Lisa Ballantyne - Guilty One

Sebastian sniffed, looking up at Daniel, and pulled the cuffs of his sweatshirt over his hands as he listened to the formal words.

‘You all cosy now in your nice clean clothes?’ said the police officer. ‘You know why we took your clothes, don’t you, Seb?’

‘Yes, you want to check for forensic evidence.’

Sebastian’s words were measured, clear and cool.

‘That’s right. What kind of evidence do you think we’ll find?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘When we picked you up this afternoon, you had some spots on your trainers. The marks appeared to be blood, Seb. Can you explain what the marks were?’

‘I’m not sure. I might have cut myself when I was playing, I can’t remember. Or it might’ve been dirt …’

Sergeant Turner cleared his throat.

‘Don’t you think you might remember if you’d cut yourself bad enough to leave blood spots on your shoes?’

‘It would all depend.’

‘So you think that it is blood on your shoes, but you believe the blood to be your own?’ continued the inspector, in a cigarette-ravaged voice.

‘No, I’ve no idea what the marks are. If I’m out playing, quite often I get a little dirty. I was just saying that if it is blood, then probably I cut myself playing.’

‘How would you have cut yourself?’

‘Maybe falling on a rock or jumping out of a tree. A branch could have scratched me.’

‘Were you doing a lot of jumping out of trees yesterday or today?’

‘No, I was mostly watching television.’

‘You didn’t go to school today?’

‘No, I wasn’t feeling very well in the morning. I had a sore tummy, so I stayed off.’

‘Did your teacher know you were off ill today?’

‘Well, what usually happens is that you take in a note the next time you go in …’

‘If you were inside all day today, Sebastian, how did your trainers get like that? How did the blood get on to them?’ Sergeant Turner asked, leaning forward. Daniel could smell the stale coffee on his breath.

‘Could it have been blood from yesterday?’

‘We don’t know that it’s blood on his shoes, Sergeant. Maybe you could rephrase your question?’ said Daniel, raising one eyebrow at the police officer. He knew that they would try to trap the boy in this way.

Angrily, Turner said, ‘Were those the same shoes you were wearing on Sunday, Sebastian?’

‘Maybe. I might have put them back on again. I don’t remember. I have a lot of shoes. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.’

Daniel glanced at Sebastian and tried to remember being eleven years old. He remembered being shy to meet adults’ eyes. He remembered nettle stings and feeling badly dressed. He remembered anger. But Sebastian was confident and articulate. A spark in the boy’s eyes suggested he was enjoying being questioned, despite the detective’s harshness.

‘Yes, we shall. We’ll soon find out what the marks on your shoes are, and if it’s blood, exactly whose blood it is.’

‘Did you take some of Ben’s blood?’

The dead boy’s name sounded so primitive, so hallowed, in the windowless room, like a transient bubble, oily and colourful and floating before everyone. Daniel held his breath, but the bubble burst anyway.

‘We’ll know pretty soon whether any of his blood is on your shoes,’ Turner whispered.

‘When you’re dead,’ said Sebastian, his voice clear, quizzical, ‘does your blood still flow? Is it still a liquid? I thought it might turn solid or something.’

Daniel felt the hairs on his arms rise. He could see the eyes of the police officers narrowing at the macabre turn of the conversation. Daniel could sense what they were thinking, but he still believed in the boy. He recalled being judged by adults as a child and how unfair that judgement had been. Sebastian was obviously bright, and some part of Daniel understood his curious mind.

It was well after ten when the interview ended. Daniel felt sapped as he watched Sebastian being put to bed in his cell. Charlotte was leaning over the boy, stroking his hair.

‘I don’t want to sleep here,’ Sebastian said, turning to Daniel. ‘Can’t you make them let me go home?’

‘It’ll be OK, Seb,’ Daniel tried to reassure him. ‘You’re being very brave. They just need to get started on the questions early tomorrow. It’s as easy to sleep here. At least you’ll be safe.’

Sebastian looked up and smiled.

‘Will you go and see the body now?’ said Sebastian.

Daniel shook his head quickly. He hoped the police officer near the cells had not overheard. He reminded himself that children interpret the world differently to adults. Even the older juveniles he had defended had been impulsive in their speech and Daniel had had to counsel them to consider before they spoke or acted. He put on his jacket, shivering under its still-damp skin. With tight lips, he said goodbye to Charlotte and Sebastian and that he would see them in the morning.

When Daniel surfaced at Mile End Tube station, it was after eleven thirty and the summer sky was navy blue. The rain had stopped but the air still felt charged.

He took a deep breath and walked with his tie in his shirt pocket, his sleeves rolled up and his jacket hooked over one shoulder. Normally he would take the bus home: jump on the 339 if he could catch it, but tonight he walked straight down Grove Road, past the old-fashioned barber’s and the takeaways, past the Baptist church and pubs he never entered, and modern flats standing back from the road. When he saw Victoria Park ahead of him, he was nearly home.

The day felt heavy and he hoped that the boy would not be charged, that the forensic evidence would clear him. The system was hard enough on adults, let alone children. He needed to be alone now – time to think – and felt glad that his last girlfriend had moved out of his flat only two months before.

Inside, he took a beer from the fridge and sipped it as he opened his mail. At the bottom of the pile was a letter. It was written on pale blue notepaper with the address handwritten in ink. The rain had wet the letter and part of Daniel’s name and address had become blurred, yet he recognised the handwriting.

He took a deep swill of beer before he slipped his little finger inside the fold of the envelope and ripped.

Dearest Danny

,

This is a hard letter to write.

I’ve not been well, and I know now that I don’t have much longer. I can’t be sure to have my strength later, so I want to write to you now. I’ve asked the nurse to post this when it’s my time. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the last bit, but I’m not frightened about dying. I don’t want you to worry.

I wish I could see you one more time, is all. I wish you were with me. I feel far from home, and far from you.

So many regrets and bless you, love, you are one of them – if not the biggest regret that I have. I wish I’d done more for you; I wish I’d fought harder.

I’ve said it to you often enough over the years, but know that all I ever wanted was to protect you. I wanted you to be free and happy and strong, and do you know what? – I think you are.

Although I know it was wrong to do what I did, I think of you now, working in London, and it brings me a strange peace. I miss you, but that is my own selfishness. In my heart I know that you are doing grand. I am fit to burst with pride at the fact that you’re a lawyer, but I am not a bit surprised.

I have left you the farm, for what it’s worth. You could probably buy the old place with a week’s wages, but maybe for a time it was home to you. At the very least, I wish that.

I always knew you’d be successful. I just hope that you are happy. Happiness is harder to achieve. I know that you probably still don’t understand, but your happiness was all I ever wished for. I love you. You are my son whether you like it or not. Try not to hate me for what I did. Release me from that and I will rest easy.