Split Second (23 page)

‘Mum!’ Ruby yelped as a 4 × 4 swerved in front of them from the inside lane. Louise braked, cursed, sounded the horn. The vehicle flashed its lights in reply. A sarky thank-you. Louise flung a V-sign his way, shaken up.

‘I’d like to get there in one piece,’ Ruby grumbled.

‘Tell him, not me,’ Louise said.

They were just in time. The drama school was in its own grounds, a grand old Victorian villa with pillars at the entrance door and big bay windows. Trees thrashed their branches in the wind and icy rain as Ruby grabbed her holdall from the boot. Another heavy squall bounced off the car roof and the gravel.

One of the students took Ruby’s name, showed her where to leave her bag in the changing rooms and gave them a tour of the buildings. The house was warm and bright, with the former bedrooms now classrooms and downstairs rooms used as rehearsal spaces and offices.

Outside, behind the villa, a converted garage functioned as the dance studio, next to a purpose-built music centre. Ruby’s eyes roved hungrily over everything. There were plenty of students about, both boys and girls. Louise noticed the way they checked Ruby out as they passed and Ruby doing the same.

‘We’ve had loads more people applying,’ their guide told them. ‘The
Glee
factor.’ She mentioned the American TV series about a school choir and their ambitious musical routines. It had been compulsory viewing for Ruby when it started.

The student halls were a modern block. Canteen, lounge, showers and cubicle-style bedrooms. They were able to see inside one – it was smaller than Ruby’s bedroom at home, little more than a cell. But if all went well and she made friends, she’d only be in there to sleep.

Back in the main house, they were served coffee and biscuits and Ruby got changed and waited to be called. The auditions were in one of the rehearsal rooms. In the quarter of an hour until her slot, Ruby couldn’t sit still. Louise let her prowl about, working off some of her energy. She looked amazing: the glowing red wig framing her sculptured face, her eyes big and luminous with long lashes, her mouth generous. It was a face Louise never tired of looking at. The same with Luke. Ruby wore a red leotard and red and black striped tights, black boots. Her body was long and slim and fine. She stopped pacing and turned to Louise, panicking. ‘I can’t remember it! The poem. Oh Mum.’

‘Hey, you’ll be fine. It’s just nerves. Run on the spot.’

Then the student called her and Ruby went.

Louise fiddled with her phone. She had a voice message on there from Luke: ‘Hey, I’m staying at Declan’s, yeah. See you tomorrow.’ His voice was warmer than she had remembered, in spite of the bland, businesslike content of the message. She had played it to him recently; she’d try anything to reach him. She listened again now. ‘Hey . . .’ What she’d give to hear him say that now. One word.
Hey
.

‘Mrs Murray?’

Louise felt a prick of shock, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. She slid her phone shut, smiled and went through to meet the principal, Vicky Plessey. They’d spoken on the phone before, and Louise had seen her picture on the website: a vivacious, Liverpudlian with long blonde hair. She couldn’t be much older than Louise. Her office was a hymn to art deco – mirrors and statues, velvet curtains, framed posters. She began by telling Louise that Ruby was an impressive applicant, obviously committed to performance. How would she find living away from home?

‘I think she’ll be fine. She’ll make friends, I’m sure, and she’ll be home at weekends.’

‘Is there anything we need to be aware of, anything that’s altered since you sent in the application from?’

Louise didn’t know whether to say anything about Luke. If she went into details, if she identified him as the boy who had been savaged in the press, it might alter Vicky’s view of Ruby. Turn her from a gifted teenager to the sister of a young criminal. But if she said nothing, there might be problems further down the line for Ruby, because no one would know Luke was in hospital.

‘Ruby’s brother is in hospital,’ Louise said. ‘A brain injury.’

Vicky frowned in concern. ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

Louise rushed to speak, keen to deflect any questions. ‘So she may need to visit, depending on how he does.’

‘Of course. The welfare of the students is our first priority.’

Before Vicky could ask anything, Louise said, ‘When will we hear if she’s got a place?’

‘By the end of the week,’ Vicky said.

‘And the bursaries – does that depend on who gets in?’ Louise realized it might be a bit crass homing straight in on the money side of things, but it was crucial Vicky understood their situation.

‘Yes. We only offer two bursaries each intake and demand is increasing year on year. Though we do have a separate expenses fund.’

