“That boy’s got no chance! Not only are they gonna convict him, he’s gonna get a longer sentence than he would’ve if he wasn’t black. The conviction stats don’t lie.”
I look at my sister in astonishment. “Are you totally insane? I want him convicted because he’s guilty! I want him to be given the longest sentence they can give him because he’s sucked the air from my life! What I want is justice, not racism, justice!”
“Marcia, he did it! We know he did. Every piece of circumstantial evidence leads to that conclusion. He’s not going to get away with it.”
“So your advice is to do nothing, say nothing? I don’t know if I can.”
“I’m telling you you can and you must,” my sister says. Worse, I know she’s right. I have to suck it up. Another thing to swallow and keep down, just one more thing to be silent about when I’m already so full I could burst.
Lloydie is at home when I get back. He is sitting at the kitchen table with Pastor Meade, who is speaking to him about strength. Erin and Paloma are also there, my line manager and colleague, friends from my years at the call center, just passing through, they say, and stopped off to see how I was getting on. They have brought us flowers, a beautiful bouquet that must have cost a fortune, and a huge card from the people I work with, filled with messages of support, reminding me that everyone is thinking of me, that Lloydie and I are in their prayers. I try to keep up a front, the practiced front of married couples to the world, hiding the separateness that has grown between me and Lloydie, presenting the unity it has become my sole responsibility to exhibit, but it has never been harder to do than it is at this moment. My emotions have been on the roller-coaster ride of their life. I tell them a bit, some of the details of the trial. My heart isn’t in it, but I tell them anyway, because they’re here and I can’t get out of it, and while I do, from time to time, I gaze at Lloydie to see if he’s listening and he doesn’t look like he is. He gives the impression of being so engrossed in what the pastor is saying to him that he cannot focus on the latest developments of the police and the judicial system and their efforts to bring the murderer of our son to account.
I listen to myself from a distance, hear the sound of my own voice, my words, wonder how I am managing to speak to them, to carry on. Erin and Paloma, Pastor Meade, they just want to help us somehow, to do something, anything, but civility feels like a Herculean task, one that this evening is almost beyond me.
Finally I just have to tell them I’m truly exhausted and my head is pounding, that I need to have a bath and lie down. After the women go, I leave Lloydie and Pastor Meade to talk alone, and take valerian and vodka and paracetamol then get into the tub. I hear the front door open and close while I am in there and I wonder if Lloydie has gone out, but when I come out of the bathroom he is sitting on the bed with his face in his hands. He looks up at me. I am doing all I can to hold it together. On the outside, I am looking after myself, wearing my wig, plastering over the gaps and defects, creating a facade for the world that cloaks the anguish inside me, the circuits that no longer work, the bits that are broken, the pain.
Lloydie looks like I feel. It’s all there; the anguish in his eyes, despair in the slump of his posture, anxiety in the prominence of the veins that crisscross his bony arms and hands, and it makes me angry, his collapse, because it sucks from me the right to have any expectation of him, makes me feel cruel for expecting more when he looks so pathetic, is being so pathetic. I go around to my side of the bed, sit on the edge of it to cream myself so I do not have to look at him and feel guilty, so I don’t have to try to find surplus strength to compensate for his, when I can barely find my own.
He says, “I don’t know how to do this. I just don’t know.”
As if there is a book, an instructional DVD that tells people how and what to do when their son is murdered, a manual that takes them through the process chapter by chapter, step by step.
“I had a plan. It wasn’t big. It was a small one, but it was mine.”
I say, “It’s been seven months, Lloyd. You can’t just keep going round it . . .”
“I reminded him . . .”
“I can’t do this again.”
“It’s all I think about . . .”
“This isn’t your fault.”
He says, “You should never have married me.”
