‘OK.’ The solicitor tried again. ‘Apart from your school chums might anybody know something?’ He looked at Shelley. ‘Did either of you discuss this bullying with anyone – priest, doctor, teacher – anyone?’
Both Shelley and Callum hung their heads.
‘And you never sought medical help following any of the attacks?’
Another slow shake of the head.
All three people present could see how dark the case was.
The solicitor was quiet for a moment. ‘And you say that…’
Then Shelley looked up. ‘I did ring the doctor once,’ she said, ‘to ask him what to do about broken ribs.’
‘Think carefully about this, Shelley,’ Stephenson said, hardly daring to hope. ‘Did you mention Callum?’
‘No. I just asked what you should do if
someone
had broken ribs,’ she said. ‘I didn’t say Call.’
‘Which doctor?’
‘Doctor Porter at the Health Centre,’ she said, still with the same heart-breaking hopefulness in her voice.
The brief made a note to himself to speak to the doctor. ‘Can you remember when it was?’
‘Six months ago. April, May time.’
‘Good.’ He addressed his next question to Callum. ‘Did it seem probable that you
had
broken a rib?’
Callum shrugged. ‘Don’t know. They had me on the floor and were kicking me. I had a bad pain in my right side for a couple of months after that but I don’t know.’
The solicitor made a mental note to suggest they have some x-rays done.
‘Now then, Callum, did DreadNought ever bully anyone else?’
Callum frowned as he concentrated.
‘Anyone at all,’ the brief prompted.
‘A girl, Chelsea. She used to be friends with Katie but they fell out.’ He flushed. ‘DreadNought pushed her really hard once down some steps in school. She broke her wrist. She was in plaster for ages after.’
‘Her full name?’
‘Chelsea Arnold. She lives up in Harlescott near Morrisons. Her dad works on the buses.’
‘She goes to your school?’
Callum nodded.
‘Then I’ll find her,’ Wesley Stephenson promised.
He put a hand on Callum’s shoulder. ‘Callum,’ he said, ‘is there anyone who could speak up for you? Say that you were of good character, vouch for you as a decent person?’
Again hope briefly flared and died in the boy’s face. ‘Mr Farthing,’ he said. ‘My history teacher. But…he was the one who stopped me sticking the knife into DreadNought again. He caught my hand and took the knife off me. He knew I would have killed him.’
Stephenson’s heart sank. From worse to terrible. That described this case. Each time he thought he had heard the worst scenario something else cropped up which made the situation deteriorate further. ‘Callum,’ he said again. ‘Listen to me carefully now. We can’t deny facts. My job isn’t to
get you off
. Do you realise that? If I was the most brilliant lawyer in the land I couldn’t do that. Not with all those witnesses who saw what happened. We can’t even say that the knife was in your bag by accident or that you were carrying a knife for some other purpose such as woodwork or a hobby. Our defence will rest on a few points. One – that this assault was out of character – in other words that you are, by nature, a peaceable and quiet individual. Two, that you were provoked into attacking Roger Gough, that it was done in self-defence and also that while you meant to scare him off, you did not mean to kill him. Do you understand all that I’ve said?’
Callum nodded.
‘Have there been any other incidents which might be brought up in court?’
Callum shook his head.
Stephenson doubted it. In these sorts of cases there was always something else. What he didn’t want was for him to hear it for the first time in the court. He would be in combat without a shield.
‘Right,’ he said, then turned back to Shelley. ‘What about Callum’s dad? Might we call on him?’
‘You won’t get anything from him,’ Shelley Hughes said bitterly. ‘We haven’t heard from him for years.’
‘Does he give any financial support?’
Shelley withered him with a look.
‘I see.’
There was a knock on the door and Sergeant Paul Talith and PC Roberts filed back in. They spoke woodenly to Wesley Stephenson. ‘We’re going to caution and charge your client.’
Stephenson nodded, accepting the inevitable but Callum stared from one to the other, his face as white as chalk. ‘I’ll go to prison then, won’t I, Mr Stephenson,’ he whispered.
Shelley drew in a sharp breath.
‘You’ll be in front of the magistrate tomorrow,’ the solicitor answered. ‘I doubt that she’ll grant bail in such a serious case. You’ll almost certainly be in remand until your case can be heard in a Crown Court.’
