Cath Staincliffe - Witness

‘I beg to differ,’ she said stiffly. ‘Did you make other assumptions too?’

‘Like what?’ Mike was getting ratty, all this nit-picking.

‘You couldn’t see the man’s face but you assumed he was black.’

Mike bridled. ‘No way. I could see his face – just not clearly. And he was black. I could see his arms too, and his legs. They were black an’ all, they matched.’ Someone began to giggle and the judge raised his head and looked daggers. ‘I didn’t need to assume anything,’ Mike went on. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make out his face, I wish I had but that’s how it is.’ He didn’t think she liked his answer, she went all pinched mouth then handed him over to the other defence bloke.

He had only one question for Mike. ‘Did you see the driver of the car?’

‘No,’ said Mike.

And that was it.

Mike had the rest of the day to kill. Vicky would be suspicious if he got in early. He was ravenous and found a little cafe off Deansgate that served all day breakfast for £3.99. He got that – no mushrooms – and a cup of tea to wash it down. As he ate he considered the morning. In one way it had been an anticlimax, like Mike was just one in a long line of people saying their ten penn’orth and the exciting bit would be at the end when the verdict came in. And Mike’s contribution hadn’t amounted to much. He hoped to God they had someone who was there and could describe the men, both of them, someone more reliable than yesterday’s witness who sounded like she was in it for a fast buck. It wouldn’t have gone to trial if they hadn’t got enough evidence, surely?

It was hard to know what the jury had thought but he hoped they’d be able to tell that Mike was being straight in spite of the way the defence woman had rubbished what he’d said.

It was nearly one o’clock. Three hours till he could get the tram. He’d do a bit of window shopping. He was thinking of getting a bike for work, cost a bit upfront but he’d save on the fares and cycling an hour a day would keep him in shape. Day like today, fair and bright, nothing better. Different story on a dark winter’s morning in the pissing rain. Still, others managed: waterproof clothes and the lot. Mike was disheartened when he saw the cost of bikes. He could go for something bottom of the range but would it take the welly?

Wandering round the Arndale Mike realized that the reason it felt like a let-down was that he’d no one to share it with. No one waiting for him after it was done to pat him on the back. Couldn’t sit with someone and pick it over, brag about the bits when he’d got the upper hand, complain about the things the woman said. Then he felt guilty for thinking like that – it wasn’t about him, was it? It was about a lad being murdered and trying to get justice. Mike’d go through the rest of his life carrying this secret. Just like the other one. One at each side, like scales. Or maybe not. It didn’t work like that; the good didn’t balance the bad. What he’d done today made no odds to Stuart’s family, couldn’t change what had happened back then: the child coming home from school, humiliated again, going to his room, changing his clothes, not able to face another day, another hour. Tying the knot and slipping the home-made noose round his neck. Mike groaned. There was no penance would right that wrong, remove his guilt. You were a child , Vicky had said. But that wasn’t enough of an excuse. All he could do was be a better man, a good man.

Mike browsed the music shops up on Oldham Street. Drew up lists in his head of what he’d get when he could afford it. Jan downloaded stuff and had an MP3 player on his phone. Mike told him all about the Manchester Greats: bands he had to listen to, Joy Division, The Smiths and Happy Mondays. The music still as powerful as it had been all those years ago.

Finally it was home time.

Vicky was waiting for him, face like frost, when he got in. ‘Where’ve you been?’

Mike’s pulse went stratospheric. How the hell did she know?

‘Work,’ he managed.

Vicky shook her head, a sneer twisting her lip. ‘Good wedding, was it? Anyone I know?’

What the fuck?

Vicky pressed the answer machine. An accented voice, male: Mike, it’s Jan. Your phone’s off. They offer overtime tomorrow, extra four hours, thought you like to stay on. Hope wedding was good. Bye .

Mike’s brain was scrambled; he studied the carpet, helpless.

‘Well?’

Hole in the ground. And he was in it, right down the bottom. There was a noise from the kitchen, Megan ran in, grabbed her doll’s pram and dragged it after her back outside.

‘You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?’

‘What!’ She was off her head. He felt a laugh blistering inside him but knew he had to be very careful. ‘You know I’m not, I’d never.’

‘So what else is it? You’ve blobbed work, lied to them, lied to me. You’re always sliding off with your phone.’

Twice! He’d done it twice, maybe three times tops. When Joe got in touch and Vicky was there, she had a knack of always being there, spooky bad timing. And she was nosy, always had to know who was texting him. Mike had to sneak off for some privacy and to come up with an alias for who sent the text. ‘I’m not sleeping with anyone, I swear.’

‘Where were you?’

‘An interview.’ Mike coughed. ‘A new job. I couldn’t let work know – they’d be brassed off, so I fed them the line about a family wedding.’

‘What job?’ She wasn’t buying it but it was all he had to sell. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Didn’t know if I’d get it, didn’t know if you’d like the idea.’

‘Why?’

Mike’s brain was doing a Basil Fawlty, John Cleese lurching around in blind panic. He tried to find something suitably disgusting. Gross. ‘Abattoir.’

‘Is this bullshit, Mike?’

How could she tell? ‘No!’

‘You can’t stand blood and guts.’

‘I know. More money though. Didn’t get it,’ he added. ‘It was horrible, nearly chucked up.’

She stared at him. ‘Is this the truth?’

He tried not to blink. ‘Yeah, honest.’

‘Give me your phone.’

‘What?’ He wondered if he could pretend it was missing, that Kieran had squirrelled it away somewhere.

‘Something to hide?’ Her lip curled.

‘No, just be nice to be trusted, seeing as I haven’t done owt wrong.’ He was sinking.

‘We’ll see, shall we?’

‘Vicky-’

‘Give it here.’ She’d got her face on, hard as stone, eyes all glittering.

He handed it over. He’d deleted all his messages, made a habit of it, and his call register. She was going through his contacts.

‘Who’s JK?’

Joe Kitson. ‘What?’ Mike’s skin fizzed, his bowels loosened.

‘You heard.’

‘Oh, bloke at work, John King. I’ll prove it, shall I?’ He put his hand out. ‘Like a word with him, would you?’ Irate himself now.

‘Yeah, I would.’

Mike felt sick. He called Joe Kitson, praying the man would be quick on the uptake. Mike spoke quickly, a laugh in his voice. ‘John mate, Mike here, from work. Do us a favour, say hello to the missus, will yer? Settle a bet. I’ll tell you the rest at work tomorrow. I’ll put her on. Cheers, John.’

Vicky’s turn to look a bit sick. Mike passed her the handset.

‘Hello?’ Vicky said.

‘What’s this bet then?’ Mike could hear Joe ask.

‘Nothing really,’ she said awkwardly. ‘See you.’ Her face flared crimson as she handed Mike his phone. ‘I don’t remember you mentioning a John,’ she said, still not admitting defeat.

‘Course you do.’ Mike’s knees were weak and his heart was going like a pump hammer. ‘Worse at chess than I am. Quiet bloke.’ He grinned. ‘You daft cow.’