‘I don’t know.’
‘I suggest to you that you know perfectly well why you had a knife. It was to attack Roger Gough, wasn’t it?’
Callum opened his mouth to deny it then thought, what the Hell? ‘Yes,’ he said instead.
‘I suppose you disliked the guy.’ Talith couldn’t manage to be subtle – even when he tried as hard as this.
‘I did dislike him. Why don’t you ask me why?’
Talith simply lifted his eyebrows.
‘It was because he was bullying me.’
‘Look, sonny.’ Again Talith leaned right across the table. ‘We don’t have any evidence that Gough was anything but a school buddy of yours. You, on the other hand, were seen plunging a knife right into Roger Gough’s chest missing his heart by a couple of inches. It was a lethal attack. Understand? He’s lucky to be alive. In fact,’ he jabbed his finger at Callum, ‘you’re damned lucky he’s still alive. You don’t know how lucky you are, sonny. You could well have been up on a murder charge.’
Callum put his hand to his throat and drew in a long, rasping breath.
‘Pass his inhaler,’ Shelley ordered. ‘Give it to him.’
Roberts handed the schoolbag across to her. Disdain darkening her face, she fished out a Ventolin pump and handed it to Callum without saying a word. They all watched silently while he inhaled two sharp squirts.
Roberts waited for a minute or two then continued with the questioning. ‘Tell me about the knife,’ he said. ‘When did you buy it?’
‘I told you. A week ago.’
‘Why did you buy it?’
‘I don’t know. Self defence I suppose.’
‘So you did intend to use it against someone.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was it for anyone specific?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you ever stabbed anyone before?’
Callum shook his emphatically. ‘No, I never have.’
‘So you bought it with a specific purpose in mind.’ The way he lingered over the word specific was a lure, a shining thing in the water, dangling for him to take it in his mouth. But then he would be caught – trapped and never free without tearing his flesh.
Callum appealed dumbly to Stephenson.
‘My client has no comment.’
‘Did you intend to kill him?’
The question brought the wild look into the lad’s eyes. For one brief second everyone in the small interview room held their breath.
The solicitor was the first to regain his equilibrium. ‘My client has no comment,’ he said but he knew the damage had been done. They had all seen and interpreted the expression in Callum Hughes’s eyes. These were the same mad eyes which had stared out of his face as he had driven the knife into Roger Gough’s lung. And if his arm had not been restrained by a teacher who knows what might have happened next?
There was a knock on the door and a tall, slim detective entered.
Gethin Roberts spoke into the tape recorder. ‘Detective Inspector Randall has entered the room at 19.46. Interrogation suspended.’
The two policemen shut off the machine and muttered to the detective in the corner. Once or twice Alex Randall glanced across at Callum, his intelligent eyes appraising the situation, resting on the lad with interest.
Paul Talith muttered something under his breath and Alex Randall looked again – at Shelley Hughes this time. She pretended not to notice his scrutiny but when Randall had turned his gaze back to his colleagues she stole another glance at him.
‘Tasty,’ she thought, before scolding herself. What was she thinking of – fancying a copper – and the one that had her son in custody at that.
‘You’d better charge him,’ Alex Randall was saying. ‘We’ll keep him here overnight and get him in front of the magistrates in the morning. Get some paperwork together.’
Paul Talith said something and they all heard Randall’s reply. ‘Attempted murder. If that doesn’t stick we’ve got plenty of other charges. Come on, Talith. You know the score.’
Randall approached Callum then, stopping right in front of the interview desk, his long figure leaning in towards the boy. ‘Listen, son,’ he said, ‘take my advice. Don’t make this any more difficult for yourself than it has to be. You’ve got a tough enough time ahead without making enemies of the coppers who will treat you well and make sure you get a fair trial.’
Callum lifted his eyes without hope. He shrugged and said nothing. Randall put his hand on the door then turned to speak to Roberts. ‘Have you rung the hospital?’
Roberts shook his head.
‘Well – I suggest you do.’