‘Like I explained on the phone,’ Louise said, ‘Ruby wouldn’t be able to come here if we had to find the fees.’

‘I understand.’

Did she? Louise wondered. Had Vicky Plessey grown up in a home where school trips were out of the question and buying new shoes might mean keeping the heating off for a month. Could she imagine that? Every purchase being weighed, the permanent worry about managing money gnawing inside.

Back in the changing room, Ruby was ready to leave.

‘How did it go?’ Louise asked.

‘Good,’ she grinned, ‘good. I slipped on the last turn but I changed it into a slide and I don’t think they could tell.’

‘How many people were there?’

‘Three!’ she said. ‘And they laughed at the poem.’

‘Hey, well done you. We’ll hear by the end of the week.’

The call came on Thursday. Louise texted Ruby straight away, even though her phone would be off till school ended at three p.m. At 3.03 Ruby rang home, whooping and hollering with joy.

That evening they celebrated and Ruby flung a hundred questions at her mum, none of which Louise could answer. ‘What about my washing? Do I keep the same doctor? If I go on the train will I have to pay full fare? Will there be a public show this term? Do they have teacher training days?’ At bedtime, Ruby lingered in the doorway perched on one leg, practising her balance. She put her foot down. ‘Will you be all right, Mum?’

‘Me? Course I will.’

‘But you’ll be all on your own.’

Louise bit her cheek. Breathed in hard. ‘Hey, I’ll be fine. You’re amazing, you know. I’m so proud of you.’ She hugged her. ‘Now. Bed.’

Ruby went. And Louise kept on breathing steadily, eyes shut tight. Till she was fit again, danger past. Her delicate grasp on life, on self-control, regained.

T
he time until the trial, set for October, stretched out like a barren plain, a place of thin air and stunted grass and dust storms.

Andrew felt as if he and Val were shrivelling up, desiccated, living through a drought. As the time crept on, there were hazards to overcome, earthquakes splitting the ground beneath them, cracking the surface and threatening to suck them into the dark anew. Andrew’s birthday, Mother’s Day, Jason’s birthday in May. Taurus.

‘I’m a bull, Dad, what are you?’ Crunching his toast, jam on his cheek.

‘A fish.’

‘And Mum?’

‘A ram.’

‘Hah! I’m the strongest. I don’t think they should have bullfighting. It’s mean.’

‘It is.’

‘Why are they called star signs?’

‘Because the whole idea is based on the stars. In the ancient world people thought the stars affected everything that happened on the earth. I’ve a map somewhere, a chart.’

‘Get it!’ Jason eyes alight as he puts the last bit of crust in his mouth and clacks his sticky fingers together.

‘Wash your hands, then.’

* * *

Val was on sick leave. She’d made it through until the end of February, then had in effect been sent home from work. She couldn’t function properly, she couldn’t concentrate, she was depressed. She started taking antidepressants. He tried to help, to pamper her, to keep her company, but often as not she gave him that blank look that chilled him to the core.

Jason’s birthday loomed, growing closer, denser, darker, a storm on the horizon. Nineteen, Andrew thought. But he wasn’t, wouldn’t ever be. Andrew asked Val what she wanted to do, how they should mark it.

She closed her eyes, shook her head. He couldn’t do this on his own; he felt drained. He expected they would spend time at the grave, but what else? She kept the shrine going. Simplified now, as the original candles had melted, the flowers and cards ruined by the weather. He wondered if this was healthy, but was happy to go along with it.

One bleak, stifling Sunday, he tackled her, head on. ‘Val, we need to talk to someone, get some help.’

‘No.’

‘Why not? We can’t go on like this. You’re so unhappy, not communicating. We never talk, we never make love, we barely exist.’

She covered her eyes. He reined in his temper, lowered his voice. ‘I don’t know how to reach you any more. I don’t know what you want from me.’ He felt cold and tense inside.

She said nothing. He looked up to the ceiling, to the lampshade they had chosen, the paper they’d hung together. ‘I need you,’ he said. ‘I love you, Val, I don’t want to lose you too. But I don’t know how to make things right.’

‘You can’t. You can’t make it right.’

‘I can’t bring Jason back.’ His voice shook, he cleared his throat. ‘But you and me, our marriage, we need to work things out.’

She shook her head.

