It was the best night of her life.
At five in the morning, she and Laura watched the stars fade and the sun rise over the sea, their feet in the wavelets at the edge of the bay, watching the lacy foam patterns in the sand appear and disappear. Emma rubbed at the bites on her arm. Flashes of the night flickered through her mind: laughing with Little Kim, dancing till she was breathless, telling Laura she loved her.
‘Why do we have to go back?’ she said.
Laura laughed. ‘So we can raise the dosh to come again next year.’
The prospect kindled a ray of hope in Emma, but it was soon quenched when she thought of what lay ahead in the months before then. What she’d been able to forget about for the last seven days. Now it lurked, large and squat and cold, ominous, waiting to devour her. The court case.
Andrew
The summer was fading, the air already cooler as September approached. The first conkers littered the pavement outside the house. He saw a bat flit zigzag between the houses as he let himself in.
‘I thought you were at Colin’s. Where were you?’
Andrew froze, tried to think.
Val was sitting on the stairs; she got to her feet.
‘You should have tried my mobile,’ he said.
‘Where were you?’
‘With a friend.’
‘What friend?’ She spat the word out like it was unpalatable.
He rubbed his forehead. ‘What does it matter, Val? She’s just a friend.’ He set his car keys down on the little table by the phone.
Val came down the stairs. ‘Who is she?’ Her face was taut with emotion, her eyes glittering.
‘Why do you care? You see your friends, don’t you? Sheena and Sue, you spend more time socializing with them than you do with me these days.’
It was true; she barely seemed to notice him, still off work, still slower, duller from the medication, resistant to his attempts to involve her in anything. He’d given up trying to get her to try counselling. He had been in to their GP, explained how worried he was, how Val flatly refused to consider either bereavement or relationship counselling. The GP heard him out but more or less told him to give it time and tend to his own needs.
He’d tried suggesting other things: a meal out, a weekend away, a trip to the theatre. All declined with the same flat delivery.
There were times when he felt she blamed him for Jason’s death, that if he’d got downstairs sooner, or arrived home a little later, he could have intervened himself. Prevented it – or taken the blow instead.
Even his attempts to share memories of Jason were thwarted. She always changed the subject, or even questioned the veracity of his recall. ‘I don’t remember that,’ or, ‘I think you’ve got that wrong.’ Or even worse, she’d not say anything at all. And his anecdotes, about Jason, the little moment he had shared with her, would hang neglected, discarded between them like something shameful.
‘Who is she?’ Val said again.
He looked back at her, irritated, then resigned himself to honesty. And damn the consequences. ‘Louise,’ he said. ‘Louise Murray.’
Val recoiled as if he’d slapped her. ‘Is that some sort of sick joke?’ she said.
‘We meet for a drink now and then; sometimes I visit Luke.’
Val flew at him, her fists on his chest, then smacking his face, shrieking, ‘You bastard! You fucking bastard.’
He caught her arms, restrained her. ‘Stop it,’ he shouted. Though part of him thought that this – her rage, her reaction – was healthier than her numb indifference.
‘You Judas. How could you?’ She spat at him. He flinched as the spittle caught his chin.
‘I can talk to her,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of company.’
Val’s face seemed to shrink; she was quaking, her lips drawn back in a grimace. ‘That scum, if it hadn’t been for him-’
‘I’m not listening to this.’ He let go of her wrists. He wiped his face on the back of his arm.
‘Why not!’ she yelled. ‘You’re always on at me to talk about it, pick it over like some scab.’
‘Not like this,’ he said.
‘Have you fucked her?’
He was shocked, at the question and her vehemence. He sighed. ‘No. Would it matter? You’re not interested any more.’ He felt bile at the back of his throat.
‘I hate you,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.
‘Val.’ He reached out a hand.
‘It’s a complete betrayal,’ she said, ‘a travesty. Our son would be alive-’
‘Luke didn’t kill him,’ he yelled, losing any composure he had tried to cling to. ‘The people who killed him are in prison, they’re up in court in six weeks’ time. Charged with murder. They killed him. They consigned Luke Murray to a living death.’
‘I want you to leave.’ Punishing him.
‘Oh, for Chrissakes, Val.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Well I’m not going anywhere. This is our house, I’m not leaving. You’re too distressed to make any sensible-’
‘Don’t tell me how I feel!’ she snarled at him.
‘I’m not leaving you. I’m not going anywhere. We have the court case to get through; when that’s over we can talk. But nothing happens till then.’
‘You can sleep in the spare room.’
He groaned. ‘This…’ He was overcome, took a breath. ‘We are both devastated.’
‘Really?’ she said sarcastically. ‘I can’t think why.’
He didn’t know how to reach her, felt unmoored, caught in the slipstream of her bitter grief. ‘We can’t decide anything in this chaos… I haven’t done anything wrong, Val.’
‘You have no idea,’ she said. And she turned and went past him and up the stairs.
Andrew sat outside, cradling a Scotch, taking solace from the peace in the garden, the scents of the night. Watching the moths around the wall lamp (they would have given Jason the heebie-jeebies) and the bat, still patrolling hither and thither, swift and silent in its tumbling flight.
He was tempted to call Louise, but imagined she’d be less than pleased to hear him moaning about Vaclass="underline" all those dreaded clichés, my wife doesn’t understand me, our marriage is all but over. And he didn’t want to sully their friendship with the mess of his marriage.
Was it over? Him and Val? He tried to see the future, a version where they stayed together and came through it, then an alternative one where they separated, and neither felt real.
Perhaps losing Jason was too much for them. He had been the heart of their relationship, and without him there simply wasn’t enough to sustain them.
I’m forty-eight, thought Andrew. I could have another forty years. And the prospect frightened him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Louise
The court was almost full. Louise and Ruby were close to the aisle on the front row of the public gallery. Below them was the dock where Thomas Garrington and his accomplice (co-defendant, as all the lawyers put it) Nicola Healy sat. They had identified her in court but the reporters and everyone else were still instructed not to publish or broadcast her name because of her age. If she was found innocent, her anonymity would be preserved.
Beyond the dock, lower down in the court, were the lawyers, the clerks and court recorder, the jury to the left, the witness box to the right and more places for the press and members of the public. The press benches were crammed with reporters. She wondered if the hacks who had savaged Luke’s reputation were among them.
Louise felt tense; her mouth kept filling with saliva as if she was going to be sick. She had been told that the opening address by the prosecution would be followed by a showing of the CCTV tape from the bus. She knew what the tape depicted and she would not stay to watch. The thought of seeing Luke abused, vilified and assaulted, of seeing those last few moments before they had chased him off the bus, on him like a pack of hyenas, was more than she could stomach. Pain studded her heart, the chill of sorrow spread over her skin. And she did not want to let those images into her head, or Ruby’s. She did not want Luke’s fear to stick, frozen and pixelated in her mind, corroding other memories, other pictures.