The Verdict

by Nick Stone

  THIS close!

  Hell…

  I deserved a drink.

  I took a pull of Guinness. Just half a mouthful, telling myself that if it tasted disgusting or made me sick I’d stop immediately.

  Fat chance.

  It tasted good.

  Damn good. Like the brandy in my morning coffee used to.

  Then I had a nip of whisky.

  I closed my eyes and smiled as I slipped away a little inside.

  The punters around me were mostly young; social drinkers getting tanked up before hitting the Grand up the road for an all-night rave. Over half were done up in fancy dress; the men out-dafting each other in fluffy yellow bird and black gorilla costumes, the women got up as porno nurses and cheerleaders, hems ultra-short, necklines a-plunging and heels high and spiked. The few old-timers and bar-proppers leer-licked their lips and clucked their dentures. Everyone was happy. Even the staff.

  Half an hour later I was on my second round.

  A group of blokes came in and took over the tables next to me, pushing them together to make their own little island. They were dressed in a uniform of jeans, plaid shirts and second- or third-attempt beards – ex-students reviving the grunge look, I guessed. They looked appropriately miserable too, sitting around their pints not saying much of anything, as if all their teams had lost and their girlfriends had run off with their best mates, and the only music on their iPods was Pearl Jam.

  Round three now. The tremors had stopped and my fear had lost its fangs, but I wasn’t even close to getting trolleyed. My head wasn’t giving in. I downed my J in one and chased it with a quart of Guinness.

  The grunge contingent’s ranks were increased by several newcomers. Even surlier than their mates, they slouched in with downturned mouths and a weight of the world dip to their shoulders. They had hand-shaped white placards tucked under their arms, printed with Big!-Bold!-Black!-Imperatives!

  HANDS OFF!!!

  OUR

  PENSIONS!

  HANDS OFF!!!

  THE

  NHS!

  HANDS OFF!!!

  OUR

  EDUCATION!

  They’d come from today’s demo – the whole lot of them.

  And the reason they weren’t talking was that their eyes were glued to the TV I’d failed to notice, above the bar.

  It was showing the news.

  Sky News.

  ‘Could you turn that up a bit, please?’ one of them asked the barmaid, who obliged.

  On screen: an overhead shot of a car, the front covered in flames. It was reversing away from a masked man dancing jubilantly on a traffic island in the middle of the road.

  That was the car I’d been in. I hadn’t noticed the colour – dark blue – or the make – a Renault Megane.

  The car shot forward at a sharp angle, away from the line of the road. The dancer ran across to the opposite pavement as the Megane headed straight for the traffic island. It bumped over the kerb and ploughed into the lightpost, flattening it in one, before rolling forward a few feet and skidding to the left as its back axle dragged the toppled traffic light with it. The car stopped. Its wheels were still spinning, smoking up on the asphalt, but the car was stuck. And still on fire.

  Someone ran across the street and took a flying kick at the passenger window. Then three more people were pounding it with bats and bars. Seconds later a small mob was all over the Megane, rocking it backwards and forwards, oblivious to the flames.

  Reporter:

  ‘One man is in critical condition. Another passenger – believed to be a woman – is also in hospital with burns and head injuries. A third person is being sought by the police. He is described as being around six feet tall, white, with dark hair, wearing a blue top and black trousers.’

  Shit. That was me.

  And how I was the third person? There’d been four of us in the car.

  The screen cut to now.

  Still an overhead view. The Strand was empty of all traffic, except for stationary police vehicles and ambulances. The Trafalgar Square end had been cordoned off, as had all the side roads from Covent Garden and Charing Cross. There was a horizontal line of forensics officers stretching from pavement to pavement, crouched down in the road, fingertip searching for evidence.

  News anchor:

  ‘Do you have any more information on the shooting in Adam Street?’

  Reporter:

  ‘It’s still unclear as to exactly what happened. Eyewitnesses told us they heard shots as the car was being attacked. We don’t yet know precisely where the shots came from.’

  The screen had cut back to the mob swarming over the Megane.

  Reporter:

  ‘An armed man was seen running up the Strand moments after the car was overturned. Officers from SO19 – the police’s armed-response unit – have confirmed that a man was shot and killed in Adam Street, a few blocks from here. Witnesses have described him as white and bald.’

  Now the reporter was talking to camera, standing in Trafalgar Square. Behind him, uniformed police were guarding the perimeter. The camera was zooming in on the Megane. It was on its roof, in the middle of the road, lying in a halo of shattered glass, all four doors flung open, the front blackened.

  So…

  The driver and the woman were in hospital in critical condition.

  Jonas had been shot and killed.

  And the cops were looking for me – the ‘third’ person in the car.

  My hand started shaking again as the fear returned.

  My mouth was dry and my guts were churning.

  I had to get out of here.

  I stepped out into the street. The light pierced my head with white-hot spears. I turned the corner on to Falcon Road and the start of the long walk home.

  That’s when the effects of my first round of drinks in 6205 dry days hit me, all in one go, like a wrecking ball had skimmed off the tip of a tsunami and smacked right into me.

  My balance went as my centre of gravity turned into a greasy puck bouncing around an ice rink. I was a passenger in someone else’s body. People veered out of my way. People looked at me strangely. People looked at me knowing full well.

  Déjà vu time: summer in Stevenage, doing the wino shuffle from the Griffin to the Naseby through the town centre.

  I hoped to high heaven I didn’t see anyone Karen knew.

  I managed to make it to Falcon Road railway bridge, where it was permanently dark and always cool. That was a relief. I slid along the tiled walls, deafened and threatened by the roaring traffic, the booze sloshing around in my stomach.

  When I made it out of the bridge the sunlight as good as blinded me.

  I closed my eyes. My head whirled like a flicked coin inside a spinning top.

  I opened my eyes and puked my guts out in the street.

  72

  Home to:

  Water.

  Coffee.

  Bed.

  Last thoughts before I konked out fully dressed, my shoes still on:

  I’m never ever ever drinking again

  I’m never ever ever drinking again

  I’m never ever ever drinking again

  I’m

  Never

  Ever

  E-V-E-R

  drinking

  again

  (ever)

  The phone woke me up.

  I was convinced it was early Sunday morning, 3 a.m. or thereabouts.

  It was dark. The car park lights were on in the estate, flooding the room with an orange sodium glow. A party was going on in the opposite block, reggae bass so loud the bedroom window rattled in its frame.

  I tried raising my head off the pillow but my skull felt like it was stuffed with loose rocks and balls of razor wire, and held together by crooked rusty screws. Pain alternately thudded and stabbed my brainpan. The only relief I got was putting my head back where I’d found it.

  The phone kept on ringing.

  Why wasn’t the answering machine kicking in?


  I pulled the duvet over my face.

  No good. The ringing still got through with the music and now the inside of my head felt like it was getting mashed in a blender.

  I forced myself out of bed and grabbed the receiver.

  ‘Terry? Terry?’

  Terror?

  Karen.

  It was Karen. And it wasn’t Sunday morning, but 10.15, Saturday night.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘I’ve been calling all day. Tried here, tried your mobile. I was worried.’

  Wurried.

  ‘I was out,’ I said, leaning back against the wall.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she said. ‘You sound… You sound…’

  She didn’t want to say it. She’d never seen me drink, or drunk. But she knew my history. Knew it was a sensitive area. Knew better than to go there.

  ‘I was asleep,’ I said.

  ‘All day?’

  ‘I went out, I told you.’

  ‘Have you seen the news? That shooting in Trafalgar Square?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Amy swears that’s you on TV.’

  Eh?

  ‘The fella they’re looking for,’ she said.

  ‘What fella?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen the news?’

  That’s when I properly heard the tone of her voice. Panic, fear, borderline hysteria. I saw the answering machine button was flashing red. I bet she’d filled up the tape with messages – and done the same with my mobile. Where was my mobile anyway?

  ‘They put this picture up on the news, this CCTV image of the bloke they’re after. Amy saw it and said, “That’s Daddy!”’

  I swallowed. Or tried to. My mouth and throat were as dry as burned paper. I could hear my heart beating over the party’s bass waves, hitting the exact same deep notes, except my heart was going way faster. It’s not that I didn’t want to tell her what had happened, but I was in no fit state to explain. And I didn’t know what was going on now. I had to get to the TV first.

  ‘It isn’t you, is it?’ she asked.

  ‘I haven’t seen the news,’ I said.

  Wrong answer.

  Quick correction:

  ‘I’ve been here all day.’

  Wrong again.

  ‘I thought you said you were out!’ Karen shouted.

  I needed to get off the phone quick.

  ‘I was out… this morning,’ I said, standing up. The room span around me, as if I was mid-ride on a merry-go-round. I sat back down on the bed.

  ‘Look… I’m not really with it,’ I said.

  ‘You can say that again! Why are you slurring?’

  Was I?

  How long before she popped the magic question? You haven’t been drinking, have you? I could almost hear it forming in her head, over the line.

  ‘Give me a few minutes,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you back, all right?’

  Amy was right.

  I’d made every news programme on every channel.

  Thankfully, the image wasn’t the best. I was caught mid-sprint – legs galloping, arms pumping. Most importantly, my head was tilted down, so much of my face was obscured. Strangers wouldn’t recognise me.

  But my family had.

  I switched channels. They showed more of the picture. I wasn’t the only person running. There were two rioters right behind me, faces half covered with bandannas. One was looking over his shoulder, the other straight ahead of him, his eyes bulging in terror.

  I hadn’t known where I was heading after they pulled me out of the back of the car. I legged it as fast as I could, paying no attention to my surroundings, just wanting to get as far away from my potential kidnappers as possible.

  In the picture I was tearing up the Strand. I had no memory of that. None whatsoever.

  I sat gawping at myself on the screen, switching channels whenever the report cut from the picture until I saw myself again. It looked slightly different every time. The three of us – me and the rioters – could have been running a race, with me ahead.

  Then I noticed the ticker scrolling at the bottom of the screen:

  Central London Bloodbath: Second Death.

  Sky News again.

