Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

‘Did you see Nicola Healy touch Jason at any point?’

‘No,’ Andrew said.

‘Did you see Nicola Healy kick Luke Murray?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see anyone kick Luke Murray?’

‘No.’

‘Would it be true to say that the only violence you witnessed that night came from Conrad Quinn and was directed at your son Jason?’

He felt a swell of irritation. It wasn’t a fair question. It ignored everything else: what had happened on the bus, then what Val had seen. ‘Yes, but-’

‘Thank you. No further questions.’

Andrew walked back down into the pit of the building, numbly following the volunteer to the witness suite. He felt a flame of anger growing steadily inside him. For the first time he grasped that they might not win, that the defendants might possibly be acquitted, and he knew then that he would spend the rest of his life trying to bring them to justice if that was the case. He felt his fury cooling and hardening into something solid as stone. He would never give up, never let it go.

Louise

The second day of the trial opened with Conrad Quinn in the witness box. Before he was called, the judge announced that if there was any disturbance in court, he would clear the gallery.

Louise heard the whispers behind her – liar, grass, scum – as he came up the steps into the dock. He was accompanied by a uniformed guard, a reminder to everyone that he had come from prison, where he was on remand awaiting sentencing.

She fixed her eyes on him. He was wiry, short; he looked undernourished, ill fed. He had a cheap-looking suit on. It was too big for him, shoulders sagging, the sleeves drowning his hands. He had a tattoo on his neck, barbed wire. His hair was so short you could see the pale scalp beneath, and marks here and there as if he’d shaved it himself and nicked the skin. This was the boy who had destroyed Luke, the one who had kicked him in the head until-

Her hurt, her rage trembled beneath her skin. She took him in, drank him in, avid.

Mr Sweeney cut straight to the chase. ‘Conrad, you pleaded guilty to charges of Section 18 wounding in the case of Luke Murray, is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

The sir made Louise want to weep. As if showing respect for authority now would help him. Or perhaps he had to say it in prison and had got into the habit.

‘You just answer the questions; no “sir” needed.’

The boy nodded.

‘And have you given a full and truthful account of the incident to the police?’

‘Yes.’

Someone hissed. The judge didn’t appear to notice.

‘In order to appreciate the sequence of events that led to the affray, I would like you to tell the court about an incident that occurred on the thirty-first of October 2010. At a house party. When Luke Murray and Thomas Garrington exchanged words.’

Louise braced herself. Ruby gave her a look; she knew what was coming too.

‘We was at this party and Gazza was-’

‘Mr Garrington?’

Conrad Quinn shuffled uneasily, gave an embarrassed smirk. ‘Yes, he was having a go at this girl, ragging her, you know. Like putting her down. And Luke tells him to do one.’

What might have happened if Luke had kept his mouth shut, not said anything and left the party then? No run-in with Garrington, no deadly encounter on the bus. He’d still be coming home, heading straight for the microwave, then the Xbox. Still learning his trade as an electrician, a bit of money in his pocket, growing in confidence, more settled, happier. Maybe meeting a girl, someone bright and funny; he was a looker, after all. Getting a job, married, babies.

‘“Do one”; that means to leave, to stop?’ Mr Sweeney clarified.

‘Yeah. And Gazza didn’t like it, he swings for him and he misses. Luke trips him up and he hits the deck and he’s fuming. Really racked off. Then Luke’s got his phone out filming. Then they went.’

‘They?’

‘Luke and his mate.’

Oh Luke. Again the petty spite of filming and then circulating the footage of Garrington on the floor, looking stupid, threatened to unravel her. A moment’s meanness that had led to such a bitter end.

‘What became of this video clip?’

‘They posted it on the web,’ said Conrad Quinn.

‘Did Thomas Garrington and Luke Murray know each other prior to this?’ Mr Sweeney asked.

‘No.’ Conrad Quinn rubbed the underneath of his nose to and fro with the back of his index finger.

‘And after that?’

‘Gazza swore he’d get even.’

Louise blinked hard, felt her throat close. This was important: that Thomas Garrington had made threats. All those days between Halloween and December the seventeenth and Luke had been a marked man. Had he known? Had he any idea that Garrington would come after him? Did he think he’d get away with it?

‘And did Thomas Garrington see Luke Murray before the night of the seventeenth of December?’

‘No.’

‘That evening you were with Thomas Garrington and Nicola Healy. Can you tell us what you had been doing prior to boarding the bus?’

‘Hangin’ out at Nicola’s.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Just hangin’ out, drinking and that.’

‘What were you drinking?’

‘Baileys.’

There was a ripple of laughter at this. The image of the cream liqueur, the Christmas drink popular with mums and grandmas, was at odds with that of kids getting rat-arsed. Louise hated them for laughing.

‘It was her mum’s,’ he added, by way of excuse.

Louise saw Nicola wriggle; as though this pathetic misdemeanour could in any way compare to what had followed.

‘And did you consume any drugs?’ said Mr Sweeney.

‘Just some coke.’

‘Cocaine?’

‘Yeah. Then her mum kicked us out, so we went to get the bus to Gazza’s. Luke was on the bus. It all kicked off. Gazza went for him, ranting he was, and he hit him.’

‘What were you doing?’

‘I didn’t hit him,’ Conrad Quinn said defiantly. ‘Not then.’

‘Did you verbally abuse Luke Murray?’ asked Mr Sweeney.

‘Yeah.’ At least he had the grace to look ashamed, thought Louise.

‘What did you call him?’

As the litany rang out, Louise felt the punch of each one, set her teeth against imagining Luke’s feelings as they harangued him.

‘And when Jason Barnes intervened and Luke ran off the bus, you gave chase?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Tell us in your own words what happened then?’

Louise felt nausea rising, a burning beneath her breastbone.

‘I ran and Luke went into this front garden but Gazza grabbed him before he could get to the door.’

‘Why d’you think he was going to the door?’

Conrad Quinn shrugged. ‘Made sense, try and get some help.’

And if he had? If Val had got there sooner and let him in? Or Andrew? Just a few moments and things would have been so different.

‘Carry on, please,’ said Mr Sweeney.

‘Gazza pushed him over. It was snowing and he was on the floor. We give him a kicking.’

The affectless tone he used chilled Louise’s blood, turned her skin cold.

‘Who kicked him?’

‘All of us.’ Dots danced in her eyes. She tried to swallow the knot in her throat, to hang on and not be dragged under by the awful questions and answers.

‘More than once?’

‘Oh yes.’ He gave a jerky nod, almost eager. She hated him; waves of fury rode through her. She wanted to slap at his face, claw at him, shake him, show him the depth of her hurt. How had he ended up like this, this scrappy kid? Had he been restless, unsettled, struggling with school like Luke, and then what? Masked his lack of power, his low self-esteem with aggression? Had he grown up confusing violence with attention, where a slap was as likely as a smile? Or had he simply been weak, lost, following Thomas Garrington wherever that might lead?