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Fifty-eight. Callum

 

 

‘Tell me about your brother’s involvement with the Liberation Militia.’

‘My brother’s not in the Liberation Militia,’ I denied, the words coming out as little more than a slur. I was so tired. How long had we been doing this? One hour? Twenty?

Two plain-clothed officers sat at the table opposite me. Only one of them was doing the talking though. This was obviously their version of bad cop, silent cop. ‘I’ll ask you again, which L.M. cell d’you belong to?’

‘I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.’

‘When did Jude join the Liberation Militia?’

‘He didn’t – as far as I know.’

‘When did your mother join the L.M.?’

‘She didn’t. She hasn’t.’

‘You sound very sure.’

‘I am.’

‘You weren’t that sure about your brother.’

‘I . . . I am.’

‘What L.M. cell does your father belong to?’

‘None of them.’

‘Come on now. We know all about your family’s involvement with the L.M.’

‘What d’you need me for then?’

The two officers exchanged a look. I was cheesing them off. Good.

‘Corroboration,’ said the silent one at last. ‘Confirm what we know already and we’ll go easy on you.’

‘I don’t know anything.’ I tried to rest my head on my arms on the table but the one who’d done most of the talking pushed my head back up. I sat back in my chair, utterly weary and something else besides. But I wasn’t going to show them that.

‘Don’t mess us about, son.’

‘I’m not your son.’

‘And I’m not someone you want to make an enemy of,’ said the non-talkative officer.

‘Whose idea was the Dundale bomb? Your brother’s or your father’s?’

‘You all hate Crosses, don’t you?’

‘You’d all do whatever it took to annihilate the lot of us. That’s true, isn’t it?’

‘How old were you when you joined the L.M.?’

And on. And on. And round. And round. Question after question. No rest. No peace. No respite. Until my head was spinning giddy and each question echoed with the one before it and the one before that. Until I thought, So this is what it’s like to go crazy . . .

And what about Mum and Dad and Jude? Where were they? What were they doing? Why were the police so intent on my brother? I bit down hard on my bottom lip, terrified that I was actually voicing my thoughts, terrified of what I might give way. Think of something else. Think of nothing at all. Think of nothing. And that’s when my mind closed down and the world stopped spinning.

I opened my eyes slowly. Please, no more questions. I couldn’t take any more questions. I wasn’t in the interrogation room any more. I was back in my cell, with Mum sitting on the bed beside me, stroking my hair back off my face.

‘Callum? Thank goodness. Are you OK? They didn’t hurt you.’

I took my time to sit up, shaking my head as I did so.

‘W-where’s Dad? Where’s Jude?’ I asked.

‘Your dad’s still being questioned and,’ Mum took a deep breath, ‘I don’t know where Jude is. He wasn’t in the house when those animals came crashing in.’

‘He wasn’t? What’s going on? What do they want? Why’re they going on and on about Jude?’



‘They found an empty can of drink near to where the Dundale bomb went off,’ Mum said grimly.

‘So?’

‘So, the can had Jude’s prints all over it. So they say. It’s a damned lie of course but they reckon they cross-referenced it with the print on his ID card.’

‘But how did they get hold of his ID card…?’ And then I realized.

Mum nodded. ‘They scanned in his card when we were at the hospital. I guess they got the information from the computer before the nurse had a chance to delete it – if she ever really did.’

‘But Jude didn’t . . .’ I looked straight at Mum. ‘Did he?’

‘They’re saying he planted the bomb. They’re saying w-when they catch him, he’ll . . . he’ll hang.’ And Mum’s face dissolved into a stream of tears.

‘They won’t get him. Once Jude knows they’re looking for him . . .’ I said, frantically.

‘It’s just a matter of time.’ Mum shook her head. ‘We both know that. And they’ve already issued a reward for information leading to his capture.’

‘What kind of reward?’

‘Fifty thousand.’

There was nothing to be said at that. Words and tears and prayers were useless. With that kind of money up for grabs it was just a matter of time before Jude was arrested.

‘They’ve probably planted the evidence themselves. They don’t have a clue who planted that bomb and they’re just looking for a scapegoat.’ My voice was barely above a whisper. I couldn’t take it all in. They wanted to hang my brother. Nothing on this earth would make me believe he’d actually planted that car bomb. He might’ve been there, but he wouldn’t’ve been the one to put it together and set it to go off. Jude wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. ‘If they only want Jude, why’re they still questioning Dad?’

‘Dad demanded to see them once we knew why they were after Jude,’ Mum told me.

