by Tom Butler
‘I’m dreading this,’ Sylvia said, turning to her husband on the eve of the trial.
‘I wish we could wrap them in cotton wool or better still take them away from all of it.’
‘We protect them the best we can. Take every day as it comes, and hope it doesn’t drag on and on,’ he shrugged.
They could do no more than hope the trial wouldn’t be too painful a spectacle to bear for all concerned. It was a necessary and inevitable evil.
******
Chapter Four
On the opening day of the murder trial, the prosecution barrister deliberated for over an hour and left no stone unturned, delving deeply into the evil mind of a hate fuelled, premeditated murderer. It was a ruthless and unrelenting tirade, and more than anyone, it was Noah who was likely to be the one most affected. Having almost been in denial of the gruesome facts and still prepared to give his father the benefit of the doubt, he had, at one point, threatened to lock himself away so that he didn’t have to listen to any reports of the trial as it unfolded. But curiosity had gotten the better of him, and so, with baited breath, Sylvia and Phillip had stood firm and rallied around him like he was their own child which was perhaps beyond the call of duty but at least showed him how much they cared.
The barrister, who was as broad as he was tall, had begun with graphic detail of the murder scene, sparing nothing in description and visibly shocking some members of the jury. The man who had kicked endless balls for Noah to chase, championing his son as the new Gary Lineker, was being portrayed as a jealousy-motivated, callous, cold-blooded killer which was to be in stark contrast to the warm-hearted, dedicated, doting father of three young children his defence counsel would describe him to be on the second day.
It was rather like there were two people on trial, and it was clear in Noah’s mind that one of them didn’t really exist. His father wasn’t perfect, but he was kind and thoughtful and funny and clever as well as being strict when necessary. And Noah had begun to share his passion for music, and unlike most boys of his age, he enjoyed listening to classical renditions just as much as the pop songs of the day. It was preposterous that his father could change so much as to become someone capable of physically harming someone, let alone killing them.
But then, the defence barrister, a thin, tall man with glasses, did something unforgivable in Noah’s eyes. He told the courtroom that Angelica Swan was to be blamed for her own death, that she had no morals, that she selfishly destroyed her marriage, and she didn’t care about her family any more. That all she cared about was another man, a younger man. That she had broken Michael’s heart and driven him to the edge of insanity. So much so that he simply didn’t know which way to turn nor what he was doing.
Suddenly, Noah’s thoughts turned to hatred, and for several days, anyone that knew him could read the anger inside. At one point, he even told Ashley he wished himself dead. That he wouldn’t be able to carry such a burden for the rest of his life. His life was effectively over. His father might as well have stabbed him to death too and gained even more notoriety.
But luckily, such thoughts soon passed. There was the inevitable guilty verdict, and with it, the confirmation in his own mind that he would never see his father again. He didn’t have proper parents anymore. They were both gone forever.
James and Mary had been mercifully shielded from the hideous events of the trial, and soon the children were facing their first Christmas as virtual orphans which was never going to be easy especially so soon after the incarceration of their father who would most likely spend the rest of his life inside.
Even Mary was beginning to understand what that meant, and at least, she had been cajoled into writing a letter to Santa under the guidance of Sylvia and Clare and talking about the things she was hoping for now that she was resigned to giving up on ever getting her mother back. Above all else, she wanted a bicycle like the one Clare had sometimes let her ride around the park whilst being closely supervised by Clare’s father. And she wanted a fairy princess costume and a speaking doll and a friend for Moppit to play with. And some pink ballet shoes and a miniature kitchen to help her bake cakes like Mummy used to do.
It was quite a long list, and James told her she was expecting too much. He had decided that he was too old to be compiling a list, but he too wished for a new bike, and a proper football would be well received also.
But there would be no pleasing Noah. He was already spitting and cursing and wishing Christmas could be cancelled. Coming so soon after that horrible trial, Christmas was the last thing he needed. He would refuse to join in. He would give it the cold shoulder. He blamed circumstances beyond his control. They had conspired against him. Left him feeling empty. Then there was another good reason for cancelling the whole thing. The forthcoming annual Christmas holidays.
It was usual for Ashley and his parents to spend Christmas in the Swiss Alps which meant ten days away, and just the thought of it had made Noah irritable and unapproachable. He badmouthed everyone who crossed his radar in the lead up to the festive season, rowing with Luke, snubbing Sylvia, going toe-to-toe with Phillip, ignoring his brother and sister, and using foul language.
In Sylvia’s book, Christmas was a magical time. It was a time for family, and there was no place for the level of hostility Noah had shown to those closest to him. So she tried to make him see sense. Softly, softly at first.
‘I need my space,’ Noah told her. ‘Why does everybody pick on me all the time,’ he said, distorting the truth and thinking about himself and the injustices that life was throwing in his direction.
‘People care about you, Noah. No one’s picking on you,’ she countered. ‘Both James and Mary look up to you, and Luke doesn’t deserve to be sworn at. I understand that some terrible things have happened in your life, but you must learn to cope with them better. We’re here to help.’
