The Mother

by Yvvette Edwards

  I don’t know if she has some kind of medical problem or smokes weed, but the whites of her eyes are intensely yellow, broken only by thin red veins. They are the kind of eyes that make people glad they’ve not had her life. They are tired and worn and at the same time, filled with anger. They easily add a decade to her face, and now I have seen them I understand better why she might choose to conceal them with fancy specs. For the first time I feel something akin to sympathy for this woman who has had one child taken from her violently and had to find the strength, a way to hang on, keep going, raise the living children still in her care, this woman who is no stranger to the uniqueness of the pain I bear. We inhabit a common ground, which is only crumbling around the edges because of our sons; mine is dead and hers has brought me to this pariah’s place. We maintain eye contact as I wash my hands and she dries her face without speaking.

  When she has finished she asks, “What?”

  I have no idea of the answer, no idea what I want from her or would like her to say, or would like to say to her. I have no experience of what a person in her circumstances might think or be moved to articulate. She surely knows her son committed this act. Is it an apology I expect? If she offered one, would it make a difference?

  She takes her comb out of her bag, tidies up around the edges of her hair—lucky her to still have hair left to tidy. When she finishes, she says, “There’s a war going on out there. Your son was collateral damage.” She puts on her sunglasses. Then leaves.

  A moment later, Nipa and Lorna crash into the women’s toilets in a panic, presumably having seen her as she passed them on her way out. Maybe they thought the killing gene was hereditary and that she had attacked me in the toilets. They would have been right. She did attack me, with the most powerful of weapons, words.

  “Collateral damage,” Lorna repeats when I tell her what Ms. Manley said. “Collateral fucking damage? What a bitch!”

  6

  WHEN SHE RETURNS TO THE gallery after lunch she has a young man with her who is dressed like he thinks he’s a rap star. They are late and have already missed the beginning of the agreed facts, which include the coroner’s report, and that at the time of his death, Ryan was carrying a knife. It was discovered at the base of his schoolbag covered in his fingerprints. It is unsheathed from the evidence bag, described as a flick knife with a ten-centimeter folding blade, and is paraded back and forth across the front of the jury box for a period of time which really isn’t that long, but is nonetheless excruciating. Then there’s the record of Tyson Manley’s previous convictions. The convictions the jury are informed of do not include the unrelated convictions I am familiar with, the handling of stolen goods, criminal damage, loitering with intent, nor does the list include charges of which he has been acquitted in the past; possession with intent to supply. Only those convictions deemed relevant to the charges in this case are made public; possession of a class B drug, and aggravated possession of a knife. Quigg works her way through these details, bringing the prosecution case to a close. The judge suggests a short break of fifteen minutes, and when we return, St. Clare stands to commence the defense’s case, calling Sweetie Nelson as his first witness.

  She looks tiny in the witness box, the girl without a proper name and the brawling laugh, who gave my son the gift of a knife and her boyfriend not only the motive to kill him but the alibi also to cover his tracks. She is simply attired, in a white shirt and short office skirt, like an office temp or admin assistant, more conservatively dressed than I have ever seen her. Her kinky afro gives her an indomitable look, but her body language is defensive. She glances at Tyson Manley briefly. I can see no difference in his body language in response to her though I really cannot say how much I wish I could. Perhaps if I saw a flash of something, love, desire, possessiveness, feeling, the murder of my son might have some point. Instead it’s just more indifference, more and the same. He killed my son not because he was enraged or jealous or slighted; he killed him simply because he could.

  I wrote a Victim Personal Statement about a month after Ryan died. It is a document that is read out to the court after the trial if the accused is found guilty, taken into account by the judge before sentencing. In it I wrote about the impact Ryan’s death has had on me, on all of us, the many people who loved my son. I struggled to find the words to explain, wanted so desperately to make his killer know the exact degree of devastation his death has had upon us. I talked about Ryan in it, wanted him to be more than merely “the deceased,” wanted his murderer to know, as I did, how bright Ryan’s light burned, how gentle he was, how much he cared for others, for every living creature. I said in my statement that the killer’s act took my son and changed my world. I hoped to look his killer in the eyes and read it aloud myself. In the event that I could not, the plan was for Lorna to read it on my behalf.