‘How long will that take,’ Shelley demanded, her face as taut as wire.
‘They’ll be as quick as possible in view of your son’s age.’ Stephenson was hedging.
‘How long?’
‘A few months.’
‘And then?’
‘I think you should be prepared for a custodial sentence.’
‘Prison?’ Callum’s voice was a squeak.
‘You’re too young to go to prison, Callum. You’ll go to a Young Offenders’ Institution.’
‘And it’ll be full of people like DreadNought.’
‘There will be some like that,’ the Brief said. But most of them, he added mentally, will be youngsters like you. Weak, unhappy, sad, vulnerable.
Callum’s eyes refused to leave him. ‘Then I might as well be dead.’
They had arrived at Knowsley, a few miles east of Liverpool between the A580 and the M57. Martha consulted her map and soon picked up the signs and as she saw the first one she felt a sudden surge of pride.
Her
son.
Her
lad, the boy she had brought up single-handedly, had aimed so high, achieved so much.
To be here was like a Christian standing outside the gates of Heaven. She moved the car forward and was immediately challenged by a ponderous guard. She had to present ID and the letter of introduction. There was heavy security around the perimeter. An electric fence and electric eyes which swivelled and watched her as she drove up the drive.
They found their way to the reception and were met by a business-like woman in her early forties who carried a clipboard. She smiled at Sam. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘Sam Gunn. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Welcome to Liverpool. We hope you’ll be happy here. Here’s to your first goal then, son.’
For some silly reason Martha Gunn, sensible coroner but proud mother, bristled at this woman calling Sam her son. Wasn’t it enough that they were taking him away? With strict rules about home visits and contact? Did they also want to deprive her of any role in his very existence?
The woman gave her a searching look. ‘My name’s Christine Sweetman, Mrs Gunn.’ She gave a warm smile. ‘I expect you’ll be missing him.’
Martha tried to toss it off with a headshake – and knew she had failed.
‘Yes,’ she finally acknowledged simply. It was the honest answer. Through the window she could see boys playing football in their red strip. Sam’s eyes drifted across and she knew he was almost oblivious to her presence, he was already absorbed in watching the play, noting each player’s moves, speed, deftness. Footballers do this, store to a giant memory as huge as a cinema screen, every twist, every turn, every movement of a player. She looked too but without the absorption or perception that Sam had. You can only really understand a game if you have played it yourself and apart from knockarounds in the garden she had not ever played a game of football. All
she
really took in was that they were wearing Liverpool strip and looked about Sam’s age and that they seemed to have control of the ball as though it was connected to their feet by an invisible length of elastic.
She looked back at her son and knew, like countless mothers before and after her, that he had moved on, away from her influence. Her time was coming to an end. Other people now would assume importance. At thirteen years old he was moving towards different horizons.
‘You’ll want to meet the principal.’
He turned out to be a smart man in his fifties, an
ex-footballer
himself, still trim and fit with well-cut greying hair and a strong Liverpool accent.
‘Don’t you worry about a thing, Mrs Gunn,’ he said, putting a friendly arm around her shoulders. ‘We’ll take good care of your son. I’ll look after him as though he were my own. Better in fact.’ He laughed loudly at his own joke and she joined in.
He was friendly and fun and she could trust Sam’s welfare to him. He would be a father-figure. A substitute for Martin. She smiled.
‘Now that’s better,’ he said. ‘I suggest you go and say goodbye to the lad and then head off back home.’
Sam was patently worried that she would kiss him or ‘blub’. He scowled at her nervously and backed away. Which hurt her. However, to her credit she committed neither of his fears but ruffled his hair, gave the cheeriest of smiles and said goodbye quickly. She shook hands with the principal and Ms Sweetman and walked back to her car equally quickly. It wasn’t until she had driven halfway on the lone return journey that she allowed herself the luxury of a few tears. For company she switched on the radio and picked up the tail end of a track on a golden oldies pop station and listened to some hits of the 70s.
‘Callum Hughes, you are charged that on the sixth of September 2005 you did attempt to murder Roger Gough at Hallow’s Lane Comprehensive School. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence…’
Callum watched the police, his face white and frightened. And all Shelley could think of was that she was going to have to leave him here.
