Cath Staincliffe - Witness

He bought half an ounce of Golden Virginia and some Rizlas, a bottle of Lambrini. In the shop they were talking about the murder. Zak didn’t want to hear it. Made him remember the way Carlton had looked at him, trapped in the window. And if Carlton knew Zak had seen him shoot, what then? He’d be coming after Zak before too long – to shut him up.

He was living in an old house near Plattfields Park. Not on the council estate but the other side of Wilmslow Road. The place was scheduled for demolition, chain link fencing and warning signs. Zak wasn’t much of a reader but he could tell what the red and white sign with the picture of an Alsatian meant. And he knew it was just for show. Any hint of a real guard dog and Bess would have let on.

There was a gap below the fencing at one side where a part of the low garden wall had collapsed. He only needed to shove some bricks aside to wriggle under and Bess had followed.

The house was full of damp and the garden thick with saplings and brambles. Now they were in leaf and hid most of the building. It looked blind: sheets of chipboard nailed over the windows and doors. When he first found it, he could see they’d been there a good while. Broken guttering poured rainwater on to the sheet over the side door and the wood had gone black and green with mould, the bottom swelling with rot.

It hadn’t taken Zak much effort to work one edge loose, lumps of wood crumbling off like Weetabix and woodlice scurrying away. A couple of kicks had got him through the brittle door behind.

Now, when he came and went, he could swing the chipboard out a couple of feet and push it back in place. From any distance the property still looked secure.

No electrics so it was pitch dark day and night, and full of creepy crawlies, but it was safer than the streets.

Zak had nicked some candles from the health food shop. Big, fat yellow ones that burned for hours. The driest room was at the back. The old dining room. He’d got his sleeping bag in there and there was a massive fireplace where he could burn stuff. The smoke came back in the room but it was worth it to see the flames dancing and feel the glow of heat. The place was stone cold even now in summer and come winter he thought it’d be unbearable. Unless he got hold of some sort of arctic clothing, bearskin or summat, like explorers use. He’d have to move on. Maybe find out if his mam was sorted out now and move back there.

Zak had never been upstairs. Part of the staircase had come down and there was no easy way up. The floors were probably all rotten up there. The first night he’d heard noises upstairs. Come awake so sudden, Bess had growled, picking up on his fear. He’d listened awhile. Scratching sounds. He didn’t think it was rats or he’d see them downstairs too and Bess would have been after them. Maybe squirrels? Or pigeons in the roof.

Even with its gloom and damp he liked the vibe of the house. He liked to imagine it full of people. A family and all their mates. Bess by the fire or under the table when they sat down to eat. Plates piled high. And a swing in the garden and a Christmas tree, a real one in the corner.

He’d shifted Christmas trees last winter. A mate of Midge’s had a batch going for a song. Midge did him a sign on cardboard and the mate dropped them off at dawn, on the corner where a lot of commuters would be driving past into work in town. Norway Spruce, they were. £25 for five foot. Undercut all the other outlets. They were bound up tight, easy to slide on to a roof rack or in a car.

‘Just don’t let ’em open them,’ Midge’s mate warned him.

‘Why’s that?’

He tapped his nose. ‘And any you don’t shift, just leave ’em. No returns.’

Zak had sold nineteen by eleven thirty. Made a shedload of dosh. He left the last one for himself. Levelled it on his shoulder and walked back to the place he was staying. A little terrace in Fallowfield. The small bedroom at the back. No room for a tree there, and all the other rooms full of blokes over from Bulgaria, sharing three or four to a room, but he could stick it in the yard. He left it while he went to Aldi, got some decorations and a fairy, some stuff like Bailey’s seeing as it was that time of year.

He’d taken the tree out and cut off the netting and stood it up. Stared at it and heard the laughter from the kitchen doorway behind him, two of the lads. One of them slapping his knees and wheezing. Zak stared at it. Branches at the top lush and green and a skirt the same round the bottom. In between a naked trunk. A great gap where the middle should be like something had eaten the best bit.

He carried on. Put the baubles on top and bottom, left the tinsel hanging down to fill the hole. All the while the men almost hysterical behind him. Better than nothing. They shared a toast with him once he’d set the fairy on top.

Now he lit a candle, fed Bess and rolled a joint. Drank some of the Lambrini. Grew sleepy. He slid into his sleeping bag and Bess padded over to join him. She circled a couple of times then plumped down, stretched out by his side. Head on her paws. Zak always left the candle going, to take the sting out of the darkness. Not enough to see much by but he wanted the light to stop the dreams. That and the booze. It didn’t always work. It could happen any time, a beast with a gaping, black mouth, swallowing him down, where it was suffocating and cold and no one could hear him crying.

His bones ached, an icy, needling pain too deep to reach. Scars from the crash. He didn’t like to think about that. It didn’t do any good thinking about that. When they lifted him out and he was yelping with the pain. The look in their eyes: he knew it was bad, he must be very bad. And one of the men turned away, Zak saw his nose redden and his mouth tremble and saw the man was crying. Then Zak had wanted to cry too but his tears didn’t work any more.

He closed his eyes and imagined the house on a summer’s day, a barbecue in the garden. Zak flipping burgers and Bess waiting for any crumbs. His mam at the table with all the others, catching his eye and smiling at him.

Zak drifted off to sleep. Met his dreams. Found himself running, darting, dodging. The mud sucking him under. Stones thudding into him. Twitching and jerking as he slept. His restless movements echoed by the dog at his side.

Fiona

Fiona was rarely ill and Owen didn’t know how to react. She’d taken sick leave and explained everything to Shelley, who stressed that she was to have as long as she needed and not try and rush back to work.

Over tea that same day she told Owen. ‘So, I’m going to be at home and I’ve got some tablets from the doctor. I’ll be seeing a therapist as well.’

His face, what she could see of it, froze. His eyes met hers. Dismay. A slight curl to his lip.

‘Lots of people do,’ she said amused, ‘you don’t have to be bonkers. Have you any plans for the weekend?’ She changed the conversation, letting him off the hook.

‘Maybe Central.’ The indoor skate park in town. Skateboarding was the only active thing Owen showed any interest in, and because it got him up and away from his video games she supported him to the hilt. That meant shelling out for all the gear as well as the boards and fittings. The bulky shoes with their lurid patterns (Etnies, Vans, DCs), the fluorescent belts and garish socks, the particular brands of hooded jackets.

And of course the hair, straight and dark. Owen’s natural colour was mid-brown but now he dyed it black with Fiona’s assistance. She helped him apply it, wiped the splodges from his neck and ears, reminded him when twenty-five minutes was up. How much longer would he let her help? ‘Have you got homework?’ she asked him.

Owen shrugged.