Cath Staincliffe - Witness

‘Peepo!’ Milo said.

Cheryl burst into tears.

Mike

DANNY MACATEER TRIAL OPENS . It was on the front page of the Manchester Evening News , with pictures of the boy’s family arriving at court. Decked out smart but sober. Mike bought a copy on his way to the tram after he’d finished work.

The story carried over on page two with more background to the case and the pictures of the lad they’d used before. On the tram Mike counted maybe a third of the people reading the paper, and this time tomorrow it’d be in again and it’d be Mike they were reading about; Witness B. It made him feel good, a glow inside.

The new place he was working was a temporary contract – three months, minimum wage, £5.80 an hour. A fulfilment centre for a batch of online shopping outfits. The work itself wasn’t exactly fulfilling: matching orders from the stacks in the warehouses, wheeling them through to Despatch. Seven hours a day. But the other staff were okay, a right mix: Polish, Latvian, African, couple of Somalis and a lad from Congo, a Scouser, the rest Mancunians of all creeds and colours. Mike liked Jan, the Polish lad. He was into chess and soon had most of them playing to pass the lunch break. Mike hadn’t won a game yet but he was getting better at it. Mike had met up with Jan a couple of times after work for a pint. Jan was thinking about going back home now the bottom had dropped out of the employment market in the UK. They were all on temporary contracts, made it easier for the company to respond to fluctuations in demand – they just let them go when orders dropped off.

Mike had got a text from Joe confirming that he would still be needed Tuesday. Mike had replied and then deleted it. He had booked a day’s leave and told work it was a family wedding. He hadn’t told Vicky anything and that’s the way it would stay.

Tuesday he left the house as usual at seven fifteen. Then he had to hang about in town until ten when he could get into court, the back way like before. This volunteer Benny showed him into the waiting room. There were a group of lads there already and pretty soon the place filled up. Seven trials on, Benny told him, a couple due to finish today.

Mike read his witness statement through. There were bits he’d forgotten, like the dog barking at the house at the edge of the rec, and there were other bits that were bigger in his head than they were just written down. Like the shooting – in Mike’s head it was almost slow motion, the man stepping out of the car, raising his arm, Mike seeing the lad walking over the grass, his back to the shooter, the way the lad jerked and spun round before falling. It must have been quick but in Mike’s head it took forever.

After he’d got to the end, he read a magazine for a bit, aware of the tension in the place. Each time one of the volunteers came in to call someone, everyone was on pins, swapping glances, on the verge of wishing each other good luck though they were all strangers. Mike wondered if he should feel more sense of worry or dread about it. He didn’t share Vicky’s paranoia and believed Joe when he said there was no link between the bother they’d had and the gang. But should he be more wary about being in court?

Joe arrived and asked him how he was, if everything was okay, and Mike said fine. Then Benny said it was his turn and Mike’s nerves kicked in, but nothing too heavy.

They went down through the building. Mike reckoned he’d a good sense of direction but he’d lost his bearings by the time they got to court. It all speeded up then, he went into the witness box and Benny sat behind him. There were curtains round the box, just the front open, and he felt like a horse with blinkers on. He’d a daft urge to whip ’em back and eyeball the guys in the dock. He swore the oath then the prosecution barrister asked him to tell the jury what he’d seen.

He laid it out, driving up Princess Road, seeing the man step out of the car, the shot, Mike slamming on his brakes and pulling over. He remembered The Clash was playing but he left that out. Then running to help, the nurse already with the boy, Mike calling the ambulance. Mike felt his heart pick up pace as he talked but he thought he sounded calm enough.

The barrister asked what else he could remember and he mentioned the dog because that was in his statement, and the ambulance coming, then the churchgoers, the boy’s family, arriving. Mike’s chest was tight then, remembering the woman crying over her son, and the older one, the grandma, on her knees on the grass. Mike was thinking what it would be like if they lost Kieran or Megan. Massive.

Next, the woman who was defending Derek Carlton questioned him. Had he been able to identify the man who’d fired the gun?

‘No,’ Mike replied. ‘He was a black guy but I couldn’t make his face out.’

‘You were some distance away. How far do you think?’

‘Thirty yards?’

‘More like fifty,’ she corrected him, a glint in her eye like she’d scored a point. ‘So, it could have been anyone firing that gun.’

‘I suppose,’ said Mike. ‘He was a big bloke though and I remember his clothes. A yellow top, and dark shorts.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yes.’ Was she messing with him?

‘Not a red top?’

Mike was sure. Was he sure? ‘Yellow,’ he said.

‘But you couldn’t see his face?’

‘I could see it, just not very well. Not enough to describe him.’

‘Do you recall his hair?’

‘No.’

‘You were driving at the time, yes?’

‘That’s right.’ He’d probably still be doing it, if it hadn’t been for the murder.

‘So any sighting of this man would have been fleeting, a second, perhaps less?’

Mike hesitated. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Presumably you were also watching the road, negotiating traffic and so on?’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘Your attention was divided?’

Mike felt like his story was slipping away from him. ‘Yeah, but I saw him shoot the gun.’

‘Which hand did he have the gun in?’ the woman asked.

‘You what?’

‘Don’t you understand the question?’ Patronizing.

‘The right hand,’ Mike said tightly.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ He saw what she was doing; trying to trip him up, make him muddled. Best not to think too much about the answers. But had he blown it? What if the guy was left-handed and Mike had just delivered him a get-out-of-jail-free card? Shit.

‘And the car – can you describe that?’

‘Silver BMW, X5. I couldn’t see the plates though, it was side on.’

The woman looked a bit unsure of herself at that and Mike loosened his fists.

‘You know your cars!’ she said drily. Some of the jurors smiled at that. Mike thought back to the other Beemer he’d seen, the one that distracted him and led to the bump and him losing the driving job. Had that been the same car? The police had never said anything about finding the car. The wise move would have been to get rid of it straight after the murder. Ship it abroad or break it up for parts. Or maybe it had been a stolen car, though the witness in the paper yesterday had identified it as belonging to one of the defendants – but she hadn’t seen the reg plate either.

‘What about the gun, what sort was that?’

‘No idea.’

‘Any detail at all, colour, size?’

‘I couldn’t see, really, not at that distance.’

‘So it might not have been a gun?’

Was she serious? ‘He shot it, he shot the lad.’

‘You assumed that from what you saw-’

‘More than an assumption,’ Mike argued. ‘He had his arm up like this and then the lad was hit, fell down, that’s common sense, that’s not an assumption.’