Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to respond. ‘Can we go now?’ she asked, rising. Her head spinning, her knees weak as straw. She had to get back to him. Dread pooling in her belly, between her shoulder blades. ‘Please?’ She had to be there, watch over him, keep him safe.

He nodded, and she held on to Ruby’s arm for support and numbly retraced her steps.

Andrew

The light on the snow was blinding, Andrew winced and narrowed his eyes. Two men were clearing the paths; the clang of shovels on the stone rang loud in the air. The snow muffled the other sounds, shushing the city.

He had moved the car in the middle of the night, sweeping clods of snow from the windscreen, the frosty air stinging his nostrils and nipping at his ankles; he had pulled on shoes but not socks in the race to get to the hospital.

Now they walked to the car park. ‘You’d better ring your parents,’ Val said.

This could kill Dad, he thought, already battling high blood pressure and angina. ‘I’ll tell Colin.’ His older brother lived close to the family home. ‘He can go round there.’ He pulled out his phone.

‘In the car.’ Val frowned.

He didn’t understand.

‘Less noise,’ she said dully. There was nothing for him in her expression, no affection, no compassion. She was exhausted.

Colin answered. ‘Andrew, hi. How you doing?’ Upbeat, bright.

Andrew closed his eyes, cleared his throat, a noise like a whimper.

‘What’s wrong?’ Alarm now, and Andrew felt the hair on his neck stand up and the bottomless swirl in his guts.

‘It’s…’

‘Andrew?’

He forced the words past his tongue, through his teeth. Into the air, in the car, in the car park, let them loose to fly across the glittering roofs, up amid the skyscrapers and towers and bridges, across the city to the whole wide world. ‘Jason was stabbed last night, a fight on the street.’ He heard Colin gasp at the other end but he kept going. ‘They took him to hospital, they couldn’t bring him back. Can you tell Mum and Dad?’

Colin was saying things, shock, can’t believe, sorry , and Andrew clung on, his fingers a vice around his phone, answering the questions while he watched the city sparkle and wondered if they had the old sledge and if Jason might fancy a go.

‘Andrew.’ His father was in the kitchen doorway, his face whey-coloured, eyes wounded. ‘There’s someone here from the police.’

Andrew dipped his head. Three people came in; two men and a woman. His parents had knocked their kitchen through years ago, combining the old scullery with the bigger room and creating space for the family to eat in. Introductions were made, condolences given, and the man doing the talking asked for Val.

‘She’s upstairs with my mother,’ Andrew told them.

‘She witnessed the fight?’ the man asked.

‘Yes.’ The word rustled in his throat. He’d drunk a cup of tea, but it hadn’t touched the dryness when he swallowed. The man turned to Leonard, Andrew’s father, still hovering in the doorway. ‘Is there somewhere we could talk to Mrs Barnes?’

‘The living room.’

‘We need to get a statement from each of you,’ he explained to Andrew.

There was no rushing any of it, as people were rearranged and notebooks and forms produced. They must know, he thought, that we can’t function any faster, that everything is slow motion, gravity’s shifted. All at sea, unable to resist the current. A container ship had shed a load of plastic ducks a long time ago, in the Atlantic; years later, bleached and blinded by sun and salt, they were still washing up, teaching climatologists about the currents.

‘Mr Barnes?’

‘Sorry.’ He laid his arms on the table, tried to clear his head. His back ached, the whole of his spine, as though the snow had got in there too, crystals of ice fusing the bones and burning the nerve endings. He felt a jolt of surprise when he saw an outlined plan of their house and garden, the houses either side, the dual carriageway. He recalled filling in car claim forms after a bump when Jason had been a toddler. The diagrams: X marks the spot. Jason’s maps, ‘Why is it X, Dad?’

The questions came at him and he replied as best he could: Jason was home from uni, back two days, gone out to meet friends for a drink. Andrew was in the shower when… Jason was so concerned about the other boy… No, they didn’t know him… No, they didn’t know them either…

‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

What? he thought. That he was a lovely young man, he was frightened of heights and moths. He wouldn’t get on an aeroplane or learn to drive because of global warming. He fell off his bunk bed and broke his wrist when he was ten. He hates jazz. The only thing he can cook is bacon and egg. He’s ticklish. He is dead. He is dead and cold and I will never hear him laugh again. He has a tattoo of a dragon on his shoulder. He can’t change a plug or build a shelf but he plays music like an angel.

Andrew shook his head and put his face in his hands.

The woman was their family liaison officer, Martine. She told them it would be a couple more days before they would be able to return home, and they might want to consider staying on at Leonard and Jean’s anyway. There would be a great deal of media interest in the case. The police would work in partnership with the media, but it was important that the family didn’t talk to anyone without running it past Martine, who would check things with the press office.

‘It’s already in the lunchtime edition.’ She laid the Manchester Evening News on the table.

Val grabbed at it, her lips moving round the words of the headline. Have-a-Go Hero Stabbed to Death. Teen victim fights for life. ‘How did they get his picture?’

Andrew stared at his son, a recent image, his hair tangled, muddy blond, almost shoulder-length. He’d grown it over the summer. ‘YouTube,’ he told her. He felt sick. The doorbell went, and then his brother was there, with his wife and the kids. Everyone was there. Everyone except Jason.

Louise

The operation had been a success, the surgeon told them. They had removed the fluid that had built up and hoped that the swelling would now subside. Luke would be kept sedated and given respiratory assistance for the next seventy-two hours. This should give the best possible chance for the brain to heal.

Louise ran her hands over her head, bone-tired. Hollow but for the burr of anxiety. ‘He will get better, wake up?’

The surgeon pursed his lips. ‘That’s certainly our aim. No two patients are alike, and to be honest we still don’t understand why some patients make a full recovery while others don’t.’

‘He’s young.’ She stumbled over the words, a prayer more than anything.

‘Yes, and otherwise strong and healthy. We’re moving him into the ICU now.’

There was a dressing on his head, drips in his arm and a breathing tube over his nose. The nurse said it was just a little extra help, to boost his oxygen. His face, the bruises, the swellings, looked even worse. The nurse chatted to them in a brisk whisper, gave them a leaflet about the unit. Louise and Ruby sat down either side of Luke’s bed.

‘Can he hear us?’

‘I don’t think so – the sedation, it’s like he’s fast asleep.’ Louise saw that Ruby was wiped out, her eyes bleary, head drooping. ‘We’ll go home for a bit.’

Ruby glanced up and across at her, alarm furrowing her brow.

‘He’s just resting, love. We should too. We’ll come back later. You’ve not eaten anything.’

Ruby looked at her brother.

‘It’ll be all right,’ Louise reassured her. ‘Come on.’

Louise bent over Luke, close to his ear. ‘Luke, we’re popping home for a bit, we’ll come and see you later. Love you.’