Cath Staincliffe - Witness

‘You’d rather they went hungry?’ She was riled, her eyes sparking a warning.

‘No,’ he protested.

‘Well then?’

‘Just do it!’ He flung a hand at the school meals form, pushed away from the table and walked to the fridge.

‘Bit early, isn’t it?’ Her voice tight as he opened the door.

Swearing, Mike slammed it shut, the fridge rocking, bottles and jars inside clanking.

That he should come to this. A man unable to feed and clothe his children. After years of solid hard work, careful budgeting. Years of being prudent and reliable, responsible and honest – and for what? Now he couldn’t even provide for his family.

The dole officer had the decency to be honest with Mike about the prospects. Over fifty people chasing every vacancy, more if it was above minimum wage.

‘Anything you can do to improve your profile would help.’

He gave Mike leaflets and offered him a special assessment interview. The lad was friendly, polite and sympathetic but they both knew he was on a hiding to nothing with Mike.

Mike’s dad had been on the dole for a couple of years back in the eighties. He’d become depressed and irritable, carping at Mike’s mum about the meals she scraped together, bossing Mike about more than usual. He was in danger of turning into his father. An appalling thought.

Danny Macateer’s murder was on Crimewatch . They showed a re-enactment, and some of what Mike had told Joe Kitson was repeated.

‘I told them that-’ he turned to Vicky – ‘about the car, the colour of the guy’s clothes.’ He’d a sense of delight, a glow of excitement, daft but there all the same.

Vicky looked like he’d slapped her.

‘What?’

Kirsty Young on the telly was talking about how someone must know something, asking them to pick up the phone.

‘The reason no one’s come forward is because it’s a gang thing,’ Vicky said.

‘The lad wasn’t in a gang, they said that all along,’ Mike told her.

‘But those that did it are, and no one will dare say anything. If they do they’ll be punished.’

‘It’s not right.’ He shook his head, not seeing where she was going with it.

‘What if they come after you?’

‘Me? Don’t be thick!’

‘Listen.’ Her face was white, naked. ‘That’s what they do. They have ways of finding out who’s a witness and then they get to them.’

‘What ways?’ He couldn’t believe this.

She closed her eyes tightly, her fists balls of fury. ‘It doesn’t matter what ways, they just do.’

‘Suddenly you’re an expert on gang crime?’

‘Everyone knows!’ Her voice grating. ‘They’ll threaten you, make you stop.’

‘No,’ he argued, putting his hand on her knee trying to calm her. She shoved it away.

‘They could.’ She was taut, ready to snap.

‘Vicky.’ He caught her hand, held it between his own. ‘They’ve not even charged anyone yet. They’re still appealing for help. It means they haven’t got enough to pick the bloke up, not enough evidence. People like us don’t get targeted; he won’t know us from Adam.’ He spoke faster as she tried to interrupt, emphasizing his words, as if the right stresses could force her to change her mind. ‘But until there’s a trial there’s no risk at all. The only reason they’d put the frighteners on someone would be to stop them testifying, and then it’d only be those people they knew. Others in the neighbourhood, families and that. And there is no trial.’ He bent his head, forcing eye contact, her hand warm in his. ‘There probably never will be. Okay?’

She gave a half nod, nothing wholehearted but enough to make him relieved. On the television, the team had moved on to an armed robbery.

‘I can put another channel on.’ He held up the remote.

‘I’m not bothered, now,’ Vicky said.

Mike applied for every job going. He used the advice he got from the lad at the Jobcentre and drew up a CV. He worked out a batch of answers to use for the various questions like: What do you think you could contribute to our company? What are your strongest qualities? and Tell us about your hobbies and pastimes . Why some manager in a call centre had the faintest interest in Mike’s hobbies was beyond him but he played the game. He didn’t get any interviews.

Some mornings he went to the local library, read the newspapers. Every two weeks he had to go in and sign on and have a jobsearch review: give evidence of three steps he had taken each week to prove he was actively seeking work. It was better than in his dad’s time when they queued like cattle at the dole office every week and were viewed with suspicion and condescension by the staff. Mike had gone with his dad once. The place had been full of people whose lives were fragmenting or already in chaos. The air was sour with the reek of poverty, unwashed bodies and clothes, cigarettes and alcohol. The kids there were wild with boredom, their antics prompting the parents to lash out with angry slaps. The men were crazed with frustration, some of them tanked up already. A fight had kicked off and the clerks had sealed themselves in the back and the security guards turfed everyone out until things were sorted again. They filed back in, queued again and finally got seen by some pinch-faced woman whose attitude suggested she tarred them all with the same brush. The feckless, the undeserving poor.

Where Mike signed on now was a purpose-built facility with brightly upholstered chairs, wooden coffee tables, counter staff trained to smile. The culture had shifted even if some of the clients looked like those Mike remembered: the long-term unemployed, the very poor, the ill-equipped. The rest were a hotch-potch: men and women like Mike slung out of work after half a lifetime never missing a day, professional types with their shiny shoes and crisp shirts, or students highly qualified and hungry for a job. But even with the carpeted floors and the computer terminals and the fancy logos Mike felt the desperation among the people forced between its doors. He hated the place and how it made him feel.

A month after the Crimewatch appeal, and Vicky had taken on more clients. Mike now walked Megan to school and picked her up, while Vicky drove Kieran in. She’d got extra work from two residential care homes for the elderly. The Perms, she called them. They all wanted the same hair. ‘Will we be the same?’ she asked Mike one Saturday teatime as she got back. ‘Well, you’ll be bald, but will I suddenly want to look like my grandma?’

‘Bald?’

‘Thinning on top, now.’ She nodded at his head. ‘Ten years be nothing left.’

‘You going off me?’

‘Never.’

‘Prove it,’ he said.

‘Now? The kids are in the garden.’

‘A quickie?’

She rolled her eyes but the smile breaking on her face gave him his answer.

It was on the local news, after the national headlines. A reward had been offered for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Danny Macateer’s killers. Vicky turned to watch on her way out of the room with the dustpan and brush. Mike saw the tension grip her shoulders, saw her lift her chin. But she said nothing. He thought of the shooter, the man he’d seen raising the gun. Was he watching this? Did it make him feel big? Was he sure he could keep people quiet, confident no one would dare speak out and he’d get away with it, or was there that little bit of him waiting for a knock on his door?

He didn’t deserve to get away with it. Scum like that. Whatever Vicky thought, if the police caught him then Mike would be there like a shot. Swearing on the Bible, saying his piece. Doing all he could to help put the guy inside for life.