flustered for the first time, turning an even deeper shade of red, beet, floundering, hoping to buy more time, “This is highly irregular . . .”

“She's your witness, counsel.”

There is to be no further time. St. Clare is on his own. Ms. Manley is speaking quietly but worriedly to the young man beside her. For the first time Tyson Manley has the appearance of being properly engaged in this process. He's not angry. I can't quite identify what lies behind his eyes, maybe surprise. The tension in the courtroom is palpable. The jury have shifted, are sitting up, leaning forward now, paying close attention. Sweetie has closed her eyes, locked her hands in front of her on the top of the witness box so she looks like she is praying, taking deep breaths as if to calm herself down, and I understand perfectly; it is exactly what I am doing myself.

“Yes, of course . . . thank you, My Lord. Miss Nelson, you made your statement to the police on March 19, did you not?”

She opens her eyes. “Yeah.”

“I would like to hand you a copy of your statement.”

“I know what I said.”

“I would like to hand you a copy nonetheless. Is this a copy of the statement that you made and signed on that date?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you wish to have a read of your statement to orient yourself?”

“I
know
what I said.”

“So you
know
, then, that you stated on March 19, the day following the murder of Ryan Williams, while the details were still fresh and clear in your mind, that Mr. Manley visited you at your home at four p.m., and he did not leave till the following morning at eight fifteen, that you watched films and engaged in intercourse with each other till you both fell asleep, and you signed this statement declaring it to be true to the best of your belief and knowledge at that time?”

“That's what I was told to say.”

“And now you are saying something different?”

“Yeah. Now, I'm telling the truth.”

I can actually hear the beating of my heart. At the end of the row of seats, Ms. Manley stands. She shouts, “Liar!” and everyone in the courtroom looks up at the gallery. The young man with Ms. Manley forces her to sit back down. As soon as he releases her she is on her feet, again shouting, “Liar!” Tyson Manley stands as if about to go to his mother's aid and the guards on either side of him immediately stand too and take hold of his arms, restraining him. Sweetie looks up at the gallery. Her gaze brushes mine briefly, comes to rest near Ms. Manley, and I can't tell if her look of fear is because of Ms. Manley herself or the young man beside her. The jury watch in shock and some degree of excitement as the judge bangs his gavel repeatedly, calls for order and silence, then demands the public gallery be cleared. We are led by security out of the gallery and the door is closed behind us.

Lorna says, “Oh my God!” She is on the verge of crying. Ms. Manley and the young man with her stride purposefully
toward the stairs and exit. My whole body is shaking. I cannot believe that just happened. We wait outside in the stairwell in the hope that the judge will not close the public gallery because of that outburst. About twenty minutes pass before the security guard tells us the case has been adjourned until tomorrow morning at ten.

When we leave court with Nipa and Kwame, we go to a pub nearby, where the four of us have a drink, talk about this new development and what it means. Does the case even need to continue now Tyson Manley's alibi is blown? Nipa says it does. Unless he changes his plea to guilty, the trial carries on. I cannot imagine what his defense will be if he decides to continue and let the whole thing play out.

“Well, it's obvious, isn't it?” Lorna says. “The defense is gonna have to say she's lying.”

And for me, that is an enormous stress because I never trusted Sweetie, from the first time I set eyes on her, never trusted her an inch; how exactly is this jury expected to? Last night I said to Lorna the jury wouldn't believe her if it was her word against mine, and suddenly the case is hinging on them believing her over St. Clare. And that's, of course, if she actually returns, because now she has a whole night to sleep on it. If, as it appears, she's decided to come clean, it would have been better for her to have continued with her evidence today. By tomorrow morning she may have reconsidered, changed her mind. Again.

Nipa is unable to get hold of Quigg, so leaves messages on her mobile phone for her to call me back at home. Nipa says it's likely both sides are knee-deep in legal discussions. I
ask her about my Victim Personal Statement, whether I can have it back, rewrite it, and she says I can't. The original Victim Personal Statement cannot be changed or withdrawn, but I can write a further statement to add to it, if I need to clarify what was written in the original or there are issues that have become apparent since the original statement was made. I say I want to do that, write a second statement, and she tells me to draft it, that she needs it by the time the defense has closed its case and she will ensure it gets to the judge in time.

Lorna and Kwame are still finishing their drinks when we leave. I'm ready to go home, want desperately to speak to Lloydie, tell him about this new development. Perhaps it will be enough to engage him, knock him off the desert island he has found for himself, back into the water, maybe to swim. It is just after three, so I ask Nipa to drop me off at the allotment, where he seems to have taken up residence. I have not been to the allotment in the last seven months, further back even, since summer last year, but it's preferable to sitting at home waiting for him to return. Perhaps on his turf, in his space, conversation will be easier. It's a good idea. I don't know why I never thought of it before.

Nipa lets me out and I enter the huge gates that separate this rural part of the city from its urban surrounds, walk the main path slowly, taking in the plots as I pass. It is so peaceful here. No wonder Lloydie comes. A few people I know, working their plots, wave or nod as I pass. They haven't seen me since the incident, and I am so familiar with the discomfort of others—their effort to be normal around me, their inability to know what normal even is with someone who carries
such a grief as mine, what to say, how to say it, whether to say anything at all—that I'm sure they're glad to be halfway down their plots and able to avoid a one-to-one discussion with me entirely.

When I get to Lloydie's plot I am bewildered. I look at the adjoining plots to check that I am correct, this really is the one. His is three plots from the end, and like a child who hopes she can alter a fact, I actually count them, one, two, three, confirm that what I am looking at is undeniably his, and my confusion is replaced by a cold fear that twists my insides. The entire plot is as rigorously maintained as Kew Gardens, but there is nothing on it, not a single plant in evidence, a blade of grass, even a weed. The earth is meticulously level from the end I stand at to the top, the paths that run along the sides as clean as my kitchen floor. The herb garden is gone, the perennials, the thyme and sage and rosemary and mint, absent without a sign they ever existed. When I think about it, I can't remember the last time he brought produce home. Maybe I would have noticed earlier if I were the one doing the cooking, but Lloydie has taken over that chore completely. Looking at his plot is like looking into a void, a strip of cocoa canvas with not a single brushstroke upon it, being offered up as a completed work of art. It is an insight into his mental state that is devastating. No wonder everyone here is keeping their distance.