‘Why? What’s Dad doing?’

‘I have no idea.’ Mum wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Probably saying the same as you, no doubt. I just hope he’s careful.’

I stared at Mum. ‘What d’you mean?’

Mum just shook her head. Before I could speak, the cell door clicked open. An officer I hadn’t seen yet, opened the door wide. He was a slim man with cutting eyes who looked at us like we were worse than nothing.

‘You two can go now.’

‘Where’s my husband?’ Mum asked at once.

‘He’s being held, after which he’ll be formally charged,’ the officer told us.

‘Charged with what?’ I asked.

‘My husband has done nothing wrong. Why’s he being held?’ Mum asked, her voice shaking, but it was hard to tell whether it shook with fear or anger.

‘Get your things and leave,’ the officer said. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

‘I demand to know why you’re holding my husband. I want to see him – now.’ Mum exploded.

One look at the officer’s furious expression was enough to tell me that there’d be snowball throwing contests in hell before this guy helped us in any way.

‘You can leave or you can spend the rest of the night in this cell,’ the officer’s voice dripped ice. ‘It’s your choice.’

‘May I see my husband please?’ Mum forced herself to be civil. But it was too late.

‘I’m afraid not. No-one but his lawyer will be allowed to see him until after he’s formally charged,’ the officer told us.

‘What is he going to be charged with?’ I asked again, desperate for an answer.

‘Political terrorism and seven counts of murder.’

Fifty-nine. Sephy

 

 

‘Come on, Callum! Pick up the phone.’

Nothing doing. It just continued to ring. I glanced down at my watch. Where was everyone? Someone should’ve picked up the phone by now. It was almost nine o’clock in the morning for goodness’ sake!

I put the phone down, trying to swallow down the uneasy feeling in my stomach.

Wait till later, then tell him your news in person. Tell him that come September, you’ll be gone.

Will he try to persuade you to stay? Will he even care?

Wait till later and find out.

Sixty. Callum

 

 

The offices of Stanhope and Rigby were every shade of dingy grey and dirty white imaginable. The waiting-room chairs were more like benches, made from the hardest – and I do mean hardest – oak. The coffee machine had scum marks all over it. And the windows were so dirty it was impossible to make out anything beyond them. This was the fifth solicitor’s office offering free legal aid that Mum and I had tried. Once the other solicitors had learned about Dad’s case, we’d been shown the door so fast I was beginning to suffer from jet lag. But this office was by far the seediest. I told myself that beggars couldn’t be choosers, but it didn’t help.

‘Mum, let’s go,’ I said, standing up. ‘We can find better solicitors than this.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Mum frowned.

‘Look at this place. I bet even cockroaches avoid this dump.’

‘Don’t judge by appearances.’ A voice from behind made me jump. Mum stood up as I turned around.

A middle-aged man with jet black hair, silvering at the temples, stood in the doorway. He wore a checked shirt and denims and an expression on his face that was harder than titanium nails.

‘And you are?’ I asked.

‘Adam Stanhope,’ the man replied.

‘This is your company, Mr Stanhope?’ Mum asked.

‘My father started it. I’ve carried it on,’ he said.

I was impressed with that, for a start. Only one of the other solicitors we’d tried had been a nought. The rest had been Crosses. I knew there were no nought barristers but I hadn’t expected to come across a nought solicitor whose father had been a solicitor before him. ‘Where’s Mr or Ms Rigby then?’ I asked, still not sure whether or not I liked this guy.

‘Dead. This way please.’ Mr Stanhope turned and led the way out of the waiting room.

Mum gave me one of her warning looks as we followed him. We walked behind him, our footsteps not so much clicking as crunching on the cracked lino. Goodness only knew what it was covered with. A thin coating of honey-flavoured cereal from the sticky feel of it. We stopped outside a door which looked like a reinforced toilet cubicle door. Mr Stanhope flung open the door and – wow!

Polished wooden floor, creamy-white walls, mahogany furniture, leather sofa, every thing in the room spelt class with a capital C! I stared at Mr Stanhope, amazed.

‘I thought you’d like my office!’ Mr Stanhope said dryly. ‘Tell me, d’you think this room makes me a better solicitor or a worse one?’

I got the point. ‘Why is your waiting room so grotty then?’

‘Let’s just say that Crosses are shall we say, reassured by its appearance,’ said Mr Stanhope. ‘It doesn’t pay to appear too successful. Please take a seat, both of you.’

I waited until Mum sat down first before doing the same.

‘How can I help you, Mrs . .?’

