Boy A Read online

  Although there were usually only two minors present, the court stuck to school hours. Starting at nine, breaking at eleven, and then again at one and two-thirty, closing for the day at three-thirty-five; or sooner if the judge felt an apt natural pause had been reached. Sometimes there were other children. Three boys testified separately, via video link, about a time when they had all been set upon by the two defendants. They were clearly still upset by the experience, because their faces were anxious, and they stumbled during the gentle cross-examination, getting confused and contradicting each other about exactly who had said and done what. But the jury got the gist of this unprovoked assault.

  The televisions were kept in place to play the CCTV footage. Most of those watching had already seen the highlights, shown in the first days after Angela disappeared. Damning slowed-down frames of children, already formed into premeditating monsters, darting from alley to doorway, as they followed an angel down the street.

  The pathologist’s mortuary report came last. When it was hoped that the jurors and the gallery would be already steeled to what was going to be revealed. A Stanley knife, in a neatly labelled clear plastic bag, was handed to the foreman. Some jurors touched it gingerly, as if an evil genie might erupt, should the knife be rubbed or the bag burst. The photographs that passed around left many of the twelve clutching their eyes to their palms, rubbing, like that or anything else could erase what they’d seen. The pathologist concluded that he remained unsure, in the absence of DNA, the boys being hairless and seedless. He couldn’t confirm for certain that one or both had entered her. But it sufficed for him to say that something had.

  To sum up the summing up. A girl named Angela, ten years old, perfect as the world might ever know, was molested and murdered on the bank of the Byrne. Under clear skies, in broad day, she had been trailed, trapped and dragged along a gravel path. She was slashed, with many strokes, and slung into the filthy water. Not even the prosecution had the stomach to dwell on what may have happened between her capture and murder. It was enough to think of Angela, alone and afraid, at the mercy of creatures that had none.

  And so, before it reached its verdict, the jury knew the facts at least, if not the truth. Having tried every ruse in a child’s repertoire, every lie and weakling wile, it was doubtful if even the boys could remember the real truth. But then a court isn’t necessarily there to find the truth. Its purpose is more about finding a wise solution.

  In his verdict the judge seemed shrewd enough: a seven-year sentence was passed; severe, but not unfair, considering the gravity of the case. The Home Secretary, however, more at the mercy of public will and already a tabloid-painted fool, made detention indefinite. Prompted, perhaps, by a coupon campaign. And because governments in the terminal spins of election years know far better than unaccountable officials the necessity that justice is damning. No doubt the Minister felt vindicated when the Courts of Appeal, all the way up, kept to his line. They too contended that justice must be seen to be done. But they also upheld the decision of the trial judge: that other than one photograph of each, the boys themselves should never be seen again.

  L is for Letters.

  Love Letters.

  Jack and Chris play a game of ‘Old People’s Shoes’ while they do town-centre deliveries in the morning. The rules are simple: you take it in turns, street by street, and get a point for every pensioner you spot wearing trainers, two if they have a tartan trolley as well, which is more common than you might think. In the advanced game you also get two points for any young people that you see wearing sensible school-type shoes with tracksuits. Jack is winning 15–9, when they have to suspend the game to head off the A roads and on to Bs, and bizarre country drops. Jack has never been to most of these village garages, but Chris still knows his way. They’re delivering air fresheners and learner plates today.

  ‘So what happened with you and Michelle last night? How’d the date go?’ Chris asks, manoeuvring round a tight curve. There are dark woods to one side of the road, and a fenced bank down the other.

  ‘It wasn’t really a date, as such, we just watched a video.’

  ‘Oh yeah, round at hers, was it? Any hanky panky?’

  Jack looks ahead while he considers his response; an old blue Cortina is in front. He doesn’t really want to get into this. But Chris is his friend and he knows that this is something friends talk about.

  ‘Just tell me, did you get a go on those tits? Steve the mechanic reckons they’re so big she has special bras, cos they ran out of letters and had to start using the Greek alphabet.’