‘You’re depressed, I know that, but talking to someone, someone who’s experienced, the bereavement service, we could do it together. Or separately if you want.’

She sat there, dull, uninterested. ‘No.’

‘You won’t even try?’ He felt the ground rumble and shift. The future ripple and disintegrate. He heard the release of her breath. ‘Do you even want to be with me?’ he asked her.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said.

And his heart broke.

Emma knew she had to say something to Laura soon. She had intended to pull out of the holiday before they even booked it. Had sat there, her guts in turmoil, as they voted on which destination to try for. Meekly giving her passport details to Laura, who was going to scour the internet for deals that very evening. She promised herself she would ring Laura after work and explain. But then she hadn’t been able to. She stalled each time she picked up the phone, shame stealing over her skin. It was impossible to do it, to tell Laura, to say the words, because she’d have to explain why, and how could she tell anyone such disgusting things?

And the next morning Laura was so excited: she had found a brilliant full-board deal in Corfu, mid-May, with daytime flights. Less than three hundred pounds each. Emma had paid her deposit.

The balance was due six weeks before leaving and the date crept closer. At night, Emma lay awake and wondered about ways round it. But any excuses she came up with, she always found a way that it might unravel on her and end up costing her the friendship. If she said her passport had expired, Laura would insist she go get one Priority Service. Or if she said there was a family wedding or her mum was having surgery, so many other lies would have to be told.

Then they had a night out. Little Kim’s boyfriend was playing drums in a band and they were on at The Academy. Emma liked the music, it was a mix of folk and pop with lots of fast tunes that some of the crowd jigged about to. There were no seats, everyone had to stand. The venue looked a bit run-down really, a big barn of a place. Blonde Kim and Laura had both smuggled bottles of vodka in and shared them out, so they just bought soft drinks at the bar to mix.

Emma felt giddy and a bit sick by the time the band had finished, and agreed to go on to a bar in town with everyone. The band came, and friends of theirs, and Emma enjoyed being in the middle of the group and no one bothering about her but just accepting she was one of them.

The man who did the sound desk for the band, Simon, ended up sitting next to Emma. He chatted away to her about the band and then about cycling; he was in a cycling club and did races and things. He asked her if she’d ever been to the velodrome, and if she had a bike, but she said no. She thought he’d stop talking to her then but he didn’t. He had nice brown eyes. He bought her a drink, carried on chatting. He had a gap in his top teeth. A nice gap.

When Emma went to the loo Laura was there, redoing her eyeliner.

‘You’re in there, Emma,’ said Laura. ‘You fancy him?’

‘Jesus!’ Emma coughed, giggled. ‘Dunno.’ He didn’t fancy her, did he? No one ever did. Why would they?

‘Take him back to yours and try ’im out.’

‘Laura!’

‘Well give him a kiss, drop your handkerchief or something. I’m on my tod out there, but you’re in with a chance.’ Laura was single, had been since the previous summer.

‘Do you like him?’ Emma said. ‘We can swap places.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Laura said. ‘It’s you he’s interested in.’

‘How do you know?’

Laura sighed. ‘Because it’s you he’s talking to, you muppet. Go on, before he forgets what you look like.’

I can’t, thought Emma. Even if I like him, I could never . . . If I let him kiss me, let him take me out, I could never let him touch me, not properly. Because then he’d know . . .

‘I can’t go on holiday, Laura,’ Emma blurted out, ‘I just can’t.’

‘What?’ Laura looked puzzled. ‘Why not?’

‘I just can’t.’

‘Why? We’ve paid the deposit now and everything.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’ Emma made to leave, her heart tripping, but Laura caught at her wrist, swung her back. ‘Hang on, don’t go all weird on me. Is it the money?’

‘No.’

‘What, then?’

Emma tried not to cry, but she felt the tears sliding down her face.

‘You’re not going till you’ve told me,’ Laura said. She wasn’t nasty but she was determined to have an explanation.

‘I can’t.’

‘Emma! I’m not doing bleeding twenty questions.’

The truth clogged in her throat. Laura kept watching her. ‘I cut myself,’ Emma said quietly, ‘on purpose.’

‘Okay,’ Laura said slowly.

Emma stared at her, stunned. ‘With a razor blade,’ she said, in case Laura hadn’t actually grasped what she was saying.