Noah gazed up at the ceiling. His body language was predictably strained. So far Sylvia’s softly-softly approach wasn’t working. A voice in her head said that if she went in with all guns blazing it might not be fair on him so she backed off. ‘A little respect, Noah. That’s all I ask of you.’
His eyes refocused on her. There was the tiniest nod of his head. That was the most she could hope for. For a few days, there were no more swearing, no more distasteful behaviour. But it didn’t last.
There was a scene in a restaurant that almost ruined a pre-Christmas treat for everyone, and there were worse to follow when Noah refused to come out of his room when guests arrived for a party on Boxing Day.
Traditionally, this was the day Sylvia invited family and friends to feast on her cold Ham and Turkey platter and play charades. There were nibbles and treats galore for all the children, and Sylvia saw no reason to change things, especially as Mary and James were allowed to invite friends and their parents along to quell the size of the get-together.
‘It’s sheer spite on his behalf and his loss,’ Phillip told his wife half way through the party. ‘He wanted his space, well he’s bloody well got it,’ he added sarcastically. That was all well and good if Noah remained where he was and sulked, but typically as some of the guests began to filter away, he emerged, bringing with him a repertoire of childish behaviour that had parents and children and friends alike running for the door.
Inevitably, there was something of a new year showdown to herald in 2008 the following week with Sylvia, Phillip and Noah conferring in the kitchen on the evening of New Year’s Day by which time Ashley’s plane was landing at Heathrow.
He couldn’t wait to see him and tell him about everything that had kicked off and to be told just what fun snowboarding was and how much Ashley had improved as a skier, assuming he hadn’t broken an ankle and was having to walk on crutches. His mood had changed dramatically. It was Noah at his most infuriating. For Sylvia and Phillip, it was like lecturing a different child, his face suddenly depicting that of a sedate choirboy with a butter wouldn’t melt mentality.
There was no arguing,
no hint of malice. And all because tomorrow, everything would be back to normal which for him meant he’d see Ashley again. They’d be no more reason for him to sulk and skulk around like a bad tempered lion in a zoo.
‘Thank god Christmas and new year is over and normal life can commence again,’ he told himself, as if the festive season had been some form of punishment which in truth, it wasn’t. For sure, he had been treated generously on Christmas day, as had all of the children. The acoustic guitar his foster parents had bought him from a city centre music shop hadn’t come cheap. And there were at least another eight presents to open besides, and there was nothing he could claim to dislike. The guitar had merited half a smile and a muttered thank you, the rest a series of shrugs that masqueraded as appreciation.
‘Listen up, Noah, and listen good. These angry outbursts, the foul language, the sulks, they must stop, is that clear,’ Phillip was now telling him. ‘We all have to get on, and I’ll be watching you very closely from now on. Let there be no repeat performance or else things will have to change. Am I making myself clear?’
This was the “tough love” that Sylvia and Phillip had discussed on the first day of a new year. They had been too lenient and made too many allowances.
It seemed to be working. Or at least the Ashley factor was working.
‘OK,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry,’ he said, sounding like he meant it. The rest of the speech Phillip had prepared went unsaid, and Sylvia so much wanted to give Noah a great big hug, but the “tough love” regime wouldn’t allow it. Noah was then seen fairly skipping around like he’d had all of the anger and bad karma from inside taken away. Like he had emerged from a tunnel and metamorphosed into a much more happy-go-lucky child, leaving his brother and sister open-mouthed and his foster parents astounded by the sheer impudence of the sudden transformation.
The new school term did bring Noah fresh trouble which was solely due to bravado, but at home he was settled, joining in and showing everyone the consideration they deserved, though sharing a room with Luke was still an issue, and they just about got by without another major fall out. James and Mary were excelling at school, and the reports that were regularly compiled on the welfare of the children by the authorities could not have been much better so far as Sylvia and Phillip were concerned.
Noah, though struggling to fully concentrate on the academic subjects, was proving to be a star performer in music and drama, and it was usual to see him carrying his guitar and to hear him reciting the lines he was given in a forthcoming stage play with Ashley, appointed as a backstage helper, not far from his side. Sports, too, mattered greatly to them. But both had been overlooked in football as competition for places grew, and when the cricket season began, neither quite caught the eye either. But there were plenty of friendly kick-abouts and games of three and out and life was never boring. It couldn’t be when you were nearly twelve years old, and everyone seemed to have a mobile phone and text messages were the best thing ever invented, making simple communication so quick and easy.
James, too, was showing his musical prowess, playing recorder solos and being chosen to represent the school at an Easter church parade. He had played down the phone to Aunt Jaclyn in America, and she had cried with pride. She had praised him and promised to visit a music shop soon.
‘What would you say if I could get my hands on a trumpet and shipped it over. There’s this place I know in town. Would you like that?’ she asked.
Unknown to her, James already had a rather battered bugle that Phillip had found in a junk shop, and he had managed to somehow extract some notes from it. It wasn’t melodic, but James thought it was fun, and of course Mary just covered her ears.
‘Why would anyone want to make a terrible row like that,’ she told Moppit whose ears were also covered in submission. Of course, Moppit didn’t answer. She never did.
