Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

But trouble had found him, trouble had caught up with him, dragging Jason in its wake.

The second pint was nearly gone, slipping down faster than the first. Andrew was aware of the softening in the set of his shoulders, the tension in his gut uncoiling some.

‘I keep thinking,’ she said. ‘If he hadn’t filmed it, would it have been okay? Would they have let it go? He always has to have the last word. Drives me mad.’ Her face fell suddenly, lines puckered her brow. ‘God, I’m sorry. Going on like this when you-’

‘It’s fine,’ Andrew said. ‘No one knows how to be, you know, how to talk to us. I laughed at something on the radio the other day. Laughed. I was mortified. How could I laugh? Even we don’t know how to be.’

‘I don’t think there are any rules,’ she said softly.

‘Maybe not.’

They talked a little longer, about their sons, the similarities and differences. Then he said he’d better leave. ‘Thanks for ringing.’

‘Something’s bound to happen soon,’ she said. ‘Now they know who he is.’

‘Yeah.’ He buttoned his coat and they walked out together.

He felt awkward again as they parted; the intimacies they had shared suddenly lost currency as they stood like strangers on the pavement. But once he was in the car on his own, he found himself replaying bits of the conversation, and recognized that for much of the time he had been comfortable in her company. That there had even been moments of pleasure in among all the chatter. Flashes where they were just two human beings communicating, and doing it reasonably well.

Jason’s shrine, the mementos and cards, glimmered with frost. Val had gone to bed when he got in. Andrew didn’t want to sleep yet. He took the whisky into the conservatory and sat there, opposite the cardboard coffin and the rowan tree, and drank himself numb.

Emma

Emma reapplied the dressing. It was happening more and more. It was the murder, she knew it was. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, even dreaming about it. It seemed like every time she turned on the television or saw a paper, there was something there about Jason Barnes and Luke Murray. She knew what she did was sick, but she couldn’t stop. She’d never forget the first time: her eighteenth birthday.

They’d bought her a mobile phone, one with a camera on. It was lovely. She put her home number in, and her aunt and uncle’s, and the hairdresser’s. Then she took the money her nan had given her and went into Birmingham and trudged around New Street and up Corporation Street looking for a dress to wear for their meal out that evening. She tried on dozens, her arms aching and the hangers biting into her fingers as she browsed the rails. There were so many different styles: minidresses with bold prints, floaty romantic styles, metallic sheaths. She finally settled on a sleeveless maxi dress with an empire line and a full skirt; it was giant paisley in greens and browns. It hid her legs, which was good. The neck was scooped and quite low, but she had a green necklace at home that might look okay with it. She wasn’t sure about how it made her arms look, but by then she was too tired to try anything else, and she couldn’t go home empty-handed.

She got ready in her room, curling her hair and putting on green eyeshadow to reflect the colours in the dress. Her mum called to her when they were ready, and she went down and waited in the lounge doorway. Her mother smiled and nodded. Her father turned and did a mock double-take. ‘Gordon Bennett – what is it wearing?’

‘Roger!’ her mum protested.

‘That’s bound to frighten the horses. Whoever flogged you that was having a laugh.’

‘I like it.’ Her voice shook.

‘Well, you’ve never had a clue.’

‘Roger, don’t.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Emma demanded. She wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t. Her mother shot her a warning glance, but it was too late.

‘Where shall I start?’

‘If we don’t go now, we’ll be late,’ her mother said.

‘You look like you’re wearing a tent – Jolly Green Giant, that’s it. We could all go camping.’

‘Don’t!’ Her mother moved towards Emma, frowning.

‘I’m only being honest. Do you want her to be a laughing stock?’

Her mum sounded really cross. ‘It’s a perfectly nice dress and you’re not being honest, you’re being mean.’

There was a silence, heavy, dangerous. Emma filled it, stammering over the words. ‘Well I like it and it’s my birthday, it’s my money. Shall we go?’

She braced herself for more from him, but he just gave a dry little laugh and scooped up the car keys.

At the restaurant, Emma chose the most expensive dishes: tiger prawns, fillet steak. She swallowed mouthful after mouthful. Her father made a fuss about the wine being undrinkable. and the waiter had to bring a different bottle.

She went to the toilet before dessert; the place was empty and she stuck her fingers down her throat and made herself sick. She felt raw with emotion, a bleak pain that threatened to drown her. She washed her hands and rubbed water on her teeth. She looked in the mirror, loathing her reflection: her upper arms like pasty white balloons, her podgy face, the colours in the dress sickly under the fierce lighting, her dangly earrings tawdry. The idea just came. She took one of the earrings out. Returned to the stall and locked the door. She drew up the dress and opened out the wire hook of the earring. Pushed it against her inner thigh, increasing the pressure until it pierced the skin and she felt it sting. She pulled the wire out and watched the bead of blood swell. A berry. She did it again. And once more. She closed her eyes and savoured the new feelings, the throbbing pain and the tide of relief that moved through her.

Then she wiped the blood away, replaced the earring and went to eat her Double Chocolate Hot Fudge Sundae.

The next day she surfed the internet and found a temporary job vacancy at an insurance company in Manchester. She applied online, having to retype much of the form because her fingers were shaking. She had an interview first thing the following week. She was sure she’d made a complete idiot of herself, stammering and blushing and getting muddled up, but they asked to start immediately. One of the managers gave her a number to ring for a vacant flat in the same block as his brother. He could give her a reference.

‘You silly little idiot,’ her father ranted. ‘What happens when the contract ends and you’re out of a job with rent to find? You’ll come running back then, no doubt, expecting us to bail you out. You can’t just up sticks and move to Manchester for three months’ work.’

Emma had let him talk, tried to ignore his comments, thought only of being somewhere else, somewhere better. Of being someone else, someone new. And now here she was, independent, in her own flat, sitting on the toilet lid, cleaning a razor blade.

Andrew

The morning of the funeral, and Martine turned up. She apologized for the intrusion, but she had news.

‘As a result of the publication of the e-fits, a number of names have come up, one of them repeatedly, and the inquiry team will be regarding these as persons of interest,’ she said.

‘Meaning what?’ Val asked, her face set with tension and interest.

‘The team will be keeping them under surveillance and gathering additional evidence.’

‘Who are they?’ Val said.

‘I can’t tell you that at present.’

Val stood up. ‘Why not?’

‘We need to be sure, we need to establish that we have found the right people, and if we have enough evidence to make any arrests, you’ll be informed.’

Martine had no idea that Andrew already knew it was Tom Garrington she was talking about, and that Luke had made a bitter enemy of Tom at the party. He was tempted to challenge her with these facts, but he hadn’t spoken to Val about meeting Louise, about the name she had given him, there hadn’t been a chance, and it would be dreadful to tell her now in front of the police officer.