The Mother (21 page)

“What about it?”

“Had her nose been broken?”

St. Clare stands. “My Lord, Mr. Manley is neither an orthopedic specialist nor a trauma consultant. He cannot be expected to diagnose any injuries Miss Nelson was unfortunate enough to have sustained.”

Quigg says, “I am not asking for a medical opinion, My Lord, merely asking Mr. Manley about any injuries he was able to see when he arrived at Miss Nelson's home and she opened the door to him.”

The judge says to St. Clare, “It is, as well you know, perfectly permissible for the witness to be asked what he saw with his own eyes.”

“Of course, My Lord. My primary concern is merely that it be clear to the court that while Mr. Manley is able to say what he saw, the actual diagnosis of those injuries is not within his professional expertise, nor to be relied upon as facts in this case.”

Quigg says, “I am happy for the jury to be directed as to the fact Mr. Manley is providing a personal opinion only, not medical evidence, in respect of any injuries.”

The judge makes some notes, then directs the jury to treat Tyson Manley's evidence as the equivalent of an opinion, not fact, in respect of Sweetie's injuries, as if they, looking at this seventeen-year-old standing awkwardly before them in a grown-up's suit, might mistakenly be under the impression he is an expert medical professional.

Quigg continues. “Thank you, My Lord. Mr. Manley, wholly from the perspective of what you could see with your own eyes in front of you, would you say Miss Nelson's nose had been broken and subsequently treated and dressed?”

He answers, “She had some kinda dressing on it. I ain't no doctor. I can't say if it was broke or what.”

“Thank you. Did you ask any questions about her injuries?”

“Nope.”

“You have said both in your statement to the police and in evidence here in this courtroom that you arrived at Miss Nelson's home at about four p.m., and that you spent the evening with her watching TV and having sex?”

“Yes.”

“That you were so much more interested in having sex than watching the television that you are unable to remember what you watched that evening?”

“Yeah.”

“This was the evening of the day on which Miss Nelson had been discharged from the hospital?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you recall the time you both went to bed that evening? To sleep?”

“Musta been about ten.”

“So you were both having intercourse from about four till ten, when you went to bed?”

“Yeah.”

“Six hours?”

“Well, I mean, obviously we stopped a coupla times, had pizza and that.”

“So other than a couple of breaks, you were having intercourse for the duration?”

“Yeah.”

“Did Miss Nelson appear to be in any discomfort or pain?”

“Nope.”

“Did she at any time ask you to stop?”

“If anything, it was the opposite.”

“Did that surprise you?”

“Why would it?”

“With her injuries, with her only having been discharged from the hospital the same day, were you surprised she wanted sex, so much of it for so long?”

“I never really thought about it.”

“Well, think about it now. Think about those injuries you were able to see for yourself on Miss Nelson when you arrived,
a black eye, possibly a sprained wrist, and a broken nose. In retrospect, does it seem likely she would have been in considerable pain and discomfort?”

“Thinking about it now, yeah, I suppose it does.”

“Yet you would have us believe that from when you arrived at four till you both fell asleep at about ten, for those six hours, despite the condition she was in, you were both having intercourse?”

“Yeah, we were.”

“I see. Mr. Manley, I would like you to read aloud a fragment of the statement you made to the police on March 19, following your arrest. This is a copy of that statement.” She hands a bundle of stapled papers to him, folded open. He looks down at it, doesn't look up again. I remember something I read in amongst the pretrial paperwork forwarded to me by Isabelle Rhodes, our solicitor, am surprised someone as competent as Quigg missed it. She continues. “Mr. Manley, would you please read aloud the first sentence of the second paragraph, which begins four lines down the page?”

There is silence. Tyson Manley has not looked up. Belatedly, St. Clare remembers what I have already recalled. “My Lord, Mr. Manley is dyslexic and is as a result unable to read any part of this statement aloud.”

Quigg says, “I'm sorry, My Lord. Of course I would be happy to read it on Mr. Manley's behalf.”

And I realize she did know, Quigg, about his dyslexia. This moment has been choreographed to perfection. Tyson Manley looks up at Quigg as she removes the statement in front of him and carries it back to her desk. His entire body is erect, his anger palpable. His eyes are filled with fury, his face with unadulterated hate. This is how he looked at the
Sports Ground as he was killing my son. This was the expression on his face as he stabbed Ryan. This was the face Sweetie looked into after he'd listened to Ryan's innocent message left on her phone, when he returned to her house later with his friends and they did what they did. It may also have been the expression on his face when he finished crying after his brother was shot, maybe the exact expression every teacher who asked him to read aloud in front of the class has seen. Quigg takes her time, slowly turns around to face him.

I feel Lloydie squeezing my hand and I squeeze his. This is the monster we both expected.

Quigg says, “Mr. Manley . . .”

He says, “You think you're so smart, don't you?”

“I'm sorry?”

“No you're not. You're not sorry. You think you can tell me what to do? That they can?” He indicates the jury. “That he can?” He indicates the judge.

St. Clare stands in a panic, says, “My Lord—”

But the judge raises a finger, momentarily silencing him.

