“Are you sure? Don’t you remember having heard several blows? As if his head bounced after the first one and then hit it again or hit the floor or anything else?”
“What? No! He hit the table only once! I only heard one blow!”
“Are you completely sure?”
“As sure as I can be, yes.”
“I see. This matches your husband’s story.”
“Good,” I said. Naïve. But my husband’s grave expression and the faces of the two members of the Metropolitan Police made me think it wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.
“Mrs Johnson,” Detective Hassan carried on, “your son died from multiple traumatic injuries.”
“What?” I hadn’t seen it coming. “That’s not possible!”
“And yet it’s the truth,” she sentenced. “Have you got any ideas of what might’ve happened to him?”
“No! I told you! I was unconscious!”
“There’s no need to get agitated,” said Detective Hassan. Her words sounded cold as an ice bucket releasing its frozen water on my head. “We’re here to help you find out the truth.”
“The truth? What truth? My son died! And I killed him! There, you have your truth!”
“I wish it were that simple.” She sounded honest. She pitied me! Why? “I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this conversation at the station. As soon as you leave the hospital, of course. My partner here will be very glad to keep you accompanied in the meantime, so if you remember anything at all, please do talk to him.”
Detective Hassan left the room, leaving behind more questions than answers. I couldn’t react. I should’ve gotten up and run after her, but I just couldn’t. It wasn’t the pain, I didn’t even try. The shock had been too great, too overwhelming. I had just found out my son had died, only to learn minutes later that the circumstances were vastly different from the reality I remembered. Multiple injuries? And with the same table? It didn’t add up, but I started fearing the worst. I knew what I was capable of if somebody endangered me. But this was an entirely different matter. It was my son. Doubt darkened my mind.
Mark had seen it. He’d know. He was there all the time, just a few yards away from Marcus and Jaime and me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask. To know the truth. But I was in a white room in a hospital, my boy dead, my husband devastated, and the police were investigating the case and seemingly confused by what had happened and my answers and my husband’s answers. So I asked.
“What aren’t you telling me? Why are these people so interested in what happened after I passed out?”
Mark hesitated. He looked like he didn’t want to answer my question. Was the truth too painful to let it out? Perhaps he thought I couldn’t withstand it. “Laura, I don’t know if you should.”
But I did. I had made my decision. “Please. I need to know.”
Chapter 22
At the police station
Flashes started to come to my mind. They weren’t memories. At least not all of them. But I saw Detective Hassan standing over me. I was sitting on the floor, holding my knees with both hands. There was blood everywhere. It was all I could see. It was confusing. It hurt. Memories of Happy came to my mind. I tried to explain that Jaime had killed our dog. But why? The dog didn’t have anything to do with this. There were doctors. They asked me to lay down. Jaime was dead. Next to me. Next to the table. His head hit the table. Several times? Or maybe only once, replayed in my head again and again. That image froze in my eyes. Jaime’s head hitting the table. The dry sound of his skull against the solid wood. And the blood. His blood was there as well. Staining his body and the carpet underneath. There were doctors with him too. But I couldn’t understand the scene. There was too much information, and I knew my brain was mixing things up and creating more confusion.
“Mrs Johnson,” a voice said in front of me. It was Detective Hassan. Her glasses were larger in my mind, and her look seemed more inquisitive and distant. “I trust you’re feeling better.” I was sitting at a table. There was a chair at the other side. It was a cold, grey room with a huge window, but I could only see an empty space on the other side.
It still hurt. But I didn’t say anything. All I wanted was the truth. I wanted to hear what Mark had told me in the hospital from her lips. “I’m all right, thank you.”
“I’m sure you’ve had the time to finish catching up with your husband.”
“Yeah, sort of. I’m still confused. I don’t know what’s real. I’ve got these memories. Or flashes. They feel real, but they can’t be.”
“I’m not going to beat around the bush any longer, Mrs Johnson,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I think it happened, and unless you’ve got a reason to believe I’m wrong, this will remain the official version.”
I wouldn’t even blink. “Please,” I prompted her and waited for her to start her tale.
“What you told me in the hospital. Most of it’s true. You tried to defend your baby, and so you pushed Jaime so violently that he fell down, hit the table – only once – and lost consciousness.” She made a deliberate pause, stood up, walked around the room and carried on from behind me. “But that’s the point where you start lying.”
“Lying?” I said, surprised. “I didn’t lie!”
“Well, you said you fainted,” she said.
“I said I fainted because I lost consciousness! I assumed I had fainted!”
“Oh, you did faint!” she answered. “But not straight away. You had work to do before that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you tell the truth when you say you saw Jaime hit the table with his head. Only once. But then you stayed awake and mindful.”
“How is it possible I don’t remember anything, then?”
“Well, the trauma of losing a son in such a horrible way would explain that. But let me finish,” she carried on, “you’re going to be interested in the rest of the story.” She sat back on the chair in front of me, both her elbows on the table and the back of her hands supporting her chin. “You didn’t pass out, as you said in your first version. You saw your son on the floor, and still enraged and having realised you got stabbed, you pounced on him, grabbed his little head and smashed it on the table four times.”