‘Mrs McGregor,’ Mum supplied. ‘It’s about my husband, Ryan. He’s being held by the police.’

‘Has he been formally arrested?’

‘Yes.’ Mum lowered her head, before forcing herself to look Mr Stanhope straight in the eye. ‘He’s been charged with murder and political terrorism.’

‘The Dundale bombing,’ Mr Stanhope sat back in his chair.

‘That’s right,’ Mum replied. ‘But he didn’t do it. I know he didn’t do it.’

‘He told you that, did he?’

‘The police won’t let me talk to him. I need a lawyer, someone who can get in to see him on my behalf.’

‘I see.’

‘I don’t have much money.’

‘I see.’

‘I saw in the telephone directory that you do legal aid work?’

If Mr Stanhope leaned any further back his whole body would sink right through the chair. Did he think bad luck was contagious then?

‘Can you help us?’ Mum asked, a tinge of impatience in her voice.

Mr Stanhope stood up and went to look out of his crystal-clear window. Venetian blinds were positioned to let in optimum light while still keeping the room private. I wondered what he could see. I wished I knew what he was thinking.

‘Legal aid wouldn’t begin to cover the costs in a case like this,’ Mr Stanhope began. ‘I can’t work for free, Mrs McGregor . . .’

‘I’m not asking you to,’ Mum replied rapidly. ‘I’ll pay you whatever it takes. I just want my husband’s name cleared.’

Mr Stanhope gave Mum a long hard look before answering. ‘I’ll go and see your husband first. Then I’ll make a decision.’

Mum nodded and stood up.

‘But from this moment on, you talk to no-one but me. Understood?’

Mum nodded again.

I stood up and asked, ‘Mr Stanhope, are you any good?’

‘Pardon?’

‘As a lawyer, are you any good?’

‘Callum!’ Mum admonished.

‘No, Mrs McGregor, it’s a fair question.’ Mr Stanhope turned to me. ‘I’ve won far more cases than I’ve lost. OK?’

‘OK.’ I nodded.

We left the office.

Mum and I sat in the police-station waiting room for ages and ages. No-one offered us a coffee. A couple of times we got a ‘Can I help you?’ from officers entering the station, but that was all. Mr Stanhope had disappeared to talk to Dad and ‘review the police case’. They didn’t have a case, so what was taking so long? I wanted to see Dad. I wondered where Jude was. I wanted to go home and wake up and find that the last year hadn’t happened. I wanted too much.

Mum stared ahead, twisting her thumbs around each other whilst we waited. I was beginning to wonder if Mr Stanhope had just given up and gone home and we’d been forgotten, when he finally made an appearance. And from the look on his face, I could tell right away that it wasn’t good news.

‘What’s the matter? Is he all right?’ Mum leapt to her feet. ‘What have they done to him?’

‘Could both of you come with me please?’ Mr Stanhope said grimly.

After exchanging a worried look, Mum and I followed the lawyer without a word. A police officer held open one of the heavy double-doors which led to the cells.

‘Thank you.’ Mr Stanhope acknowledged the gesture, as did my mum.

I didn’t. The officer walked behind us. When we got to the last cell on the left, we all stood to one side as the officer opened the door. The moment the door was open, Mum flew into the room. I hadn’t blinked before Dad and Mum were hugging each other as if they were glued together.

‘Ryan, what’s going on?’ Mum whispered. ‘Are you OK? You’re not hurt . .?’

Dad turned to beckon to me. Slowly, I walked over to him, knowing that he was going to hug me too. I wasn’t wrong either. I wanted to be hugged by him. I didn’t want to let him go because I was so scared. He hadn’t done anything. Why was he still being held?

‘Mr McGregor, would you like to tell your family what you told me?’ Mr Stanhope asked.

‘Never mind that,’ Dad dismissed. ‘Where’s Jude? Have they let him go? Is he safe?’

‘Jude? The police never had him. He wasn’t in the house.’ Mum frowned. ‘I have no idea where he is.’

Dad stared, then he looked so furiously angry that I found myself taking a step backwards.

‘Those bastards! They said they had him. They said Jude was as good as hanged . . .’ Dad swallowed hard and turned away from Mum and me. Now he looked like the whole world had descended onto his shoulders.

‘Ryan, w-what did you do?’ Mum whispered.

Silence.

‘Ryan . .?’

‘I signed a confession admitting to all the charges . . .’ Dad’s voice trailed off.

‘What?’ Mum breathed. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘They said they had Jude – and proof he was the bomber. They said someone had to take the blame for the Dundale bomb and it was up to me who took the fall.’