And I ping from anger to open fury. I can’t do it, can’t do it for us both. I can’t repair myself, and he’s asking me to repair him. As though it comes from outside. As though self-repair is a wall hanging you can simply take down and wrap around yourself. As though you can do nothing, just wallow and surrender and somehow it can all be made good. His is the wish of a child; if I’d never married him, we would never have had Ryan, and he would never have had this hurt. But this pain is the evidence Ryan existed, was here, that for sixteen years he filled our home, our lives, with joy. I do not want this pain either, but if I were forced to choose, forced to make a choice between having my son followed by this pain or not having him at all, I would choose Ryan, always Ryan, every time.
“Well, I am your wife. And you’re a man. Try acting like one!”
I know as soon as those words leave my mouth how cruel they are. I regret them even before my mouth closes, know I should take them back, apologize, that I have hurt him terribly when he is already finding it impossible to cope. I feel his movement within the mattress beneath me, know he is standing on the other side of the bed. He doesn’t take a step, just stands there. Maybe he has things lined up to say, is trying to put them into an order or arrangement of some kind. Maybe he is trying to think of a response. Perhaps my words have cut him so deeply he can think of no response, because in the end he doesn’t say anything, just gently pulls the bedroom door in behind him as he leaves.
Instead of running after him, I put on my nightie. Instead of apologizing, I get between the sheet and the duvet. Instead of saving my marriage, I turn off the bedside light. Then, having condemned him in my mind for wallowing and doing nothing, I lie alone in the darkness and cry.
The next morning when I wake, there is no cup of tea on the side and Sheba is curled up at the bottom of the bed.
Kwame has come along today, sits in the gallery behind us, beside Luke and Ricardo, whom he knows. I am really happy to have him here, hope somehow Ryan knows, can see, the Ryan who belonged to me and not to Sweetie. Last night in my dreams, he kissed me goodbye at the kitchen table, and as he turned to leave, I heard the sound of a small heavy object as it hit the laminated floor, looked down to see he’d dropped a knife. When I looked back up at his eyes, he had closed them. I need to reconcile the son I loved so carefully with the one who carried the gift from the girl without a proper name.
The court session starts with a legal argument over the body-mapping images before the jury is called in. The body maps show a number of injuries to Tyson Manley’s body when he was arrested, but St. Clare points out that the police used an amount of force when they arrested Mr. Manley and that some of the injuries can be referenced to the arrest. His concern is that the jury might erroneously conclude that the injuries were attributable to the incident with the deceased when in fact they were not. He makes it clear there is no suggestion the police had beaten the defendant in some improper manner, but it was a violent arrest and injuries were sustained. Quigg agrees it would be an artificial exercise to try to marry up each injury, but these were the injuries on the body of the defendant at the time of the arrest and they can be presented to the jury with an explanation of the circumstances of the arrest so that the evidence is not misleading.
The judge ponders this, seemingly swayed by both arguments. Then, as if thinking aloud, he suggests to St. Clare that the jury may be able to reach their own conclusions if the evidence is correctly presented. St. Clare overplays his hand, snaps, rather peevishly, I think, that His Lordship’s mind works very quickly, perhaps quicker than some of the jury members. From the judge’s expression, it is clear he has taken as much affr
ont at having his jury called stupid as he would have if St. Clare had thus insulted his kin. The judge decides the jury can be shown the body-mapping images and have the custody nurse talk them through. The jury is brought back in and the custody nurse practitioner is called to give her evidence.
As she gets into the witness box, Ms. Manley arrives alone, wearing her oversized dark glasses, dolled and made up in designer gear, reeking of perfume, carrying a different expensive handbag from the one she sported on Friday. Tyson Manley notices her, gives her a slight nod of the head in acknowledgment, then returns to watching the case unfold. It is almost eleven and I am disgusted with this woman who managed yesterday not to show up at all and who today has shown up late.
