Ricardo says, “Opposites attract, bro.”
Opposites is right. Her world and my son’s were light-years apart.
“Is she still at school?” I ask.
They both shake their heads. Luke says, “Ain’t really seen her since then. Tell a lie, I seen her once, that’s it.”
“Did you talk to her about what happened?” Lorna asked.
They shake their heads. Ricardo says, “She never spoke to no one. Maybe she just came in to get her stuff, ’cause she was with the head of the sixth form and I never saw her at school after that.”
We finish up and walk slowly back. The journalists are camped on the other side of the street from the main entrance. They watch us and snap a few photographs as we pass.
Lorna glares at them, her expression full of contempt. Under her breath she hisses, “Parasites!” as we turn into the alleyway leading to the entrance to the galleries. We climb the stairs to the second floor, then stand around and wait.
St. Clare’s cross-examination is a short one. He wants to know if Nadine is able to identify the person who murdered Ryan, and she isn’t. Can she categorically even say the person she saw was definitely a black man? First of all she says yes, but following a discussion of the lighting, the shadows, the brevity of her glance at his face, her fear, she allows that it was a man, but he could have been Indian, mixed race, Hawaiian, tanned. He wants to know how specific her estimation of the person’s height was. The murderer could have been a couple of inches shorter or taller than she estimated. She concedes that because she was so afraid and because she herself was smaller, she may have seen the danger, the person, as bigger than they actually were. He has her confirm that on March 19 she took part in an identity parade at the police station in which the defendant was present and that she did not identify him as the man she saw in the park who had carried out the murder. St. Clare successfully makes the point that it could have been absolutely anyone who killed my son that day, and while her evidence gives us a clear picture of what happened to Ryan, there is no link between that evidence and Tyson Manley whatsoever.
We are talked through a short piece of CCTV footage by a police officer. It was taken from a security camera on the forecourt of a petrol station, and on it we see the murderer from the back as he passes the camera. The images are slightly grainy, but it is clear he is wearing a brown top, the hood up, black sweatpants, and trainers. From his gait, he seems young, fairly tall. He walks fast and has a pronounced bounce to his step, like the exaggerated bounce described by Kwame during his evidence. His hands must be in his front pockets, because you do not see them at all in the short clip, but even without really seeing anything of the person, even if I knew nothing of this case and was looking at the clip in isolation and unconnected with this trial, I would have guessed from the way he walks that he is a young black man.
The most useful thing about the clip is the time and date that pulse in the bottom left corner of the screen, March 18 at 18:32. This is consistent, Quigg says, with a fast walk from the Sports Ground directly after the murder if the murderer’s destination was Sweetie Nelson’s home. She directs the jury to another and less detailed map, which shows the Sports Ground marked “1” where Ryan was killed and Sweetie’s home, marked “3.” The most direct route between these two points is highlighted in yellow, and almost midway along that yellow route is “2,” the spot at which the CCTV image was filmed.
Then Quigg reads out a statement from the arresting officer, dated March 19, the summary of which is that following the report of the murder and acting on pertinent information received, a warrant was issued for Tyson Manley’s arrest and the officer was dispatched to the home of the suspect’s mother, his place of abode, on the evening of March 18. Despite her saying her son was not there, the premises were searched, and on not finding him, a decision was made to set up surveillance on the premises so that if the suspect returned he could be apprehended.
Tyson Manley arrived back at the parental home the following morning at 09:00 on foot, and was first cautioned and subsequently arrested. He struggled with the arresting officers and was forcibly restrained. The handcuffs were applied, checked for tightness, and double-locked. A van was called and the suspect was conveyed to the police station, wherein he was booked by the custody sergeant and body mapping was requested.
Quigg reads the jury the caution text, confirms this had been read to Mr. Manley at the time of the arrest, advising him of his rights. I can only imagine the purpose of this is to ensure that further down the line, when looking at grounds for appeal, no one can say the boy who had so newly murdered my son had been deprived of any of his rights. It is almost four thirty by the time she is finished, and the case is adjourned till tomorrow morning at ten.
As we exit the court building, cameras begin to flash from the journalists on the pavement on the other side of the street. Nipa has her arm through mine and begins to steer me in the direction of the car park when Lorna says, “Hold on, I’ve got a statement I’d like to make.” We have not discussed this, she and I, so I am caught on the hop and I run my hands over my face to ensure it is tear-free and pat my wig to confirm it is sitting where it should be. Nipa enlists the help of two officers standing nearby and, informing the media that a statement is to be made, the cameras are permitted to come closer, to form an arc around us and dangle huge microphones above our heads. Luke and Ricardo stand with us, their expressions serious. Lorna takes out Friday’s paper, opens then folds it at page five, and points to the image of Ryan.
She says, “This is my nephew, Ryan Williams. He was the only nephew I had. He called me ‘Teelor.’ When he was a baby learning to talk, he couldn’t say ‘Auntie Lorna,’ it was too much of a mouthful, he could only manage ‘Teelor,’ and it was so cute and lovely we kept it. It’s what he always called me, right up to the end. I cannot begin to explain to you how special he was, or how much we loved him, or how devastated his murder has left us as a family.” She points to the other image. “This is Tyson Manley. He is being tried for my nephew’s murder. The next time you print something about this case, have the fucking decency to put their names to their photographs. They’re two black boys, but they’re not interchangeable. Thank you.”