“You wanna know why man's here? I'm here 'cause every morning the screws wake me up and a van comes to collect me. I'm here 'cause them guards there march me through the dungeons and bring me to this room. You think I care if you find me guilty? Every day I wake up, that I open my eyes is a blessing; one day more and I give thanks. You know how many of my bredrins, my blood, I seen killed? The number of funerals I been to? The number I couldn't make? Every time I leave my yard, walk street, step offa bus or outta car could be my last moment and I'm ready, I'm ready to die; man, I been ready to die for years. You think I'm gonna start bawling 'cause this court says I'm a bad boy? Go on, do your worst,
find me guilty. Give man ten years, fifteen years, gimme a life sentence, 'cause that's exactly what you'll gimme: life. I'll do my bird, and I'll be alive till you set me back out on the street. This system don't mean shit!”

St. Clare says, “My Lord, I really must insist on an adjournment—”

Manley says, “I don't need no adjournment. I ain't answering no more dumb-ass questions.”

The judge calls for a break anyway. We gather quietly in the stairwell and wait. Ms. Manley, the young man with her, and De-Niro head down the staircase. Ricardo whispers to Luke, “He's going down. Good!”

I agree he's going down, but I can't decide now whether I think it's a good thing or not.

Nipa asks, “Have you written the second statement yet?” I shake my head. “You probably need to do it tonight. After Manley, there's just the closing statements to go. Tomorrow may be the last day.”

“I'll do it tonight,” I say.

“What are you going to put in it?” Lorna asks.

“That's why I haven't done it yet,” I say. “I don't really know.”

When we are called back in, Quigg has no further questions for the defendant, and for the first time, I feel empathy toward St. Clare, who looks like a person feigning optimism. He says he has no further questions for his client. As for Tyson Manley, it's as if having had his explosion, having allowed the jury to really see beneath the facade, he can no longer be bothered to pretend, or maybe he no longer sees the point, so he just stands in the dock looking pissed off.

It is just after four now and Quigg asks for an adjournment till the morning to deliver her closing statement. The
judge agrees. Ms. Manley and her son have not returned to the public gallery following the break. As Tyson Manley waits to be led from the stand, his eyes search the gallery for them, is disappointed, I think, not to find them there. For the briefest moment, his eyes meet mine. For me, the connection is electric though nothing in his expression changes. He does not take the opportunity, brief as it is, to smile or nod in acknowledgment, or even better, burst into tears of remorse, just looks at me as he has looked out on the proceedings for the last week or so, with complete indifference. I tug off my wig and stand so he can see me clearly, my sparsely tufted scalp, recent laceration, and all. I want him to see, to know. I see some shift inside him, small but present. I can't assess it clearly, but it is not to do with embarrassment or regret or restoration, it is something else I'm not entirely certain of, but I think is to do with respect. That's what I see in his eyes as he looks at me for a few seconds only, then allows the guards to lead him away.

LLOYDIE AND I DECIDE TO
travel back on the tube with Lorna to her place. It is the beginning of the rush hour and the three of us stand together inside the carriage, steadying ourselves around a bar. I say, “Sending him to prison isn't a punishment.”

Lorna asks, “What would you like them to do?”

“I don't know,” I say. “Something that serves some purpose, that either changes him or punishes him in a way that means it's a proper punishment.”

“What you heard in that courtroom was bravado,” Lorna says. “No seventeen-year-old boy wants to go to prison and stay in there till he's in his thirties. It's a wasted life.”

“But it is a life,” I say. “That's the point he was making, that he'll be in prison, but he'll be alive.”

Lloydie says, “Well, if he was that eager, I'm surprised he never just pleaded guilty in the first place.”

We stop at Mothercare when we get off the tube. We are in there for an hour, trying to remember the things a newborn
needs, prioritizing at Lorna's insistence that we try not to overwhelm Sweetie. In the end, she buys wipes and nappies, toiletries, and a clothing gift set for baby girls. We buy a warm coat and a couple of blankets, and because Lloydie picked it up from a display at the front counter and kept it in his hands the whole time we were walking around, a cute, pink, impossibly soft bed-buddy.

I had forgotten the feel of Mothercare, the brightness and colors and light, the chatter and laughter of little ones, blooming mums-to-be, so many of them and all in one space. It is a place of newness and beginnings and growth, mothers filled with love and aspirations and hope. It feels like the antithesis of this trial that has monopolized my life, that has in its own way been as traumatic as the event, filled me with loathing, sadness, and despair. While they are bagging up our purchases and we are trying to decide how best to carry the load between us, I realize I am done with it. I will not return tomorrow for the closing statements. I'm happy to not be there when the jury brings in the verdict. I will do something other. I don't want to witness the decimation of another life. I want to build something.

On the walk back I say, “I'm going to start a charity in Ryan's name. I haven't thought it through properly, but I was thinking maybe something to help young people who want to change their lives, find a way back into society, open doors.”

Lorna stops walking. She begins to cry. Then hugs me. We stop, wait for her to compose herself, which she does after a time, then laughs, wiping her eyes. “'S about time you did something constructive with yourself.”