‘And you believed them?’ Mum asked furiously.

‘Meggie, they threatened that you and Callum would also go to prison for conspiracy. It was my life or the lives of my entire family.’

‘Did you do it? Did you plant the bomb that killed all those people?’

Dad looked straight at Mum. He didn’t even blink. ‘No.’

‘Then why . .?’

‘I had no choice,’ Dad repeated. Anger held his body tense and rigid. He looked like he was about to snap in half.

Mum blinked, totally bemused. ‘If you put your hand up to the Dundale murders, you’ll hang.’

‘I know,’ said Dad quietly.

I looked at Mr Stanhope, as if his face could tell me what I couldn’t understand on Dad’s.

‘You want to die?’ Mum asked, bewildered.

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Mrs McGregor, the moment Detective Inspector Santiago told your husband the identification of the person whose prints were found, your husband confessed to everything. And his dictating and signing of the confession were videotaped. The tape will clearly show his confession was made without duress,’ said Mr Stanhope softly.

Dad lowered his head and lowered his voice to match, until it was barely above a hushed whisper. ‘Meggie, they found two of Jude’s fingerprints on a cola can fragment in the bin where the bomb went off . . .’

‘That doesn’t prove anything . . .’ Mum interrupted, her voice harsh. ‘That just means . . .’

‘A print was also found on part of the bomb casing that survived the explosion,’ Dad cut across her. ‘And the prints match . . .’

The world flipped crazily and I started to fall faster and further away from sanity.

Jude was the bomber . . .

That couldn’t be right. The Crosses had set him up, framed him. My brother wasn’t a bomber. He wouldn’t do anything like that. And he certainly wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave his fingerprints all over the bomb casing – unless he thought there wouldn’t be anything left of the bomb to identify one way or another so why bother to wear gloves? Jude was the bomber . . .

‘I told the police the truth.’ Dad raised his voice to its normal level. ‘I brought the cola from home. I didn’t want to risk anyone seeing me if I went into the shops to buy one. That’s the only reason it’s got Jude’s fingerprints on it. He must’ve handled it and put it back and I didn’t realize. And as for the casing, I kept the . . . the necessary equipment around the house. Jude must have handled that as well. He obviously didn’t realize what he was touching, he was just curious.’ Dad raised his head and spun around, shouting into each corner of the room in turn, ‘Jude had nothing to do with this, d’you hear? I’m guilty. No-one else.’

They didn’t believe that, did they? No-one in his or her right mind would believe that ridiculous cock-and-bull story.

‘Ryan . . .’ Tears flowed down Mum’s face.

‘No, Meggie. I’m guilty. That’s the truth and I’m sticking to it. I won’t let them put you and Callum in prison for this. Or Jude,’ Dad interrupted. He lowered his voice again. ‘Just make sure that Jude stays lost so the daggers can’t get their hands on him. If they find him, he’ll rot in prison.’ A tiny, sad smile played over Dad’s face, but it was gone in an instant. ‘But at least my confession means he won’t die.’

Sixty-one. Sephy

 

Today, Ryan Callum McGregor of 15, Hugo Yard, Meadowview was formally charged with Political Terrorism and seven counts of murder for the bombing outrage at the Dundale Shopping Centre. He has confessed to all charges so the court case against him will be a mere formality. His family consisting of his wife Margaret and two sons, Jude and Callum, are said to be in hiding.’

Every word was an arrow pinning me to my chair.

But he didn’t do it. I knew that as surely as I knew my own name. Callum’s dad was no more the bomber than I was. Of course, he didn’t do it. I had to help. I had to prove that. But how? There had to be some way. Something I could do. What could I do to help him?

Think. Think . . .

‘Blanker scumbag!’ Minnie hissed from across the room. ‘His whole family should swing, not just him.’

‘Minerva, I won’t have language like that in this house, d’you hear? You don’t live in Meadowview.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ Minnie said, chastened. But it didn’t last long. ‘And to think we’ve had him here, in this very house. And his wife actually used to work here. If the press get hold of that little bit of info, they’re going to have a field day – and Dad’s going to have kittens.’

‘What d’you mean?’ I asked.

‘Oh Sephy, use your brain. If Ryan McGregor gets off, Dad will be accused of favouritism and protecting his own and all sorts, whether or not it has anything to do with him.’

‘But the Dundale bomb had nothing to do with Mr McGregor . . .’

‘Nonsense. He’s confessed, hasn’t he?’

I turned to Mother. She looked very thoughtful.