  I should have saved myself the effort and paper. My Victim Personal Statement is only worthwhile reading to a person who has the capacity for remorse; on this defendant it is wasted. I need to speak to Nipa, find out if it can be withdrawn, if I can write another one. I have no idea what exactly I will say in it instead, just know that I could not bear to see the indifference on Tyson Manley’s face as I stood there and poured my heart out. It would be like giving him my son again and I will not do that. I must remember to ask Nipa later, see what can be done.

  Sweetie takes the Bible from the usher standing close by and begins to read the oath on it in a low voice, then begins again, louder this time, after the judge asks her to speak up a little and more directly into the microphone. St. Clare leads her through the essentials, her name and age and occupation; she’s currently unemployed, and she gives her address reluctantly. She feels vulnerable making this information public, I can see it, and I don’t really know why St. Clare thinks it necessary. She is the first of the witnesses to be asked to do this, but then she is the first witness who has been called to the stand by St. Clare.

  Does she live alone? No, she lives with her mother but she’s away at the moment, in rehab. She should be out soon, maybe sometime in the next month. I wonder how long her mother has been a drug addict. If her mother was taking drugs while she was pregnant she may have given birth prematurely and it would explain why Sweetie is so little. She would likely have been a small baby and her development would have been slowed if she had to go through withdrawal from whatever drugs her mother was on. It would also explain why her mother thought “Sweetie” was a good name to give her newborn daughter. But it’s all supposition, as the court would say. I know nothing about her or her life, never found out much during the two short occasions I’ve spoken to her. For all I know, her mother was always healthy and focused one hundred percent on being a good parent. Conjecture again, but this time I doubt it. Somehow Sweetie gives the impression of a life where things have never really quite gone to plan.

  St. Clare cuts to the chase fairly swiftly. Can she remember where she was on March 18?

  “At home.”

  From when she awoke?

  “I weren’t feeling well. I weren’t well enough to go out. I was at home the whole day.”

  Alone?

  “Yeah.”

  “Where was your mother?”

  “She weren’t there.”

  “For the entire day?”

  “She was in prison. On remand.”

  “For?”

  “Soliciting.”

  “I see.”

  Never ask a question to which you do not know the answer. It’s the code solicitors and barristers live by, even I know that. A barrister of his caliber would have known her answer. It doesn’t add anything to his case or the alibi, except possibly to make Sweetie appear honest to a fault, but the effect it has on her is embarrassment. She looks at the jury quickly, then away. What a horrible thing to have to admit in front of a roomful of strangers. It makes me despise St. Clare a little more, and I can see it hasn’t gone down well with the women in the jury either. Silly obnoxious man.

 
“So, on March 18, the day Ryan Williams was killed, you were at home and alone?”

  “Yeah, in bed.”

  “And at some point during that day, Mr. Manley visited you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you remember the time of day he arrived?”

  “It was quarter to seven.”

  St. Clare, who has been slowly pacing back and forth, abruptly stops and looks directly at Sweetie. I sit forward. I am holding my breath.

  St. Clare says, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Quarter to seven.”

  “In the morning?”

  “In the night.”

  I feel physically disoriented. The courtroom abruptly blurs then tilts before coming back upright and returning to focus. There is a rushing in my ears, impossibly the sound of my blood moving around my body more swiftly, forced to by the acceleration of my heart. I gasp, realizing the implication of Sweetie’s words.

  “May I remind you of the statement you made to the police on March 19—”

  “I lied. Tyson told me to say he got there at four, so that’s what I said.”

  “My Lord,” St. Clare says to the judge, flustered for the first time, turning an even deeper shade of red, beet, floundering, hoping to buy more time, “This is highly irregular . . .”

