The Mother (11 page)

At the top of the stairwell I hug Luke to comfort him, feel his distress in the tension of his body, so tall and so strong, yet he is just a child, like Ryan was. His are the words I wish I had shouted myself. I understand his outrage, his need to rail against the wickedness of his best friend's life so coldly taken. For what? That's what I need Sweetie to tell me. Why. Lorna suggests Luke gets some air, goes with him and Ricardo down the stairs and outside. The other people who have also been expelled from the public gallery try to not make it obvious they are watching and listening, like people pretending to have stopped watching the TV just as the exciting film they've been watching reaches its climax.

I go to the toilet with Nipa, wash my face, blow my nose, attempt to compose myself. We stay in there a long while and she talks to me though I can hardly focus on her words, about strength and justice for Ryan. She speaks of justice as if it is the same as reparation, but it's not. Lloydie's right. This trial, all this evidence, these details I am sitting through, what's the point of it? What has been done is too unjust to ever be put right. What difference does being here make?

Lorna and the boys return soon after we emerge from the toilets and we wait in silence for security to say we can go back in. Tyson Manley is expressionless while the judge gives the gallery a severe telling off. We are warned that being in the public gallery is a privilege, not a right, and that if there are any more outbursts he will have the gallery cleared.

The jury is brought back in and Quigg continues, and it is even worse. She wants specifics. The jury has to know how Tyson Manley ran, whether Nadine is sure there wasn't
anything characteristic about the way he moved (she didn't notice). She wants Nadine to demonstrate how the right arm was being held as Tyson Manley ran toward her, the very angle so the jury can see how a cold-blooded murderer carries their weapon into the kill. She has Nadine demonstrate the actual stabs. The first one is like a fierce bowler throwing the cricket ball overarm toward the batsman and wicket, full swing. She wants to know about the knife, the very length of the blade; about twenty centimeters, like the knife Nadine's father uses on Christmas day to slice the family's turkey. She has to know how Tyson Manley came down to his knee; hard, he fell onto his knee hard with all his body weight. Which knee? The right one. Hard enough to leave a bruise or graze or cut? Yes, Nadine wouldn't be surprised if it had. And any reaction, any gesture, any word from my son while this terrible assault was being meted out, any response or sound from him at all? None, he was completely taken by surprise, he didn't have a chance.

I cry all the way through this part of her evidence. I try to keep it as quiet as I can so that my feelings do not interfere with the machinations of the court, so my grief does not hamper this legal process—or get us thrown out. Throughout, I watch Tyson Manley. I want to see some sign from him, some indication he understands the magnitude of what he has done. I want to see guilt, discomfort, the smallest gesture of remorse, but his expression is unchanged. As distraught as I am, I realize I made an error before in my assessment of him; I thought he was arrogant, filled with machismo, cold, but I was wrong; he is simply indifferent. Nothing moves or touches him because there is nothing in him to be moved or touched. I don't know where such a vacancy comes from,
how it is possible for a human being to have as little feeling as a puppet or paper doll. What difference will it make if he is found guilty and punished, sent to prison, given life? He is as indifferent as the judge's bench, the glass cage he sits inside, the metal blade of the knife he used on my boy.

So far there's been no sign of Ms. Manley. I'm sure, like me, she knew what evidence we were going to be hearing today. I would love to think that shame has kept her away, that she was worried she might not be able to successfully carry out her posing and posturing on the end of the bench while I sat hardly more than a meter away from her stylish handbag, weeping, but somehow I doubt it. The values—or lack of values—her son has, he's learned at home, from babyhood, as a toddler, a boy too young for nursery school; he's learned from her. I would love to think she isn't here because she's embarrassed by the notion that her son's actions reflect on her as a mother. But if I was forced to put my money where my mouth is, I'd bet she simply couldn't be arsed to get out of bed.

Quigg's questions go on till almost one, when the court breaks for everyone to have lunch. I leave a different woman to the one I was this morning. It feels like what little was left of my heart has been smashed to smithereens.

WE GO TO LUNCH WITH
Luke and Ricardo, to a sandwich shop nearby, where the boys have soup and sandwiches and crisps, knock it back like they could order and finish the same amount again, which is how Ryan ate; I had forgotten that, born hungry and it never changed. When people asked me how he was, I used to joke that he was very well but eating us out of house and home. Those wings and chips he ate on March 18 wouldn't have been his dinner. He was just snacking after football and would still have had room for dinner if he'd made it home. It worries me constantly that I will start forgetting him, forget over time the way he was. I'm glad they came with us to lunch. It's such a small detail but I need every memory of him I can gather. I'm so grateful they helped me remember the way my son ate.

“I don't know what St. Clare's gonna ask in his cross-exam,” Lorna says. “There's nothing in Nadine's testimony that really affects his defense. It's not like she actually recognized Manley. She just saw a guy in a hoodie. Maybe it wasn't
necessary to have all those details. It was horrible to hear and I don't really see that it contributed to the case against him.”

“Sorry,” Luke says, “I never meant to say nothing. I just kinda lost it.”

“We all lost it a bit,” Lorna says. “I just hope all that detail is over now.”

I think of Lloydie saying, “Over? It's already over.” All that happened this morning is that my waking imagination and dreams now have yet more violent detail to flesh them out. Those images in my mind that I'm constantly trying to steer clear of, avoid, that surprise me in my day-to-day life, the vivid flashbacks that appear unbidden in the middle of the most mundane tasks, will they ever be over? If so, when?

“Do either of you actually know Tyson?” Nipa asks. “Did you know him before?”

Before, a different era, the Before and the After, lifelines severed by a distinct demarcation forever. The life I lead now is in the After. The boys both shake their heads. Ricardo says, “He's not from our manor. He never went to our school. I heard of Vito, his brother, heard about the shooting and that, but I didn't know him.”

“What about Sweetie?” Lorna asks.

Luke says, “Everyone knew her. All the boys, anyway. 'Cause she was older than us, we kinda looked up to her. She had a bit of a mouth on her though. Couldn't really tell Ryan what to do, but she wasn't his type.”

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 offi
cer, 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 the 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.