Disappointedly, for James the trumpet never materialised, and his bugle got badly damaged one summer evening when Noah, in a rare fit of temper, threw it from a bedroom window, and it landed in the road outside just as a city bound bus was going past. Noah was stopped pocket money as punishment, but James sort of forgave him when he turned up the next day carrying a perfectly good Yamaha keyboard that Ashley had allowed him to borrow as his interest in it had waned.
The subtle sounds of the keyboard were in stark contrast to the now partially crushed bugle, and James simply loved it. He soon taught himself a few tunes on it, and suddenly, the popularity of Ashley rose, and surprisingly, Noah didn’t gripe too much about sharing his best friend with his little brother.
‘Let’s form a band,’ Ashley suggested during the main summer holidays, having now acquired a very basic drum kit. ‘We have everything we need.’
‘Oh yes,’ Noah grinned, making fun of the whole idea. ‘You do actually need to be able to play the bloody things; just hitting them is no good. Practise every day for a year, and then you might just have an idea how to hold down a beat.’ It was soon after that, Noah progressed to his first electric guitar, and now thirteen and with almost shoulder length hair, he won an audition for a place in the school’s rock band, churning out pretty head splitting stuff that the music tutor combatted with bright yellow earplugs. There was no place for Ashley, though; his unenthusiastic drumming style putting him at the bottom of an astonishingly large pile. But with his uncanny knack of sorting out the sound gremlins, there was still something for him to do as the band gelled and hit on a plausible sound that saw the tutor dispense with the earplugs.
Noah revelled in the school concerts, the band gained the name of Bad Day after a secret vote, and Ashley became their unofficial mascot and irreplaceable sound engineer; though, his parents drew a line at letting him grow his hair as long as Noah’s.
Pretty soon, the image of a budding rock star began to govern Noah’s behaviour, and cries of ‘Get your hair cut,’ reduced him to swearing again. His grades suffered, and his head teacher stopped making the same allowances his foster parents had made. The school wanted its pupils to show initiative, to have a handle on life in general and to embrace its mantra. All Noah wanted was to let rip with his guitar, wear a bandana and embrace his wild side.
This eccentric behaviour had come at a bad time for Sylvia and Phillip who after having gone through much of the painstaking adoption process, following two years of fostering took the decision to put things on hold, aware that once more there was friction between Noah and Luke, with the latter muting if it went ahead, he might just as well leave home.
Clare was clear on the adoption, however, and unlike Luke, she was not at all averse to having a younger sister and two more older brothers. She talked about it all the time but would readily admit that Noah was a strange boy with whom she rarely shared a worthwhile conversation. For James and Mary, it seemed the only option that they be fully integrated into the Proudlock family after such a long time.
‘This won’t change a thing. Everything will be the same,’ Sylvia had told Mary when asked by the inquisitive youngster after Clare had sort of blurted it out, what her Mummy and Daddy were planning. ‘It will make things official, and this will become your home for as long as you want it be. And the same goes for Noah and James,’ she added.
‘Cool,’ replied Mary who by then was as typical as any girl of her age could be. The chattiness had returned, and the giggles were louder than ever. And Sylvia, who still thought every day about Chloe, was right to feel proud as did Phillip. Proud of what they had done in agonising and trying circumstances. Proud of the way they had steered the children through choppy waters. Proud to be considered as their adoptive parents. And that went for Noah too, whether it sometimes didn’t feel like it.
‘I feel like he’s putting in a little more effort,’ the head teacher reported at Noah’s next annual appraisal. ‘He’s a character, and certainly he has got energy. He’s learning to channel his aggression which is another plus point. That said we must get his grades up before he completely falls behind. Even in music he s
truggles with written course work. What he does produce is slovenly and hard to decipher. Getting a sound out of that guitar of his won’t get him a pass grade, I’m afraid. It would be such an underachievement if he didn’t make it.’
With quiet confidence, Phillip said that it was good that all parties with Noah’s future in mind were singing from the same hymn sheet. And he and Sylvia said that they would do all they could to help Noah reach the required standard.
There were other issues too where standards mattered, like personal hygiene, dress code, manners, and the constant misuse of the English language. In front of Ashley’s parents, Noah conformed to being polite, well spoken, unassuming. He showed them his gratitude with a courteous, if subdued, smile. Teachers received just about enough respect as did Sylvia and Phillip on a good day, but the rest of the human race could “Go fuck themselves” in a line from his limited vocabulary.
His roller coaster outlook on life soon had him mouthing off about leaving home and “going on the road” which gave Luke all the ammunition he needed to tell him to go forth and multiply, though not exactly in those words.
‘Just go, and be sure to take all of your smelly clothes with you,’ he said, making sure the whole house could hear. ‘No one will miss you, and I’m bloody well certain you’ll fit in with all the tramps, drug addicts and alcoholics on the streets. You’ll be doing all of us a favour.’
‘Go suck yourself, Mommy’s little boy,’ Noah roared back. ‘I bet she’d think differently if I told her about what you do in your room when you think no one’s watching, tosser.’
There were finger gestures to accompany the testosterone fuelled posturing. An impartial Phillip, used to playing referee, soon restored order.
