The Mother

by Yvvette Edwards

  Instead I say, “You look tired.”

  “I couldn’t really sleep properly.”

  “Valerian and vodka helps.”

  He smiles. “Maybe I’ll give it a go. How’re you bearing up?”

  My eyes fill and I shrug. If I speak it will push me over the edge. One of the things I have discovered since the event is that I have the capacity to cry for hours. I struggle hard to get myself under control because I know that if I start I may not be able to stop. More than anything, I want to thank him for what he did for Ryan. One of the worst things for me has been imagining Ryan’s last moments, imagining my son’s blood oozing out onto the cold concrete ground, and Ryan afraid, in pain, alone, perhaps not knowing in that moment, not thinking about how much he was loved. Last night I dreamed again of his dying, but for the first time Kwame was with him, trying to save him, calling for help and doing everything he could so my son might live. Ryan still died in my dream, he always dies, over and over, night after night, I watch him die, but this time he was not alone. He was in this man’s beautiful arms, strong and dark and vital as a baobab tree. I want to explain to him the comfort he has given me, and I will. I just can’t do it now without falling apart. I take his hand in mine and squeeze it. He puts his other over mine and we sit like this in silence till Nipa returns.

  Lorna arrives soon after. I finish my coffee and Nipa takes us up to the stairwell outside the public gallery. Luke and Ricardo are here again today, and I give them both a hug and thank them for coming. There are masses of people waiting, queuing down the stairwell for access to the public galleries of this and other courts. I try not to make it too obvious, but I scan the crowds looking for Ms. Manley, wondering if she will show up today and at what time. I cannot see her. She still has a son at home of school age, must surely be up to see he has something to eat and gets out of the house in good time to be punctual for school. But maybe she doesn’t. Maybe her son gets himself up and ready, maybe she is fast asleep while he’s rummaging for a clean shirt to wear, finding himself a bag of crisps or a couple of cookies to tide him over till lunchtime and free dinner. Perhaps lying in bed and sleeping is how she passes most of her day; that would make sense. It would explain what she was doing when her eldest son was being gunned down, while the other was sheathing his knife in preparation to leave her home. I look at my watch; it’s almost ten. It would explain where she is right now.

  Lorna leaves her bag with me and nips to the toilet in the few minutes left before they call us in. I place her bag on my lap and notice she has Friday’s newspaper rolled up on top of it. I open it and begin skim reading the contents. On page five there are two photographs of Ryan and Tyson Manley side by side. The headline says “Trial Starts for 17 Year Old Accused of 16 Year Old’s Fatal Stabbing.” It states the case is being heard at the Old Bailey. It gives the date Ryan was killed, the place, mentions that Tyson Manley has recently turned seventeen but was sixteen at the time the stabbing occurred, that at the time of the murder, Ryan was carrying a knife. It says Ryan’s death was the third London teenage stabbing fatality for the year and that this figure is a 25 percent decrease on available statistics for the same period last year. This decrease is a result of positive policing interventions and proactive campaigning in dealing with and raising the profile of youths caught up in gang culture.

  Then I notice that neither photograph has a name below it and the omission devastates me, the idea that there may be people who saw this paper on Friday, not knowing whose picture was whose, thinking that Ryan, the gentlest of boys, could ever have willfully taken another person’s life when he couldn’t even harm a spider; took responsibility for catching them himself inside our home rather than take the chance of me or Lloydie killing them instead of taking the time to capture them without injury and put them outside. He would use a glass or cup with a sheet of paper beneath it and talk to them, explaining what he was doing while he carried them out, found somewhere to release them, then lowered the glass to ground level so they could wander off to freedom at their leisure.

  We went to Center Parcs three Christmases ago, spent five days there, us three and Lorna and Leah. It snowed so much in the run-up, we were worried for days before that the weather would be too bad for us to drive there. We made it in the end, slowly, painstakingly. That year at Center Parcs was the closest we ever came to being in Lapland, so white everywhere, so much snow around us, and so much of it unbroken, or broken only by the footprints of birds, squirrels, deer.

  We ventured out late on Christmas Eve dressed like skiers, bags on our backs packed with our swimming kits and towels, headed for the pool. As we walked along the path from our front door, Ryan noticed an earthworm just lying on top of the snow and ice. We wondered where it had come from, all plump and glistening as if it had just emerged from the earth below, which seemed impossible.

  “Come on, guys,” I said to Ryan and Leah, who were crouched on either side of it like it was the most fascinating thing they’d ever seen.

  “We can’t just leave her there,” Ryan said. “She’ll freeze.”

  “Worms aren’t male or female, idiot,” Leah said. “They’re both.”

  “Don’t call Ryan an idiot,” Lorna said.

  “Hermaphrodites,” I said. “Worms are hermaphrodites. It’ll be fine, come on, we’re getting late.”

  “Hold on,” said my son.

