Cath Staincliffe - Witness

‘You’re sure?’

‘Completely.’

‘Thank you.’

The woman stopped filming. Then Fiona had to answer several questions and her answers were recorded on forms: when and where she had seen the man, how close she had been, whether her view had been obstructed and so on.

Joe met her afterwards. He had already spoken to the man conducting the identification.

‘How did I do?’ Fiona asked.

‘Very well,’ Joe smiled. ‘You identified Sam Millins. He’s known to us already and his name is high on the list for this inquiry.’

She soaked up his air of satisfaction. She wanted to please him. ‘Were there other witnesses?’ she asked.

Joe nodded. ‘One, so far. We hope there will be others.’

‘In the paper, they talk about people being afraid to talk to the police.’

He sighed. ‘That’s our biggest problem.’

She told him about Carmen Johnson: how the new mum turned Fiona away, unwilling to be associated with her.

After Joe had dropped her home, Fiona found herself wondering about him: whether he was married and had children, what he did outside work. And whether she would see him again.

Cheryl

The tradition was to celebrate the one who had passed for nine nights. No one seemed to know why it was that number, not even Nana who usually couldn’t shut up about the old country customs back in Jamaica.

The Macateer house was full of people. Some had come up from London and Bristol and Birmingham, branches of the family Cheryl didn’t even know. It wasn’t just for family either, everyone in the community turned up. No invitation needed. Some nights it was hard to figure out how they would all fit in: it wasn’t a big house. But they did and the food and the drinks kept coming. Plates of fried chicken and fish, curry and patties, rice and peas, loaves of white bread and big, fat sponge cakes.

The place was noisy with chatter and laughter, got raucous as the evenings deepened and more rum and Red Stripe was consumed. People sang old tunes, hymns, gospel, some nights they’d put music on and dance. Cheryl wondered how Auntie Paulette and Nadine and the others could stand it. Didn’t they want to grieve in peace?

‘That come later,’ said Nana, ‘after the funeral. All the time in the world they have then.’ She was up most nights, sitting beside her friend Rose, slipping to the kitchen to clear up paper plates or wash glasses. With so many there of Nana’s own age Cheryl saw her in a different light. She was the most outspoken, prickly even. She’d say a thing and then there’d be a pause and someone would cut their eyes at her but Nana would stand her ground. Little things or big, it didn’t seem to matter. She was loudest of all talking about what had happened to Danny and how shameful it was that people were running scared, keeping quiet. ‘Like a new set of chains, slaves to fear,’ she pronounced one night, just as Cheryl was preparing to head back home to put Milo to bed. Late already and Milo grizzling in her arms. Rose nodded at Nana’s words but other people murmured, disliking the sentiment. There were people in the room linked to Carlton, though neither he nor Vinia had been down. Auntie Paulette kept saying she didn’t want anyone at the funeral that was part of the gangs but the gangs weren’t a fixed thing. Not like joining the gym or enrolling at college. No membership cards or contracts. Some people were there for life, or death, calling the shots and making the money, but the younger kids might run an errand now and then, hide a gun or deliver a package. Might do a favour for a friend or a cousin and never a thing more. Others would start their own operation, something small that wouldn’t disrespect the main players. Most of the people in the room had a notion who’d killed Danny Macateer. And Cheryl knew for sure. Even though she hadn’t seen them fire the gun. It sat inside her like something rotten, a clump of dirt making her sick.

The day of the funeral was dull but dry, the sky a grey, wool blanket trapping the air which smelt of steel. Outside the church a crowd of reporters with cameras filmed everyone arriving. They kept a distance, behind the railings across the road, and they were quiet, though there was the click and flash and ding and sizzle as they took their pictures. The church was full, people standing at the back, and folding chairs brought out to create extra rows behind the pews. As people arrived there were greetings, men shaking hands and hugging each other, acquaintances waving, people who hadn’t met at the nine nights smiling in surprise and recognition. Cheryl’s heart kicked when she saw Vinia and her mother: had Carlton come? Of course not, he’d be a fool to do that for all his front.

Cheryl, Nana and Milo were three rows back, behind the immediate family who would follow the coffin into church. Above the altar hung a huge banner, a picture of Danny. It wasn’t a formal one, not a school photo or a pose from a family wedding, but something more relaxed. As if someone had just caught the moment: Danny, his head tilted a little, his eyes alive with merriment, his smile wide and open. The life in him! Danny Martin Macateer , read the words beneath in black edged with gold, 1993-2009 . It brought a lump to Cheryl’s throat, it hurt to swallow.

‘Who took the picture?’ she asked Nana, who’d been party to many of the arrangements.

‘Nadine.’

Cheryl wondered what it was like to lose a twin. Had they shared that special bond you read about? When Danny was shot, had Nadine felt it? Or sensed something really bad was going down? She’d been in church at the time, had she turned dizzy or felt a spike of pain pierce her heart?

Music started up, some piano sounding sweet and low, and the procession came down the central aisle. Reverend James and then Danny’s coffin, a huge bouquet on top, yellow roses, white lilies, green ferns and golden dahlias. The family followed and slid into their places. Cheryl could see Nadine’s back, the arch of her neck, the shape of her head, so like her brother’s.

There were prayers from the Reverend and readings from the Bible then testimonials. People queued up to speak about the boy, to make jokes, and share memories, read poems and quotes. Mr Gaunt, Danny’s music teacher, spoke and Mr Throstle the school head whose voice wavered towards the end of his praises. Danny’s uncle and his cousin took a turn, then another cousin. Danny’s band played a song he’d written, the little guy on the drums, his eyes red from weeping. Bobby Carr, the community leader, spoke about the peril that stalked the streets and the need for hope and vision, the need to take the guns from the hands of the boys who were lost and brutalized and deadly and give them work, hope, life. He promised Danny Macateer should not die in vain. Cheryl clamped her teeth tight together and felt the acid rise behind her breastbone, the sweat prickle around the edge of her hair.

Finally Nadine walked to the front. She looked a thousand years old, her eyes bottomless. She raised her face to speak then faltered, shook her head and covered her mouth. Murmurs of support echoed from the congregation. She tried again, her voice just audible. ‘This is how I remember Danny, my brother. His spirit is with me still. He will always be with me.’

A large screen to the left of the altar lit up and a cascade of images and music unfolded, fragments from Danny’s YouTube pieces, home movies, band practice. Danny fooling around, showing off, Danny concentrating, one arm rubbing the back of his neck, Danny singing, his eyes closed, mouth close to the mic, Danny trying to moonwalk, Danny with a wig on performing a speech from his drama course, opening a Christmas present. Laughing, head flung back, arms wide. The life shining from him. The picture froze and Reverend James thanked them all and invited them to the burial at Southern Cemetery.