Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

‘They didn’t tell you?’ Andrew said.

‘No.’ Why not? She was angry that no one had seen fit to keep her informed.

‘They didn’t give us many details, but they were bothering Luke first, then they all got off, Jason as well.’ He hunched his shoulders over, looked down at his hands. ‘I was in the house,’ he said. ‘By the time I got outside…’ He shook his head. ‘My wife Val, she saw some of it, she called the police. The three of them were…’ He hesitated, swallowed. ‘They were kicking Luke. Jason went for one of them, he managed to pull him off, then as I came out he was pushing the smaller of the boys away. Then they all ran off. We don’t know who used the knife.’

She sat for a moment trying to picture it, constructing it from what he had told her but at the same time not wanting to. ‘Just instinct, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You see a fight, you want to stop it, especially if it’s three on one. Natural reaction.’

‘Is it?’ He looked peculiar. She couldn’t tell whether it was anger or some other emotion; fear maybe. But there was a tremor in his eye, a gleam of something sharp.

She thought of instances: kids brawling outside school, a scrap at a wedding, the pockets of violence on the demos her grandad had taken her on, a set-to once in the off-licence. Always that churning inside and the urge to separate the warring factions, calm them, admonish them. Stop them. ‘Yeah, it is. People do it all the time.’

He looked stricken. His son had died doing it. She felt a rush of sympathy, then the grip of guilt. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘You must wish he hadn’t.’

‘My wife thinks he was very brave.’ There was a tension to him that made the hairs on Louise’s arms stand up.

‘And you?’

He frowned hard, the furrows deep on his forehead, the skin along the edges of them bleaching.

If it had been reversed, Louise wondered, if Luke were dead, murdered because he’d intervened for this man’s son – what would she feel? Torn open, harrowed beyond sound judgement.

After a moment he took a breath. ‘But the stories you hear, people standing back, turning a blind eye, letting it happen…’

She remembered fragments of stories: a girl raped on a train, a homeless man set alight. She chose her words carefully, the atmosphere dense between them, his need magnetic. ‘Maybe you only hear about them because they’re so unusual, out of the ordinary. Or when something goes terribly wrong, like this. All the other times, when someone knocks it on the head and it’s over, that’s not newsworthy, is it? “Man breaks up fight, trouble nipped in bud, brawl averted.”’

There was the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

‘The papers were there when we got back on Monday, soon as they’d released his name,’ she said. ‘All these vans and cars, people with microphones, the phone ringing off the hook. It was like being under siege.’ She recalled the sensation of being harried, trapped. They wanted her to come out and speak to them; they wanted to pick apart her feelings for the nation to see. She and Ruby had had to sneak out the back and ring a cab from Angie’s to take them to the hospital the next day. ‘Have you had them?’

He shook his head. ‘We’ve been staying away; we’ve only just gone home.’

Of course, she could have kicked herself. ‘Home’ was where it had happened; how could they have remained there in the aftermath? There was a silence. She looked at Luke. After a while, she spoke again. ‘It’s not knowing I find hardest,’ she said. ‘Who they are, why they picked on Luke.’

‘Jason walked into the house,’ he said. ‘He…’ His voice shook, his grief bloomed between his words and Louise felt her back stiffen. ‘He didn’t know he’d been stabbed. We didn’t know until it was too late.’ He paused. ‘I keep seeing him.’ He stole a glance at her.

Louise didn’t speak.

‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ he said.

‘No,’ she agreed. She wondered whether he’d told his wife. If she saw Jason too.

He gave a heavy sigh and sat back in the chair, rubbed at his throat. ‘Is there anything else they can do?’ His eyes, pained, moved to Luke.

‘No,’ Louise said. ‘It’s just a waiting game now.’

‘Jason was in here – well, next door, St Mary’s – when he was born. Premature. He was having fits. For a while it looked like he wouldn’t-’ He broke off.

Louise tried to think of something to say, keen to divert Andrew from his suffering. ‘Luke wanted to go in the army,’ she said. ‘I made him wait. Didn’t want him in danger. You never know, do you?’ If she’d said yes, would he have been safer?

‘Mum?’ Ruby was back from the café. Louise was relieved to see her. Andrew stood up.

‘Ruby, this is Andrew, Jason Barnes’ dad.’

Ruby swallowed, nodded.

‘I’ll be on my way,’ Andrew said.

‘Perhaps we could swap numbers?’ Louise said. ‘Then if you hear anything else…’

‘Of course.’

‘What did he want?’ Ruby asked when he’d left.

I’m not sure, Louise thought. ‘To see how Luke was.’

Ruby sat down. ‘There’s carol singers downstairs collecting for the WRVS. What’s that stand for?’

As Louise told her, she thought more about Andrew Barnes, wished there was something she could do to ease his pain, and knew there would never be any way to make amends for the terrible sacrifice Jason had made. The sacrifice that had saved Luke’s life.

Andrew

It was almost dark when he left the hospital. He felt drained, hollow. He kept stumbling. The gusts of wind were spinning litter about, sending carrier bags jinking down the streets. Drifts of food cartons and drinks cans rattled in corners. Squalls of rain spat at him. He was indifferent to the groups of partygoers with their tinsel and antlers, the shoppers laden with bags, the beggar sprawled on the pavement, the pools of water underfoot and the drunk roaring red-faced at the traffic.

Jason went past on his bike. He hadn’t any lights on. Andrew went to call out, to warn him, then the chill came over him. He increased his pace, trying to warm up. He couldn’t feel his toes. Could do with a drink. There was a pub on the corner, snowflakes sprayed on the windows, coloured lanterns strung round the building. He imagined the scene inside, the yeasty smell of beer, the golden glow in the mirrors at the bar, the giddy bonhomie. Walked past and on until he found a newsagent’s and grocer’s, grilles over the glass and a notice: ONLY 2 SCHOOLCHILDREN IN SHOP AT ANY TIME. Above that, over the door, the ‘Licensed to sell’ plate.

He bought a half-bottle of brandy, the brand unfamiliar. The first swig hurt his gullet going down, but soon the numb sensation spread, making his mouth cottony, softening his spine, releasing the rigidity in his shoulders, befuddling his brain. He took another draught of liquor, belched and carried on home.

There were fresh candles outside the house, next to the fence, but the wind had blown the flames out. He wondered who had brought them, who had taken time from their Christmas preparations to remember Jason.

Three faces turned to greet him, conversation suspended. Val and her close friends Sheena and Sue. He felt like an interloper. He’d expected her to still be where he’d left her, curled up in Jason’s duvet.

‘Oh, Andrew.’ Sheena, always more demonstrative than he cared for, came to hug him. There was no way he could avoid reciprocating. He wondered if she could feel the brandy bottle in his pocket, smell his breath. He felt unsteady on his feet, feared he might topple over, pin her beneath him in some ghastly faux-pas.

Sue followed. ‘So sorry,’ she said. He knew they had been over to see Val while they were at his parents’, but this was the first time they’d encountered him since it happened.