I smile at her. “I've no idea where to start. I'll have to do some research.”

“I can do some of it,” Lloydie says. “I've got the time.”

“It'll be his legacy,” I say.

From the front doorstep outside Lorna's home, I can hear the baby crying. The sound is distinctly newborn, shrill, a tiny tongue oscillating against the roof of a mouth. Lorna puts her bags down in the passage, opens the living room door, heads in. Sweetie is standing in the middle of the room cradling the baby, rocking her too fast, as distressed as the baby she is trying to calm down.

“She just won't stop crying,” she says. “I've fed her and I've changed her. I dunno why she won't just stop.”

Lorna takes off her coat, throws it onto the chair. “Let me take her,” she says. “Where's Kwame?”

“He had to move his car. They were gonna clamp it.”

Sweetie hands the baby over. “Hello,” Lorna says, holding her under the armpits as she dangles her, gently raising her up and down. Her cries begin to subside immediately.

“She can probably feel your stress,” I say to Sweetie without taking my eyes off the baby. “It's harder to calm them down when you're stressed out.”

Lorna puts the baby to her shoulder, begins to rub her tiny back.

“She might just have wind,” I say, unable to stop looking. I feel Lloydie follow me around, so we are both standing behind Lorna, staring at this baby's face. She looks as upset as only a baby can, utterly distraught, as though she's taken all a person can bear, has no idea how she's expected to go on.

Lloydie says, “My God, she's beautiful.”

She is. I wish I wasn't doing it but I am, searching that tiny face, remembering my son, looking for any resemblance.
He was the same shade pretty much as Sweetie, muscovado brown. This baby is several shades lighter, but the tiny dark strip across the tip of her ear indicates that will change. Lorna was right, she looks like a newborn baby. I straighten up. The only feature on her face that bears a relation to any person living or dead appears to be her mouth. She has her mother's mouth. I take off my coat, put it on the chair beside Lorna's. “Can I hold her?” I ask.

Lloydie says to me, “You should wash your hands.”

I do. Lloydie is standing in exactly the same spot I left him in when I return. Sweetie is no longer in the room. “Let me have a hold,” I say to Lorna.

She is calmer now. Ryan was a calm baby. She is smaller than he was, so light, almost nothing, and it comes, the intensity of feeling that came with holding Ryan. It is like standing in his bedroom drawing the curtain and raising a draft. I smile at Lloydie. He is transfixed. “Do you want to hold her?” I ask. He wants to, I can see in his eyes he longs to, but he's scared, like he was with his son when he was born, scared his huge hands, mammoth in comparison with this minute fragile being, might harm her by accident.

“Not yet,” he says. “She needs to grow a bit, get bigger first. Then I will.”

She's ours.
He's thinking ahead, to the future, sees this beautiful baby in it. Sweetie comes back into the room. She has neatened her hair, freshened up; I smell newly applied deodorant. I watched a documentary about an adoption fair some time ago. It made me feel quite sad, all those poor mites hoping to be adopted, who turned up to the fair trying to be the best they could be, all neat and tidy and nervous smiles, hoping the prospective adoptive parents attending might like
them enough to want to keep them. That's what I'm reminded of when I look at Sweetie. She is stripped of the bravado I saw the first time I met her in my kitchen, and without it she is just an awkward, vulnerable teenage girl.

“She looks just like you,” I say to her.

Sweetie smiles. She's gorgeous, this girl. That smile must have been what bedazzled my son.

“Just like you,” Lloydie says. “Beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you have a name for her?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I've got a couple of names in my head, but I don't think they suit her. I'm still thinking about it.”

“I've got a dictionary of baby names at home,” I say. “I'll bring it up in the morning.”

She smiles again, says, “Cool.”

My notebook is leaned against my raised knees in front of me. I need to write that statement tonight, need to find the words. I can hear the sound of Lloydie moving around in the loft above me, shifting boxes and big stuff, bringing things down. He is brushing dust off himself when he finally comes into the bedroom. He smiles at me. He looks like he has purpose.

“I've brought the pieces of Ryan's cot down,” he says. “I hope all the screws are still there. I'm gonna start painting it in the morning. Should be dry in a couple of days.”

“I knew that was what you were doing.”

“Maybe we can go shopping for a mattress tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

“What you doing?”

“Nothing. I've done a rough draft of that second Victim
Personal Statement. I just need to do a proper copy. I'll give it to Nipa when she comes in the morning.”

“Does she know we're not coming?”

“Yes. I told her. It's fine.”

“I'm gonna have my shower. I'll read it when I come out.”

I scrub out what I have written, begin again. “Okay.”

VICTIM PERSONAL STATEMENT (2ND)

           
You said your dream was to be alive when you're older. My son is no longer alive, but he would have approved of your dream. He wanted the same thing, not just for himself, but for every living thing, and that would have included you. With Ryan in mind, I hope your dream comes true. I also hope with all my heart that one day you will come to understand what you have done, but I know you can never understand what you have done till you have learned to care. And for that reason, my greatest wish for you is love.