Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

One night they were eating on a rooftop terrace. They had shared a mixed platter and were having kebabs and salad when a couple of older men who had finished their meal came over.

‘Fancy a nightcap, girls?’ the taller one asked. He was muscly and tanned and wore a gold chain. His friend had a shaved head and tattoos all over his arms.

‘No,’ said Laura. ‘Not aiming for bed any time soon.’

Blonde Kim giggled.

‘Shame, that,’ the man said. He had a hard look in his eyes like he didn’t like them even though he had stopped to talk. He reminded Emma of her dad. ‘And here’s us at a loose end. Mate of ours runs the Blue Dolphin, get a real good discount.’

‘Tequila slammers half-price,’ said his sidekick.

‘Ta, no,’ said Laura. ‘We’ve plans.’

Emma saw the first man swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. ‘What about you?’ He spoke directly to Emma. She felt her face catch fire.

‘We’ve all got plans,’ Laura said.

‘All right, gobby!’ The bloke turned on Laura.

Emma was back on the bus, the same ripple of terror driving through her, the tone and the language signalling violence.

‘Fuck off, leave her alone,’ said Little Kim.

The man glared at them, then snorted, shook his head, sneering to his companion. ‘Leave it, Tony, load of lezzers, in’t they.’ And he stalked away, his friend hurrying after him.

‘Good night, Grandad,’ Laura yelled after them, and Blonde Kim hooted. Emma felt herself relax, felt the tension ease away. If she’d been on her own… but she hadn’t. She was with her mates. Her mates!

Laura caught her eye and winked, and Emma laughed, masking the tears that had threatened.

‘Here come the girls!’ announced Laura, and raised her arm. Emma and the other two touched palms with her, a joint high-five. Emma thought she would burst with happiness.

She sent postcards home, to Mum and Dad and Gran, and she got Mum and Dad a really nice vase, in the local style, to take back.

They blew all the money they had left on their last night. Cocktails and dinner at the fish place and then Club Dionysus. There was a Dutch DJ playing dance music. The bass was so strong that Emma could feel it going right through her, thundering in her chest and her belly, shuddering with each beat.

The place was packed, but there were loads of bar staff on and Emma was served really quickly. When she got back with the spritzers, the Kims and Laura were talking to a boy dressed like a sailor, who moved away.

‘Who was that?’ Emma asked Laura.

‘The candy man,’ Laura laughed. She opened her palm. Emma saw four small pills, each with a little lollipop picture on. She felt a bit weird. She had never taken Ecstasy.

Laura plucked one up and swigged it back. The Kims each reached out in turn. Emma bit her lip. What if she had a bad reaction, collapsed and died on her holiday?

‘It’s really nice,’ Laura said in her ear. ‘Get all loved up.’

The music changed and a whoop went up from the crowd. A sea of arms rose in the air. Emma picked up the pill, took it.

It was the best night of her life.

At five in the morning, she and Laura watched the stars fade and the sun rise over the sea, their feet in the wavelets at the edge of the bay, watching the lacy foam patterns in the sand appear and disappear. Emma rubbed at the bites on her arm. Flashes of the night flickered through her mind: laughing with Little Kim, dancing till she was breathless, telling Laura she loved her.

‘Why do we have to go back?’ she said.

Laura laughed. ‘So we can raise the dosh to come again next year.’

The prospect kindled a ray of hope in Emma, but it was soon quenched when she thought of what lay ahead in the months before then. What she’d been able to forget about for the last seven days. Now it lurked, large and squat and cold, ominous, waiting to devour her. The court case.

Andrew

The summer was fading, the air already cooler as September approached. The first conkers littered the pavement outside the house. He saw a bat flit zigzag between the houses as he let himself in.

‘I thought you were at Colin’s. Where were you?’

Andrew froze, tried to think.

Val was sitting on the stairs; she got to her feet.

‘You should have tried my mobile,’ he said.

‘Where were you?’

‘With a friend.’

‘What friend?’ She spat the word out like it was unpalatable.

He rubbed his forehead. ‘What does it matter, Val? She’s just a friend.’ He set his car keys down on the little table by the phone.

Val came down the stairs. ‘Who is she?’ Her face was taut with emotion, her eyes glittering.

‘Why do you care? You see your friends, don’t you? Sheena and Sue, you spend more time socializing with them than you do with me these days.’

It was true; she barely seemed to notice him, still off work, still slower, duller from the medication, resistant to his attempts to involve her in anything. He’d given up trying to get her to try counselling. He had been in to their GP, explained how worried he was, how Val flatly refused to consider either bereavement or relationship counselling. The GP heard him out but more or less told him to give it time and tend to his own needs.

He’d tried suggesting other things: a meal out, a weekend away, a trip to the theatre. All declined with the same flat delivery.

There were times when he felt she blamed him for Jason’s death, that if he’d got downstairs sooner, or arrived home a little later, he could have intervened himself. Prevented it – or taken the blow instead.

Even his attempts to share memories of Jason were thwarted. She always changed the subject, or even questioned the veracity of his recall. ‘I don’t remember that,’ or, ‘I think you’ve got that wrong.’ Or even worse, she’d not say anything at all. And his anecdotes, about Jason, the little moment he had shared with her, would hang neglected, discarded between them like something shameful.

‘Who is she?’ Val said again.

He looked back at her, irritated, then resigned himself to honesty. And damn the consequences. ‘Louise,’ he said. ‘Louise Murray.’

Val recoiled as if he’d slapped her. ‘Is that some sort of sick joke?’ she said.

‘We meet for a drink now and then; sometimes I visit Luke.’

Val flew at him, her fists on his chest, then smacking his face, shrieking, ‘You bastard! You fucking bastard.’

He caught her arms, restrained her. ‘Stop it,’ he shouted. Though part of him thought that this – her rage, her reaction – was healthier than her numb indifference.

‘You Judas. How could you?’ She spat at him. He flinched as the spittle caught his chin.

‘I can talk to her,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of company.’

Val’s face seemed to shrink; she was quaking, her lips drawn back in a grimace. ‘That scum, if it hadn’t been for him-’

‘I’m not listening to this.’ He let go of her wrists. He wiped his face on the back of his arm.

‘Why not!’ she yelled. ‘You’re always on at me to talk about it, pick it over like some scab.’

‘Not like this,’ he said.

‘Have you fucked her?’

He was shocked, at the question and her vehemence. He sighed. ‘No. Would it matter? You’re not interested any more.’ He felt bile at the back of his throat.

‘I hate you,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.

‘Val.’ He reached out a hand.

‘It’s a complete betrayal,’ she said, ‘a travesty. Our son would be alive-’

‘Luke didn’t kill him,’ he yelled, losing any composure he had tried to cling to. ‘The people who killed him are in prison, they’re up in court in six weeks’ time. Charged with murder. They killed him. They consigned Luke Murray to a living death.’