Cath Staincliffe - Witness

Cheryl

Nana hadn’t been feeling too good. She took herself off to the doctor’s and when she came back she told Cheryl that they were sending her for tests.

Cheryl felt something twist inside her. ‘What kind of tests?’

‘I don’t know, I ain’t no doctor. They just want to check all is as it should be. I’s not getting any younger.’ Nana was folding and unfolding a tea-towel. Cheryl wanted to grab her hands, stop her.

‘I could come with you,’ Cheryl offered, feeling clumsy, not sure how to be.

Nana sucked her teeth and told her she could manage just fine, fine and dandy. ‘Could be weeks, they said, for the appointment.’

Milo fell over, stumbled backwards and bumped his head on the corner of the couch. All cushioned there – so he was fussing more than hurt. Cheryl scooped him up, kissed his cheeks. ‘Hi, Nana, say hi!’ she coached him, swinging him towards Nana.

Nana clapped her hands. ‘Here’s Milo.’ She stroked the child’s face. ‘It’s still dry,’ she said to Cheryl. ‘You taking him out?’

‘Storytime at the library then maybe the park.’

‘Good. Get some bread on the way back.’

‘And milk?’

‘Yes.’ Nana went to her bag.

‘I’ve got some,’ Cheryl said. ‘My benefit’s in.’

Nana nodded, took a coin from her bag anyway, gave it to her. ‘Get him an ice-cream or something.’

Cheryl sat with Milo and half a dozen other mums and toddlers on the carpet in the children’s section. The librarian, Maeve, made the story come alive, even for the littlest ones who were more inclined to crawl away or try to eat the books. She pointed out the details in the big picture book, repeated the simple sentences and encouraged any and all contributions from the children. Each week she finished with some action rhymes which the mothers could repeat at home: ‘Pat-a-Cake’, ‘Incy Wincy Spider’, ‘Five Little Speckled Frogs’ and ‘The Wheels on the Bus’.

Milo crooned along, shouting loudly the words at the end of each line.

When the session was over, Cheryl hung around until the rest had gone then asked Maeve if she could book on to one of the computers. Maeve scanned her card, put her on terminal two and told her to yell if she needed any help. Cheryl picked out a couple of board books for Milo, nothing he could rip up, and settled him at her feet.

She launched the browser then glanced about: someone else on a computer further along, a couple of people scanning the fiction section and three students working at the tables. No one near enough to see.

Cheryl typed in the search bar and hit enter. She felt the skin on her arms tighten and her stomach shrink as the results appeared. Sitting up straighter she clicked the link to the Greater Manchester Police website. Danny’s name was there on the right under Featured Appeals .

Weeks had turned into months and Cheryl had waited for things to change. For the raw, tarnished feeling she had, like she’d done something awful, to evaporate but it remained. It took the shine off everything. It made her throat ache, like she wanted to cry and couldn’t. It had taken her long enough to accept it was because of Danny, because she had no guts, no honour, she was just like everyone else, weak and useless. There were times she hated Nana for her certainty and her principles and her preaching. Knowing she couldn’t match up, came nowhere close.

Cheryl swallowed, she pressed her knees together and followed the link. There was Danny’s picture, the same one that had hung over his coffin at the memorial service. Cheryl read the text.

Sixteen-year-old Danny Macateer should have been starting his A-level studies this September but on Sunday 20 June Danny was shot once in the chest as he crossed the recreation ground by Booth Street in Hulme. He was taken to hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival.

Detectives have renewed their call for people to come forward with information about Danny’s murder. They are keen to speak to two men witnessed at the scene in a silver BMW. To date neither the car nor the gun used in the shooting have been recovered.

The promising music student was on his way to a band rehearsal when he was gunned down. His twin sister has spoken of the terrible gap that has been left in her life and that of Danny’s family. At an emotional memorial service, teachers, friends and relatives queued up to pay tribute to the boy who had so much to look forward to.

Detective Inspector Joe Kitson, who is leading this investigation, said: ‘We know that there were several people out that Sunday afternoon who may well have seen the car, or the men who carried out this devastating attack. If you were in the area please tell us what you saw, even if it seems insignificant, as it could be crucial for our inquiry.

‘We need your help to find Danny’s killers and bring his family some justice. If you are afraid to come forward for any reason I would like to reassure you that we have protective measures in place so no one ever needs to know who you are.’

A £20,000 reward is available for anyone who provides information leading to the conviction of Danny’s killers.

Twenty thousand. More than Cheryl would ever see in a year but not enough for someone to move away, buy a house, start a new life. Blood money.

‘Okay?’ The voice made her jump; she hit the mouse, closed the browser and swivelled to see Maeve, whose arms were full of books.

‘Fine,’ Cheryl replied, her heart bucketing in her chest, a feeling like bubbles popping in her veins.

‘Good.’ Maeve smiled, moved away.

Cheryl took a moment, waiting for her heart to slow, then went back to the site. There were two numbers at the bottom of the appeal, one for the police and the other for Crimestoppers. She could tip them off, just give them Carlton and Sam’s names, no more than that but it might be enough for the police, enough to stop Cheryl feeling so shabby. She got out her phone, checked she wasn’t being observed and then stored the first number in her contacts list. Her fingers felt thick, uncoordinated, and she kept making mistakes.

‘Woof.’ Milo had found a picture of a dog.

‘Yes, woof.’ Cheryl nodded at him.

She opened the Safety menu on the browser and deleted her browsing history. Logged off.

Outside there was a strong wind and the clouds above, big dimpled shapes, were moving fast. It looked like it would stay dry. Cheryl persuaded Milo into his buggy and buckled him up.

A shadow fell over her from behind. ‘All right, Cheryl?’

Carlton! She rose, losing her balance. He shot out an arm, catching her elbow. ‘Easy now.’ He smiled, a quick easy glint of white teeth, one gold cap. Carlton was a big man, pumped up from time spent at the gym and the regular use of steroids, according to Vinia. He wore a plain white tee and a thin leather and linen jacket, double-breasted, elaborate, expensive. His trainers were gold Pumas, like the ones Usain Bolt, the fastest runner in the world, won the Olympics in.

He let go of her elbow. ‘Where ya bin hiding?’

Cheryl laughed. ‘No place.’ What if he took her phone? Found the number? ‘Just taking Milo to Storytime.’

‘Ya don’t come round no more.’

When she did use to call on Vinia he’d leched her with his eyes, passed ripe comments, smacking his lips. It made her squirm. She’d always made sure to stick close to Vinia, not be caught alone with him.

Cheryl felt the hairs on her arms rise. She knew she must be very careful, and sly and sweet. ‘Responsibilities now. No partying no more.’

‘That right?’ He locked his eyes on hers. His were bright, glassy, a seed of anger sharpening them. She forced a glow into her own, giggled, girlish.

‘Milo, he keeps me busy.’ She edged aside a little so Carlton could see her son.