Cath Staincliffe - Witness

He got the bus over to Longsight, got off on Dickie Road by the street market and walked along Stockport Road to Levenshulme. One or two places did seem derelict but when you looked closer you’d see movement inside, or steamed-up windows, and know better.

Zak’s feet were hurting. He’d got a blister on his little toe. It grew dark and began to rain, soft and fine like a net. He bought some Lambrini and tobacco and Mars bars and food for Bess. Then he found a cardboard box left out for the recycling. Off a new dishwasher. Still pretty dry. He took that and went up to Levenshulme train station. Once the platform was empty, he clambered down on to the tracks and underneath the platform where he could rig up a hidey hole. The cardboard flattened out was their bed. He’d have to get a sleeping bag sorted in the morning.

He slept fitfully. After eleven nothing stopped at the station but the trains ran all night; the vibration singing in his bones before he could even hear the engines, then the rattle and crash and roar and the dust as they came racing through. Freight trains. He couldn’t tell what they were carrying, some had old-fashioned trucks but others were long lines of containers, some with signs he thought might be Chinese.

He’d have to find a place to stay. He’d never make it sleeping rough. The knife in his chest was twisting again and he couldn’t stop shivering, his skin was greasy from the trains, he felt like he’d got diesel in his lungs. He cuddled up to Bess, desperate to get warm. She whined and licked his face. Good dog. He closed his eyes and felt the tickle of her fur on his cheek, breathed in her doggy smell and listened to a police siren whooping through the night.

Cheryl

Vinia told Cheryl that she’d heard Carlton and his boys talking about the latest shooting and the chat coming round to Danny. Carlton bragging how that had sent a message plain and clear to the rival gangs.

‘What message?’ Cheryl asked. ‘That they’re stone killers and they don’t care who they hit?’

Vinia cut her eyes at her, pulled her hand away. Cheryl had manicured Vinia’s nails, was now doing the base layer. ‘You want me to tell you or you just gonna keep interrupting all the time?’ Vinia snapped.

‘Don’t have a fit,’ Cheryl said.

Vinia huffed.

‘Just tell me.’

‘He said Danny wasn’t a player but he was a blood relation to some of the Nineteen Crew. Taking him out would show them this was war. No rules all’s fair.’

Cheryl looked at Vinia. ‘By that reckoning, makes you fair game an’ all. Relation of Carlton.’

‘I ain’t agreeing with it,’ Vinia protested, ‘just saying, that’s all.’

Cheryl hated Carlton for what he’d done, probably hated him more because they were all so weak and helpless around him, no one to raise a voice. Except Nana and even she wouldn’t be so stupid as to do it in the man’s hearing. How come Nana was so brave? Had she been born brave or did she get braver as she grew older?

‘You seeing Jeri soon?’ Vinia held her other hand out. Cheryl checked the nails were dry and began applying the next coat. Vinia wanted sunsets on each nail: real bright, you hear me .

‘He wants me to go down to Bristol next weekend.’

‘You go, girl.’

Cheryl hummed. ‘I’d have to leave Milo, two nights. Nana’d be wiped out. One’s enough.’

‘She can nap in the day,’ Vinia pointed out. ‘You not interested,’ she joked, ‘move over and make room, honey. I’ll get me some.’

Cheryl was unsure, uneasy about going. Not just on Nana’s account neither. She liked Jeri, she liked him so much, but sometimes she wondered why he bothered with her. She’d gone over to Liverpool one time, when he was working, spent the night in a smart hotel and he’d come to Manchester again, a rare Saturday night off when he’d met Milo and Nana.

Nana had gone into holy-roller mode, quizzing Jeri about his folks and his church and all. He was polite with her but didn’t pretend to be religious and Nana made it clear that he was a great disappointment in that regard. She seemed to think his work as a DJ was akin to some loser on a boom box in a shebeen, even when Cheryl explained that Jeri was playing in proper clubs and on the radio and not some illegal drinking den. ‘Got bookings all over, Nana, Ibiza, Japan even. He pays tax. It’s a really good job.’

When Jeri came to Manchester they stayed at the Hilton on Deansgate. Cheryl knew Jeri wanted to impress her and he did. It was expensive, even for someone like him who was used to hotels. She loved it. The bed big as a boat, the yards of carpeting, the thick white bath towels. They ate in the restaurant there that evening, views looking right out over the city. She felt ignorant and clumsy at first, seeing the formal tableware, the bright expression of their waiter in his fancy apron. But Jeri put her at ease, had the same easy friendly manner with everyone, not stuck up. He told her he’d once been a waiter, knew what it was like to get snobby customers, the sort that liked to make you feel small, like they were better than you. She imagined Carlton there in the restaurant, how it would all be about face and impression, scoring points. Every interaction a power play.

When Jeri talked about his music, his face came alive, bright with excitement. ‘Still can’t believe how lucky I am,’ he said. ‘Started out at school, playing on borrowed decks, got to do a couple of music festivals, promoter caught me, liked what he saw and next thing he’s got me a spot in Monte Carlo. Kid off a shit estate up there spinning tunes and they’re all going for it – fat cats and the yachting brigade – chanting my name!’

‘Yachting?’ Cheryl laughed. ‘But you still live in Bristol?’

‘Love it. Moved house though – like a shot. You come down; I’ll give you the tour.’

She smiled. ‘Rags to riches.’

‘Summat like that,’ he grinned back at her.

They’d gone back to their room and got to know each other real well in that wide bed. Jeri laughed when he came, Cheryl cried when she did. And that was just fine.

She was falling for him deep and that was scary, she didn’t see how it could work, him jetting here and there, a big name on the dance scene, and her stuck in Hulme on benefits with Nana and Milo.

Bristol was a step too far too soon. Going there would show she was committed and surely it wouldn’t be long after that, knowing he had won her, that Jeri would cool and turn, moving on to the next girl who caught his eye.

Cheryl finished painting Vinia’s sunsets and made a cup of tea. The milk had run out so she left Vinia blowing at her nails and went along to Sid’s for some.

It was a foggy night; she could smell yeast on the air from the lager plant up on Princess Road. The fog hung in shreds round the street lights and distorted and muffled the sounds: traffic from the main road, footsteps and the cough of a car engine that wouldn’t start.

Cheryl bought cigs and some Murray Mints for Nana. She was 2p short but Sid let her off.

‘I’ll bring it next time,’ she promised. She knew he sent money home to Pakistan.

‘Don’t be daft,’ he told her, ‘it’s only pennies.’

Sid was there from seven thirty in the morning till eleven at night, seven days a week. Cheryl wondered how he stood it – the boredom – even with his telly tuned to some Urdu station.

Cheryl had just left the shop, opening the packet to have a smoke on the way home, when the shot rang out. Jesus! Deafening. A boom that she felt through the soles of her feet, in her teeth. She ducked, instinctively, and ran back into the shop. ‘Oh, God! Oh, no!’ Her heart thundering in her chest, her muscles spasming with fear.