When Alex Randall had left the room Paul Talith stood up. ‘I’ll get you some drinks,’ he said to Shelley, Callum and Stephenson. ‘Give you a chance to have a bit of a chat.’ He jerked his head towards the door and the two officers filed out.
As soon as the door had closed behind them Shelley spoke to Callum. ‘Tell that Inspector Randall the truth,’ she said. ‘He looks a decent sort, as though he’d believe you. Tell him about DreadNought and the others. He’ll understand. I know he will.’ She appealed to the solicitor then. ‘If they can say Call was pushed into it surely it’ll make a difference?’
The solicitor cleared his throat. ‘Some,’ he said. ‘Not quite as much as you might think. But we can explain about the provocation later on when the case comes to the Crown Court. It doesn’t alter the facts of the crime, Mrs Hughes.’
She looked fiercely at him. ‘But it makes all the difference. If that little rat hadn’t picked on my son none of this would have happened. If the school had stopped DreadNought in his tracks he wouldn’t be in hospital today. And Callum wouldn’t be here,’ she finished viciously.
The solicitor tried to pacify her. ‘True – true but we’ll have time enough to gather some information on that later.’
Shelley pressed her lips together and satisfied herself with a rebellious stare.
Callum touched his mother’s hand. ‘That detective won’t be able to do anything for me, Mum. I don’t know why you trust him. You know what these coppers are like. They’ve got their case. That’s all they care about. Nothing to do with justice. They’re not going to try and paint me any whiter than I am.’ He dropped his head onto his folded arms.
Her eyes landed on the closed door. ‘They’re not all like that. Some of them must be decent. He seems decent.’
‘He’s still a copper.’
‘Ahem, ahem.’ Wesley Stephenson cleared his throat. ‘We don’t have a lot of time. We shouldn’t waste it, Callum. Let’s recap. You were seen by countless witnesses to pull a knife from your schoolbag and deliberately stick it in Roger Gough’s chest. I take it that’s true?’
Callum nodded.
‘And the knife you’d used you’d bought the week before together with a sharpener from the same shop. That too is true, I take it.’
Again Callum nodded miserably.
‘And you actually used the sharpening stone…?’
Another nod.
‘Are there any witnesses to your bullying who would confirm your story?’
This time a slow, regretful shake of the head. ‘There’s witnesses all right,’ Callum said. ‘But none of them’ll speak out. They’re too afraid of DreadNought.’
‘OK.’ The solicitor tried again. ‘Apart from your school chums might anybody know something?’ He looked at Shelley. ‘Did either of you discuss this bullying with anyone – priest, doctor, teacher – anyone?’
Both Shelley and Callum hung their heads.
‘And you never sought medical help following any of the attacks?’
Another slow shake of the head.
All three people present could see how dark the case was.
The solicitor was quiet for a moment. ‘And you say that…’
Then Shelley looked up. ‘I did ring the doctor once,’ she said, ‘to ask him what to do about broken ribs.’
‘Think careful
ly about this, Shelley,’ Stephenson said, hardly daring to hope. ‘Did you mention Callum?’
‘No. I just asked what you should do if someone had broken ribs,’ she said. ‘I didn’t say Call.’
‘Which doctor?’
‘Doctor Porter at the Health Centre,’ she said, still with the same heart-breaking hopefulness in her voice.
The brief made a note to himself to speak to the doctor. ‘Can you remember when it was?’
‘Six months ago. April, May time.’
‘Good.’ He addressed his next question to Callum. ‘Did it seem probable that you had broken a rib?’
Callum shrugged. ‘Don’t know. They had me on the floor and were kicking me. I had a bad pain in my right side for a couple of months after that but I don’t know.’
The solicitor made a mental note to suggest they have some x-rays done.
‘Now then, Callum, did DreadNought ever bully anyone else?’
Callum frowned as he concentrated.
‘Anyone at all,’ the brief prompted.
‘A girl, Chelsea. She used to be friends with Katie but they fell out.’ He flushed. ‘DreadNought pushed her really hard once down some steps in school. She broke her wrist. She was in plaster for ages after.’