There are flowers, a couple of bouquets of daisies, and a teddy bear outside the garden on the pavement when I arrive back at my home with Nipa.
“Would you like me to move them?” Nipa asks. “Shall I take them inside for you?”
“It’s fine,” I say, as I get out of the car. “Leave them there.” We say goodbye, and she leaves. There is a small card pinned to the teddy bear. The message on it reads “2 many stars in heaven already, Y did they have 2 take U? RIP. Ayeesha. X.”
My eyes fill. It is my perpetual state, the tears so constantly near, the battle to contain them great because the one to make them stop is even greater. In the weeks after the event, this strip of pavement became a kind of memorial to Ryan, a shrine. There were masses of flowers and teddies and cards, candles and crucifixes, and in one case, three packets of Skittles from someone who obviously knew they were his favorite sweets. People I knew and total strangers visited and left small tokens then. Perhaps some of them have read about the trial and taken the time and trouble to remind me they exist and still care. It is astonishing, the beauty in humanity that sometimes accompanies the most hideous tragedy. They move me now as deeply as they did then. I don’t pick them up, I leave them where they are, a proclamation to the world that something heinous has occurred, wondering for the millionth time whether my son can see them, whether despite the fact he may not have been thinking about it in his final moments, he has come to know since how much people care, how much we care, longing from the depths of my heart to believe it so.
Lloydie is not inside our home when I enter, but he has cooked dinner again and the pots are still warm and sitting on the stove. I pour myself a vodka, notice it is becoming my first act now when I arrive home, irrespective of the time. I have th
e drink but cannot eat. My stomach is unsettled and, at the same time, tight. I phone my mother before she phones me, settle on my bed, and tell her about the court day. Afterward I lie on top of the bedclothes, thinking I might have a quick nap because I feel so exhausted, but it doesn’t come. I lie wide awake till quarter to six, then go to the bathroom and freshen up.
Hulya’s is a gentrified deli-café with six or seven small tables, two of which are occupied when I enter, and as I sit there waiting for Sweetie to arrive, there is a steady flow of takeout customers who come in to buy hot drinks and rolls and sandwiches, pay, and go. I am early by about ten minutes, so I order a coffee and settle at a table near the back where the seats are side on and I have a clear view of everything inside the small building, including Sweetie if and when she finally gets around to showing up. All the while I am berating myself for being here at all, watching both the café entrance and the clock.
It is ten to seven by the time she arrives, my coffee long finished. Close up I can see she has put on a little weight since I last saw her, much of it in her breasts, which are fuller than they were a year ago. She sports an afro, a large one, kinky-messy, as if she put her hair in twists last night and today has simply taken the twists out. I think it suits her. Its size makes her face look smaller and because of that, her eyes and mouth are larger focal points. But I can also see life has not been kind to her. What made her look “street” before was her attire and accoutrements. Now there is hardness in her gaunt cheeks, around the shadows beneath her eyes, about the ridge of her nose, which looks like it has been broken at some point and reset, in the quickness of the movement of her eyes. They dart around constantly, warily, checking out every movement and sound. The skin on her face and her hands is dry. She sits in the chair opposite me and we both look at each other in silence till she finally looks away.
I am clear this is not a cozy coffee meeting to catch up with a friend and I’m determined I will not make small talk. “Well?” I say.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Well, I have, as you see.”
The waitress comes over, takes her order for a hot chocolate and mine for another coffee, then goes away.
“How’s the case going? D’you think Tyson’s going down?”
“Is that why you asked me here? To find out about the case?”
“Yeah . . . no, not really.”
“I haven’t got time for games, Sweetie,” I say, annoyed with the girl before me, but even more annoyed with myself and the hope that has dragged and kept me seated here, my pathetic pursuit of the truth, which made it impossible not to come, even though, as Lloydie would have asked, “What difference does it make?” My annoyance cushions itself in anger. I pick up my handbag, about to stand.
“Wait. Don’t go. I have to tell you something.”
“What are you going to tell me? That your friend killed my son? That you lied to the police when you said he was with you that day? I don’t need the courts to tell me what I already know. What I don’t know is why. That’s why I’m here, no other reason.”
She is crying. The only sign of it is the tears rolling from her eyes. She doesn’t hold her head in her hands like Lloydie, or howl aloud like I have. Her crying doesn’t even impact on her features, the tears just run and she wipes them away with her fingertips. She was a year older than Ryan, seventeen now, nearly eighteen, still a child herself really, in legal terms.
“You set him up, didn’t you? What do they call them? Honey traps? Is that what you were, some kind of honey-trap girl?”
She shakes her head. “I would never’ve done that. I know you don’t believe me, but I swear to God, cross my heart and hope to die, I loved Ry. I loved him.”
“You didn’t even come to his funeral.”
“I wannid to come, you don’t know how bad I wannid to.”
“But?”
She looks at me a moment, then away. “I never had nothing to wear.”