‘Mother, they won’t really hang him, will they?’

‘If he’s guilty . . .’ Mother shrugged.

‘And Callum goes to our school,’ Minnie continued. ‘Dad’s going to get it in the neck for that as well.’

‘Callum has absolutely nothing to do with this.’

‘An apple never falls far from the tree,’ Minnie nodded.

‘What a pile of . . .’

‘Persephone!’ Mother’s harsh warning had me biting back the rest of what I wanted to say.

‘Even if Ryan McGregor is guilty – which I don’t believe for one second – that doesn’t mean that Callum . . .’

‘Oh, Persephone. Grow up.’ The rebuke didn’t come from my sister. Mother shook her head at me before she stood up and left the room.

‘You haven’t a clue about the real world, have you?’ Minnie said, her voice dripping with contempt.

‘Congratulations! You sound just like Mother,’ I took malicious delight in telling her.

Minnie said something incredibly unladylike and flounced out of the room. I smirked at her disappearing back until the door was shut. Then my smile faded. I stared at the closed door, feeling totally alone. What was it about me that made everyone do that? Walk out. Leave. Abandon me. After dismissing me. Why did what I said and did invariably drive everyone away.

Mother. Minnie. Even Callum.

But I was right about this one. Callum’s dad wasn’t the Dundale bomber.

Mother and Minnie were wrong. And I was going to prove it. I just had to figure out how.

Sixty-two. Callum

 

 

After only about five minutes of waiting, Mum and I were shown in to Mr Stanhope’s plush office. His secretary had told Mum that it was ‘urgent’ and ‘about the case’ but that was all she said. Mum and I both had the same question – ‘What case?’ The last time we’d seen Mr Stanhope, which was three days ago now, he’d told us quite categorically that he wasn’t going to take the case.

‘Mrs McGregor, Callum, please take a seat.’ Mr Stanhope was all smiles from the moment we set foot inside his hallowed walls. One look at his face and my heart began to thump with painfully suppressed hope.

‘You have some news?’ Mum asked eagerly. ‘Are they going to let Ryan go?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ Mr Stanhope’s smile faded slightly, his voice full of regret. ‘Your husband still insists that he’s guilty.’

And just like that the hope inside was all but snuffed out. Again. Why had he asked us here then?

‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with you at your home address but there’s been no reply,’ Mr Stanhope told us.

‘We’re not at our house any more,’ Mum glanced at me. ‘We’re staying with my sister, Charlotte, on the other side of Meadowview.’

‘You’ve been getting hate letters?’ Mr Stanhope asked sharply.

‘Amongst other things,’ I scoffed. Like bricks through the window and death threats.

‘Well, I’m happy to tell you that I will now be able to take on your husband’s case,’ Mr Stanhope told Mum. ‘And the really good news is, I’ve persuaded Kelani Adams QC to take the case – not that she took much persuading.’

‘Kelani Adams!’ Mum was astounded. And she wasn’t the only one. Kelani Adams was not just a nationally renowned but a world-renowned barrister. A Cross barrister. Why would any Cross take on Dad’s case? ‘I can’t afford a lawyer like Kelani Adams.’ She shook her head.

‘Don’t worry about that. That’s all taken care of.’

‘What does that mean?’ I asked, before Mum could.

‘It means, it’s all taken care of,’ Mr Stanhope frowned at me.

Mum and I exchanged a long look.

‘I’d appreciate it if you answered my son’s question properly,’ Mum said.

‘An anonymous benefactor has stepped forward with a very generous sum of money, and a promise of however much more is necessary to ensure that your husband gets the fairest trial possible.’ Mr McGregor picked his way carefully through the words.

‘We don’t take charity, Mr Stanhope,’ Mum said, tightlipped.

‘It’s not charity,’ Mr Stanhope shot back. ‘I was told to inform you of that in the strongest possible terms.’

‘By who?’ Mum asked.

‘As I said, I received a banker’s cheque and a typewritten, unsigned note with certain instructions,’ said Mr Stanhope.

‘May I see the note?’

‘I’m afraid not. One of the conditions on it was that you shouldn’t be allowed to see it.’

‘I see.’

I’m glad she did, ’cause I sure as hell didn’t.

‘Mrs McGregor, this is your husband’s one and only chance to emerge from this case a free man. I would strongly advise you to take it.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ Mum said slowly. ‘The only reason you’re still involved in this case is because someone has paid you to stay involved – is that right?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that . . .’

‘And the only reason Kelani Adams is involved is because she’s being paid a great deal of money – is that right?’

