Cath Staincliffe - Witness

He spun on his heels and began to retrace his steps but one of them noticed him. He heard a yell, a ripple of sounds, the threat in the air like electricity, pricking his skin and pressing inside his skull.

He picked up speed but heard the air move behind him, the whirr of wheels, the clatter of gears.

‘Oy, dosser.’

‘Eh, tramp.’

Then the thud of something on his back. The rattle of a can hitting the road. A gale of laughter.

He turned now, pulling Bess in front of him, his hand in her collar.

‘You got a light?’ The lad had a shaved head, skin the colour of porridge, his neck was a mix of fuzzy tattoos and angry pimples. Zak stared. Stupid question, he knew it wasn’t a light they wanted.

‘Yeah.’

Zak pulled out his lighter, tossed it to the guy who caught it, dropped it, drove his heel down on to it and mashed it into the ground. ‘Whoops!’ He grinned. There were brown lines on his teeth. ‘What else you got?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Empty your pockets.’ A ginger lad, freckly. They’d no fear of Bess, barely cast her a glance. How could they tell she was soft? If he had a pit bull would they have left him alone?

Zak brought out his tobacco in one hand, a twist of draw, all he had left, in the other.

‘Wacky backy,’ the Asian guy said. He let his bike drop, stepped up to Zak. He had a scar by his eye, the line paler, puckered. He took the tobacco and the draw. ‘And the rest,’ he said.

‘That’s it.’ Zak could smell the guy’s aftershave, the sweat beneath it.

‘Phone,’ the first guy commanded.

‘I need my phone.’ Zak tried to keep calm, like it was a fact not an argument. ‘My mam, she needs it to keep in touch with me.’

‘His mam,’ jeered the Asian lad.

‘Mummy’s boy, is he,’ the ginger lad said. Then spat on the floor.

‘She’s in hospital. A big operation.’

‘Give it here.’ The Asian lad moved closer. Zak pulled his phone out. That raised a laugh. Old and scratched, chunky too, the sort you couldn’t give away.

The Asian lad threw it to Ginger who rode off down the road with it before coming back and chucking it to the one with the tattoos. He peered at it, pressed some buttons. ‘Let’s have a chat to Mummy, then.’

Zak felt his bowels loosen with fear and a sullen rage burn his gullet. ‘She’s on the ward,’ he said. ‘Her phone’ll be off. Give it here.’

‘No can do,’ the guy said. Then he lost interest. Dropped the phone and positioned the front wheel of his bike on top of it, then lifted and slammed the bike down. The phone skittered off across the tarmac. One of the others, the one who hadn’t done much, put his bike down and got the phone. Dropped it down the drain. ‘You should upgrade.’

They howled with laughter. Before they stopped, the Asian guy had punched Zak hard and he was falling backwards. Bess was barking. The others moved in. The next blow caught his ear. He rolled away, curling as small as he could, his arms trying to protect his head. A kick to his kidneys, one to his arse, pain rippling, throbbing. Black and red in his head.

Memories: metal on stone, the smell of his own dirt. His mouth was full of the bits again; chewy wisps of thread and the rigid shavings of rubber. The flavour of soil and sweat and elastic bands. Sometimes the tang of blood. Some of his teeth had gone. His gums were sore. In the daytime a band of light spangled golden around the door. If he wriggled and stretched out his leg, a line of it would fall across his foot. A beam of warmth. But at night it was dark as soot.

Then the lads were gone. He heard them pedal away, jeers fading. He lay there, the grit stinging his cheek, trembling and nauseous. They could have killed him, another few kicks in the right place. He could be lying dead. Like Danny Macateer. Never see Bess again, never see his mam. A ruptured gut or a knife in the throat or a bullet in the back.

Slowly he got to his knees, nothing broken, though his ribs hurt when he took a breath and his wrist was killing. Bess licked his face. He should train her to fight, he thought, train her to rip their throats out, take their faces off. Maybe he should muzzle her, make her look vicious. Whip the muzzle off next time he was threatened. Get a gun. Something to scare the shit out of them.

When he was fully upright, his head spun and he was sick, a thin stream of bile, bitter as anything. His eyes stung, he rubbed them hard. He’d have to get a new phone.

He still had the twenty in his shoe. That was summat. He’d drop in on Midge, get a little something, a drink too. Long as Midge didn’t go on about the murder. He got his supply of drugs from Carlton, he’d be listening to all the gossip like the rest. Zak’s ear felt hot and wet; it was bleeding. He’d try the corner shop, they didn’t bother with a dress code. Serve anyone.

Could have been worse, he told himself. All the same he’d steer clear of this part of town for a while. No sense in asking for trouble. Wankers.

Fiona

It was the middle of autumn before Fiona saw the cognitive behaviour therapist. In the intervening weeks she experienced two full-blown panic attacks. The first was in the post office of all places.

She had assumed the sickening terror was linked to Danny’s death, the area it happened and by extension the car where the fear had first consumed her. So walking to the post office to pay her car tax hadn’t worried her in the slightest.

The post office wasn’t even noisy. But it was crowded and hot and cramped. A line of people snaked zigzag style in the cordoned-off aisles. There were two counters working but one clerk seemed to be stuck weighing a mountain of small packets for a customer. No one spoke and the air was tight with impatience. Fiona tried not to breathe in the stale smell coming off the elderly man in front of her. She could see the grime on the collar of his coat and the flakes of dandruff dotted through his hair. The woman behind her wore industrial-strength perfume which was even worse than the musty man smell.

Fiona felt herself gag. She cleared her throat then felt the ground tilt away, thick sweat broke along her hairline, on her scalp, under her arms. The fear came rolling like a wave, unstoppable, all-powerful, climbing her torso, robbing her of breath, of sense. She thought she would wet herself.

She turned abruptly, pushing past the queue, fighting her way to the door. Outside, she doubled over, her heart thundering in her ears, her mouth gummy.

‘You all right, love?’ A white-haired woman with a shopping trolley put her hand on Fiona’s arm. Fiona couldn’t reply, her throat was locked, her chest exploding. She knew there was something she should do, something to remember, but her mind was tangled.

Suddenly her stomach heaved and she vomited on to the pavement. The woman took a step back. ‘You’d better go home.’

Fiona gulped, nodded, her mouth sour, her nose and throat stinging from the acid.

‘Can you manage?’

Fiona coughed. Her breath came fast, rapid. Stars bursting in her eyes, then she remembered: breathe slowly . Joe’s words, the policeman. Fiona tried to master her breath. Took a sip, shuddered, took another tiny sip. Little bird breaths.

The woman frowned.

‘I’ll be all right, thanks,’ Fiona managed. The woman wasn’t convinced but she gave a quick nod and set off with her trolley. Fiona sipped again. Waited until she felt able to move. Then walked home, her legs unsteady, her breath rank.

You might never have another , the cardiologist had said. Liar, thought Fiona, and now what?

Almost as great as the fear of a repeat attack was the dread of becoming housebound. She could live without town and shopping (there was the internet for that) and even without work, which had surprised her as she’d always loved her job, but not being able to walk the fields and the woods, or set out along by the river: to lose that would be intolerable. So the afternoon of the post office meltdown, even though she still felt sick and scalded, she forced herself to go out with Ziggy.