Cath Staincliffe - Witness

‘It came from over there.’ Vinia gestured in the direction of the dual carriageway and the recreation ground. She made to walk that way but Cheryl put a hand on her friend’s arm.

‘Wait, there might be more.’

Vinia took a drag of her cigarette and rolled her eyes at Cheryl’s caution. There were no more loud noises until the same car appeared, crossing the road ahead of them. Gone round the block. It careered down the centre of the narrow road and disappeared. Cheryl could smell rubber burning and see the cloud of exhaust, hot, making the road junction ripple in the heat.

‘Come on,’ said Vinia.

They walked quickly to the corner then along Marsh Street to the end. Cheryl saw someone on the grass, halfway across the rec. He had a green sweatshirt on. A woman was running up to him, kneeling down. Some kids on bikes were racing to reach the scene of excitement first. Her heart thumped in her chest. ‘No,’ she moaned. She pulled on her cigarette, her hand trembling, took the smoke in deep.

Vinia swore under her breath.

‘I’m going home.’ Cheryl wheeled the buggy round.

‘Don’t you want to see who it is?’

‘I know who it is.’ Her throat hurt and she felt sick.

Vinia had her hands on her hips, glaring at her.

‘It’s Danny Macateer.’ Cheryl’s eyes burned. She threw down her cigarette.

‘No!’ breathed Vinia. ‘How can you tell from here? We need to get a closer look.’

‘I’m not taking Milo there!’ Cheryl was furious. ‘You think a baby should see that?’ She couldn’t bear the way Vinia was talking about it, the avid interest in her eyes.

‘How do you know it’s him?’

Cheryl didn’t want to tell Vinia that she’d chatted to him. Not wanting to share the words they swapped. ‘He always wears that green top. You go.’ She was anxious to be free of Vinia. ‘I’m going back.’

‘Okay.’

Cheryl pushed the buggy as fast as she could go, biting her lips, her nose stinging, her chest aching. She burst into the house, dragging the buggy in after her. Slammed the door and sat down hard on the sofa.

Later , he’d said. Later . There wouldn’t be any later. He’d not get to rehearse, or play the gig, or make his mum proud. It wasn’t fair. The bastards had shot him down for no reason. He wasn’t in with the gangs. They’d shot him. Maybe a mistake. Or just because they could. And no one could do anything to stop them.

Zak

Zak had spent all morning on the supermarket car park near the precinct. He did try getting into the precinct first, tied up Bess at the bike racks, but the guard gave him a stone dead look and jerked his head. ‘On yer way.’

‘I haven’t done ’owt.’ Zak protested, all injured pride.

‘And yer not going to, neither.’ The guy was chewing gum. Nicorette. Zak could smell it. Rank. He’d got some from the GP once, on prescription, sold it in the pub for a knock-down price.

‘Yer can’t do that,’ Zak said. Though he knew he could. Said it for the wind-up really. Liked the idea of toying with the guy for a bit. Bound to be on a short fuse, on the gum, trying to kick the smokes. ‘’S a public place.’

‘Wrong.’ The guy gave a smug little smile. ‘This is a private development, privately owned. Anyone may be refused entry or ejected. And I’m refusing you.’

‘Why, what’s your grounds?’

‘I’m not obliged to say.’

Zak snorted. Drew the roll-up out from behind his ear and fired up.

The guy’s cheek twitched, like there was a bug under the skin. ‘No smoking,’ he said tightly.

Zak took a pull, released it slowly, like an old advert, the smoke swirling up all lazy and relaxed. ‘I’m not inside.’

‘Within ten metres of the entrance.’ The bug jumped again.

Zak took a step back, and another drag.

The guard’s jaw jerked up, his eyes darkened.

‘Fair enough.’ Zak raised his hand, flaunting the ciggie. ‘I get the message. You have a nice day, now.’ He gave a little bow and spun away. Walked back to Bess. She wriggled like mad, ecstatic, as though he’d been gone for hours. He patted her back, rubbed the loose fur under her chin.

After that they went round the other side of the block to the supermarket car park. He left Bess at the far end where there was some shade.

Zak struck lucky first time: a good omen. A youngish woman, early twenties like him, plain-looking with a trolley full of food. He’d watched her load her stuff into the hatchback then return the trolley to the bays and get her pound back. He met her halfway back to her car.

‘Excuse me-’ Zak was always polite – ‘can you help us out? Me mam’s been taken into hospital and I’m trying to get the bus fare to get down there and visit. I don’t like to ask…’

But, already embarrassed, she was fishing in her pocket, handing him the pound coin, apologizing that she hadn’t any more change on her.

There were two advantages to working the supermarket car park as Zak saw it: first off, because you had to use a pound for the trolley then just about everyone had a spare quid on them and second, they were on their way home after the big shop and wouldn’t be hanging around to see him use the same line ten, twenty, thirty more times. Way past the point where he’d made enough for a day-rider on the bus.

The morning went well. He’d a few who refused to acknowledge him and a smart-arse who suggested he get some money out of the hole-in-the-wall or find a job. Then smart-arse’s mate joined in – offering Zak a lift, was she in Wythenshawe? Going that way. The men despised Zak, and it was mutual. Not a thought about why someone might choose to go begging if they had any other way of getting by.

He cleared £22 in an hour and a half. That’d cover food for Bess and some scran of his own: he could feel his belly growling. He’d get a tenner of weed. The price had rocketed recently. His dealer Midge had hung out for long enough but the market wasn’t moving so what could you do?

There was a Pound Shop further down Princess Road, good for dog food, and a Bargain Booze next door. Café on the corner. He and Bess headed down there. He could smell the bacon half a mile away. He got a bacon, sausage and egg barm and a large cola. Ate in the café while Bess waited outside. His mouth flooded with juices at the first bite: the salt of the meat and the silk of the yolk just perfect. The woman was happy to fill Bess’s dish with water. Important she got plenty to drink when it was hot. He saved a piece of sausage for her, a treat. They’d some big chocolate muffins and he got one for out. He had to eat it quick; the chocolate pieces melting in the heat.

He put the tins of dog food and the cider he bought in his backpack and went over to the park. Had a drink and a fag. He was feeling good, he told himself, everything going his way. He only had 60p credit on his phone so he texted Midge to say he’d be round later and to keep him ten quid’s worth. He ought to top up his phone; he liked to keep in credit in case he got news about his mam.

The cider coming after the meal, took the edge off. When he was working everything was wound up tight, ready to flee or fight if need be. No knowing what might kick off. A clenched fist inside his guts. Eyes everywhere. He never let that show; it’d scare the punters off if you were all wired. Now, he could chill. The sun was fierce on his face. He slipped off his top and spread it out beneath him. Lay back on the grass. He always went freckly in the sun, burnt easily, but some sun was good for you, vitamins or something. Bess whined and wriggled closer, laid her head on his chest. He grabbed the scruff at the back of her neck. ‘Good dog, atta girl.’ He felt the thud of her tail twice on the ground.