‘No,’ Mr Stanhope said at once. ‘The money allowed me to approach the best and she’s it. The best does not come cheaply. Once she’d read your husband’s file, she was more than prepared to take the case.’

‘And I’m meant to be grateful for that, am I?’

‘If gratitude is too much to ask, then your acceptance of the situation is all that will be required,’ said Mr Stanhope.

Mum turned to me. ‘Callum?’

It was hard to be asked for my opinion. Part of me wanted to leave it all down to Mum. Lynette was gone, Jude had disappeared, Dad was in prison and Mum and I were left floundering on our own. I wanted Mum to turn to me and tell me that everything would be OK again. I wanted her to make all the decisions, even the wrong ones. Especially the wrong ones.

‘Mum, I think we should do whatever it takes to get Dad out of prison,’ I said at last.

‘OK then,’ Mum said to the solicitor. ‘I’ll go ahead with whatever you and Ms Adams suggest. But first of all I’d like to speak to my husband as soon as possible.’ She looked from me to Mr Stanhope. ‘Alone.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ came the solicitor’s reply.

And all I could do was hope that Mum and I weren’t making a big, big mistake. Not just for our sakes – but for Dad’s as well.

But for me the most sickeningly humbling thing of all was I knew who had sent the money to Mr Stanhope.

Sephy.

I had no idea how she’d done it. And I had even less idea how I was ever going to thank her, never mind repay her. But I would. I sat in Mr Stanhope’s office, on his expensive brown leather chair and swore an oath before God that I would pay her back. If it took me every penny I earned for the rest of my life, I would repay her.

Sixty-three. Sephy

 

 

I came home from school and got the shock of my life. Dad’s suitcases were in our hallway.

‘Dad? DAD?’

‘I’m in here, Princess.’

I raced into the family room, following Dad’s voice like I was tied to it.

I leapt into his arms.

‘Dad! I’ve missed you.’

‘I’ve missed you too.’ Dad swung me around – at least he tried to. ‘Good grief! What have you been eating?’ he exclaimed, dropping me. ‘You weigh a ton!’

‘Thanks!’ I giggled with pure joy. Dad was home. Dad was back. ‘Are you staying for good?’

‘For a while at least,’ Dad nodded.

But not in my direction. For the first time I saw that we weren’t alone.

Mother was sitting in her rocking-chair, moving slowly backwards and forwards as she watched us.

‘What . . . what’s going on?’ I asked.

‘Ask your father. He has all the answers,’ Mother replied.

I clicked then. Clicked on and died inside. Dad wasn’t back for Mother. He wasn’t back for any of us. Ryan McGregor and politics were the ones who’d brought him home – nothing else.

‘You’re only here until after the trial, aren’t you?’ I asked Dad.

‘The trial of the century’ was what the newspapers and the telly were calling it. They should call it the miracle trial of the millennium if it managed to bring Dad back home.

‘It’s all up in the air,’ Dad smiled, stroking my cheek. ‘Nothing’s decided.’

I took one look at Mother and I knew that was a lie. At least, she believed it was a lie, which was probably the same thing.

Sixty-four. Callum

 

 

‘Ah, Callum. Come in.’

I was seeing a lot of plush offices this week. First Mr Stanhope, now Mr Costa, our headmaster. It was only the second time I’d been in Mr Costa’s office. Crosses seemed to be big on mahogany! And his carpet was like walking on spring grass, soft and bouncy and lush. Mr Costa sat down behind his mahogany desk and leaned back, then leaned forward, his elbows on his table as he tried to figure out which would be the most favourable position. His chair was more like a throne than otherwise, making the headmaster seem even more imposing. The sunshine shone through his crystal-clear windows behind him, making him even darker, like he was a powerful silhouette.

‘Sit down please.’

I sat down in one of his squeaky leather chairs.

‘Callum, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to get right to the point.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Until the matter regarding your father is satisfactorily resolved . . .’

The alarm bells now pealing in my head were deafening.

‘The governors and I have decided that it would serve everyone’s best interests if you were suspended for a while.’

So that was that. I was out.

‘I’m guilty until my dad’s proven innocent? Is that the way it works?’

‘Callum, I do hope you’re going to be reasonable about this.’

‘Should I empty my locker now or will the end of the day be soon enough?’

‘That’s entirely up to you.’ Mr Costa folded his arms and sat back in his chair.

‘You must be so thrilled,’ I told him bitterly. ‘Three down, only one more to go.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning Colin has gone and you couldn’t wait to get rid of Shania and now it’s my turn.’

