Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

‘I saw them,’ Emma managed to say, her face heating up.

‘You what?’ Blonde Kim gawped.

‘Before the stabbing.’

‘Oh. My. God.’ Little Kim clutched her hands to her chest theatrically.

‘Where? What? Spit it out!’ said Laura.

Spit it out, Emma, I haven’t got all day. One of her dad’s phrases.

‘They got on my bus. I’ve got to give a statement to the police.’

‘The police!’ Little Kim shrieked. ‘Will you have to go to court and everything?’

Emma shrugged.

‘It must have been horrible,’ Laura said. ‘What did they do?’

‘Just kicking off, you know. Threatening this boy, the one who’s in hospital.’

‘Oh, Emma,’ breathed Little Kim.

She didn’t want them going on about it, she didn’t like it. She set her cup down, still half full, and put her bag back in her locker.

‘Someone’s keen.’ Laura glanced at the clock. Another four minutes.

‘We’re not all slackers,’ Emma tried to joke, but she sounded weird, sort of bitter, and she saw the Kims raise eyebrows at each other.

They could be very cliquey and it had taken her a while to make friends here. She didn’t want to mess it up, but she couldn’t think of what to say now to put it right. Her face glowed; she hated blushing. ‘See you in a bit,’ was all she managed.

As she left and closed the door, she heard them laughing and her eyes stung. Two more days and she’d be off home for the holidays. It would all blow over and things would get back to normal.

Back at her desk, she began work. The forms and the figures, the policy numbers and dates and exclusions were a relief, a place to get lost.

Andrew

Time lost meaning, hours morphed into days, minutes hung slow, poised, paused. Andrew felt there was a membrane between himself and the world. Translucent, invisible. A caul. And any real understanding, any comprehension as to what had happened was there on the other side with everyone else.

They had been to register the death – he knew that, though recalling the event clearly was impossible, like trying to make out writing that had blurred and run in the rain. Rorschach blots staining the paper where letters once processed.

He hadn’t driven, he knew that much; they wouldn’t let him drive, so Colin had taken them.

The woman studied the medical certificate from the hospital and checked the facts with them and then made out the entry in the register in her small neat italic writing. The ink was sooty black.

Andrew felt like he was underwater; everyone’s words took an inordinate amount of time to reach him and half of what they said was incomprehensible. He kept losing his place, as though the co-ordinates had been shifted, the land rippling beneath him and leaving him on a different contour line with no way-marks.

Colin must have driven home too, Val carrying the death certificate and the one for burial, though he had no memory of it.

‘Dad?’

He was on the stairs carrying holdalls up, when he heard Jason. Someone had been to the house, got clean clothes for them, toiletries. His heart burst, soared with joy, and he whirled round, seeking his son, waiting for further proof that this had just been some awful, dreadful mistake. His body hungry to hug his boy, to tell him how they had all been knocked sideways but here he was. Here he was and his life was golden and green and wide with potential.

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.