Cath Staincliffe - Witness

‘You’d have to be careful with the money,’ he said. ‘Don’t want people asking questions.’ He sounded flat, tired. ‘Say you’d inherited it or something.’

Cheryl’s throat ached. ‘My nana, she erm… she died. I could say she had some savings put away.’

‘Oh Cheryl, I am sorry.’

‘Yeah.’ Cheryl pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth.

‘I know it wasn’t about the money,’ Joe said, ‘what you did was amazing. You remember that.’

Cheryl sniffed hard.

She sat for a while after the call. So tired. The house quiet, Milo having his nap. She pulled the throw round her and curled up on the sofa. God bless, sweet pea . She slept.

Zak was getting chips. He asked for scraps as well: the little bits of crunchy batter you got for free, and lots of salt and vinegar. He’d found a place to score just before and was looking forward to getting off his face once his belly was full.

He was heading for the corner, opening the chip paper, Bess by his heels when he saw them. Three lads. One held a baseball bat. Didn’t recognize them though there was something familiar: maybe he’d run into them before at Midge’s or somewhere.

Zak yelled at Bess to stay and ran, dropped the chips and ran, into the alley, his feet beating on the flagstones, the wind in his ears blocking out sound. They were behind him. He didn’t need to look. He pelted to the end of the alley, gulping air, and darted across to another one opposite. There were wheelie bins near the end of it, a cluster of them. Zak ran between them, tipping them over as he went, a barricade to try and slow his pursuers. As he gained the end of the alley he turned right and out of the corner of his eye, caught the flurry of motion behind.

Faster. Faster. He ran, feeling the spike of pain in his chest, his breath rasping, a stitch in his side. A junction. He swerved sharply to the right and along the cul-de-sac, into someone’s front yard, swung himself up and scrambled over the wooden door which led into the back garden and crouched, waiting, trying to halt his breath, the crackling sound it was making.

He waited. The slick of sweat cooling tight on his skin, the smell of his own fear high in his nostrils. His throat was parched and his guts hot liquid. He listened, straining to hear beyond the pulse throbbing in his skull and the drone of a plane above. He waited until cramp bit at his calves and he’d begun to shiver with cold.

Unsteadily, he got to his feet and put his face to the high, wooden door, an eye to the gap between the edge and the frame. He couldn’t see anything except the low wall opposite, some of the house beyond.

He’d have to make himself scarce, fetch Bess and get down to Wilmslow Road, take the first bus that came. Shame about the chips. He wondered if the dealer had recognized him (even though Zak had introduced himself as Matt) and called up the goons. Man, he needed a drink.

Carefully, Zak took hold of the door handle and heard the tiny snick as he raised the latch. Suddenly, the door burst backwards, slamming into him, breaking his nose and knocking him to the ground. There was a blur of blows, one to the back of his head exploded white starbursts in his eyes. Kicks and thumps to his spine and his ribs and his face. He tasted pennies. Felt the dam of pain burst over him, robbing him of speech, emptying his bladder and his bowels. He heard the snap of bones and the snarl of curses. The smack and thud of boots and the thwack of the bat. He heard barking. Something barking. I’m sorry, Mam, he begged, I’ll be good. I promise. But the blows came faster. He couldn’t remember. His eyes were full of blood and there was no air. Screams of terror died in his throat, shuddered through him. Then there was no pain. Nothing.

DANNY MACATEER WITNESS KILLED . Mike saw the caption on the newspaper sandwich boards outside the cafe. His heart stopped, then racketed on like it had lost the right rhythm. He and Kieran had been at the museum while Vicky took Megan to a birthday party. Mike bought a copy of the paper and took Kieran in, bought drinks and settled at a table. He passed Kieran a straw and once the lad was sipping away, Mike turned to the paper. He skimmed the front page, the newsprint rippling and distorting so he had to keep going back over it:

Zak Henshaw, who testified at last year’s trial into the murder of sixteen-year-old Danny Macateer, has been found beaten to death in the Anson Road area of Longsight. Henshaw (23) had been offered witness protection and a new identity in exchange for his cooperation with the police who charged gang leaders Derek Carlton (25) and Sam Millins (24) with the brutal shooting of the innocent schoolboy. At the trial the judge allowed special measures for several eyewitnesses. All gave evidence anonymously apart from Henshaw who appeared via remote video link from an undisclosed location. For unknown reasons Henshaw had returned to the city, breaching arrangements for his safety. Police are trying to establish if the attack on Henshaw was linked to the successful prosecution which saw Carlton and Millins each sentenced to life for the murder. Henshaw, a petty criminal and drug user, was homeless at the time of the murder in June 2009. A spokesman for housing charity Shelter stated that homeless people were disproportionately likely to be victims of violence.

Mike left the paper in the cafe.

Vicky had bought one. ‘You seen this? You thought I was imagining things, didn’t you? But one of them’s been killed. They’re not saying that’s definitely why but it doesn’t take a genius, does it?’

‘They knew him, though, didn’t they?’ Mike couldn’t resist. ‘He was involved and then he grassed them up to save his neck. That’s why he was on witness protection.’

‘Yes.’ Vicky nodded her head as if he was proving her point. ‘Some protection!’

Mike shook his head. Best not to get into it or he might say too much. ‘I’ll do Megan’s bath,’ he said. And escaped.

It went round in his head that night. They’d known this witness, his name, his face. He’d not been anonymous like Mike had. He’d been one of the gang, reading between the lines. He’d been in hiding but he’d come back to Manchester for some reason. Maybe he had a death wish. Whereas Mike – completely different situation. And what he’d done – taking the stand and hiding it from Vicky – he wouldn’t change it for the world.

Fiona heard the newsreader, heard the words, a witness in the Danny Macateer murder trial has been found murdered , and felt a lurch of anxiety. She set the iron down and stared at the television. Joe Kitson was there talking, explaining how they were still conducting an investigation and fending off comments about the competency of the witness protection programme.

Fiona was trembling. It could have been her – or Owen. He was out with Molly. She’d an overwhelming desire to call him, to check he was safe. She knew she mustn’t. She couldn’t infect him with her own fears. What if she was wrong? What if he was in danger now and she did nothing? He might be lying somewhere bleeding to death.

She carried on ironing but the sense of dread clung to her, a miasma she couldn’t shift. She still had Joe Kitson’s number. She had come close to deleting it a few times since September, dispirited that he had never got back in touch, but she held on to it. She was perplexed because he had seemed to return her interest – at least that time in the car. Surely she hadn’t imagined the spark between them.

Now she debated whether it was reasonable to ring him in the light of the news and got cross with herself for prevaricating. Of course it was reasonable.

His line was busy, his answerphone picked up: Please leave a message .