I can’t bring myself to respond to that. What would be the point? She needed to look good, to pose even there, and had nothing new or expensive enough to do that in. I will not sink to her level, will not have a discussion about the fact she could have turned up in anything, or point out it wasn’t actually a rave we hosted that day; the people who showed up were there to support us, to bury my son.
I say, “I want to know what happened.”
“He left a message. On my phone. Tyson heard it. I told Ryan not to call me. I told him to leave me alone, but he never listened. I warned him, but he was different . . . like there was too much trust in him. He never even wannid the knife . . .”
“You gave him a knife?”
She nods, because that’s the kind of gift people like her give to those they love, not aftershave or champagne or forget-me-nots, they give metal gifts, murder weapons. If Tyson Manley had walked up to Ryan and faced him like a man, if he’d given my son the smallest fighting chance, Ryan could have whipped out her gift and used it to defend himself, maybe killed Tyson Manley accidentally instead of being killed himself, and I could have been sitting in court this week exactly where I’ve been sitting, except instead of staring at Tyson Manley wondering how he could have done it, I’d be looking down at Ryan gazing out from behind the glass. This is the thinking of people whose lives end too early and badly. I shake my head.
“And now you’re gonna lie, go into court and tell them you were with Tyson when it happened so he can get away with it and next time you find some other patsy, you can give them another knife and he can kill them as well?”
“You don’t know what it’s like . . .”
“I know about the ridiculous code you all live by, the wall of silence, no one grassing, no one coming forward to tell the police the truth. It doesn’t make things better. It’s not noble. It’s not cool. All it does is let people who’ve done wrong get away with it.”
“Cool? You think I’m tryin’a play it cool? I go in there and say what you want me to say, you think that suddenly everything’s gonna flip right? That I get to carry on like nothing went down?”
“If you tell the truth he’ll go to prison. That’s the reality. That’s where this will end.”
“If I tell the truth this’ll never end, never! Man, you don’t know the people I’m dealing with. You don’t know my life. There is no end. Ain’t no cavalry on the way, you get me? Ain’t no one out there rescuing people like me! If I weren’t dead by the time they finished, I’d wish I was.”
All those things I did for Ryan, putting the safety locks on the kitchen drawers so he couldn’t get at the sharp utensils that could harm him, the safety wheels on the back of his bike so he wouldn’t fall off, and the helmet, so if he did he wouldn’t crack his skull and die, walking him to school every morning till he was ten so no one could abduct him, because if he wasn’t abducted, he couldn’t be hurt; all those precautions and she slipped in anyway, bringing with her the boogeyman of my nightmares that I told my son did not exist.
“So you’re really gonna do it, stand there and lie?”
“I have to.”
“No. You choose to.”
“Listen, I don’t choose! I do what I gotta do.”
I look at her, shake my head in disgust. “And this love you say you have for Ryan, that’s how you show it? Telling lies to protect his killer.”
“They know where to find me. I got no place else to go. You got no clue the things they’d do, the things they’ve already done . . .”
She looks up as the bell above the door chimes and two young women enter the café, about her age, with that look about them that I associate with Sweetie. I see on her face an expression of total fear and simultaneously she stands, lifting her side of the table with both hands as she does so, and everything on top of it, my coffee, her hot chocolate, the salt and pepper and condiments and menu fly off the table onto me and I tumble backward off my chair onto the floor, where I am too surprised to do anything other than look up at her in shock as
she screams, “I’m warning you, you better stay the fuck away from me!”
Then she passes them as she walks out, and they watch her do so, before giving me a long hard stare, turning around, and leaving as well, without having purchased anything. The waitress, as stunned as I am, runs over, helps me up. Two other customers right the table and chairs and pick up the other items spilled across the floor. The manager asks if I am okay as I pull my purse out of my bag and struggle with fingers shaking so badly I am unable to pick out the coins. I give up, pull out a note instead, hand it to him, answer, “Yes.”
When he gives me my change, I take it then find myself hesitating. Instead of leaving, I look out of the window, checking the street to make sure I can’t see them anywhere, that those girls have actually gone, before opening the door and venturing out. I walk away from Hulya’s on legs that are little more than jelly.
I catch a cab to Lorna’s house, bang on her door.
“What’s happened?”
I tell her pretty much word for word everything Sweetie said. I read from notes hastily scribbled on scraps of paper from my handbag while sitting in the backseat of the cab on the way over, trying to write it all down while it was still fresh in my mind.
“We’ve gotta ring Quigg and tell her,” I say. “Even if Sweetie refuses to tell the truth, I will. I’ll tell the jury what she told me. No one’s gonna believe her word against mine.”
“Are you mad?” Lorna asks. “You think you can just tell Quigg you’ve been meeting with witnesses, discussing the trial? They’ll throw the bloody case out! And if by some miracle they didn’t, why would they believe you? You’re Ryan’s mum. That defense QC would have a field day. He’d make mincemeat out of your impartiality. No, you can’t tell anyone.”
“So what, just let him get off? Keep my mouth shut as well and let that murderer walk? There is no evidence against him, not a single piece of evidence that links him directly to the murder, you know that.”
The Mother Page 10