Witness

CHAPTER ONE

Fiona

The blood didn’t disturb her. Fiona was no stranger to blood: as a midwife, it came with the territory.

The boy lay on his back, one leg buckled to the side, his arms outflung. Large hands. A boy on the cusp. Like her own son. Different features, this boy was Afro-Caribbean, but the same sort of age. Even as she had these thoughts she was kneeling, assessing him; ignoring the wild beating of her heart, channelling the roar of adrenalin to fire up memory and intellect and practical responses.

Checking his airways and finding breath there, stuttering but there all the same. Warm, moist breath, the faint tang of spearmint. And his eyes on her. Brown eyes, tawny, reflecting her silhouette and the blue sky beyond her. A rim of gold edged each iris. His eyes locked on hers as she tore off her cardigan, folded it and pressed it to his chest. There were dressings in her bag, over in the house, but there was no time to fetch it. The green T-shirt he wore was now black with blood. The same blood pooled in a slick beneath his shoulders, soaking into the grass, into the hard earth among the daisies and dandelions, the clover and the plantain. His eyes fixed on hers as she murmured words of comfort and prayed for the ambulance to hurry. His gaze was a kaleidoscope of emotion: surprise, then the skitter of fear and finally the bloom of love. Bringing tears burning in her own eyes.

‘It’s all right, love, the ambulance is on its way, you’re all right.’

His eyelids fluttered and a spasm shook his frame. She saw his eyes roll back and his mouth slacken. Felt the thready pulse at his neck race then falter and stop.

She bent over to give him mouth-to-mouth and glimpsed his young person’s travel pass. His photo and name: Danny Macateer. A kick of memory. Macateer. The first twins she’d seen born by vaginal delivery. Danny and a girl, a name with similar letters: Dana? Anya? Nadia? Nadine! Must still be living in the area.

Fiona held his nose; his skin was clammy now from shock. She placed her mouth over his and breathed out, soft, steady. She had never had to do this before. Not in twenty years of midwifery. His chest moved, she allowed it to settle then breathed again. She could smell the soap on his skin, see the fine down on his cheek, the shine in his close-cut, springy, black hair.

Sitting back on her heels she felt for his breastbone, placed the heel of her left hand on it, covered that with her right hand and laced her fingers together. The wound was somewhere on the left of his chest, close to his heart and his lung. Pumping his heart might increase the blood loss but without it there would be no chance for blood to reach his brain. She began to push, using her weight, counting the rhythm. Aware of the ground trembling, people running, approaching, a Babel of words: shot… I saw the car … has anyone rung the ambulance… broad daylight.

‘Come on, Danny. Stay with me. Come on.’ Fiona gave him two more breaths. Resumed pushing. The muscles in her upper arms ached with the strain, she was sweaty with exertion, her hands now smeared red, the smell of copper in her throat.

She was still trying when she heard the howl of the ambulance getting louder and louder, then abruptly ceasing. The paramedic put his hand on her shoulder, told her to move away, that they could take it from here. And she nodded, unable to speak. Placed her hand against Danny’s cheek and saw his eyes unfocused, still. She bent to kiss him on the forehead. A mother’s kiss.

Fiona tried to stand but her legs were numb, useless. She struggled to her feet and felt the world tilt. Dizzy. She closed her eyes.

Across the grass came a crowd, to add to the clutch of onlookers. Perhaps two dozen people, mostly black. In hats and frocks, finery and natty suits. Fiona thought of a wedding party. Then she remembered it was Sunday. Churchgoers. And in the centre of the crowd, three women. Three generations. The youngest, the boy’s age. Exactly. Calling out, crying, praying aloud. Anguished. Fiona moved back, moved away and watched as the women – the mother and grandmother, the sister Nadine – fell beside him, demanding hope from the paramedics, deliverance from their God.

Fiona stood reeling under the high, blue sky, voices swooping and diving around her, while the boy was injected, defibrillated and put on oxygen. They loaded him into the ambulance.

When the police came they took her to sit in a car at the edge of the grass. She told them everything she could but the order kept getting mixed up and she left things out and had to correct herself and retell it until she had stitched together the sequence. All about doing the home visit and hearing the shot, seeing through the window the boy fall, and racing out of the house. The car that almost ran her over, as she hurtled across the road, the glimpse of the driver, a white man, at the wheel. Reaching Danny.

The area had been cordoned off. They asked for her shoes. Something about forensics. Her shoes were full of blood.

She had left everything at the new mother’s house when she heard the gunshot, saw Danny fall. Her medical kit, her bag. The police gave her some protective shoe covers in place of her shoes. Similar to the paper slippers patients wear for theatre. They hid the blood on her feet but were useless at protecting her soles from the gravel and glass scattered on the pavement on the walk back to the house. The police had offered to call someone, or find her a taxi home, but she needed to get her own car back, so she declined.

She knocked on the door for the second time that day. She found it hard to recall how much of the visit she’d covered: checking and weighing baby, examining the contents of its nappy and the cord. Examining mum (temp, BP, glucose in the urine) and checking how feeding was going. Leaving some time for any worries and problems to be raised. She couldn’t do anything now, in the state she was in. Hygiene was one of the most important routines to establish with parents. When the new mum opened the door Fiona apologized several times.

‘It’s all right,’ the other woman said. Her eyes kept creeping back to Fiona’s uniform, to her hands, where the blood had dried like rust in the creases of her skin. Carmel shook her head. ‘It’s terrible. