‘Talk to your son, Steph, for Christ’s sake. Don’t just bloody sit there.’ Daniel’s mother did precisely that.
‘You saw what happened outside the court,’ Blake persisted. ‘They’ll tear him apart if he goes to prison. Ask your ex, Daniel’s father: ask him. He’s inside, he knows what it’s like. Daniel won’t last five minutes. They’ll rip him to pieces, even before they find out what he’s done.’
Stephanie, this time, choked back a sob.
‘Oh Christ. Here we go.’ Blake looked at Leo, as though expecting him to mirror his rolling eyes. ‘Power up the sprinklers: that’ll help. Sit there feeling sorry for yourself when it’s your son – your bloody son – who’s just confessed to murder, who’s gonna spend rest of his worthless life, probably, in some stinking, piss-stained—’
‘Mr Blake! That’s enough!’
At the sound of Leo’s raised voice, the guard outside the door framed his face in the se-curity glass. When Leo raised a hand, he returned a frown – then reluctantly, it seemed, revolved away. Blake, meanwhile, had settled his snarl on Leo. He made a gun shape with his fingers and spoke down the barrel.
‘You listen to me, Curtice. This is my family, my business. You’re just the hired help. Do you get me?’
Twerp. Obnoxious, poisonous, vicious little twerp. But: ‘I get you, Mr Blake.’ There was a hint of a challenge in Leo’s tone but he let it
fade. ‘And I apologise for raising my voice. The purpose of this discussion is to lay down some options. That’s all. We do not need to make any decisions right away.’
With a snort, Daniel’s stepfather made plain what he thought of Leo’s options. ‘Also,’ Leo said, ‘I had hoped to clarify where things stand. From a procedural perspect-
ive, I mean.’ He turned to Stephanie. ‘A lot’s happened in the past few days and I thought . . . Well. I thought you would probably have some questions.’
Daniel’s mother, after a pause, gave a nod. She did not look up, however. She did not speak.
‘The remand hearing, for instance. The court visit. Did you understand the implications?’ Still Stephanie said nothing.
‘Daniel? Did you understand what it meant?’
Daniel, too, avoided Leo’s eye.
‘It meant he’s not getting out. Right? It means they’re keeping him locked up.’ Blake, as he spoke, seemed to smirk.
‘You’re to be transferred, Daniel,’ said Leo. ‘ To a . . . facility. A place like this but closer to home. You’ll be able to visit,’ Leo added, turning to the boy’s mother.
Stephanie swallowed. She took a breath, seemed to taste the words that were forming on her tongue. ‘What about . .’ She cast a glance towards her son that did not quite reach. ‘What about bail? Is it not worth trying? I know you advised not to but . later, maybe? Will they . . . will they let Daniel come home?’
The boy made a sound, something between a murmur and a moan. Leo nodded, in understanding rather than affirmation. ‘It would not, I think, be wise.
Daniel’s well-being has to be the priority and he’ll be safest, I’m certain, where they’re taking him. Also,’ he added, ‘in view of the alleged offence, of the publicity surrounding the case . It is doubtful that an application would be granted, at any stage.’ More than doubtful: it was certain, though he did not say so.
‘The court visits,’ said Leo, shifting. ‘They will become a regular occurrence, I’m afraid – at least in the short term.’
Stephanie’s eyes drew wider and Leo raised a hand. ‘Things will settle down. There’ll not be the . trouble . . . there was last time. It’s just
routine, I promise you. Part of the remand process, that’s all. And soon Daniel will be . . .’ committed, he was about to say ‘. . referred to the Crown Court. He’ll be arraigned, form-ally, and depending on what plea we enter, the judge will set a trial date. For the autumn, I expect. Late summer at the earliest.’
‘That long?’ said Stephanie, her expression aggrieved once again. ‘Why so long?’ Leo made a face: there was nothing he could do. ‘We’ll push for sooner, naturally. It
won’t be in anyone’s interests to drag this out.’
Daniel’s stepfather parked his hands on the surface of the table. ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘A trial date, you said. As in, for a trial?’ He bent upright and jabbed a thumb towards his stepson. ‘He did it. He’s said he did it. What the hell do they need a trial for?’