  The video of the burning car reversing and then darting forward into the traffic light.

  The same reporter as before, talking live from his spot on a now dark corner of Trafalgar Square. Spotlights had been erected along the Strand, and the forensics teams were visible in the background, shapes standing in the middle of the street like frozen ectoplasm.

  Reporter:

  ‘The gunman came out of the car and ran up the Strand towards Charing Cross. He opened fire. At the time there were anti-capitalist demonstrators vandalising shops along the road. Four were hit. One – believed to be a man in his twenties – was hit in the head and died instantly. A woman was seriously wounded. The survivors have been taken to hospital. Their condition is described as critical.

  ‘I spoke to someone earlier, who was taking part in the union demonstration in Trafalgar Square and saw the Renault Megane being attacked.’

  Cut to: the same old car as bonfire-on-wheels footage. Then to the witness – a young man in a zip-up top.

  Bystander:

  ‘People were attacking the car. I heard them yelling something about “police brutality”. I thought the police had nabbed one of the anti-capitalists. The car was on fire. Then this cheer went up, you know, like a football crowd goes when they get a goal. And then I heard shots. Bang! Bang! Bang! Loud. Everyone started running away. It was mental. And I saw this man, this big bald bloke come out of the car and start running up the Strand. Shooting. I hit the deck. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. It was mental. Totally totally mental.’

  Cut to: a police press conference. A senior officer in uniform was giving a statement.

  Officer:

  ‘We are looking for the man in this photograph. He was seen running up the Strand shortly before the shooting started. He is white, six feet tall, with short dark hair. He was wearing black trousers and a navy-blue top. We are asking him to come forward to help with our inquiries. And we are appealing to anyone who recognises him to contact us immediately.’

  Then my picture flashed up on the screen again.

  And I understood exactly what had happened now.

  Jonas had been shooting at me. I was in such a dazed panic I didn’t even hear the shots.

  The normal thing to do – and the right thing to do – would be to go straight to the cops, tell them my side; tell them absolutely everything – proof or no proof.

  But I didn’t want to do that. They’d take me into custody, and I’d be there while they cleared things up. Fabia Masson had been killed in custody. I wouldn’t be safe.

  I was still alive. The people after me were either dead or had been caught.

  I’d take my chances.

  73

  Sunday:

  I went home, back to Stevenage, for the first time in twelve years.

  Old Stevenage dates back to medieval times, a quaint little place with period houses, homely shops and a whiff of gentility. Linked to it via metal bridges and underpasses, is the New Town; a cheerless sprawl of small, near-identical houses corralled into estates, purpose-built in the 1950s and 1960s, and added to in the ensuing decades, to accommodate the London population overspill.

  My parents still lived in one of these houses, the same two-up two-down in Wexford Grove I’d grown up in.

  Mum opened the front door.

  I take after her the most. We’re both tall, pale-skinned, blue-eyed and have the same dark-russet hair. We’re also cursed with expressive faces, the kind that let you know what we’re thinking.

  A miscellany of emotions washed over Mum’s face when she saw me standing there, a bunch of cheap flowers in my hand. Surprise. Confusion. A little consternation, and then, at the end of it, joy.

  She smiled, put her a
rms out and hugged and kissed me.

  ‘Come on in. We’re just going to eat.’

  There was astonishment all around the dinner table. That and the smell of booze. Dad had been down the Naseby like always on a Sunday. My brothers Aidan and Patrick had joined him. They’d both moved back home, temporarily they’d each said then, two and three years ago respectively.

  ‘Look what the mangy cat dragged in,’ Ade said, standing up unsteadily, for a hug.

  ‘Drink, Terry?’

  That was Dad, waving a can of Guinness Draught.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said.

  We shook hands, as we’d always done, even when I was a kid. Dad wasn’t big on displays of emotion. But I knew from the twinkle in his eyes that he was glad to see me.

  ‘Still off the sauce, then?’ asked Pat.

  Sober for sixteen hours, I thought.

  ‘You look good, man.’

  ‘Wish I could say the same for you.’

  Pat laughed. He was a state. Two chins, with another on the way; a dome of a belly straining the stripes of his Celtic football shirt.

  He’d been the sporty one in the family. He wanted to be a boxer, but he didn’t have the right mentality. Too short-tempered. He’d been kicked out of every gym in the county. He took up bodybuilding instead. Then he met an Irish woman called Molly and followed her back to our ancestral homeland. Once there he went the whole hog and became Irish, right down to developing a mannered brogue and a line in blarney to go with his Cork address and Irish passport. Somewhere along the line he decided that he couldn’t call himself fully Irish without drinking himself stupid too. He lost his job, then Molly and their daughter, before retreating here. The brogue was long gone now too. But not the drinking.

  ‘Get y’self a plate and a seat,’ Mum said. ‘I’ve made stew.’

  The living room hadn’t changed. The plastic-coated map of Ireland still hanging on a string holder on the wall; and photos of us as kids, then all our kids too – my nephews and nieces. I had six, two of them mixed race like Ray. The only daughter-in-law on the wall was Karen. She was the last one standing.