It matched Mark’s version. I got so mad at him when he told me, and I slapped him so hard that the stitches in my belly almost tore off. He left under a rain of insults and screams. He did say that. But it wasn’t true. Not even drugged would I have done such a thing. I hurt my boy by accident, trying to prevent something worse, but there was no way I could deliberately murder him. However, my mind continued sending me flashes of his head being hit several times, and now I was sure it wasn’t the repetition of one single blow, but multiple ones. It could be a memory, after all. It could be my traumatised brain filling in the gaps, joining the dots to complete the whole picture. Doubt flooded my spirit like a disease, like cancer expanding slowly but inexorably, corrupting every cell in my body.
“That’s not true,” I said. “It can’t be.”
“How can you explain it, then?”
“I don’t know,” I said. Detective Hassan sensed my fear. She somehow knew I was afraid it could’ve happened exactly as she said. “But I couldn’t do that, I was in pain, and bleeding out. I was losing all my strength. How am I supposed to get up and jump over my son if I’ve got a four-inch hole in my belly? How can you explain that?”
“Well, my experience tells me that human beings can be pretty impressive. You might be on the verge of death and still find the strength if you’re pushed to an extreme situation where your life or a beloved one’s is endangered.”
“But it can’t be true! I can’t remember anything!”
“That’s what you say, but I can’t see any reason I should believe you,” she said. “On the other hand, you have every reason to lie.”
“Why shouldn’t you believe me?” I said. It was outrageous. I was feeling guilty enough with no need of adding up her insinuations. My
actions had led me there. Regret was tormenting me. But this lady was pointing at me and accusing me of murdering my son. Deliberately. No mitigations. No shades. A bare murder. And I couldn’t take it.
“Well, I had to learn how to see beyond words and faces,” she answered. “Most people lie, you know, and some of them lie very well. I’m trained to see through those lies. It’s difficult, and sometimes I fail, but I’m good at my job. It’s not personal. There’s nothing personal about it. It’s just what I do for a living. I distrust. Systematically. I only believe in facts proved by evidence. That’s my only truth, and that’s why I have to question everything you told me. So unless you give me something, anything, the evidence tells me you murdered your son.”
“But I didn’t!”
“Then prove it! Tell me something I can work with! A detail, a thought, a feeling, anything!” She had raised her voice. Her questioning had become more aggressive, but at the same time, she didn’t seem convinced of what the evidence supposedly proved. Silence spread through the room. She was expectant. Her eyes, sparkling and trying to look inside my soul. I felt vulnerable, weak. Almost violated. The silence was drilling my brain and butchering my judgement. I needed to give her something to finish that. I wanted her to stop staring at me in that way. Something. Anything.
“These people,” I finally said. She tilted her head with interest. “There were four of them, in our trip to Peru. They were following us. They looked like a family. They scared me, and Jaime. They were after us.”
“In Peru!” She laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“You asked me to give you anything! Well, that’s something, isn’t it? And I’m telling you they were after us! I don’t know why, but they wanted something, and they scared us! They looked like freaks!” I didn’t know what I was saying anymore. I just let my words come out of my mouth on their own. Without giving them a second thought. It had been a while since our trip to Cusco, but the image of those four staring at me at the airport still creeped me out.
“I see,” she said, half-convinced. “I can’t think any way this can be related to your case. I mean, they wouldn’t come all the way from Cusco to wait for you to knock your son out and give them the chance to finish the work, would they?”
“I don’t know!” I shouted.
“Okay. Is there anything else you think I should know?”
I wouldn’t even answer. I bowed my head and cried. Detective Hassan stood up, came near and put her hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right, Mrs Johnson. You’re doing very well,” she told me in the friendliest tone I had heard from her.
“When will I be able to see Marcus?”
“I’m afraid that’s not up to me,” she said.
“But I need to see him!”
“You won’t see him any time soon unless we find something to exonerate you. The best thing you can do is get a good lawyer.”
And so I did. My pride didn’t allow me to call Mark and ask him for help. He had been a total jerk, very eager to tell what he thought he had seen to the police. Jaime was dead, I was bleeding out from a wound in my abdomen, and he had told them I killed my son. Without even having the deference of telling me first. Screw him. He’d have to make this up if he wanted me to ever look him in the eyes again.
I realised in that moment how helpless I was. I had built my life around Mark and my family, and there were very few people I could turn to. All my colleagues knew my husband, and I didn’t want to have anything to do with him at the moment. I thought about Karen, but I didn’t know how she’d be able to help us. Maybe she had a lawyer in her family or she knew somebody. I was too embarrassed to call her anyway. I didn’t want to tell her about Jaime. I knew some people from Jaime’s many schools, some parents we used to spend some time with in parks and cafés. I had lost all contact with them. I kept a few numbers on my phone, but I was unsure they’d care about me after all this time and under these particular circumstances.
I was so desperate that it crossed my mind to call my parents. We kept in touch, but we had grown apart since the day we had an argument about Jaime. I didn’t want to call them. I didn’t even want to think about them. What good could they do in this situation? To know I was awaiting a trial for murdering my own son would only bring pain to them, and I didn’t want to put their lives upside down. No. I needed to think of somebody else.
A face came to my mind. Monika. She was my closest friend when I worked at the café in Leytonstone. She was dating a law student back then. It was a shot in the dark, but it was everything I had.
“Hello?” a voice said at the other end of the phone line.
“Monika?” I said.
“Yes. Sorry, I don’t think I’ve got your number.”
“Oh, sorry. It’s me, Laura. I used to work…”
“Laura!” She interrupted me. “I’m so glad to hear from you! It’s been ages! How are Mark and Jaime?”
“Well, that’s exactly why I’m calling you.”
“What? Is everything okay?”
“Actually, no. It’s not.”
“Oh dear! What’s happened, Laura? You sound very upset!”
“I’m calling you from the police station.”
“Jesus, Laura! What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m okay. It’s Jaime. We had an accident, and he’s dead.”
“Oh my gosh! I’m so, so sorry!”
“Thank you. I don’t have anyone to go to, I need help. Sorry I’m calling you after all this time.”
“That’s all right! We’re still friends, aren’t we?”
“Thanks, Monika. This means a great deal to me.”
“How can I help you?”
“They’re accusing me of killing my son.”
“Oh, shit!” she said. “That’s awful! But how?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you everything. But before that, I need a lawyer. Do you know anybody? I remember you used to date a student.”
“Yes. Jake. We’re still friends.”
“Oh, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Do you think he’d know any lawyer?”
“He is a lawyer. And don’t be sorry, we were a failed couple from the beginning. We didn’t have anything in common.”
“That’s great! I mean, not that it didn’t work out, but that he’s a lawyer! Is he good? I feel I need the best one. I’ve got some savings.”
“I think he’s good. But we hardly ever hang out, and we never talk about work. He can have a look anyway.”
“That’d be awesome, Monika. Thank you so much!”
“That’s okay! I’ll call him right now.”
Chapter 23
Mark shows up
The cell oppressed my spirit. Every inch of its empty space was hideous to me. The floor was still dirty after a shy attempt of bleaching it. It only made it worse. The walls were covered in white shiny tiles, similar to those used in a kitchen to prevent grease from getting stuck. A dim light came in through an absurd window and appeared to be reflected a thousand times across the room. They called bed the ridiculous plank covered by a too thin blue mattress – it reminded me of gym mats, finished in a layer of plastic to repel sweat and any other body fluids. Next to the bed, a wooden door separated the insignificant space where the toilet was, scarcely enough for a person my size to sit and urinate.
I felt all the power of the punishment industry. I was little more than an animal. Locked up in my cubicle and waiting for the farmer to feed me or take me to the slaughterhouse, and when the door opened and two women in uniform asked me to go with them, it felt more like the latter.
I was escorted to the interrogation room again. “Why are we here?” I asked, but they wouldn’t answer. I didn’t insist either. It didn’t seem the type of situation where you want to push the limits. They told me to sit and left me waiting there. They didn’t say a word. Were they human? Were they feeling something about me at all? After a few minutes, I heard two voices, masculine voices, and one of them
very familiar. The door opened again to let me see Mark and another man get into the room, accompanied by one of the women. I didn’t know how to react. Were we going to pretend nothing happened? Was I supposed to forget that my beloved husband had left me alone in this hole? I knew I had to be sensible. It’d be better to wait and see what all that was about before making a scene.
“Laura, sweetheart!” Mark said while running to me. “How are you?”
I breathed in and out before giving him an answer. “I’m okay.”
“I’m so, so sorry I couldn’t come earlier,” he said, “I needed to find somebody to look after Marcus, and Karen didn’t pick up the phone yesterday.”
“Oh, and I guess Karen is the only babysitter in London, isn’t she?”
“Of course not!” He didn’t change his expression. He knew he was in the wrong and didn’t want to play the offended. “But I called three other people, and none of them seemed to be available at such a short notice!”
“So where is Marcus now?”
“Oh, Karen was available today. I phoned her first thing in the morning and explained the situation. She kindly cancelled all of her other commitments.”
You explained the situation, I thought to myself. I’d be most interested in hearing your explanation, too. “How is Marcus?”
“Oh, he’s all right. You already know he’s a lovely baby. Karen was delighted to meet him.”
“Who is this person?” I surprised Mark with the abruptness of my question.
“This is Andrew,” he said with enthusiasm. “His brother works for us, and that’s why he has agreed to represent you. He is a very busy man, the best lawyer in the entire city!”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that much,” the lawyer said with a smile of self-satisfaction.
“No need to be modest, Andrew. You know you are.”
“Wait,” I said, “why do you think I need a lawyer?”
“Well, you have been charged with murder,” the lawyer said.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
The Outcast Son Page 17