  Jack shakes his head, but can’t help a laugh. The Cortina is pulling away from them, too fast for the roads. As a general rule of thumb anyone that drives faster than Chris is going too fast for the roads. Jack knows this because Chris has told him. The Cortina driver must be a real local.

  ‘You don’t give much away do you, Bruiser? I don’t think you need to worry about protecting Michelle’s honour…’ Chris stops talking when he sees what Jack sees.

  A deer jumps out of the wood. It’s suspended in a split second of sunlight. Then it lands on the road in front of the Cortina. The driver brakes, and the car skids. Locked wheels send it careering. It smashes through the fence, with a whip-crack. Disappears from sight. Chris hits his brakes too, but pumps them when the van starts to swing. He steers into the skid and brings the Mercedes to a stop. Less than a child’s length in front of the motionless deer. It looks at them with watery brown eyes and tilts its head to one side. Then it turns and scrambles back into the wood.

  Chris and Jack look at each other.

  ‘Shit!’

  They jump out and run to where the car disappeared. The fence is wooden, and jagged lumps of it lie all around. The blue Cortina is at the bottom of a long steep bank. Its roof is dented down, almost to wing-mirror height at the front, and its crumpled bonnet is wedged against a thick, partly uprooted, tree.

  Chris shouts that he’s getting his phone and the tyre-iron from the van. Jack is already starting down. It’s hard to keep his footing on the grassy incline. There are huge chunks of red earth showing, where bits of the car have dug in as it rolled. Jack slips on a lump and finds that he’s rolling too. Spinning down the bank on his side, like he’d done as a child. But with fear. He is going much too fast, and he can’t see, but he knows there are trees about. He tries to open his arms, to stop himself, but wrenches his shoulder and carries on rolling. He has no control over direction or speed.

  Jack only stops spinning when the terrain lets him.

  When the ground does level out, he is virtually next to the car. Other than aches he isn’t injured. Judging by the state of the Cortina, the driver will probably not be so lucky. Its flattened roof is scattered with green leaves. Flung down like tickertape by the impacted tree. Jack can’t see inside.

  ‘Hello!’ he shouts. ‘Are you OK? Can you hear me?’ There is no response.

  The driver’s door-handle is coated in the same rich red mud as the scars on the slope above. Jack strains with it, one foot pressed against the car’s body, but he can’t open it. He tries the rear door, to the same effect. A glance tells him Chris is coming down the bank now, occasionally resorting to sitting to keep his balance. The passenger side door is completely crumpled, twisted into the frame. But behind it there is a chance. The last door is the least damaged, and not trapped by the dropped roof. Jack can even see into the car, through the tatters of glass that cling in the window. There is a baby bucket-seat in the back, strapped to the battered matt-black upholstery. In it there is a little girl. Her dress is pink-gingham, her hair is blond and alice-banded, and her face… Her face is blue. Still and blue.

  Jack is shouting to her to hang on, as he wrenches at the door. It moves a little but he can’t get it open. Chris arrives and shoves the tyre-iron straight into the small crack that Jack’s efforts have made. The two of them groan together. Speaking only to count from one to three. Until the door speaks too, and falls open with a metal whi
mper.

  Jack knows his ABC. He studied it in the secure unit, they all did, as part of education. Airways, Breathing, Circulation. Airways, Breathing, Circulation. Airways, Breathing, Circulation. He repeats it like a mantra as he crawls into the small space on the back seat. Her blond head is tilted forwards. He takes it beneath the chin and by the crown, and moves it gently back. Her lips are a pale powder-blue. With crossed fingers he parts them. He can’t feel a tongue initially, then it appears and he draws it forwards, tries to check for other obstructions. She gags. A beautiful retch to Jack.

  ‘She’s alive,’ he shouts. Then he checks to listen to her breathing. It is too gentle to hear, but he can feel her chest rising with his palm. ABC. Circulation. He feels a pulse at her throat. A tiny throb of life. He is overwhelmed, almost in tears.