‘Her full name?’
‘Chelsea Arnold. She lives up in Harlescott near Morrisons. Her dad works on the buses.’
‘She goes to your school?’
Callum nodded.
‘Then I’ll find her,’ Wesley Stephenson promised.
He put a hand on Callum’s shoulder. ‘Callum,’ he said, ‘is there anyone who could speak up for you? Say that you were of good character, vouch for you as a decent person?’
Again hope briefly flared and died in the boy’s face. ‘Mr Farthing,’ he said. ‘My history teacher. But…he was the one who stopped me sticking the knife into DreadNought again. He caught my hand and took the knife off me. He knew I would have killed him.’
Stephenson’s heart sank. From worse to terrible. That described this case. Each time he thought he had heard the worst scenario something else cropped up which made the situation deteriorate further. ‘Callum,’ he said again. ‘Listen to me carefully now. We can’t deny facts. My job isn’t to get you off. Do you realise that? If I was the most brilliant lawyer in the land I couldn’t do that. Not with all those witnesses who saw what happened. We can’t even say that the knife was in your bag by accident or that you were carrying a knife for some other purpose such as woodwork or a hobby. Our defence will rest on a few points. One – that this assault was out of character – in other words that you are, by nature, a peaceable and quiet individual. Two, that you were provoked into attacking Roger Gough, that it was done in self-defence and also that while you meant to scare him off, you did not mean to kill him. Do you understand all that I’ve said?’
Callum nodded.
‘Have there been any other incidents which might be brought up in court?’
Callum shook his head.
Stephenson doubted it. In these sorts of cases there was always something else. What he didn’t want was for him to hear it for the first time in the court. He would be in combat without a shield.
‘Right,’ he said, then turned back to Shelley. ‘What about Callum’s dad? Might we call on him?’
‘You won’t get anything from him,’ Shelley Hughes said bitterly. ‘We haven’t heard from him for years.’
‘Does he give any financial support?’
Shelley withered him with a look.
‘I see.’
There was a knock on the door and Sergeant Paul Talith and PC Roberts filed back in. They spoke woodenly to Wesley Stephenson. ‘We’re going to caution and charge your client.’
Stephenson nodded, accepting the inevitable but Callum stared from one to the other, his face as white as chalk. ‘I’ll go to prison then, won’t I, Mr Stephenson,’ he whispered.
Shelley drew in a sharp breath.
‘You’ll be in front of the magistrate tomorrow,’ the solicitor answered. ‘I doubt that she’ll grant bail in such a serious case. You’ll almost certainly be in remand until your case can be heard in a Crown Court.’
‘How long will that take,’ Shelley demanded, her face as taut as wire.
‘They’ll be as quick as possible in view of your son’s age.’ Stephenson was hedging.
‘How long?’
‘A few months.’
‘And then?’
‘I think you should be prepared for a custodial sentence.’
‘Prison?’ Callum’s voice was a squeak.
‘You’re too young to go to prison, Callum. You’ll go to a Young Offenders’ Institution.’
‘And it’ll be full of people like DreadNought.’
‘There will be some like that,’ the Brief said. But most of them, he added mentally, will be youngsters like you. Weak, unhappy, sad, vulnerable.
Callum’s eyes refused to leave him. ‘Then I might as well be dead.’
They had arrived at Knowsley, a few miles east of Liverpool between the A580 and the M57. Martha consulted her map and soon picked up the signs and as she saw the first one she felt a sudden surge of pride. Her son. Her lad, the boy she had brought up single-handedly, had aimed so high, achieved so much.
To be here was like a Christian standing outside the gates of Heaven. She moved the car forward and was immediately challenged by a ponderous guard. She had to present ID and the letter of introduction. There was heavy security around the perimeter. An electric fence and electric eyes which swivelled and watched her as she drove up the drive.
They found their way to the reception and were met by a business-like woman in her early forties who carried a clipboard. She smiled at Sam. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘Sam Gunn. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Welcome to Liverpool. We hope you’ll be happy here. Here’s to your first goal then, son.’