Leo, for a moment, struggled with whether it should be necessary for him to answer. ‘ To present the case, Mr Blake. To allow us to mount our defence.’
Blake sniffed. ‘Sounds like a waste of money if you ask me: taxpayers’ money, my money. Sounds like a bloody publicity stunt too. They want a show trial, is that it? They want to string the boy up and make sure the newspapers are there to take pictures.
‘Vince!’
‘Just tell them. Can’t you? He’s nuts, insane, Looney Tunes: whatever term you want to use. He did it but he didn’t mean it and he’s sorry. Case closed, just like you said.’
Leo was transfixed. He sensed Daniel squirming beside him. ‘That’s not what I . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Diminished responsibility. That’s the term, Mr Blake. And I can’t just tell them. The Crown, probably, will dispute any defence we present. If we argue for dimin-ished responsibility, we would have to enter a plea of not guilty. And Daniel will need to be evaluated. He’ll need to talk to a psychiatrist and they, in turn, will—’
‘Wait a minute. You can stop right there. There’s no way Daniel’s talking to a shrink.’ Blake looked to his wife. Stephanie, at the prospect, seemed terrified, appalled – ashamed?
‘He would have to, Mr Blake. The psychiatrist’s findings would be the basis of the entire defence. Really, there’s no disgrace in it.’
‘I said, no.’ Again Blake turned to his wife and she gave a twitch of something like af-firmation. ‘No means no, Curtice. End of discussion.’
‘With respect, Mr Blake, I’m afraid it’s not your decision to make. It would be up to Daniel.’
‘What? What are you talking about? I’m his stepfather. Steph’s his mother.’ ‘And Daniel is my client. I work for him.’
Blake belched out a laugh. ‘He’s twelve years old!’ ‘He is. You’re right. But he’s old enough to be charged with murder, which means the
law considers him old enough to instruct his solicitor. If it is Daniel’s decision to plead not guilty, to argue for diminished responsibility, then the first step would be to—’
‘I’m not mental!’ The boy, all of a sudden, was on his feet. ‘I’m not and I’m not saying it!’ He slid behind his chair and backed away, dragging the seat with him as a ward. His eyes were blooded and his cheeks damp.
Blake saw Daniel’s hands on the chair and braced himself as though readying for it to swing. ‘What the hell do you think you’re . . . Put that down!’
‘Mr Blake, I don’t think . . .’ But Daniel had indeed raised the chair slightly, if only to keep his stepfather at bay. Blake lunged and ripped the chair from the boy’s grip. Daniel staggered backwards, into the corner of the room, sobbing now but snarling at his stepfath-er too.
‘Get away! Get away from me!’
Blake held the chair, posturing like some circus lion-tamer. ‘Calm down! Do you hear? Calm down or so help me I’ll . .’ Blake glanced at his wife. He shifted the chair in his grip but did not seem at all sure about what it was, actually, that he might do.
‘Leave me alone!’ Daniel swiped at the tears in his eyes. He looked from Blake to his mother to Leo. ‘All of you!’
Daniel’s mother gave a wail.
‘Sit down, Daniel,’ said Leo. ‘Please.’ Like the others, he was now on his feet. It felt like there was something in his throat, squatting on his voice box and preventing him from swallowing. ‘Please,’ he said again and he held out a hand. The boy, in response, batted at the air.
‘Get off me! Don’t touch me!’
There was the sound of a latch
and the door to the cell swung open. The guard appeared in the doorway and at the sight of him Daniel reared. He squealed and, as the man started to advance, backed himself further into the corner.
‘Settle down!’ The guard had one hand on his holstered truncheon and the other splayed in front of him. ‘Okay? Just settle down.’
‘Leave me alone! Please!’ Daniel threw a glance towards Leo. ‘Make him leave me alone!’
Leo took a step. ‘Officer. It’s all right. It’s just a misunder—’ ‘Grab him!’ said Blake. ‘For Christ’s sake just grab him!’ Daniel’s mother started for-
wards but Blake barricaded her with his arms.