‘Shania was expelled for gross misconduct,’ Mr Costa said haughtily.

‘Shania only slapped Gardner Wilson because he hit her first,’ I shouted at him. ‘And everyone knows that, including you. How come Shania gets expelled and Gardner gets away with a telling off? Why isn’t it gross misconduct when a Cross does it?’

It was the same story up and down the country. In the few schools into which us noughts had been allowed, we were dropping like flies. Expelled, or what the authorities euphemistically called ‘excluded’, for those things which would get Crosses detention or a severe telling off. The odd Cross or two may even have got suspended once in a while. But they certainly weren’t being expelled with anything like the frequency we were.

‘I have no intention of justifying school policy to you.’ Mr Costa stood up. Our meeting was at an end. ‘We’ll be happy to review your situation once the dust from all this clears.’

But the dust was never going to clear, was it? And we both knew that.

‘Good luck to you, Callum.’ Mr Costa held out his hand.

‘Yeah, right!’ I looked at his hand with disdain.

Good luck to me, as long as it was somewhere else. The further away the better. As far as Mr Costa was concerned, I had already gone. I stood up and marched out of the room. I wanted to slam the door shut behind me, bring it off its hinges, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying, ‘See! I was right about him. Behaved just as I thought he would.’

And then I thought better of it. I turned back and slammed the door as hard as I could. I only just got my fingers out of the way in time but it was worth it. It was a futile gesture, but it made me feel good.

I strode down the corridor. Mr Costa came thundering out of his room.

‘Callum, come here.’

I carried on walking.

‘I said, come back here,’ Mr Costa called after me, furiously.

I smiled – and carried on walking. I wasn’t part of his school any more. I didn’t have to do what he said. I wasn’t part of the whole Cross way of life. Why should I do what any of them said? Only when I heard Mr Costa slam back into his office did I slow down. My throat had swollen up from the inside out. I was being gutted like a fish wriggling for its life on a slab. I was out of Heathcrofts.

And I was never coming back.

THE TRIAL . . .

 

 

Sixty-five. Sephy

 

 

I hesitated for only a moment. Steeling myself, I knocked on my sister’s bedroom door.

‘Go away!’

I walked in, darting to my left as a pillow came hurtling towards me.

‘Don’t your ears work?’ Minnie fumed. She was sitting up on her king-size bed, scowling like it was going out of fashion.

I wanted to giggle but I knew that might make her suspicious. Anyway, it would be a cider-induced giggle, not a real one. I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t know that much.

‘Minnie? I want to ask your advice about something.’

‘Oh yes!’ My sister raised a sceptical eyebrow. She’s very good at that. She’s going to be a Mother-clone when she grows up. Just like me, I guess – if I didn’t do something about it.

‘What would you say if I told you that I’m thinking of going away to school?’

I instantly had her full attention.

‘Where?’

‘Chivers.’

‘The boarding school?’

I nodded.

Minnie looked me up and down until I began to feel really uncomfortable. She asked, ‘What does Mother say about it?’

‘She said no, but . . .’

‘But then she would,’ Minnie finished for me.

‘So what d’you think?’ I repeated.

‘I think it’s an excellent idea. Which is why I asked Mother the exact same thing a few weeks ago.’ Minnie smiled dryly.

‘You did!’ I was astounded.

‘You’re not the only one who needs to get out of here.’

I sat down at the foot of Minnie’s bed. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘Sephy, you and I have never got on, and I’m sorry about that,’ Minnie sighed. ‘Maybe if we’d been able to count on each other, we’d have done better. Instead we’ve both tried to get through this on our own.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Come off it, Persephone. You drink to escape, I become more bitchy and spiteful. We each do what we have to do.’

Flames shot through my body. ‘I don’t drink . . .’ I denied.

‘Oh?’ Minnie scoffed. ‘Well, unless you’ve taken to wearing cider perfume, I’d say you’re into booze big time.’

‘Cider isn’t alcohol.’

Minnie started laughing.

‘Not like wine or whisky or something,’ I said, furiously. ‘And I just like the taste . . . That’s the only reason. I’m not a lush.’

Minnie shuffled towards me as I spoke before she put her hand on my shoulder. ‘Who’re you trying to convince? Me or yourself?’

And then I did the last thing either of us expected. I burst into tears. My sister put her arm around me then, allowing my head to rest on her shoulder – which just made me feel worse.

‘Minerva, I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to, before I explode.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m working on it with Dad.’

‘Yeah, for yourself. But what about me?’

