Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

There was a bizarre, slow-motion quality to the next hour. The agonizing crawl through the school-run traffic; parking. Weaving through the press pack already assembled: people rigging up cameras and lighting, running cables, setting up ladders.

Then the security checks. Going through the scanner.

Jason on the way to Sardinia, his arms akimbo, calling to Andrew, ‘Can they see all my bones, Dad?’ Putting his trainers back on the wrong feet.

A few years later, aged fourteen, he had made his jaw-dropping announcement that he would never fly again; it was the worst thing you could do for the planet.

‘What about holidays?’ Val had asked Andrew.

‘Butlins?’ he’d teased her. ‘Camping in Wales?’

Now Andrew collected his mobile phone and car keys from the tray and joined Val. As they took their seats, he tried to ignore the nausea that swirled in his stomach. The jury were filing into court, the clerks were in place. The lawyers exchanging pleasantries. The other families settled in their places. There was a steady hum of conversation, a buzz of anticipation that quietened as the usher instructed everyone to stand for the judge.

The clerk got up. ‘Would the jury foreman please stand.’

One of the jurors rose to his feet. He dipped his head to swallow; he clasped his hands in front of him.

The clerk spoke. ‘In the case of Thomas Garrington, on the count of murder, have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’

Andrew felt febrile, hot and cold all at once, skin too thin. Val reached over and put her hand on his arm, gripping him tight. I don’t care, part of him howled, I don’t want this, any of this! I just want him back. Please. I just want my boy back.

‘Yes, we have,’ the foreman replied.

‘What is your verdict?’

Guilty, Andrew prayed. Guilty, guilty, guilty. Val’s hand was a vice on his forearm.

‘Guilty,’ came the foreman’s answer.

Andrew’s stomach turned over, his heart pounded. He saw Thomas Garrington jolt, his hands go to his head, heard a woman cry out. Val fell against him. He embraced her, shut his eyes.

The clerk asked for silence.

Louise

Louise looked over to Andrew. His face was taut, his mouth clenched tight, a frown scored his forehead. He was cradling Val, her hair over her face, and he had his eyes closed. He looked close to weeping. Louise’s heart stumbled. Her head felt muzzy; she heard the wash of blood in her ears.

She and Ruby had come straight here from Luke’s bedside. Each evening after the court had finished business they’d told Luke everything they could remember about the day’s proceedings. But this afternoon they had simply been filling time until they were summoned. Louise had felt brittle and on edge; she had been smoking too much and her mouth was peppery and dry, her lungs tired.

She had not been able to sleep the night before. So she had sat sewing Luke’s quilt. The final edging: a strip of navy drill cotton cut on the bias. The only fabric she had to actually go and buy. The quilt was warm on her knees. As she worked, her eyes roamed over the different hexagons, prompting memories associated with the swatches. The stripy Babygro that Deanne had passed on to her for Ruby. A patch of one of her grandma’s summer skirts, sprigs of jasmine on powder blue; as a child nestled on her lap, Louise had tried to count the flowers. A portion from her mother’s trousseau, cherry silk; Louise had hesitated before using it, her feelings for her mother still muddled, found wanting even after all this time. She’d spoken to Andrew about it once, briefly. ‘I was so cross when she died; that seemed to be my main reaction, and I was cross with her when she was alive. She was always leaving. It was as if I never really had her.’ A piece of one of Eddie’s flannel shirts. Jamaicans were meant to be natty dressers, but Eddie was a slob. He dressed like a lumberjack. Blue jeans and check shirts, pork-pie hat on occasion. Scrubbed up well enough for their wedding. He made the effort when he had to.

She’d finished the quilt last night and taken it in to Luke today. She’d lined it with a very soft cotton sheet, which would be gentle enough for his skin.

In his room, Ruby had practised her solo for the school’s performance of Chicago , and Louise had massaged Luke, washed and shaved his head. ‘I could leave it, let you grow an Afro,’ she teased him, ‘but you’d never forgive me, would you?’

The court fell quiet. Louise’s stomach contracted. Ruby looked at her, biting her lip, panic and tension just below the surface. Louise nodded, trying to reassure her.

‘On the count of attempted murder, have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you find the defendant Thomas Garrington guilty or not guilty?’

Of trying to kill Luke, chasing him down and… Her thoughts were like a mad chatter, splinters inside, teeth sharpened, nails like talons. The horror, feeding on the cold misery of her grief.

‘Guilty.’

Louise’s heart stammered, robbed her of breath.

‘Yes!’ Ruby bent forward, collapsing with relief, and Louise put her arms around her.

Andrew

It wasn’t over yet. They still had to deliver the verdict on Nicola Healy. She was only a few years older than his niece, thought Andrew. He pictured her as he had first seen her, standing near the gate, in her white furtrimmed jacket. Screaming along with Garrington. Her eyes wild, her beauty made terrible by the expression on her face and the tableau between them: the body on the floor, Jason and Conrad tugging at each other. The violence acrid in the air.

The clerk asked the defendant to rise. Nicola stood up. Beside Andrew, Val straightened, using a tissue to wipe her eyes and nose.

‘In the case of Nicola Healy, on the count of murder, have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’

‘Yes,’ the jury foreman said.

‘What is your verdict?’

‘Not guilty.’

‘Yes!’ a woman called out, and Nicola turned, looking up at her family, her face pale, raw with hope.

Andrew felt the lurch of disappointment. Then heard shock ripple through the courtroom as people absorbed the verdict. Val shook her head, turned to him with glittering eyes. He took her hand. Held it between his. Rubbed his thumb over her wedding ring.

It’s all right, he told himself. Garrington had been found guilty. The jury had given them an answer. Someone to blame, someone who would pay, who would be punished for taking Jason’s life. That was what today was about. Justice. Truth. He didn’t know what would await them, Garrington and Quinn, how many years they would get. Did not even know if it would do them any good. Everything he had read in the papers over the years seemed to say prison did not rehabilitate. People came out worse than when they went in, with no greater education, insight or understanding and with fewer prospects. Work, accommodation, opportunities even scarcer.

There was cold comfort in the verdicts. He had thought there might more of a sense of peace or resolution. He accepted it was crucial to go through the process, that without the trial, without the ritual of apportioning guilt, he and Val would have been left in limbo. Tearing themselves apart. Even more damaged than they already were. Maybe he’d feel different in time, once he had absorbed it all. Then maybe he’d feel the release he craved.

Louise

Not guilty of murder! Louise froze. Was Nicola going to be freed? She had been there, she had egged them on, she had kicked Luke. It was Nicola who’d called him a black bastard.

Andrew was leaning back looking drained, his eyes bloodshot. She saw his shoulders move as he exhaled, the slight shake of his head. He turned and met her gaze, shared a rueful smile. She wondered what would become of them now. Andrew and his wife. And Andrew and Louise? Would the awkward friendship they had built be broken off? Would either of them want to sustain something rooted in these bloody events? Wouldn’t it just be salt in the wound as time went by? Wouldn’t they be haunted by the stark facts: that his son had died trying to save hers?