‘No,’ said Leo. ‘Don’t!’ He reached to the guard’s shoulder but the man just shoved him away. Leo tried again. He stepped forwards. He came between the boy and the guard, fa-cing the man’s fury and conscious of Daniel’s terror at his back. ‘He’s fine. Leave him be.’ The guard lunged. Daniel howled. Leo spun, stumbled and grabbed instinctively to still the baton. He held it, briefly, and hung his weight on the guard’s arm. The man was stronger, though, and Leo staggered. He reached once more, flailing now, but just as he made to grab again he spotted something on an arc towards his face. And then he felt it: a
searing, slashing pain – followed by the cold of the concrete floor. It was glorious. There was a fragility to the light and a preciousness about the warmth. Here, behind the building and beyond the wind, it might have been spring. A sample ex-clusively for him. An atonement.
He had his eyes closed and his chin high. To catch the sun. Also, to slow the bleeding. He had a paper towel pressed to his cheek and he dared not take it away because it would stick and the anticipation of the pain was worse, almost, than the pain itself. A proper gouge, the guard with the first-aid kit had said, with a kind of awestruck revulsion that had stung as much as the antiseptic. His nails? he had asked, angling his head. The boy did this just with his nails? Then, little shit. What a proper little shit.
At which point Leo had reclaimed his personal space. Shrugging off the man’s concern, as well as his incitement to press charges, he had made his way to the lavatories and es-caped, after that, through a fire door. He was not quite sure where it had led him. Behind the car park, he reckoned: a concrete expanse walled by road noise and infused with the odour of the industrial-sized bins. Yet calm, too; calming. Wherever it was, it would do.
I’m not mental, he had said. I’m not and I’m not saying it. There was a house, a hall, in the area of Reading in which Leo had grown up. It was
flats now: overpriced and under-occupied, he had heard, which to Leo was hardly surpris-ing. The building, before the renovation, had been an asylum. The high gates and impos-ing walls that now served to keep people out had been installed, initially, to keep them in. Who – in their right mind – would want to live there? Leo, his mates: when they were kids they would try to break in. Not really try because breaking in, actually, was the last thing they wanted to do. It was a terrifying place and that was the thrill: fear of what lay beyond. Manic laughter and swinging light bulbs. Baby-eaters, shit-throwers, shrinks. There was a prison close by too but the lure was barely as great. Prison, after all, was no big deal. Not compared to the alternative.
Leo tested the paper towel. It was stuck, just as he had feared. He tugged, gently, then harder, and winced the tissue from his face. He touched his cheek. His fingertip came away red. He tore a strip from the paper towel and applied it to the wound, as he would have had he sliced himself shaving. Would he get away with that, he wondered? Old razor, he could say. Ageing face.
He inhaled and pursed his lips and puffed until his lungs emptied. He felt, all of sudden, in violation, though of what he could not have said. There was work to be done, apart from anything. Yet he had no desire to return to the world, to forsake this unlikely oasis. And so he sat, alone, on a wall, wondering what on earth had just happened and failing, despite everything, to blame the boy.
They watched on the television. Megan, probably, would have liked to have gone. Ordin-arily, at least. Leo, on the other hand, would rather have forsaken even the coverage. He had suggested it – started to – but it was not, apparently, up for debate. This was part of it, his wife’s expression had conveyed.
And so they watched, side by side but as far apart as their three-seater sofa would allow: Leo with paperwork balanced on the arm on his side, Meg with a box of tissues on the arm beside her. The curtains were drawn and Leo had resisted the urge to ask why. It seemed needless; superstitious, almost. Tokenism, in the harshest terms, much like the funeral itself. A ceremony for the sake of the living that would help, in Leo’s experience, only if one did not truly hurt.
He switched on the side light.
The anchor, on the television, was reaching for the weather. Already, only minutes into the broadcast. It was befitting, apparently, that it was so unseasonal – just as, Leo suspected, rain would have been, or a shroud of snow, or a furious, anguished wind.
It was a strange decision, he would have argued. Letting the world in when he, in the Forbes’s place, would have done what he could to shut it out. It seemed improper, somehow: turning the day into a public event. Although perhaps, given the attention their daughter’s death had received, they no longer had any choice. Even his father’s funeral, after all, had snowballed into something less than private. There had been relatives that Leo barely recog-nised, friends who had long since moved away – no one, other than Leo and his family, who had attended other than because they had felt obliged to. So maybe, in the circumstances, what the Forbes family was doing was brave. Maybe, actually, it was generous. More so, in retrospect, than Leo had managed to be.