  He pulled off his gloves and stuffed them into his pockets, carefully lifted up the worm, placed it onto his palm, then looked around. There was snow everywhere. Knowing he would not now abandon this creature, that our moving forward depended on first finding somewhere else for it to go, I looked around as well, wondering where the heck he could put it.

  “Try the base of a tree,” I said. The snow was beginning to thaw around the bases of the trees, not much and virtually imperceptible to anyone except individuals hell-bent on finding an earthworm a home.

  He went to a tree—not even the one closest to him—picked up a piece of wood a little larger than a twig, and used it to loosen the earth around the base, scooped out the center of it, gently placed the worm in the crater he had created, and covered it with the soil he had just removed. He cleared his hands by vigorously wiping them against each other above the mound, determined not a particle would be wasted. When he finished, his expression was satisfied.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said, pulling his gloves back on.

  All that trouble for a worm—that’s what I was thinking as we carried on our way—all that trouble for a bloody worm! But if I had to bring everything he ever did in his life down to one act, highlight a single moment that defined my son, illuminated his heart, his soul, the very core of his being, it would be that moment at Center Parcs, on his way to have fun, taking the time to rescue a creature the majority of people would probably not even have noticed. The idea that anyone anywhere could look at my son’s photograph and imagine for one second he was capable of killing another human being is enough to destroy me.

  As I close the paper, roll it up, and put it back in the bag, Lorna returns and the security guard calls everyone waiting for Court 16 to take their seats in the gallery.

  Tyson Manley is wearing another expensive suit today, in gray so shiny it is almost silver, with a black shirt underneath it, the top button undone, and a white tie draped around his neck, untied. I assume it’s his mother providing the outfits he wears. If she were a close friend, I would advise her that instead of showing off his debonair wardrobe, she would do better to pick him up a somber, sensible suit from a cheap chain store, because today he looks like the human equivalent of a disco ball. It’s only ten o’clock and he already looks bored.

  St. Clare stands to cross-examine Kwame. He keeps his hands benignly in the side trouser pockets of the tailored black suit he wears beneath his gown, and from where I am sitting I can see his shoes, black leather, expensive-looking, so highly polished they look patent. His accent is Eton and Oxbridge thoroughbred, his voice nasal and
low, and the words drawl out of him in a manner that makes him sound tipsy. He wears what has to be the oldest wig in the courtroom. It looks like it was white once, back in 1758 perhaps, and has been in the St. Clare family since, being passed from privileged eldest son to privileged eldest son through the centuries and generations to date, and it perches on his head like a filthy creature skinned by an insane taxidermist.

  “Mr. Johnson, do you remember the statement you gave to the police on March 19?”

  “Yes.”

  “The day after Mr. Williams was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “While the details were fresh in your mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said you saw a person walking along the high street wearing a brown top embellished with a gold monogram, headed into the Sports Ground?”

  “Yes.”

  “You stated, and I will quote directly from your statement here, ‘I could not see his face. It was too dark.’”

  Kwame does not respond.

  “That is what you said, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet on Friday afternoon, standing in this court, some seven months after the event, you would have us believe you had excellent vision and lighting on the day in question, and no difficulty whatsoever identifying a person whom you glanced at for a second only, that you were able to recognize this person beyond any shadow of doubt?”

  “Yes, I . . .”

  “Well, which of these versions is the truth?”

  A pause, then, “Both of them.”

  “Both of them?” St. Clare asks. He looks over at the jury and the emphasis he puts on the word both combined with that look seems to ask, “Can you believe a single word coming out of this man’s mouth?”

  “Yes. It was dark but . . .”

  “Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I think we get the drift.”

  I look over at the faces of the jury, can see confusion has replaced the acceptance and empathy I saw on their faces on Friday.

  “Can you confirm the trousers that person wore?”

  “No.”

  “Or the color?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Can you confirm what he was wearing on his feet; boots, trainers, shoes?”

  “No.”

  “A watch, any jewelry?”

  “None that I saw.”

  “Are you saying the person was not wearing jewelry, or that you did not notice whether or not he was?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “I see. What about the woman who ran into you, who almost knocked you over, what about her? Can you recall what she was wearing?”

  “Something white, or maybe gray . . .”

  “Well, was it white or was it gray?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Or some other color, even?”

  “It was so fast . . .”

  “Can you say with any certainty at all what she was wearing?”

  A pause, then Kwame says, “No.”

  “What, not at all?”

  “Not definitely.”

  “Yet you expect us to believe you when you say the person you saw in the brown top was Mr. Manley?”

  “It was.”

  “So you have said. Mr. Johnson, would you agree that you are a particularly unreliable witness?”

  Kwame is seriously ruffled. The annoyance in his voice is evident when he answers, “I don’t agree with you, no.”

