His mother had made a chicken casserole and creamy mashed potatoes. Comfort food, he thought. They were all eager to discuss the court case, the minutiae of replies and rejoinders. The manoeuvrings of the defence. Speculating on who had been lying, who they believed. The spirited debate was a complete contrast to the absence of interaction in his own house. We’re living in a mausoleum, he thought, buried alive with our dead son.
He told them what he thought of doing if they lost the case, and they all agreed to back him. Colin said he’d need legal advice about whether they had grounds to bring a civil suit.
‘I can ask Mr Sweeney,’ said Andrew.
‘You won’t need to,’ his mother said, setting down a cut-glass bowl of fruit salad in the middle of the table. ‘Any fool could tell they were guilty as sin.’
‘But they can only convict on the evidence,’ Andrew pointed out. ‘Gut feelings, instinct – they don’t count.’
‘The evidence is there,’ Izzie insisted. ‘The girl on the bus for a start.’ The chatter went on, and Andrew thought back to the haze of days after it had happened, to the numbness that had enveloped him. The way he had felt there was a veil between himself and the rest of them.
On his way out, his mother contrived to catch him on his own. ‘You and Val are having problems?’
‘Colin been shooting his mouth off, has he?’ He felt a scratch of irritation.
‘I have eyes in my head, Andrew,’ she said wryly.
‘I have tried to help. It’s tough. And please don’t quote “in sickness and in health” at me.’
‘She’s still off work?’
‘Yes.’ He pulled his coat on, grabbed his scarf from the hook on the wall.
‘Does she still see her friends?’
‘Yes, not as much, but yes.’ He paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘I know losing Jason, the strain, something’s bound to give, but I don’t want to lose her too.’ His eyes ached.
If he lost Val, he would lose so much more. The joint experiences they had shared, not just with Jason, but everything that had come before: the lost babies, the hardware store, burying her parents, her brother’s sudden departure for a monastic life. And their marriage: how they’d discovered each other’s charms and irritants, the way they had grown together, the intimacies no one else had knowledge of. And their love: the way his heart used to leap at the sight of her, his senses quicken at her scent. Then at last the wonder of parenthood: the ins and outs of vaccinations, parents’ evening, holidays, as well as all the little domestic rituals the three of them developed, the familiarities, like bedtimes spent checking the room for moths. Learning Jason’s foibles: the way he got carsick, his inability to sit through a meal without knocking something over, the sound of him singing, his voice fluting like clear water. And always Jason, at the centre, the sun they orbited.
His mother moved to hug him. ‘We’re here,’ she said, ‘always.’
‘I know,’ he said. Moved by her understanding. Grateful to her for not coming out with advice or platitudes.
It was late, but Andrew wasn’t ready to go straight home. He rang Louise. ‘You okay?’
‘Not really,’ she said.
‘Fancy some company?’
‘I don’t think so – Ruby’s here. It’s not a great time.’
‘Of course, another day then.’ He was disappointed.
‘Yeah, thanks for ringing. Andrew?’ she said quickly, before he could finish the call. ‘It’s going to be okay.’
He assumed she meant the verdicts. ‘You think?’
‘I do. We just have to wait.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Andrew
The call came late on the second day of deliberations. Val answered it; something quickened in her eyes and he knew.
‘The jury’s back,’ she said.
He held his hand out for the phone. ‘I’ll ring the others.’
‘Andrew.’ It was a plea. He saw the fear lancing through her eyes, her face blanched white.
‘Oh Val.’ He reached her, held her.
‘I can’t bear it.’ She was weeping. He could feel the bones in her shoulders, the span of her ribs. She was skeletal.
‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘I know. We’ll go together, we’ll be together.’ And he heard the prayer in his words.
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.