For some silly reason Martha Gunn, sensible coroner but proud mother, bristled at this woman calling Sam her son. Wasn’t it enough that they were taking him away? With strict rules about home visits and contact? Did they also want to deprive her of any role in his very existence?
The woman gave her a searching look. ‘My name’s Christine Sweetman, Mrs Gunn.’ She gave a warm smile. ‘I expect you’ll be missing him.’
Martha tried to toss it off with a headshake – and knew she had failed.
‘Yes,’ she finally acknowledged simply. It was the honest answer. Through the window she could see boys playing football in their red strip. Sam’s eyes drifted across and she knew he was almost oblivious to her presence, he was already absorbed in watching the play, noting each player’s moves, speed, deftness. Footballers do this, store to a giant memory as huge as a cinema screen, every twist, every turn, every movement of a player. She looked too but without the absorption or perception that Sam had. You can only really understand a game if you have played it yourself and apart from knockarounds in the garden she had not ever played a game of football. All she really took in was that they were wearing Liverpool strip and looked about Sam’s age and that they seemed to have control of the ball as though it was connected to their feet by an invisible length of elastic.
She looked back at her son and knew, like countless mothers before and after her, that he had moved on, away from her influence. Her time was coming to an end. Other people now would assume importance. At thirteen years old he was moving towards different horizons.
‘You’ll want to meet the principal.’
He turned out to be a smart man in his fifties, an ex-footballer himself, still trim and fit with well-cut greying hair and a strong Liverpool accent.
‘Don’t you worry about a thing, Mrs Gunn,’ he said, putting a friendly arm around her shoulders. ‘We’ll take good care of your son. I’ll look after him as though he were my own. Better in fact.’ He laughed loudly at his own joke and she joined in.
He was friendly and fun and she could trust Sam’s welfare to him.
He would be a father-figure. A substitute for Martin. She smiled.
‘Now that’s better,’ he said. ‘I suggest you go and say goodbye to the lad and then head off back home.’
Sam was patently worried that she would kiss him or ‘blub’. He scowled at her nervously and backed away. Which hurt her. However, to her credit she committed neither of his fears but ruffled his hair, gave the cheeriest of smiles and said goodbye quickly. She shook hands with the principal and Ms Sweetman and walked back to her car equally quickly. It wasn’t until she had driven halfway on the lone return journey that she allowed herself the luxury of a few tears. For company she switched on the radio and picked up the tail end of a track on a golden oldies pop station and listened to some hits of the 70s.
‘Callum Hughes, you are charged that on the sixth of September 2005 you did attempt to murder Roger Gough at Hallow’s Lane Comprehensive School. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence…’
Callum watched the police, his face white and frightened. And all Shelley could think of was that she was going to have to leave him here.
Like Martha she too drove home alone.
CHAPTER THREE
Wednesday 7th September, 8 a.m.
Callum Hughes was to appear in front of the magistrates at nine o’clock. They woke him at seven to give him time to wash and have his breakfast but they needn’t have bothered. He was already awake when they opened his cell door. Lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how on earth he could carry on living.
And he didn’t want any breakfast anyway.
Shelley hadn’t slept a wink all night either. It had been the hardest thing she had ever done, leaving Callum in the police station and returning to an empty house, which, paradoxically, seemed fuller of his presence than when he was at home. She had sat on her sofa, the television turned off and the curtains drawn, and relived again and again the worst moments, answering the door, listening without understanding to the police’s bald statements, packing the suitcase, sending him the silent message that he would stay here while she was free to go home. She had looked full into his face and seen his lip curl in a sort of ‘et tu Brute’ expression. She had tried to explain that she was not abandoning him or doubting his integrity, merely accepting what she was powerless to change. She had clung to the belief that he had understood this even as Sergeant Talith had lifted the case from her. ‘I’ll see he gets what he needs,’ he’d said and she knew he would check its contents before letting her son have it.
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