  “She’s your witness, counsel.”

  There is to be no further time. St. Clare is on his own. Ms. Manley is speaking quietly but worriedly to the young man beside her. For the first time Tyson Manley has the appearance of being properly engaged in this process. He’s not angry. I can’t quite identify what lies behind his eyes, maybe surprise. The tension in the courtroom is palpable. The jury have shifted, are sitting up, leaning forward now, paying close attention. Sweetie has closed her eyes, locked her hands in front of her on the top of the witness box so she looks like she is praying, taking deep breaths as if to calm herself down, and I understand perfectly; it is exactly what I am doing myself.

  “Yes, of course . . . thank you, My Lord. Miss Nelson, you made your statement to the police on March 19, did you not?”

  She opens her eyes. “Yeah.”

  “I would like to hand you a copy of your statement.”

  “I know what I said.”

  “I would like to hand you a copy nonetheless. Is this a copy of the statement that you made and signed on that date?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you wish to have a read of your statement to orient yourself?”

  “I know what I said.”

  “So you know, then, that you stated on March 19, the day following the murder of Ryan Williams, while the details were still fresh and clear in your mind, that Mr. Manley visited you at your home at four p.m., and he did not leave till the following morning at eight fifteen, that you watched films and engaged in intercourse with each other till you both fell asleep, and you signed this statement declaring it to be true to the best of your belief and knowledge at that time?”

  “That’s what I was told to say.”

  “And now you are saying something different?”

  “Yeah. Now, I’m telling the truth.”

  I can actually hear the beating of my heart. At the end of the row of seats, Ms. Manley stands. She shouts, “Liar!” and everyone in the courtroom looks up at the gallery. The young man with Ms. Manley forces her to sit back down. As soon as he releases her she is on her feet, again shouting, “Liar!” Tyson Manley stands as if about to go to his mother’s aid and the guards on either side of him immediately stand too and take hold of his arms, restraining him. Sweetie looks up at the gallery. Her gaze brushes mine briefly, comes to rest near Ms. Manley, and I can’t tell if her look of fear is because of Ms. Manley herself or the young man beside her. The jury watch in shock and some degree of excitement as the judge bangs his gavel repeatedly, calls for order and silence, then demands the public gallery be cleared. We are led by security out of the gallery and the door is closed behind us.

  Lorna says, “Oh my God!” She is on the verge of crying. Ms. Manley and the young man with her stride purposefully toward the stairs and exit. My whole body is shaking. I cannot believe that just happened. We wait outside in the stairwell in the hope that the judge will not close the public gallery because of that outburst. About twenty minutes pass before the security guard tells us the case has been adjourned until tomorrow morning at ten.

  When we leave court with Nipa and Kwame, we go to a pub nearby, where the four of us have a drink, talk about this new development and what it means. Does the case even need to continue now Tyson Manley’s alibi is blown? Nipa says it does. Unless he changes his plea to guilty, the trial carries on. I cannot imagine what his defense will be if he decides to continue and let the whole thing play out.

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Lorna says. “The defense is gonna have to say she’s lying.”

  And for me, that is an enormous stress because I never trusted Sweetie, from the first time I set eyes on her, never trusted her an inch; how exactly is this jury expected to? Last night I said to Lorna the jury wouldn’t believe her if it was her word against mine, and suddenly the case is hinging on them believing her over St. Clare. And that’s, of course, if she actually returns, because now she has a whole night to sleep on it. If, as it appears, she’s decided to come clean, it would have been better for her to have continued with her evidence today. By tomorrow morning she may have reconsidered, changed her mind. Again.

