Andrew
They lay on the twin beds, which were pushed together in the guest room. Almost as large as the master bedroom, it had been Colin’s room when they were kids. Andrew, as the youngest, had the box room next to Colin’s.
In the intervening years it had been repapered and spruced up, the old sash windows replaced, a new carpet fitted. A few remnants of childhood stood on the alcove shelves, amusement for visiting grandchildren: dominoes and a game of Mousetrap, a set of Russian stacking dolls (who on earth had bought them?) and a box of Dinky cars and tanks and lorries.
The curtains were drawn, the radiator ticking. The room was airless, hot and stuffy. Andrew could smell food cooking downstairs. They lay on top of the covers, like spoons, her back to him, his arm across her side, holding her wrist.
‘The other boy’s been in surgery,’ Val said. ‘Head injury.’
‘Oh God!’ Andrew felt a gout of shame; he hadn’t thought to ask the police about him – presumably that was how Val knew.
‘He’s still unconscious so he’s not been able to tell them anything. It’s a miracle he survived, the way they-’ She broke off.
Andrew exhaled. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘It’s important I remember,’ she carried on, withdrawing her arm. ‘I heard shouting. I went to the window first; I could see there were people, but not what was going on, not clearly. I think I knew it was a fight. I went to the front door. It was all so quick. One of them was on the ground and the others were kicking him.’ Her voice shook. ‘They were all doing it, even the girl.’
Andrew gave a ragged sigh.
‘And Jason was coming in the gate, he was shouting, he was frantic. I just wanted him to come inside, to get away. That awful feeling, you know, when you see that sort of violence, like we’re animals, just animals. All the instincts kicking in. I was so scared, I was shouting, there was so much noise. Then he pulled one of them off, the biggest one, grabbed at his shoulders. The boy just pushed him over.’
Andrew felt his own limbs rigid with apprehension.
‘Jason grabbed the lantern stand; you know the cast-iron one near the snowberry bush. He went for the same boy, hit his back; that’s when I ran in for the phone. Went upstairs to get you. I never saw a knife. Oh God,’ she wept, and Andrew felt the tremors deep in his own belly. He smelt her hair, faint traces of shampoo and a hint of the perfume she always wore.
‘He was so brave,’ she said, her voice clotted with tears. ‘Why did he have to be so bloody brave?’
Andrew was running, sliding, skittering, ice underfoot. He woke sweaty, breathless, after the dream. The shapes of it dissolving, drifting as he tried to clutch at them. The story of it lost, but a sour, squalid residue in the pit of his stomach.
Jason! For a moment, a delicious, delirious moment, he willed that the loss of Jason was a dream too, that any time now he would open his eyes for a second time to his own bedroom and the sound of his son crossing the landing and all the bright possibilities, the glorious mundanities of a normal day. But the hope shrivelled, the edges of the picture flaring and charred. Ashes and blood.
He felt overloaded; the weight was crushing him, compacting his bones and the marrow within, compressing his vital organs, lungs, liver, heart.
Val was there, and the family liaison officer, Martine. Andrew’s mother offered toast and tea. Tea, he agreed, and pulled out a chair. Val had a pad of paper in front of her, a laptop open.
‘How are you?’ his mother asked.
Andrew shrugged, rubbed at his face. He hadn’t shaved, hadn’t washed.
Martine explained apologetically that the investigating team needed statements from them both. She knew it was a terrible time, but it was crucial to do it as soon after the incident as possible. She could take them to the station and bring them back. Was that okay?
Outside the station, Andrew was appalled to see Jason’s photo, the one from YouTube, and the word MURDER in dense black capitals. He wanted to run, to scuttle off and burrow somewhere. He squeezed Val’s hand. The place was deserted. Martine pressed an intercom and gave her name to gain entrance, and then they all waited by the empty front desk until someone appeared. Andrew sat and watched the screen fixed high on the wall as it switched between views of the car park, which must be behind the building, the outside approach to the main entrance and the reception area itself. Showing them on the camera: Val, preoccupied, quiet, one hand supporting her head, eyes half closed; Martine, smart and trim and alert; and himself, unfamiliar, nondescript. A bloke, just some bloke.