Like Martha she too drove home alone.
Callum Hughes was to appear in front of the magistrates at nine o’clock. They woke him at seven to give him time to wash and have his breakfast but they needn’t have bothered. He was already awake when they opened his cell door. Lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how on earth he could carry on living.
And he didn’t want any breakfast anyway.
Shelley hadn’t slept a wink all night either. It had been the hardest thing she had ever done, leaving Callum in the police station and returning to an empty house, which, paradoxically, seemed fuller of his presence than when he was at home. She had sat on her sofa, the television turned off and the curtains drawn, and relived again and again the worst moments, answering the door, listening without understanding to the police’s bald statements, packing the suitcase, sending him the silent message that he would stay here while she was free to go home. She had looked full into his face and seen his lip curl in a sort of ‘
et tu Brute
’ expression. She had tried to explain that she was not abandoning him or doubting his integrity, merely accepting
what she was powerless to change. She had clung to the belief that he had understood this even as Sergeant Talith had lifted the case from her. ‘I’ll see he gets what he needs,’ he’d said and she knew he would check its contents before letting her son have it.
She felt even more weary as the radio alarm clicked on at
six-thirty
– far too early. But she showered anyway, had two cups of coffee and an orange juice, put on her smartest black skirt, knee-high boots, a white long-sleeved T-shirt and pressed Callum’s one and only smart jacket – apart from his blazer which was now bagged up and heading for forensics. She consoled herself with cups of tea until at eight-fifteen she drove to the courthouse. Wesley Stephenson greeted her on the steps. One of her newfound friends. Silently she handed him the bag of clothes.
It was hard not to cry out as Callum was brought to the bench, flanked by the same two police officers as yesterday, Talith and Roberts – two more names which would become more familiar. Shelley looked at her son anxiously. His face was white, his eyes sunken into his face and she knew that he had not slept through the long hours of the night either.
There were three magistrates, one a chairwoman, tall and thin with sharp, angular features and a brisk, jerky manner, squaring up the papers noisily. Before speaking she eyed Callum up severely over the top of a pair of very large and heavy-looking glasses which had sunk down her nose leaving a permanent dent and some thin, blue, broken veins.
Briskly she explained to the police, his solicitor and to him, that Callum Hughes was charged with attempted murder and
that his case would be heard at Shrewsbury Crown Court in due time. In the meantime he was refused bail and would be taken on remand to Stoke Heath Young Offenders’ Institute until his case was heard. She advised the police and Stephenson that they should assemble their cases for both defence and prosecution with great care and minimise this first offender’s time spent in such uncertainty. Fifteen minutes later it was all over; efficient, brisk and businesslike with a complete absence of emotion.
Shelley was almost breathless with the speed of it all. By ten-thirty her son’s immediate fate had been sealed. Callum shot a desperate look at his mother.
She was powerless. There was nothing she could do to help him. He was led from the courtroom.
Wesley Stephenson had set aside a room for her to spend some time alone with her son before his transfer and the minute she entered the dingy room Callum’s desperation touched her. He was sitting in the corner, looking out of the window which overlooked a brimming car park full of drivers cruising for a space.
‘What’ll happen to me, Mum?’
She sat very close to him so she could speak very softly. ‘I don’t know.’
‘How long do you think they’ll bang me up for?’
She knew that the slang phrase was his attempt at bravado but instead of reassuring her it had the effect of making her want to cry. The words sounded pathetic coming from his lips. He was not a tough boy. He didn’t look one and he couldn’t act one and this made her fear for him.
‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ she said. ‘If they say what DreadNought was really like maybe it won’t be for long.’
‘What’ll happen to you,’ he asked next. ‘People’ll talk.
You
might have trouble.’
She made an attempt at a smile. ‘Now that’s one thing I can deal with. I’m used to trouble, Call. Me and trouble are old friends.’ The way he looked at her made her think that her attempt at bravado was no more convincing than his.
Paul Talith stuck his head round the door. ‘Delays on the Group 4,’ he said. ‘Van won’t be here till late on this afternoon. You can stay till lunchtime, Mrs Hughes, but after that we’ll have to take him back to Monkmoor to wait for it.’