‘No, I’m working on Dad for both of us,’ said Minnie. ‘I keep telling him that we both need to get away from the atmosphere in this house.’

I pulled away from Minnie to ask, ‘Are you getting anywhere?’

‘I think so. I’m wearing him down.’

‘How come you didn’t tackle Mother?’ I had to ask.

‘Because she cares too much,’ Minnie replied.

‘Whereas Dad doesn’t care at all,’ I said, bitterly.

‘Not true. Dad does care in his own way.’

‘Just not as much as he cares about his political career,’ I added. ‘He only moved back so it’d look good for the McGregor trial. And he’s meant to be back but we hardly ever see him.’

‘D’you want to see more of him then?’ Minnie asked.

I considered. ‘Not particularly.’

‘Then be careful what you wish for,’ Minnie told me. ‘Don’t worry, Sephy. Come September, you and I will both be out of this madhouse.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I promise.’

Sixty-six. Callum

 

 

I sat up high in the packed public gallery. Far below me and to my right, I could see my father. Just the bruised left side of his face. It was only the second time I’d seen him since the police had crashed into our lives. The judge was droning on and on at the jury, telling them what the case was about and what it was not about. Twelve good men and women and true, hanging on the judge’s every word. Twelve good Cross men and woman, of course. How else could justice be served? My stomach churned as the clerk of the court finally stood up and faced Dad.

‘Ryan Callum McGregor, on the charge of Political Terrorism, how do you plead – Guilty or Not Guilty?’

‘DAD, DON’T DO IT!’ I couldn’t help it. Even as the words left my mouth, I knew I was doing more harm than good but how could I just sit idly by and watch this . . . this farce of a trial.

‘Any more outbursts from the public gallery and I will have all members of the public evicted from this court. I hope I’ve made myself understood,’ Judge Anderson threatened.

He was glaring at me – as were all the members of the jury. Mum put a restraining hand over mine. Dad looked up and our eyes met. He looked away again, almost immediately. But not before the image of his battered face had burnt its way into my mind. His split lip and his bruised cheek and his black eye. But there was no condemnation on his face, just a sweeping, intense sadness. The clerk repeated his question.

‘On the charge of Political Terrorism, how do you plead? Guilty or Not Guilty?’

Silence.

Silence that went on and on and on.

‘The defendant will please answer the question,’ Judge Anderson said brusquely.

Dad glanced up at Mum and me again.

‘Not guilty!’ he said at last.

A collective gasp broke out from every corner of the courtroom. Mum squeezed my hand. Whispers and inaudible comments flew around the room. Dad’s lawyer turned around and smiled briefly at us. She was careful to wipe all trace of her smile off her face before she turned back to face the judge.

‘You are charged, by means of the afore-mentioned state crime of political terrorism, with the murder of Aysha Pilling,’ the clerk continued. ‘How d’you plead? Guilty or Not Guilty?’

Dad’s reply was stronger this time. ‘Not guilty.’

And that was his reply to each of the separate charges read out to him. By the time the clerk had read the seventh murder charge, he had to shout to make himself heard.

So did Dad. ‘NOT GUILTY!’

The courtroom erupted. The judge had everyone in the public gallery thrown out of the court, but I didn’t care. It was one of the happiest moments of my life.

Not guilty! You tell ’em Dad!

Sixty-seven. Sephy

 

 

I got the shock of my life. I received a subpoena saying I had to be in court on the following Monday. The subpoena was sent via Mother as I was underage, making her directly responsible for making sure that I turned up on the right day at the right time.

‘Why do they want me there?’ I said horrified, as I stared down at a whole load of legal jargon that I didn’t really understand.

‘That’s what comes from hanging around noughts,’ Minnie told me maliciously.

I was about to tell her where to go, when to my surprise, Mother jumped in before me.

‘Minerva, if you kept quiet, you’d at least give the illusion that there’s more in your head than just air!’ Mother snapped.

Minnie flounced out at that – and good riddance. I turned to smile at Mother but her expression wasn’t much better than Minnie’s.

‘This is exactly why I’ve always warned you to stay away from that boy – and his whole family,’ Mother told me. ‘Now our names are going to be dragged into court and through the mud and the newspapers are going to be ecstatic. Your father isn’t going to like this one little bit.’

‘It’s hardly my fault,’ I tried to defend myself.

‘Then whose fault is it?’ Mother snapped. ‘Sephy, it’s time you learnt that if you lie down with dogs, you’re bound to get fleas.’

And she left the room, leaving me to stare after her.


Date: 2015-12-18; view: 962


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