Cath Staincliffe - Witness

He found a store cupboard down there, tucked away in a corner. Full of cleaning materials and things. He thought he’d struck lucky, it wasn’t locked. He moved some stuff about a bit to make space to lie down. He just fitted if he curled his legs up. Then the door opened and there was a guy in brown overalls and a Hitler tache looking at him. The caretaker, a can of woodstain in his hand.

Zak scrambled to his feet. ‘Soz, mate, just looking for somewhere to kip.’ Bess got up, wagged her tail.

‘How d’you get in the gate?’ the bloke asked.

‘Followed a car in.’

The bloke shook his head. ‘Thick as planks, half of ’em. And then they wonder why they get robbed.’

‘I’m not on the rob,’ Zak protested.

‘I could turn a blind eye,’ the bloke said. ‘Few nights, you make it worth it.’

Zak knew he meant for money. He only had about £4 in change. He dug in his pocket, held it out.

‘No notes?’ the bloke complained.

Zak shook his head.

‘That’ll do you for tonight but I’ll be wanting more.’

Zak nodded. ‘Ta, thanks, mate.’

The bloke, he was called Russell, nodded at Bess. ‘He house trained?’

‘She. Yeah.’

‘And you?’

Zak ignored that.

‘You can’t smoke in here.’ Russell nodded to the tins. ‘Hazardous chemicals, fire risk.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Zak.

‘Most of ’em are gone by nine in the morning.’ Russell indicated at the cars. ‘Stay in here till then, then I’ll let you out.’

Zak’s heart skipped a beat. ‘You’re not locking us in! No way.’ If that was part of the deal, then Zak was walking. He’d go mental. He couldn’t be locked up. Never again.

Russell stared at him. He twitched his moustache. ‘If anyone sees you-’

‘I’ll stay in here, I promise.’

He gave a grunt. ‘Make yourself scarce after that. Just press the green button for the gates.’

‘Right. How’ll I get back in?’

‘Be here before six, I’ll let you through.’

After a couple of weeks Russell gave Zak the code of the gates so he could get in himself. Zak’s ‘rent’ was a nice little earner for him. Zak was a model tenant. When he did smoke he nipped out of the store and did it in the garage, kept his dimps to chuck away somewhere else so Russell wouldn’t find out.

It was the worst time of year to be on the streets: the cold and the way it got dark so early. People were tight an’ all, the times after Christmas. Often as he could Zak went round to Midge’s, a chance to get warm, have a brew and a spliff. Stacey was still there and still had it in for him so he had to be careful, not overstay his welcome. He tried to smooth the way by running errands for Midge: a delivery here, picking a package up there.

Today when he and Bess turned up there was a big gang of lads already at the house. Bikes were piled up in the front garden like a scrap merchant’s. Nowhere left to sit in the front room.

Conversation died when Zak walked in. Everyone looked at him and he felt his face burn. He rose on the balls of his feet, nodded to Midge. ‘I can come back.’

Midge shrugged. ‘S’ all right, you can go for some Rizlas, king-size.’ He tossed Zak a coin.

Zak went to the shop and when he came back the lads were gone.

‘What’s going on?’ He handed Midge the papers and change.

‘Carlton and Sam Millins, they’re being done for murder. Danny Macateer.’

Zak stared at Midge. ‘You’re shittin’ me!’

‘It’s true. Picked ’em up the day before yesterday, charged ’em last night, in court this morning. Denied bail.’ Midge ruffled Bess, and Zak blew a long breath out wondering what to say.

‘The rest of ’em, they’re all freakin’ case they get done too, conspiracy and that,’ Midge said.

Zak counted on his fingers. ‘Eight months it must be. Everyone thought they’d got away with it.’ He shook his head.

Midge made a brew and skinned up. When they’d smoked it, he said, ‘Wait there,’ and went upstairs.

He came down with a shoebox, sat on the sofa next to Zak and opened it. Inside, chamois leather. Zak had been expecting trainers, knock-offs or counterfeits. Midge lifted the yellow cloth out, unwrapped it.

There was a gun.

‘Whoah!’ Zak said. A handgun, dull, grey steel, a squat shape.

‘Feel the weight of it.’

Midge handed him the gun. It was heavy, dense, like a stone in his fist. Zak levelled it at the telly, squinted. ‘Is it loaded?’

‘Nah. Look.’ Midge took it from him, moved something and ejected the clip. ‘See.’

‘You selling it?’ Zak asked. Thinking of the next time someone had a go at him. Watching their faces change as he drew the gun. Watching them back down, back away.

‘Nah, just looking after it. Why? Might be able to hire it out, you interested?’

‘You expanding the business?’ Zak joked.

‘Only way to go, see an opportunity, fill it.’ Midge sounded like someone off Dragons’ Den .

‘Might do sometime,’ Zak said, ‘not now though.’ He’d have to save up.

After he left Midge’s, he walked a different way back into town. Came across a carpet warehouse that had reopened as a food and household shop: Value-Mart. He tied Bess up at the door and went in. It was a bit like a cash and carry, brands no one had heard of, plenty of bulk buys. They had everything from shower gel and biscuits to whisky, even a pile of rugs in the central aisle that they’d probably bought as a job lot off the carpet firm. It was a big barn of a place, breeze block walls, metal roof, the back section where the stock was kept separated by strips of plastic sheeting. A guy was pushing a set of ladders along, the sort you could wheel around to get to high shelves. They almost reached the top of the wall, where it met the pitched roof. A row of skylights ran along one side of the roof.

That’s when Zak had the idea. He bought some rissoles, the ones you could eat hot or cold, and asked the woman on the till when they closed. She pointed to a big black and white notice on the wall behind her. ‘Eight till eight,’ she said. ‘Eleven till four on Sunday.’

Outside he sat on a low wall and shared the food with Bess.

The warehouse stood on a plot of its own, an old chain-link fence, broken here and there, surrounding it. There was a drainpipe at the back corner of the building, the corner nearest to him. Across the way was a block of flats and at the other side some other small industrial units. Nothing too close. It wouldn’t be easy – but man, it’d be worth it!

Zak and Bess got in through one of the gaps in the fence. Zak had been begging on Deansgate and raised enough money to buy a little headlamp, like a miner’s light but LED, and a lump hammer from the discount hardware shop in the precinct. Then they’d waited: half an hour in the café, another in the park. Now Value-Mart was deserted, all locked up.

Zak told Bess to lie down by the loading bay. She was out of sight of anyone driving past and it gave her a bit of shelter. ‘Won’t be long,’ he told her, patted her back, ‘good girl.’ She licked his face.

The windows on the block of flats were lit up looking like an advent calendar. Curtains and blinds closed against the night. The industrial estate slumbered in the shadows between street lights, their blue-white glow like the colour from a telly. The drainpipe was a doddle but the climb up the roof from there was treacherous. The galvanized metal was slick with condensation, hard to get a grab on, the undulations on the surface not deep enough for purchase and his bad wrist throbbed with the strain. Zak slipped, slid back, his guts churning. He rammed his feet into the guttering to brake, praying it would hold. Sweat broke out all over his body, chilling quickly.