The custody nurse practitioner takes the stand in full nursing uniform, as though she has worn it specifically to quell the doubts of anyone who suspects she may be lying about the work she does for a living. Quigg explains to the jury that the purpose of this witness is to catalogue the injuries on the defendant’s person at the time of the arrest, but not to ascribe to each injury a cause. She takes the nurse through the essentials, her name, that she has been employed by the Metropolitan Police Service for twenty-six years, that her role is to examine, treat, advise, and take samples from people who have entered police custody. She was on duty on March 19 and was asked by the custody sergeant on that date to body-map any visible injuries on the defendant’s person, including those caused by the police during arrest. Again, in case of suspicion that any of Tyson Manley’s human rights were violated, she is asked whether the procedure was explained to him, his permission obtained, and whether verbal and written consent was given for blood samples to be taken. She replies to all in the affirmative.
Quigg takes her and the jury through the injuries visible on the defendant’s torso at the time of the examination as documented on the body maps that form part of the jury bundle. There are two horizontal consistent and uniform marks on the back of his legs that could have been the result of being hit with a baton or stick; a purple bruise and slight swelling on the left side of the upper back consistent with a Taser injury; multiple scratches on his upper arms; red grazing with no unbroken skin on his forehead; and dried blood and broken skin on his right knee. The nurse confirms all of these injuries were cleaned and body-mapped and that there was nothing else wrong with him, no vomiting, sweats, or pain, the suspect was alert and oriented, and the paperwork was completed and signed by them both.
The dried blood and broken skin on his right knee are in keeping with Nadine Forrester’s statement that the person she saw fell to his right knee hard enough to have bruised or grazed it, but Quigg does not point this out and I wish she had. I hope the judge’s assessment of the jury is correct, and that at least one of them has picked up on this small but significant detail.
Then Quigg calls to the stand the detective sergeant who carried out the taped interview with Tyson Manley. He confirms he works in the homicide division, explains for the benefit of the jury how police interviews are carried out and recorded, that he had a police constable with him throughout, and persons present also included Mr. Manley and his solicitor. Quigg asks him to read his questions aloud from the interview transcripts and says she will read the defendant’s responses. She makes it clear that the parts they are reading aloud do not constitute the entirety of the interview, which lasted some eleven hours over two days, excluding breaks; repetition has been removed where the same question was asked over again, and a large number of questions that were asked and the defendant did not answer, as was his entitlement, have also been left out. The questions and answers that have been left in have been done so with the agreement of both the prosecution and the crown defense.
The particulars first: date, time commenced and concluded, and the place, that the defendant was advised he had the right if he wished to speak to his solicitor alone at any time, or to sit in silence or make no comment; just like his entitlement to kill my son then choose whether or not to take the stand and discuss it.
The first question posed by the detective sergeant relates to the fact that on March 18 a chap by the name of Ryan Williams was killed at the Sports Ground at around 18:20; did he attack this person? Quigg reads Manley’s response: No.
Does he know Ryan Williams? No.
Where was he at the time the murder took place? At his girlfriend’s yard.
What time did he arrive there? He’d been there since about four in the afternoon.
What was he doing there? Watching a film. Having dinner and sex.
What film did he watch? He can’t remember.
Can he remember what it was about? No, he was more interested in having sex than watching the film.
Did he leave the property at any time? No, officer, definitely not.
Are there any witnesses who can corroborate his story? Sweetie Nelson was with him the whole time, she can.
On it goes. He knows nothing about the murder, wasn’t there, doesn’t know Ryan, has no idea if Sweetie does or why anyone would want to kill him. He’s not some kind of madman. Why would he just kill someone he doesn’t even know? Yes, he owned a brown sweatshirt with a gold monogram on it up until about a fortnight ago. No, it’s no longer in his possession. He washed it one day and when he took it out of the machine it was ruined so he threw it out, yeah, about two weeks ago. Obviously it’s not possible he could have worn it since. Did anyone see him dispose of it? He asks the detective sergeant whether he normally has a witness observe him every time he throws something in his own dustbin? What about the clothing he was wearing the day before, where is it and why isn’t he wearing it now? It’s at his girlfriend’s house. She’d bought him the new clothing he was arrested in, and had washed the clothes he was wearing when he arrived at her house. What was it he had on? A jersey. A waistcoat. Jeans. And all of these have been washed and are at her home? Yes. As part of the package of new clothes she bought him, did Sweetie also buy him new underpants, trainers, and socks? Yes, she did. Where are his old trainers? He gave them to some homeless guy near the entrance of the estate Sweetie lives on that morning after leaving her yard to go home. The detective sergeant suggests that is very convenient. Yes, it was, Tyson Manley agrees; they had begun to stink.