  Nipa is unable to get hold of Quigg, so leaves messages on her mobile phone for her to call me back at home. Nipa says it’s likely both sides are knee-deep in legal discussions. I ask her about my Victim Personal Statement, whether I can have it back, rewrite it, and she says I can’t. The original Victim Personal Statement cannot be changed or withdrawn, but I can write a further statement to add to it, if I need to clarify what was written in the original or there are issues that have become apparent since the original statement was made. I say I want to do that, write a second statement, and she tells me to draft it, that she needs it by the time the defense has closed its case and she will ensure it gets to the judge in time.

  Lorna and Kwame are still finishing their drinks when we leave. I’m ready to go home, want desperately to speak to Lloydie, tell him about this new development. Perhaps it will be enough to engage him, knock him off the desert island he has found for himself, back into the water, maybe to swim. It is just after three, so I ask Nipa to drop me off at the allotment, where he seems to have taken up residence. I have not been to the allotment in the last seven months, further back even, since summer last year, but it’s preferable to sitting at home waiting for him to return. Perhaps on his turf, in his space, conversation will be easier. It’s a good idea. I don’t know why I never thought of it before.

  Nipa lets me out and I enter the huge gates that separate this rural part of the city from its urban surrounds, walk the main path slowly, taking in the plots as I pass. It is so peaceful here. No wonder Lloydie comes. A few people I know, working their plots, wave or nod as I pass. They haven’t seen me since the incident, and I am so familiar with the discomfort of others—their effort to be normal around me, their inability to know what normal even is with someone who carries such a grief as mine, what to say, how to say it, whether to say anything at all—that I’m sure they’re glad to be halfway down their plots and able to avoid a one-to-one discussion with me entirely.

  When I get to Lloydie’s plot I am bewildered. I look at the adjoining plots to check that I am correct, this really is the one. His is three plots from the end, and like a child who hopes she can alter a fact, I actually count them, one, two, three, confirm that what I am looking at is undeniably his, and my confusion is replaced by a cold fear that twists my insides. The entire plot is as rigorously maintained as Kew Gardens, but there is nothing on it, not a single plant in evidence, a blade of grass, even a weed. The earth is meticulously level from the end I stand at to the top, the paths that run along the sides as clean as my kitche
n floor. The herb garden is gone, the perennials, the thyme and sage and rosemary and mint, absent without a sign they ever existed. When I think about it, I can’t remember the last time he brought produce home. Maybe I would have noticed earlier if I were the one doing the cooking, but Lloydie has taken over that chore completely. Looking at his plot is like looking into a void, a strip of cocoa canvas with not a single brushstroke upon it, being offered up as a completed work of art. It is an insight into his mental state that is devastating. No wonder everyone here is keeping their distance.

  There is a small shed at the top, more of a shack than a shed, an outhouse built from offcuts. I walk toward it, open the rickety door, and enter. There is nothing in here that speaks of vegetation, no seeds or tubers or protected plants or crates of veg. Just his chair and his tools leaning against the wall, his rake and hoe and spade washed clean, a kettle on top of a small gas hob, some matches beside it, a tin containing tea bags, his cup, a spoon. I realize I am crying and I sit in his chair staring out through the single window overlooking this lifeless plot and try to understand just what he does all day, what it means, where this ends. He has downed tools, finished with everything, has nothing more. This is the handiwork of a man whose bags are packed and is ready to die.

  I move my feet to stand and they touch something beneath the table, on the floor. I bend down, pick it up. It is a shoe box. My hands begin to shake. The act of lifting the lid is like the climax of a nightmare, the moment when horror is inevitable and, though you know it, there is nothing you can do to avoid it. Inside are a pair of football boots, Ryan’s, size 11, embalmed in dark caked mud, the same ones I watched Lloydie throw out. I don’t know where my head was during that time. Actually, I do know, I just don’t like to go there; back to that time when Ryan’s death was so new upon us and so raw, when I was consumed with rage with everyone and everything, and sought blame. Nipa brought them to the house about a month after, along with Ryan’s sports bag and clothing and schoolbooks, when the forensics team had finished with them. Ryan’s boots. The reason he went back. The reason he was caught alone and Tyson Manley was able to do what he did.