  ‘You’re going to be all right,’ he tells her. ‘It’s all going to be all right.’ He can hear Chris outside on his mobile. Describing their location. The little girl looks at him. He hasn’t been this close to a child since he was one. She doesn’t cry. She asks where her daddy is. Jack remembers the driver. The front seats are squashed together. There is barely a gap between them, and the roof is flattened to their top. They won’t get to him from the back.

  ‘They’re coming,’ Chris says. ‘It stinks of petrol in there. Shouldn’t we get her out?’

  ‘You got your knife?’

  Chris passes in the Leatherman that he always wears for work, with the blade already opened. Jack slices through the webbing that holds the child-seat in place, and eases the little girl out. Still in her padded bucket, in case of back injury. He talks to her awkwardly, and monitors her signs. Chris keeps trying in vain to open the driver-door, until the fire brigade arrives to take over.

  With the firemen come paramedics. And shortly after the police arrive. Two officers, with batman utility belts and flak jackets. They question Jack and Chris separately about what happened. Mercifully they don’t ask them to make statements at the station. One ambulance disappears to take the little girl to hospital. The other waits for her father. By the time the fire crew manage to move the cutting equipment down the bank it is too late for him. Maybe it was always too late for him. Jack and Chris never see his face. He is strapped under an orange blanket when he’s brought back to the spot where the deer landed. The second ambulance doesn’t use its sirens as it pulls away.

  The policemen shake Jack’s hand after they have questioned him. They tell him that his quick thinking and first aid almost certainly saved the girl’s life. Then they radio for a WPC, to help them tell a wife and mother she’s a widow.

  Most of the day is gone by the time Jack and Chris are back on the road. They have explained the situation to the office, but with Pony Express valiance they opt to complete the drop they started.

  When they get back to the yard they are clapped in through the storerooms and loading bays. Most of the guys are quite obviously joking, but there is still an unmistakable feeling of pride around the unit. Jack has never felt a sense of belonging anything like this. They are heroes. He is a hero. It’s a sensation almost strong enough to pierce his wall of unworthiness.

  There is a letter for Jack in the whitewood pigeon-hole, below the sticky label inscribed ‘Burridge’. He can remember the faint thrill when he first noticed that his name had appeared there, alongside the ranks of his workmates. But that is nothing compared to getting a letter in it. Not on a day like today.

  ‘It’s from Michelle, Jack,’ says a bloke he can’t remember even having seen before.

  ‘Love letters straight from your window,’ Chris starts singing. Two more lads join him, leaning in to each other like a barbershop trio, but crooning like Max Bygraves. They peter out quite quickly, when it becomes apparent that none of them knows beyond line four, but the spontaneity and effort of the attempt has a lot of bystanders laughing. Jack grins as he puts the letter in his pocket, not wanting to read it so publicly.

  ‘You two can go when you’ve unloaded the stuff you didn’t deliver,’ says the yard manager.

  ‘Nice one,’ says Chris. ‘Time off for good behaviour, hey, Bruiser. Be like old times for you.’ Then he says sorry when he sees Jack’s expression.

  But it doesn’t bother either of them for long. The life-savers invest their early finish in a pint stop. In the sunny garden of a pub that they pass every day and have never before been into.

  ‘Lager tastes better in the daytime,’ Jack says. Realizing this is the first time he’s tried it.

  ‘It’s the sunshine,’ says Chris. ‘It’s what they make it from.’ He laughs and sips his pint. ‘You know, Jack,’ he says seriously, like he’s conveying a state secret, ‘that guy, the dead guy, he was busy going about his life this morning. Now he’s gone. It’s weird, isn’t it? But we’re happy, because we saved the little girl. Just goes to show, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Goes to show what?’ asks Jack.

  ‘I don’t know, that’s the thing. Goes to show you have to grab every pint in the sunshine you can.’ Then, as if realizing the implication of his own remark, he says: ‘You’re a good friend, Jack. A good person. The thing today, and you being ready to take a kicking for me the other week. I haven’t really thanked you for that. I just want you to know that if there is anything I can ever do. Anything you ever want to tell me. I’m here.’

