Cath Staincliffe - Witness

A while later he decided to head off for Midge’s. They cut through the estate. Some kid in a buggy took a shine to Bess, calling after her. At Marsh Street, Zak went left, saw the house at the end facing across the rec to the big road, kitchen window flung open. Singing to him. An invitation. Too good to be true? Sixth sense told him there was no one home. He went round on to Booth Street, no car outside the front. The tiny space in the back yard wouldn’t fit a car, motorbike at most. Zak rang the front door bell, waited, listened. Nada.

He told Bess to sit by the gable wall. Sunday afternoon and Zak could see people crossing Marsh Street further along. He waited until no one was visible on Marsh Street itself or along the alleyway that separated the backs of this row of houses from those running parallel and tried the back gate. Wouldn’t shift. He jumped up, gripping the top and hoisted himself up, trainers scrabbling for purchase. The yard was small, neat, paved with pink and white flags and a white plastic table and chairs by the back door. The wheelie bin was just below the open window. Sweet. He took a look in, listened again. Not wanting any surprises. He emptied his backpack, leaving the dog food and cider on the table.

He went in head first, lowered himself down and took his weight on the edge of the sink. Always liked gymnastics, only thing he was any good at in school. Managed to get his feet down without knocking anything off the draining board.

He swept through the downstairs first, looking for anything small and valuable. In drawers, cupboards, on the coffee table. His heart was racing, sweat sticky on the back of his neck. Found a camera, and a small bamboo box with two twenties in. He took the stairs two at a time, no telling how long they’d be out. Might just have gone for a paper, or popped round to the neighbour’s.

Nothing in the bathroom. Little bedroom full of kid’s stuff, bunk beds, small TV and, yes!, an Xbox 360. He disconnected it, fitted it in his bag, heavy but worth the effort. His lucky day.

In the big bedroom at the front there were a couple of necklaces and some rings, a nice little ornament, a girl and some birds, the sort people collect. Worth a few quid.

Zak glanced out of the window and saw to his left a silver BMW drive up along the top end of the rec. The car stopped suddenly and threw a load of dust up behind it. A man jumped out. A big guy with his hair cut close, a number two, and a short beard like a dark rectangle under his mouth. He was wearing a yellow vest, lots of bling and dark baggy baseball shorts, high-tops. Zak knew him: Carlton. Hard man. The car was his mate’s. Carlton was holding a gun. Aiming at a lad crossing the grass, bound for the big road. The lad didn’t see him.

Zak heard the crack of the shot as the kid fell. Zak’s stomach plummeted, there was a yawning inside, like a hole waiting for him. A current of fear zapping through him. There was a moment when Carlton was looking straight across to where Zak stood paralysed. Could Carlton see him? Zak was sweating more; he had that loose, sick feeling. Then Carlton ran towards the car. Zak hoofed it downstairs. He could hear Bess barking, warning him, sensing danger. There was a hessian bag hanging up in the kitchen, writing on it. Zak grabbed it and chucked it out of the window. He knew he wouldn’t fit through with the backpack on, all the stuff in it, so he used an apron and rolled it into a rope, his hands shaking, fumbling. He tied one end to the pack and, standing on the sink, lowered his booty down carefully on to the wheelie bin. He let go of the apron-rope and was starting to smile when the backpack tilted sharply to the right and tumbled down on to the flags.

Zak swore, clambered up and out of the window. Slithered down on to the wheelie bin and then righted himself. He didn’t stop to assess any damage but slung the dog food and cider in the shopper and then opened the bolt on the back gate to let himself out.

Bess stopped barking and wagged her tail. He headed back away from the recreation ground, into the estate. He was shaking. Got to get to Midge’s, have a blow, calm down. Wishing this wasn’t happening. It had all been going so well.

He heard the whoop of sirens after a while and increased his pace. By the time they got to Midge’s, Zak was tight as a cat’s arse, heart going like the clappers. He didn’t mention the shooting, didn’t want Midge to know he was there. Word would get round about it all soon enough. Zak didn’t want it in his head. He just bought his stuff. Had a blunt one then and there, shared the cider.

The figurine was smashed to bits but he showed Midge the Xbox and Midge said he might be interested for his nephew. They tried it out but the bastard thing was knackered. He should have known.

That night, back in the derelict house he was dossing in, he couldn’t settle. His skin humming and the ball of dread there again. Echoes bounced in his head: fists and sticks, a locked room, hot delirium. He woke in the early hours with a whimper, spitting and retching. Trying to get rid of the sensation in his mouth: the brittle, bitter flakes, the taste of salt and rubber and soil. His mouth watering and his back aching with each uncontrollable spasm. He tried to tell himself it was just a dream but he knew it was more than that.

He rolled another smoke, extra strong. Felt his skin slacken, everything melt. ‘Something’ll turn up,’ he whispered to Bess. ‘It’ll be all right.’

Cheryl

Vinia was back within the hour. The ambulance had taken Danny to the hospital, his mum and Nadine had gone with him. They’d turned up at the recreation ground, the whole congregation.

‘Your nana’s sitting with Rose. She said to tell you.’

‘Why’d they do it, Vinia?’

‘I don’t know!’ Vinia got all moody, flashing her eyes. ‘And I don’t want to know.’

‘There’s no good reason,’ Cheryl said.

‘It’s not our business,’ Vinia said flatly.

‘He was just a kid.’

‘Leave it.’ Vinia’s face was set.

‘So it’s all right to gossip and go over there all big eyes like some ghoul but we don’t ask why?’

‘Not unless you got a death wish.’

Cheryl shook her head.

‘What,’ Vinia demanded. ‘You judging me?’

‘No. But Carlton-’

‘Shh!’ Vinia hissed. ‘Don’t mess with it.’

The unfairness lodged like a weight in Cheryl’s chest, like a hand tight round her throat. She knew Vinia was right. Carlton and Sam were not to be messed with. She knew nothing, had seen nothing, would say nothing. It was a senseless tragedy. Everyone would suck their teeth at it, shed tears, keep quiet.

Cheryl’s phone went off. Nana.

‘The boy passed.’ Her voice sounded old, creaky. ‘The Lord has taken him.’

‘No,’ Cheryl moaned.

‘I’m going to stay with Rose.’

‘What can I do, Nana?’

‘Nothing, child.’

‘Some food, the casserole?’

‘You have that. The church will be bringing food for the set-up. Paulette is still at the hospital. You could get some flowers. There’s money in the ginger jar.’

‘Yes.’

‘Sign my name as well.’

‘Shall I bring them to Auntie Paulette’s?’

‘No. Leave them where he fell.’

‘Yes.’

‘God love you, child.’

Cheryl’s hand shook and her eyes stung as she ended the call. She sniffed hard. Turned to Vinia. ‘Danny died. I have to get flowers.’

‘I’ll come,’ Vinia said.

Cheryl felt trapped, wanting to shake free of her. ‘No need.’

‘I can’t go home.’

Vinia was scared, Cheryl saw, couldn’t face Carlton and his boys.

‘Okay.’

Cheryl bought the biggest bouquet she could with Nana’s £20 note. White and red: lilies and carnations, gypsy and ferns. Milo wanted to hold them but she was worried he would try eating them or crush the delicate blooms, so she bought him a piece of red ribbon from the woman and gave him that.