She nodded and Talith closed the door.
It was the wrong time now to say that she wished it hadn’t happened, that she wished none of it had happened, not the bullying nor the deed itself. Instead she did her best to cheer him up. ‘Mr Stephenson says you won’t be in for long, Call,’ she said. ‘He says Stoke Heath’s all right.’ She made another brave attempt at a smile. ‘He says it’s quite civilised.’ She stretched out one hand to touch his shoulder. ‘I’ll come and visit you in Stoke Heath. Every week. You’ll get sick of the sight of me, Call. I’ll bring you things. You’ll probably see more of me there than normal. It’s not the ends of the earth, is it?’ But Callum was staring out of the window at the rows of cars glinting in the September sunshine. His face was frozen.
‘What’s it going to be like,’ he asked, ‘not to be able to just walk out of the door and go where you want?’
She couldn’t speak.
‘What’s it like to be locked up every night? To have no choice – no freedom?’
She tried to say something helpful but for once words failed her. There was nothing she could think of to console him.
‘Mum’, he said desperately, his hands shaking. ‘I can’t go there. I can’t do it. I just can’t.’
Shelley glanced at the doorway. Plainly visible were the figures of two policemen. Standing guard. ‘There’s nothing I can do, Call,’ she said.
She was fighting back the tears. Call was right. He did not belong here. She wanted to take him home. For nothing she would have beaten back the guards single-handedly, and taken him away from here. Instead all she had to offer were platitudes. ‘Stoke Heath isn’t far,’ she said again. She tried to laugh. It came out as a bray. ‘You’ll see too much of me. More than when you’re at home. We’ll sit and have chats. Talk. Just watch. I’ll bring in cigarettes and video games and all sorts of stuff. The time’ll fly, Call. It isn’t long. Just hang on in there.’
‘Why would you bring in fags,’ he asked curiously. ‘I don’t even smoke. I’m not even old enough.’
‘Maybe buy you a few pals,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring you in some books as well. They said you can have a telly and a DVD player. Maybe even a computer as well. The time’ll pass quick,’ she said again. ‘Just think what you’re going to say when it comes to court. Listen to Mr Stephenson and take all the help you can.’
Her anguish was threatening to engulf her.
‘Mum,’ he said again urgently, ‘you’re not pickin’ up on me. I can’t do it.’
‘You haven’t got any choice, Call,’ she said. ‘It’s the law. You can’t fight that. It’s the law.’
But when she watched him being loaded in the back of the
police van she felt as though her control would break. She watched the white van with its high, secure windows, swing out of the car park. One or two reporters held flash cameras high up and tried to catch a picture.
For a while she stood on the court steps, paralysed, watching the spot where the van had left. People passed her by and eyed her curiously. But they were used to dramas being played out on the court steps. No one accosted her.
Finally the doors swung open and Wesley Stephenson came down the steps, two at a time.
‘I’ve been having a talk with the police, Shelley,’ he said. ‘Callum’s a first offender. He’s no previous record at all. With a bit of luck –
if
we can persuade some of Roger Gough’s gang to testify about the bullying and particularly if the teacher, Mr Farthing, is willing to speak up, he might not be in for long. Let’s look on the bright side, and hope that Roger Gough makes a swift and full recovery. If we can expose the bullying they may well reduce the charge to GBH. That’s our best chance.’
She managed a watery smile, knowing that Stephenson was doing his very best.
He clapped her on the shoulder and moved on, to his car, out of the car park, home to his family.
Shelley watched bitterly. It was all right for some. She called in at the newsagent’s at the bottom of the Lord Hill monument and caught the early edition of the
Shropshire Star
.
Much as she’d expected, she thought.
Call had made the headlines. There was plenty about young thugs and antisocial behaviour. ASBOs were the Government’s latest mantra and Hughes, aged thirteen, fitted
the bill perfectly. From being an unknown he had become an object of hatred in just a few hours. A meteoric rise to infamy.
Nothing, she noted bitterly, as she scanned down the page, about retaliation, nothing about bullying in schools or the need for some targeted youngsters to protect themselves because no one else would. There was nothing but condemnation.
Unprovoked attack
. The words mocked her from the page. She wanted to set the record straight publicly and knew she might not have the opportunity. She dropped the paper into the bin.
