Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

Louise

Mr Sweeney got up; he looked grim. ‘You called Luke “wog boy”, is that right?’ he said to Thomas Garrington.

Louise felt apprehension wash through her again. She glanced at Ruby, wishing she could shield her from the abuse, from a world where strangers hurled insults and blows because of a person’s skin colour. Ruby raised her head, a gesture of pride and defiance, and Louise’s heart rose with love for her.

‘I can’t remember.’

‘You called him “dickhead”, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Garrington said.

‘You called him a “dirty nigger”?’ said Mr Sweeney.

Louise flinched.

‘Can’t remember,’ Garrington said.

‘You called him a “knobhead”?’ said Mr Sweeney.

‘I can’t remember.’

‘You hit him, forcing his head against the window?’

‘I pushed him,’ Garrington quibbled.

‘And he hit his head against the window?’

‘Yes,’ Garrington said.

Louise deliberately let her vision blur, gazing into the middle distance. ‘Look at me, Mum.’ The first time Luke had scaled the sycamore outside the house. Her heart had swooped with fear for him. He must have been forty foot up, legs astride a bough. ‘Trust him,’ her grandad always said when Luke was tiny. ‘Most kids know what they are capable of.’ Luke in the tree, burnished by the late autumn sun. King of all he surveyed. The joy of him, the thrill of him. She had crowed with delight. She wrenched her mind back to the here and now.

‘You had a knife in your boot?’

‘No I never.’

‘You had a knife,’ Mr Sweeney insisted, ‘and Nicola Healy was heard to say, “He’ll shank you.”’

‘She meant Conrad.’ The boy’s face was stark with anxiety.

‘An independent witness, with no vested interest in the outcome of this case, swears that Nicola Healy was referring to you. That it was you who boasted about having a knife.’

‘She’s wrong, then,’ said Garrington.

‘Are you asking the jury to take your word over that of an innocent bystander?’

‘Yes, ’cos it’s true.’

‘You had taken cocaine and been drinking alcohol earlier that evening?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How does it make you feel, cocaine?’

‘High.’ Someone laughed. Garrington betrayed the trace of a smirk. He was forgetting to play the penitent. Louise felt irritation whip through her.

‘Hyped up, aggressive?’ Mr Sweeney suggested.

‘No.’

‘Perhaps the mixture of alcohol and cocaine prompted you to seek out a confrontation, to become violent?’

‘No.’

‘You kicked Luke Murray?’

‘Yes,’ Garrington said.

‘Where?’

‘In the garden.’ People laughed. Louise felt a rush of hatred, dizzying, almost robbing her of control. She balled her fists, bit her tongue.

‘Where on his body?’ Mr Sweeney said quietly.

‘His legs.’

‘How many times?’

‘Don’t know.’ Garrington chewed at his lip.

‘Ten, or twenty?’

‘Not that many,’ he said.

‘How many?’

‘Maybe four.’

‘You wanted to hurt him. And when Jason Barnes tried to stop the abuse, you pulled a knife. I think you’re lying to me, to the jury, to Jason Barnes’ parents. You’re lying to save your neck.’

‘I’m not! Conrad had the knife.’

‘Luke Murray had humiliated you, hadn’t he? The picture he had taken on your birthday at the house party, he had posted it on the internet, made a fool out of you. You were humiliated, is that fair to say?’

Garrington hesitated. ‘Yeah.’

Louise heard Ruby beside her give a little sigh.

‘So you wanted revenge, and when Jason Barnes tried to prevent you, you were prepared to do anything to stop him.’

‘No.’

‘This is a pack of lies, isn’t it?’ said Mr Sweeney.

‘No.’

‘Where did you get rid of the knife?’

‘I didn’t have a knife,’ Garrington said.

‘You usually carry one.’

‘No.’ He was red-faced now, frowning.

‘You expect us to believe that as a habitual carrier of knives, you chose that particular night to leave your knife at home. The night when you were involved in a hate crime that led to a fatal stabbing?’

‘It’s true,’ he said.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Mr Sweeney. ‘I’ll tell you what I think happened. You were kicking Luke; you and Conrad and Nicola. Nicola was near his stomach, Conrad at his head, you were by his legs, closest to the gate.’

Louise, her heart thumping like a drum, her stomach cold and aching, concentrated on taking a steady breath in and out.

‘Jason Barnes reached you first; he pulled you away, but you were enjoying yourself by then. Your blood was up and you were relishing the savage attack on Luke Murray. You knocked Jason down and returned to Luke. Jason hit you on the back and you fell down; he moved round you to reach Conrad Quinn, and you pulled out your knife.’

Garrington shook his head continuously, protesting repeatedly, ‘No. No. No,’ as the barrister continued. ‘Jason Barnes had his back to you when you drove the knife into him, pulled it out and ran. That’s really what happened, isn’t it?’

‘No way.’ His face contorted, spittle at the corners of his mouth. ‘No way. Conrad did it. Not me. I never did it.’ He was shouting, his panic and anxiety overridden by a virulent anger.

Louise got a taste of the aggression in the man and understood that he had the wherewithal to kill. She thought he was lying. She believed Conrad Quinn, pathetic though he was. Garrington was a bully. He had been bullying the girl when Luke first ran into him at the house party, and everything Emma Curtis had heard on the bus went against him. Louise looked at the jury, praying that they shared her instincts.

Louise ran into Emma Curtis in the ladies’ toilets. She felt a twist of embarrassment and went to leave, then thought better of it. ‘My daughter,’ Louise said, ‘I’m sorry. Things can be very black and white at that age.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Emma said. She was hugging her upper arms, worry etched on her face. ‘I wish I could go back, do something different.’

Louise pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Gathered herself. ‘We’ve all been there,’ she said, ‘on the train, at the bus stop, in the park. Seen someone needing help, someone outnumbered, someone being hurt. A bloke slapping his girl or a racist hurling abuse. We’ve all been there and wanted to disappear: if I ignore it, it’ll go away.’

‘I was scared, and no one else…’ Emma stopped. Her cheeks were bright red. She looked away.

‘My girl, Ruby,’ Louise said, ‘would I want her to do something in the same situation? With my heart in my mouth, yes. But if she was beaten as a result? Killed?’ Louise’s voice shook. ‘How could I?’

There was a silence. Emma’s face was mobile, struggling with emotion.

‘But thank you for coming here, that was very brave,’ Louise said.

‘No. I just wish-’

‘You can’t go back,’ she said. ‘It’s what you do next, what you do in the future, that matters now.’

Emma gave a brief nod. Louise returned to the foyer, grinding her teeth together and fighting tears.

Andrew

Nicola Healy’s testimony was almost word for word the same as Thomas Garrington’s. She accused Conrad Quinn of carrying the knife and of using it. She kept her answers short and shorn of detail or elaboration until she got agitated. She blinked with nerves and often bit her thumbnail, a habit that made her appear even younger than seventeen. When Mr Sweeney began cross-examination, he challenged her about her comments on the bus. ‘You said, “He’ll cut you.” Referring to Thomas Garrington.’