Cath Staincliffe - Witness

The families had bought presents for the kids, too, of course and they’d had a big get-together at Vicky’s mum’s. Mike was glad when it was all over and they were back to routine. He hoped he’d get a break in the New Year; find a job, anything for now.

Then, a Wednesday in January, close to teatime, Vicky rang him. Her voice shaking. ‘Mike, we’ve been in an accident.’ Her and Kieran. She’d collected the boy after work, was coming home.

Mike went cold right through. ‘Are you okay? And Kieran? Are you hurt? What happened?’

‘We’re okay,’ she said. ‘They drove right into us, Mike, on Chester Road. They just drove right into us.’ Mike’s throat went dry. He could hear Kieran in the background. The repetitive noise he made when he was upset. Like a moan, half a word. A chant.

‘Who did?’ She didn’t answer. He thought they’d lost the connection. ‘Vicky? What about the other car? Have you called the police?’

‘They didn’t stop.’

‘Have you called the police?’

‘No. They just kept going, Mike.’

‘We still need to report it. We can claim, even if they didn’t stop. That car’s your livelihood.’

‘I don’t want to report it.’ Her voice was edgy. She carried on speaking, her voice lower. ‘It was a warning, Mike. Another warning.’

‘What?’

‘From the gangs. Because of you.’

Mike felt like his head was going to explode. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ He couldn’t think where to go with this and he hated the stream of fear in her voice. ‘Look, will it start?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where’s the damage?’

‘The back, the driver’s side.’

‘Try it. If it won’t start I’ll come and get you in a cab.’

He heard her breathing, then the sound of the engine turning over.

‘Have you got lights?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Check the brakes.’

‘Fine.’ Her voice trembled.

‘You feel all right to drive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. Any problems ring me back. Come home and we’ll talk.’

It wasn’t so much a talk, more of a rant. And Vicky didn’t even wait until the kids were out of earshot like she usually did. Laying into him about the risk he’d taken.

‘Vicky, wait.’ He held up a hand to stop the barrage of words. ‘It was an accident, that’s all. A road accident. Some prat too young to be behind the wheel, or off his head.’

‘It was a silver car,’ she said.

Mike wanted to laugh. ‘There are thousands of silver cars.’

She stared at him. Her lip trembling.

‘A BMW?’ he demanded.

She hesitated then said yes. He thought she was lying.

Megan was calling. ‘Mummy, Mummy.’ Wanting help getting her toy cooker out. The noise was a little drill in his head. Vicky was ignoring her. Kieran sat in the corner, zoned out.

He softened his voice. ‘You’re shaken up.’

‘Don’t try that,’ she snarled.

‘What?’

‘I know what happened, you weren’t there. First they break in and rob us, now they follow me.’

A dart of dread pricked in his belly. ‘They were following you!’ He couldn’t help the ridicule in his tone, didn’t know how else to deal with this fantasy.

‘They must have been.’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

‘They’re dangerous, Mike. They want to stop you. They drove us off the road.’

‘Mummeee!’ Megan began to scream.

Vicky’s face was all screwed up, her eyes shining, the glint of tears. ‘Next time they could kill us.’

‘Vicky.’ He couldn’t reason with her. Maybe when she calmed down. He turned away, went to pick up Megan, who was bawling now and kicking at the plastic cooker. ‘Here.’ He hoisted her up on to the crook of his arm, her face all wet and snotty. He got a tissue, wiped her face, turned her for a cuddle.

‘You’ve got to pull out,’ Vicky said. ‘For the kids. For me.’

Mike’s throat ached. He patted Megan on the back. She laid her head on his shoulder, the sobs had stopped.

‘The lad died, Vicky. I saw it. I told the police. That’s all there is to it.’

‘And you want us to be next?’ Spit landed on her chin.

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘That’s what’ll happen. Walk away.’

‘You’re upset.’

‘Stop telling me I’m upset. Course I’m bloody upset. Some gangster just piled into the car. The car with your wife and your son inside.’

‘It’s nothing to do with the gangs,’ Mike shouted and Megan started in his arms and began to grizzle again. ‘How would they know anything about me? My name, where I live, who you are? That’s confidential. Only the police know that. They haven’t even charged anyone yet. There may never be a trial.’

‘Someone could have seen you. When you were there, that day. Seen you giving your statement.’ Her breath was coming in little bursts, the words broken up. ‘Please, Mike!’

He couldn’t pull out. This meant so much. This was his chance to make things right. Payback. Like an exorcism, cancel out the time before. The time he’d said nothing, done nothing. Played it safe. He couldn’t change what had happened, but this time he’d been given the opportunity to stand up, to do the right thing.

‘They don’t know me,’ he insisted. ‘And if I did pull out how would they even know? What do you want me to do, string a bloody sheet up outside, Mike Sallis is a coward, Mike Sallis won’t be giving evidence?’ She had no answer to that. ‘This is all in your imagination, Vicky.’

‘What, I imagined getting rammed by a car, did I? I imagined swerving and nearly crashing?’

Megan wriggled in his arms, her cries getting louder. ‘Vicky, let’s talk later. It’s just coincidence. Bad luck.’

‘Why are you being like this?’ She spat the words at him.

He felt bile rise. Set Megan down, ignoring her howl of protest. He moved towards Vicky, his skin hot, his arms shaking. ‘I’m doing the right thing,’ he said tightly. ‘If one of our kids was hurt…’

Vicky flinched.

‘… I’d want people to come forward. Any decent man-’

‘Don’t talk to me about decent. What’s decent is protecting your own family, being a proper father and husband. There will be other witnesses. Let them do it.’

Mike shook his head. The thought of pulling out made him weak with shame. Like a dog sidling away, wriggling its back end, craven. He’d lived with that feeling all these years. Now another boy had died and he could pay penance. ‘You have to let me do this,’ he told her.

Her face hardened.

‘We can ask for protection, if that’ll make you feel safer. I can ring them now.’

She shook her head. Wiped her hand roughly at her face. ‘Your choice, Mike. If you carry on, you do it without us.’

Cheryl

Cheryl had made £30 doing nails that week. Not all profit if you counted the cost of the acrylics and the varnishes and everything. But still a welcome contribution to the household. The television licence had to be paid and even though Nana had been buying stamps at the post office towards the gas and electric, the bill was much bigger than last winter.

Milo got ill in the New Year; his temp high and him sleeping so much, Cheryl got really worried. She called the health visitor and asked her what to do. Flu and winter vomiting sickness were both in the news. The health visitor asked her a couple of questions about rashes and his neck (to rule out meningitis, she said) then told her to use Calpol and plenty of fluids and not to take him out. Nana saw how scared Cheryl was and told her Milo was a fine strong boy. She reminded Cheryl of how sick she had been when she caught glandular fever at the end of primary school. And how the only thing that would cheer her up was lying on the sofa watching the Rug Rats cartoon on telly.