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.’
‘Mum.’ Ruby in tears again.
Her own eyes stung in response, but she fought against it; she had to be strong, pull them all through this. ‘Hey.’ She moved round the bed. Held her daughter.
‘It’s not fair,’ Ruby blurted out. ‘It’s so awful.’
‘Shush, hush now.’
When Ruby had calmed down, she too said goodbye to Luke, and then they followed the winding corridors out.
The freezing air hurt Louise’s lungs, the same sensation she remembered after she’d had the kids each time, when she’d been awake for hours on end, using all the reserves her body had. She pulled her scarf over her nose and mouth. She switched her phone on and felt it buzz. A stack of messages: Ruby’s school, Carl, the agency. People to tell.
At home, Luke’s lights were still on in the sycamore tree, sparkling on the frost that limned the branches. Glittering on the snow.
Ruby had some cereal and went to lie down, while Louise sat and rang round. Her mind looping back again and again to Luke in the hospital bed, his poor ruined face, his broken teeth. Listening to people’s expressions of horror as she outlined what had happened.
When she went into the kitchen, she saw a dark shape against the back window. The tree that Carl had dropped off, bound in a nylon sheath and propped up, out of sight of the road and anyone with light fingers. She flung open the back door and went round to the garden. She grabbed the tree, the needles piercing her hands, and shoved it over, kicked at it, almost losing her footing on the slippery snow. Furious, repeating over and over as she swung her foot, ‘Stupid bloody tree, bloody stupid bloody tree.’ Until she was spent and sobbing in the keen night air.