Ms. Manley actually chuckles at that response. It is quiet but does not go unnoticed by me. She thinks this is humorous, her boy is funny, that his response is witty, makes him look clever. What kind of woman is she? What kind of mother? To concern herself with clothes and looking cool at her son’s trial, to show up late and laughing when she must know if he’s convicted he’ll spend the rest of his youth behind bars. If she’d spent half as much time teaching him right from wrong as she clearly spends on her appearance, neither of us would be sitting here now. I don’t realize I’m staring at her till I feel Lorna nudge my arm and I look away, blink several times, look back down at the courtroom.
As the interview is read out and Tyson Manley continues taking the piss out of the police, my anger grows. The reading is a parody of what a sensible interview should sound like. This is the day after my son has been killed, the following day. He is so confident, so relaxed, joking even, having fun. I don’t think he cares whether the police know he’s laughing at them or not, because he doesn’t care about anything. This is the boy I’ve been yearning would give evidence, willing him to speak to help me understand, but if this interview is anything to go by, it’s probably better if he simply keeps his mouth closed. I can hardly bear to listen to this interview being read out. How much worse would it be to actually watch him stand in front of the court and speak these words himself?
He glances at his mother occasionally, whenever Quigg reads out what I assume he believes is a clever response, and though his expression is unchanged, they are sharing this, the accused and his flamboyant mother, sharing it telepathically, like I shared intimate moments of humor in the past with Ryan through eye contact, but never, ever at such an inappropriate time. In order for me to have some kind
of relief, I need to see upset, I need to see Tyson Manley cry or suffer or show some indication in any shape or form that what’s happened is not just one of those things of no consequence whatsoever, and I am beginning to see it will not happen. It will not happen because he just doesn’t care. He killed my son and he really doesn’t care at all.
I look at him sitting behind the glass gazing out. He could be any random member of the public who has popped in to watch the proceedings, a guy dragged along to the cinema to take in a film of another person’s choosing, he’s that disconnected. I try to imagine him as a fourteen-year-old watching his brother die. Did he exhibit emotion then? Did he weep or wail or cry? I wonder if he ever did have counseling. I study his face. No. He has had no counseling, or if he did, it was not the right kind or enough. Is that the reason my son is dead? Because no one deemed it money well spent to provide counseling for the young sibling of a person horrifically and violently slain in front of him? No one anticipated that a young person in that circumstance could not just pick up the blood-splattered pieces of his life and become a model student who would grow into an outstanding citizen? No one could anticipate that he was already in a dehumanizing spiral of violence that required intervention of some kind to break and end it? That some action needed to be taken to restore this young boy’s sensibilities, to fix him?
It happens at lunchtime. The boys go off on their own and Kwame comes with Nipa, Lorna, and me to Wagamama for lunch, where we are quickly shown to a table, given our menus, and I ask Lorna to order for me because I’m bursting, then hurry to the Ladies, where I find one of the booths free. I use it, and as I exit the cubicle, she is there, bent over a sink, splashing water on her face, reviving herself, freshening up. There are only two sinks so I go to the one beside her, turn the tap on, begin to wash my hands while watching her in the mirror till she turns the tap off and looks up, and my eyes meet those of the woman whose son has killed mine. It is the first time we have been in such close proximity, alone.
The Mother Page 11