  And for a moment Jack wants to tell him. To tell him everything, and he can imagine the weight lifting. He can feel what it would be like, for the first time in his life, to have a peer who truly knew him. But his sense of self-preservation cuts in. It could mean the end of their friendship, moving town, leaving Michelle. It could be suicide. All to lighten the load.

  ‘Maybe it only goes to show you should drive slow on country roads,’ Jack says. And there’s a feeling of relief between them. A realization that it was getting too heavy for a day like today. You don’t get many days like today. Most people don’t get any.

  ‘Yeah, there’s some pretty rough stuff around. But it’s not such a bad world, is it?’

  And Jack thinks maybe it’s not.

  As it’s a Wednesday, Jack goes for a pizza with Terry. Terry is excited by the story of the accident. His excitement gives him energy, and makes Jack remember what he looked like when he was younger. In the days when Terry had no grey in his hair and fewer lines on his face, with more of them caused by laughter. When he had a wife that he lived with, and said he loved, and a son that lived with and loved them both. And a dog that Terry said loved everyone. Because all Labradors do. It makes Jack remember when he envied that son. Now he almost feels sorry for him, because he spends less time with his dad than Jack does.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Terry says. ‘It means that you’ve been forgiven. You being given the opportunity to save that girl’s life, and with the first aid you learnt in the secure unit. That’s divine intervention, or fate, or something. That’s someone saying you’ve been forgiven.’

  Jack isn’t sure. He’s not a great believer in God. But he usually believes Terry, and he wants to believe him now.

  After he gets home he reads Michelle’s letter again. It says that she hopes he’s all right, and that it doesn’t matter about the other night. It says they were probably just rushing things, and that she cares about him a lot. It asks if he wants to go round for dinner tomorrow.

  She cooks tiny conches of pasta, with oil and fresh chicken, and a lot of herbs which are sharp to the taste. They eat with two bottles of a posh red wine. Which cleans their mouths and stains their teeth.

  When they kiss he can still taste the herbs. He calls her Shell, and finds that her pubis is like a shell as well. Softer in its crinkles even than the pasta, and more salty. He believes she must be a mermaid, half woman, half sea. And when he enters her he can feel the water washing him, claiming him. Waves rush over him, and he hopes that he’s drowning, so that this might be the last thing he ever knows. But living is even better. They have sex again and again and again. Until he’s sore to t
he touch, and still her touch arouses him. When she finally falls asleep, with his arms around her, he prays for the first time in more than a decade. His prayer is of thanks, and he thinks that Terry is right: he must be forgiven.

  M is for Mother.

  Mothering Sunday.

  The children at school were probably reminded. Maybe they made cards on Friday afternoon. With pots of stiff white glue, one between two. A hadn’t been there, so the morning started like any other Sunday: with cereal and cartoons.

  His mum got up unusually late, well into Inspector Gadget. She looked at A expectantly, purple towelling dressing gown wrapped tight round her. It had brown stains on the shoulders, from when she wore it for dyeing her hair. Getting no response but a ‘Morning, Mum,’ she started on the washing up. A’s father had generously told her to leave it, the night before. But had not gone so far as to touch it himself.

  A thought that something was wrong, in the way she banged the pots around in the sink. He presumed she’d had an argument with his dad. He never heard them fight. But sometimes they could be mercilessly silent to each other for days. An uncomfortable quiet would come over the house, making it impossible even for A to speak normally. Every basic task, requiring a little communication, became a chore, and felt like it created further friction.

  When A’s dad got up, though, he stood behind his wife at the sink, and patted her back.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that, pet. I was going to wash up.’

  A knew he wasn’t really going to, even if his dad didn’t. But such attention showed this wasn’t one of the silent times.

  Something was wrong, though. The cold in her tone was unmistakable when she said she was going to have a bath. Normally she would fuss around the house while the water ran. Maybe make a cup of tea to drink while she soaked, if she was feeling decadent. That day the bathroom door shut with a sharp slap that was near enough to a slam. And the bolt, that was hardly necessary in a household of three, was drawn heavily across.