Callum was sick in the back of the truck. He’d always been a bad traveller but the rocking motion together with the confinement on top of the stress all preyed on him so he vomited into a sick bag again and again until his stomach was empty.
The security guard was sympathetic. He handed him a clean bag. ‘Get a bit of travel problems myself,’ he said. ‘Nasty, ain’t it?’
Callum eyed him suspiciously. From now on everyone was an enemy.
The sun was sinking behind the horizon by the time they arrived at the main entrance of Stoke Heath. Callum heard the great gates swing open and clang behind him. He heard it echo round and round his head and knew the sound would stay with him even if the place was silent.
Suddenly the doors were flung open and an arc light shone in. Callum stared out. The entire courtyard was floodlit. He would soon learn that no corner was to be left dark. There
would be no hiding place; no crevices under stones. Young Offenders’ Institutes are not designed to be pleasant places but to confine and re-educate, teach the young hoodlums the error of their ways. On the other hand they are not as intimidating as adult prisons.
The security guards stood up with him and patted him on the back. As Callum stepped out of the van two prison officers stepped forward. The first one, Stevie Matthews, small, plump, with straight, dark hair, was new on the job. This was only her third day. This was her first transfer and her first ever stint of night duty.
Her colleague, however, was a different case altogether. Walton Pembroke, craggy-faced, cynical, a world-weary divorced father of three girls, had thirty years of service behind him. He was one of the old school. Rough and tumble. Shove ’em around a bit. A don’t-let-them-have-the-
upper-hand
sort of a guy. Stevie was learning all the tricks from her senior. Walton Pembroke was a man feared by many. And not just the inmates. Heavy and ponderous, with a beer-drinker’s belly and bloodshot blue eyes, he supported the old values. He knew all the tricks of the sly little bastards. He knew where they slipped their drugs, where the beatings happened, what they’d smuggled in via long kisses from their sweethearts or firm handshakes from their mates outside. He knew those that were on the fiddle, those who pushed drugs. He knew the queens and the straight, the sexually predatory and their victims, those who masturbated alone and the ones who cried for their mothers into their pillows at night. He could recognise at thirty paces the racially prejudiced and the oddballs. He could recognise all the breaking points, spot the
ones who were likely to erupt at any time. He had seen all sorts of trouble and knew all the warning signs. Those who had been in Stoke Heath more than once anticipated him without relish. He was physically strong, not above taking the odd swipe and he took no shit from any of them. He’d classified Callum Hughes before he’d even stepped out of the security van. Scared wimp. Victim. Mummy’s boy. It was written all over the boy’s face. He waited until the boy had stumbled a few paces towards him before barking, ‘Stand away from me, legs apart. Head up. Now you look at me, son.’
Orders – it was all orders.
Callum looked fearfully into the screw’s face.
But I am terrified of Fritz, the hideous, whom I do not hate.
In the same instant that the security van was driving through the gates of Stoke Heath, Martha was turning into the drive of the Albright Hussey, a hotel to eat in when you want to experience luxurious surroundings and good food.
Timber-framed
with a tall, brick extension built a hundred years after the original, it is on the Ellesmere road out of Shrewsbury, near Battlefield – the site of the bloody conflict between Harry Hotspur and Henry IV in 1404. Modern day Shrewsbury sits comfortably on its history. It was not cheap enough for a young family to eat here regularly so she and Martin had saved it for very special occasions. She parked in front of the half- timbered wing, locked up and pushed the door open.
She was having dinner with a friend. Simon Pendlebury had been an old university friend of Martin’s while his wife, Evelyn, had been Martha’s friend. Simon had been a mystery
to both of them. He was an accountant – or financial advisor whose income seemed to have grown exponentially and inexplicably since he had graduated. Six months ago Evelyn had died of ovarian cancer and since then he had taken to ringing Martha up every now and again and inviting her out to dinner. It was less a romance than a casual friendship with the bond that they had both lost their partners. Martha and Evelyn had been close friends, particularly after Martin’s death, and Simon missed her badly. Since losing his wife Simon had grown more sympathetic. Perhaps sensing that she would be missing Sam he had invited her to dinner for her first night after he had gone.