The cortège, to the anchor’s commentary, diverted from the Exe and towards the High Street. There were even more onlookers along the route than had been expected; the pave-ments were clogged from doorway to drain. So much for the pundits’ predictions, that most would choose to mourn in private, in the consoling surround, as they had put it, of their homes. Probably they would prove wrong about the viewing figures, too. Six million would follow the coverage, they had estimated, in living rooms from Truro to Thurso.
Leo saw Megan glance over at him. Just a glance but he knew what it meant. Look, Leo. Look at the enormity of this.
It was astonishing, he had to concede, that one life should impact on so many. One death, rather; one manner of death. Twice now the anchor had made reference to the ‘depth of feeling’ and though Leo would have taken issue with the first aspect of the sentiment, there was no denying that the feeling was there. The weight of numbers, after all, was hard to ignore.
‘Is he watching this?’ said Megan. She spoke to the screen. ‘He should be made to.’ Leo glanced again. He said nothing.
The coverage cut from the procession to an air shot of Exeter cathedral. The building, a Gothic colossus that might have been constructed with just such an occasion in mind, was sited in a large open area behind the High Street, ringed by a cobbled lane and a grass verge that was popular, on a normal day, with sandwiching students. Today only a cordoned-off strip of ground was visible beneath the throng.
Leo reached for his paperwork. He set it on his lap. He felt Megan gauging him and stared at the topmost page as though reading it. He flipped over to the next sheet.
‘Who is this character?’ he said, not looking at the television but failing not to hear the talking head. ‘He sounds like he’s swallowed the Daily Mail .’ Every word spoken, every image cast, seemed also somehow a condemnation. They did not name names, of course. But the point was, they did not have to.
Megan gave a sob and Leo raised his head. What? he was about to say but then he saw. Felicity’s family. The cortège had reached the cathedral and the passengers were unfold-
ing from the cars. The uncles were out first, the voice-over said, fastening their jackets and fixing their expressions into frowns. They formed a perimeter, and only once it was secure did the aunts, under hats, follow.
Next came the cousins and the grandparents, the children in unwashed black, the pensioners in fades of grey. They drew together, the generations, and moved with the cameras towards the foremost car.
There was a delay, long enough to cause a ripple. This – those within – was what every-one watching had been waiting for. The page in Leo’s hands drooped into his lap.
The door cracked and a foot appeared: a man’s lace-up, polished to a patent black. The gap widened and Felicity’s father followed. He was not a tall man but he unfurled himself to his full height, raising his chins and marshalling his shoulders. He faced out, and for a moment found the camera, but his expression did not alter and he turned back towards the car. He dipped and then withdrew and his sons, Felicity’s brothers, joined him on the cobblestones.
Even the youngest was a clenched fist taller than his father. The boys were fifteen and seventeen, Leo seemed to recall. Frederick, was it? And Francis? Names beginning with F, anyway, because it was one of the Forbes family’s idiosyncrasies that all the children had names that began with F. Both boys were blond, unlike Felicity, and Leo was reminded of an image from a few years before, of the princes beside their father at Diana’s funeral. The boys, like their royal counterparts, appeared composed but heartbreakingly so. Even the commentator seemed struck, for he fell silent. Not a conscious choice, Leo supposed, but the appropriate reaction nonetheless.
On screen there was confusion, briefly, until someone approached the group and guided them with an outstretched arm. The camera, though, floundered. Someone was missing. The picture panned left, then jerked right, before settling, it seemed, on a target. A woman and a girl, hand in hand, rounding the lead car from the passenger side. Felicity’s mother and Faye, Felicity’s sister, had emerged off screen, under cover of the mother’s improbably wide-brimmed hat. Again the camera jerked, as though jostled, and the picture switched to a different angle. The girl’s face – a more fraught, less rounded version of Felicity’s – became visible but the picture passed her by. The director, the cameramen: they wanted the mother. Anna Forbes’s hat, however, had clearly been chosen for a reason. Tipped to-wards the cameras, it masked all but her pale chin, until the aunts and the grandparents drew around her, her daughter too, and curtained their passage towards the church.
Lelic, Simon - The Child Who Page 6
