Split Second - [8]

Training in speech therapy had been a random choice really, prompted by a radio documentary. It meant two years as a student on a bursary then a not very good income afterwards. Certainly less than he’d have made climbing up the civic ladder. But Val, now a team leader, was on a good salary, and with only one child, they were reasonably well off.

‘Andrew?’ She’d been repeating his name.

‘Sorry,’ he turned from the map, ‘what?’

‘Do you think we should go and find someone? Find out what’s going on?’

Who? Where? He felt completely inadequate. Before he had a chance to frame a response, a man appeared, his scrubs rumpled, his head covered with a patterned hat. Val stood up and quickly crossed to join Andrew. Her jaw was trembling.

‘Mr and Mrs Barnes?’

Andrew nodded. Val said, ‘Yes.’

Andrew watched the man close his eyes, a slow blink before he spoke, his lips parting, an intake of air.

That was all it took, and Andrew knew.

They could not go home. The police officer apologized, but the house had been sealed for examination. It was a crime scene. They could be taken to a hotel and a family liaison officer would meet them there. After tonight, perhaps they would rather stay with family?

Stupefied, they let themselves be shepherded from the room where Jason lay and along to the exit. The officer kept talking, a meaningless burble. Andrew wondered if he was doing it to comfort himself, like a child whistling in the dark, or if he thought it might help them.

As they reached the automatic doors, Val stopped and turned to Andrew. Her face contorted and tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘Not on his own.’ She shook her head, her voice thick.

It was half past four. They had sat with their son in the anteroom in the bereavement suite since ten past midnight. Andrew had held Jason’s hand, tracing the lines on his palm, lines of destiny now met, rubbing the calluses on his fingers made by the guitar strings, noticing the fine golden hairs on the back of his wrist.

The policeman stopped and cleared his throat. ‘If you need a bit longer…’

A bit? How about another fifty years?

‘… but the pathologist-’

‘Start work at four in the morning, do they?’ Val snapped, and shivered.

Andrew took her arm and led her back, along to the lifts, up to the room.

At quarter past eight the sun rose crimson over the snow-covered city and the pathologist came for Jason.

Louise

Louise held Ruby’s hand; her daughter’s touch was warm, the skin smooth and soft, unlike her own, roughened from chores and her habit of biting the skin around her nails.

The doctor was young, Oriental-looking, Chinese or Japanese, maybe Korean. Dr Liu. She spoke softly and Louise had to crane her neck to hear her above the white noise spitting in her head.

‘Luke is still unconscious,’ the doctor said. ‘There’s a fracture to the skull so we want to do a scan to check on that; there is a chance we will need to operate, to reduce any swelling and alleviate the pressure on the brain.’

Louise felt her nose burn, bit her cheek; the tang of blood made her mouth water.

‘He’s breathing on his own, which is a good sign,’ the doctor went on, ‘and there is nothing to signify damage to any other internal organs.’

‘Will he be all right?’ Louise asked, the words sounding brittle and dusty. Broken leaves.

‘We’ll know more when we have the scan results.’

Which was no answer at all really.

‘Can’t you wake him up?’ Ruby asked.

‘The body can better repair itself in the unconscious state. It’s best if he wakes up naturally. He is being hydrated with a drip. You can go in to see him before we take him up. It looks bad.’ Her eyes held Louise’s, black like jet beads. ‘It may be a big shock.’ She glanced sideways at Ruby, then to Louise, an unspoken question.

‘Rube, if you-’ Louise began.

‘I wanna see him.’

Oh God. Louise barely knew him. His face was misshapen, swollen and still bloody. A lump the size of an orange on his left cheek and his right eyelid torn, the lashes, his long curling lashes, gummy with blood. His lips cracked, slightly parted, his front teeth at the top missing. The ferocity of it ripped through her in a wash of terror and rage. Oh my poor lamb. How frightened he must have been.

‘Oh God,’ Ruby breathed.

That he should suffer so. Someone had done this to him, her blessed, troubled boy. Louise turned away, her hand shielding her eyes, her chest aflame. Ruby was crying quietly, sniffling. Louise hugged her, murmured words of solace, then stepped away, studied her son. She wanted to scoop him up, cradle him on her knee and sing to him, comfort him. Or shake him awake, force him to his feet, clean his wounds. She wanted to kiss him, stroke his hair, but his head was so raw, so exposed, she was fearful she might hurt him. His hands lay at his sides, the drip going into his left arm; she picked up his right hand, hot and limp, pressed her mouth against his palm, tasted salt there, smelt iron. She tried to replace the bloated face with his usual profile, that of his father Roland. The Nigerian student who had spent a summer working in the care home where Louise had her first job. Roland, who broke her heart. Wooed her with his flirting and his patter, promised her the earth, then when she fell pregnant told her he was engaged to a girl back home and he’d be marrying his intended as soon as he graduated. Roland the rat, sleek and smooth.