  “My Lord, I have no further questions for this witness,” St. Clare says, closing the folder in front of him and sitting down. It is very subtle, that’s what’s clever about it, the subtlety. He hasn’t actually said the words and he has not been melodramatic in his actions, yet I have the distinct impression St. Clare has stopped asking questions not because he’s run out of them, but because it’s pointless asking any more questions of someone so blatantly determined to lie. And some of the jurors are with him, not the older woman, the grandma, but three of the other women and two of the men, including the Indian guy. I can see on their faces that they are no longer sure whether Kwame is a reliable witness or not. I look at Tyson Manley, and for the first time, he seems to me to be engaged with his trial. It is faint but he is watching Kwame intently, and somewhere at the corners of his mouth is the beginning of a smile.

  Quigg stands. “Mr. Johnson, may I please ask you a few more questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve already told us of your work as a football coach?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some of the boys you have worked with have gone on to be signed up by regional youth football clubs?”

  “Yes.”

  “There must be a way of identifying which of these boys have the potential to be signed up, the ones who have the talent to make a professional career of footballing.”

  “There is.”

  “How do you tell?”

  “I observe them, how they play, their coordination with the ball, their speed and agility.”

  “Is it fair to say you pay close attention to the bodies of your boys?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean is it fair to say you pay close attention to how their bodies are used, how they move, walk, run?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you identified Mr. Manley, was it because you saw his face?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell the police you had seen his face?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “May I quote another extract to you from the statement you made on March 19?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said, ‘I knew it was Tyson Manley because I know how he carries himself, the way he moves.’”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that is the same as you told us in court on Friday?”

  “It is.”

  “You have said you had a special interest in Mr. Manley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because of his family circumstances and the trouble he kept getting into.”

  “Yes.”

  “You wanted to help him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you hadn’t had a falling-out; effectively, you parted on good terms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there any reason why you would make up the fact that the person you saw on March 18 entering the Sports Ground was Tyson Manley?”

  “No.”

  “If you had any doubt about the identity of the person you saw, any doubt whatsoever, would you have told the police the person you saw was Mr. Manley?”

  “If I had any doubt, I wouldn’t even have brung up his name.”

  Quigg repeats this slowly. “If you had any doubt, you would not even have brung up his name?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I have no further questions.”

  The judge excuses Kwame and he leaves the court. I am examining the jurors’ faces, trying to tell what impact Quigg’s redress has had, but can’t call it. The judge decides we should all have a twenty-minute break, and Lorna and I follow Nipa out.

  We congregate in the stairwell and Nipa pops into the toilet while we’re waiting.

  “Bloody hell, Quigg did well to pull that back,” Lorna whispers.

  “Did you think it was enough?”

  “Kwame was completely believable,” Lorna says. “Even when that QC was calling him a barefaced liar. He’s a deadly old man, looks like he’s knocked back a bottle of whiskey on the way in, but he’s got his wits about him, that’s for sure.”

  “I can’t believe he was so rude to Kwame.”

  “That’s his job.”

  “What, treating people like shit?”

  “He just wants to win and anywhere he can inject a bit of doubt into the minds of the jury, he will.”

  “Regardless of the truth?”

  “Marcia, do you really think he gives a toss whether Manley’s guilty or innocent? He just wants to win.
This is all about scoring points, nothing more. And Quigg’s no different. Do you think it’s just coincidence that she happens to have a black male assistant working with her on this case? He’s basically her antiracism proclamation, sitting there for the duration in case anyone doubts it. That’ll gain her a couple of points in the minds of some of the jury at least.”

  If we were anywhere else, I would probably be shouting. In the stairwell, beneath the sign telling us not to discuss cases here, my words are a low and frantic hiss. “Oh my God! You’re totally paranoid! You know, everyone everywhere isn’t making some political point with everything they do. Why does poor Henry have to be some complicated plot for Quigg to prove she’s not prejudiced? Why can’t he just be the most qualified, capable person she could have chosen to bring along to help her?”

  Nipa returns from the toilet and because of this the discussion comes to an abrupt end.

  “So far so good,” she says, and neither of us replies, though I give Nipa a small smile of acknowledgment.

  “It’s Nadine Forrester next, isn’t it?” Lorna asks.

  Nipa nods then says to me, “Her evidence is going to be pretty graphic, Marcia. Are you sure you want to be in there listening to it?”

  “I have to, I don’t have a choice.”

  “You do have a choice,” Lorna says. “I’ll be there. You don’t have to.”

  “I want to know, . . .” I say. I don’t explain it, the raw need for every detail, no matter how awful, how terrible, no matter what it contributes to my nightmares, my pain. I find it hard to understand myself. My son died horribly, in the most traumatic circumstances, and he did it without me. He didn’t have the chance to opt out, and because he could not make that choice, I will not make it either. But it is so personal and I don’t know if it is structurally sound, so I don’t say it, can’t take the risk of Lorna or Nipa taking this fragile logic apart. “. . . I have to know.”

  Lorna holds my hand, squeezes it, and says, “Okay.”

  Nadine Forrester is young and blond and nervous. Quigg does a good job easing her in gently, building a picture of a twenty-two-year-old who jogs four times a week, for differing durations, in different places, one of the regular places she jogged up until March 18 being the Sports Ground.