Cath Staincliffe - Witness

Fiona began to shiver, numbness gripped her mouth, dizziness swirled, clouding her vision. Blink , the skitter of fear in his gaze and the bloom of love, blink , her shoes full of blood. She gripped the wood that framed the stand, trying to fight the tide of terror rising inside. Sweat broke cold across her back and on her scalp and the pressure built, a fist crushing her heart. Her heart jerking, jolting. There was no air, a vacuum. Fiona gasped, gulped. Sensed movement beside her as Francine leant forward. The judge asked if she would like to stop and have a break. Fiona shook her head. She couldn’t be sick, oh, please not here. People were talking, buzzing sounds in her head. The sky in Danny’s eyes, pupils rimmed with gold, copper in her throat, the loss of his breath, the loss of his life . She struggled to breathe, won a sip, fought her way through the acid panic, through the screaming in her nerves and the white hot fear. When her words came she forced them out, stammering through clenched teeth, stones of truth hard in her mouth. ‘I saw Sam Millins in that car. I saw him. I swear. He drove that car.’

She made it downstairs with Francine’s help. ‘Take your time,’ said Francine. ‘It’s done now.’

Fiona nodded, her teeth chattering, her arms and legs rigid with tension, a din in her head. She didn’t feel triumphant or relieved, just angry. Angry at the way he’d tried to trip her up and ridicule her story. Angry that the truth about Danny’s death was reduced to jousting and cheap comments about film stars. Angry that she had been overwhelmed again by another attack. She was so angry she wanted to scream or break something.

‘I need to go home.’

‘Take a minute,’ Francine suggested, ‘then we’ll go and get your bags.’

‘How was it?’ Joe was waiting for them.

‘Bit rough,’ she admitted, and allowing to weakness made her eyes fill up. She sniffed and blinked. She would not weep now.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘And thank you. Really, it is so important, having a witness like you.’ He smiled, glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Now, I’m sorry, I’m going to have to go.’

Oh yes, she thought, game over. She’d done her bit and he was moving on. Why did she ever imagine there might be anything more than that? ‘Okay,’ she said.

‘I’ll be in touch.’ He nodded, he didn’t even shake her hand, just walked away.

Or not, she thought. And gathered up her belongings.

The Verdict

There was no quick result: Mike knew that was a bad sign. It was a Tuesday when the lawyers did their summing-up speeches and the judge asked the jury to retire to consider their verdict. They didn’t return one by the end of the day and they were sent to a hotel for the night.

Mike could feel it all turning to dust. The thought of the murderers getting away with a not guilty verdict or of the jurors failing to agree was like a fist in his guts. They had to convict, even if some of the witnesses had been a bit ropey, even if the forensic evidence was no great shakes.

Mike wondered if the jury had been got at. That happened. And unlike the witnesses, the jurors were there on display, in full view of the public. The defendants’ cronies could eyeball them across the court; follow them home if it came to it. And if you were being intimidated and they knew what you looked like, where you lived, where your family lived, then it would be hard to report it. Risk bringing trouble on yourself, on your family.

All day Wednesday at work Mike waited, listening to the hourly local radio news bulletins, on an old Walkman radio cassette he’d dug out. Jan laughed at the sight of it. Mike pretended he was keeping up with the cricket scores.

Mike didn’t know the exact rules about how the votes had to go for a murder trial but he knew most of them had to agree. The jury were sent to the hotel again for a second night.

Thursday, and in the lunchtime bulletin came news that the jury had failed to agree unanimously and had sought direction from the judge. He had instructed them to see if they could reach a majority verdict, of ten or more in agreement. Mike wondered how big the gap was, how many wanted a not guilty.

When he got home he was wound up. Vicky told him Kieran had hidden the landline again and Mike snapped at him which didn’t do any of them any good.

Mike knew what he’d seen. He’d seen the guy shoot and kill the boy, the other independent witness, the nurse who’d done CPR, had seen the man driving the car, picked him out and everything. What more did they need? What was taking so long?

Fiona was coming back from her break when her phone rang. The unit was busy; she’d two first-timers to look after: one a breech presentation and the other an elderly primigravida, a woman in her forties who was pregnant after three rounds of IVF. Fiona was worried about the breech but wanted to give the mother a little longer before raising the issue of a Caesarean. No foetal distress yet and the woman was strong and fit.

Fiona’s heart flipped as she read Joe’s name on the display. ‘Hello?’

‘We’ve got the verdicts,’ he said. ‘Guilty on all counts.’

‘Oh,’ she gasped and tears sprang into her eyes. She turned away from the ward, faced the noticeboard, the collage of photos and thank-yous. All the babies and their parents.

‘I thought you’d like to know.’

‘Yes.’ She blinked. ‘Yes, thank you. That’s brilliant.’ She hadn’t expected to feel so emotional about it. Then the student midwife was signalling to her, her face stark with panic. ‘I have to go,’ Fiona said. ‘Thank you, thanks, bye-bye.’

‘We’ve lost the heartbeat,’ the student said quickly.

Fiona ran.

‘You see.’ Vicky nudged Mike, nodded at the telly. ‘Guilty.’

Mike watched the film of the Macateer family outside the court; the father was reading a statement. ‘And we would like to thank all the witnesses…’

‘They didn’t need you, Mike. They managed fine without you.’

‘… without them we would never have got justice for our beloved son.’

‘I suppose,’ Mike said, trying to sound reluctant. He’d already had a text from Joe and had punched the air several times to the astonishment and amusement of other commuters travelling home.

‘You made the right choice,’ Vicky told him.

‘Yep.’ Mike sighed and picked up the remote, changed over to the footie. ‘Reckon I did.’ Drummed his fingers on the edge of the couch, accompanying the fanfare in his head.

Cheryl got in and switched on the telly. She’d been at the funeral home making the arrangements. Nana had a fund with the Co-op that would pay for it, a plot at the cemetery and everything. Cheryl felt lost, like she was walking in someone else’s shoes, someone else’s world. Her mind scattered and dopey, her reactions unpredictable. Cheryl saw the headline scrolling across the bottom of the picture – GUILTY - TWO MEN CONVICTED OF KILLING MANCHESTER SCHOOLBOY DANNY MACATEER – and started to cry. It was all too much. Oh, Nana.

Nana Rose had called the evening of Nana’s death, she’d got Cheryl’s message. Nana Rose was distraught at the news of her old friend’s passing and anxious to know the details. ‘You were with her, Cheryl, yes? She was not alone.’

Cheryl couldn’t lie. ‘Not exactly. I had to leave her for a bit. I was as quick as I could be…’ Cheryl let the sentence trail, her eyes stinging.

‘This is a disappointment,’ Nana Rose said. ‘I hate to think of her alone.’

Cheryl thought Nana Rose was saying Cheryl was a disappointment and for a moment she almost took it on but she went back to why she’d had to leave and she knew Nana would have been proud of her. So proud of her. And she held on to that. It kept her strong.