Split Second - страница 6

‘Sugar,’ he said. ‘I’ll make him a drink. The police want you.’

The officer nodded and introduced himself and asked Val if she could tell him what had happened. He followed her into the front room. Andrew looked in. Jason was white as a sheet; he looked awful, just like he used to before he was sick as a child after an unwise fairground ride, or a long car journey. ‘Jason?’

‘Dad.’ His voice was thick, gluey. Val glanced over, stopped talking. Andrew felt it in the room, a current, electric, biting at the back of his neck, crackling up his spine. He moved towards his son. ‘I feel-’ Jason slumped forward, his legs skittering on the carpet. There was a dark stain on the back of the armchair, wet, deep vivid red. The same on his parka.

‘Oh my God!’ Val dropped the blanket and ran to him.

‘Jason!’ They were both beside him. Then there was blood coming from his nose. Andrew grasped his shoulders, tried to straighten him up. His mind screaming: What do I do? What do I do? Help, please help. Sounds colliding around him, shouts, and a paramedic pulling his arms away from Jason. Jason on the floor, on his side, Val weeping. Someone pulling them back, getting between them and their son. Stab wound. Who said it? Stab wound. Panic rearing inside him like waves, higher and higher, and he couldn’t stay still. Val biting her fist, shaking her head, strands of her blonde hair stuck to her face. Then they were moving him and someone would take them to the hospital. Did they have their house keys? Phones?

Outside it was snowing again, fat flakes pirouetting in the street lights, settling and turning red on the front lawn.

Louise

When her phone went, Louise didn’t recognize the number. She wondered if it was someone from the agency. It was late, but not impossible: some of the work was respite care, staying with people whose regular carers needed a break, most often elderly people with dementia, and on rare occasions the agency worker allocated would have a problem and need replacing.

‘Hello?’

Ruby came downstairs in her pyjamas.

‘Who am I speaking to, please?’ a woman asked.

Louise was suspicious, some sort of spam call maybe, but she replied anyway, watching Ruby put her homework back in her school bag. ‘Louise Murray.’

‘You’re related to Luke Murray?’

Her blood ran cold. ‘Yes. His mum.’

‘This is Manchester Royal Infirmary. Luke was involved in an incident earlier this evening.’ Louise felt the slap of shock, a thump in her guts that forced her to step back, murmuring, ‘Oh no, no.’

She saw Ruby turn and freeze, alarm enlarging her eyes.

Luke! Oh, God. ‘Is he all right?’ Dread flared through her.

‘He’s stable,’ the woman said, and went on to give her instructions as the pressure built in Louise’s chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to concentrate.

‘I’ll come now, yes.’ She ended the call, her hand shaking. Panic fluttering at her back like wings.

‘Mum?’

‘It’s the hospital. Luke’s there. Get your coat.’ Ruby nodded, fled.

‘Please,’ Louise prayed, ‘please, please let him be all right.’

The car door was frozen, the key wouldn’t turn.

The de-icer was inside the car, so she hurried to fetch the kettle and ran hot water over the lock. The metal made a chinking sound.

It worked, and she got the de-icer and the plastic scraper and scoured away at the ice on the windscreen, her breath great puffs of mist. Beneath her feet the grass verge was lumpy, unyielding. Everything was frozen solid, brilliant and brittle.

They drove through the snow. The middle of the main road was clear, but everything else, the pavements, hedges, roofs and trees, was smothered in a layer of white. Smudging the edges.

Ruby spoke. ‘What happened?’

‘They didn’t say, just that he was stable.’

‘Maybe there was an accident? Like a crash?’

Incident, Louise thought, they said incident. ‘I don’t know, love.’ Thinking only that he was hurt, whatever it was, he was hurt. Alcoholic poisoning? Drinking himself stupid. Would that be an incident? Or if he’d been messing with drugs. Something else reckless? Trespassing on the railway line. He wasn’t a bad kid, not nasty, just daft at times, taking risks. Better lately, though, much better. That didn’t matter, not now. All that mattered was getting there. Make him better, make it better. She wouldn’t let herself imagine how he might be injured, fought against the pictures rearing up inside her head. Not going there. Just do this, just get through this.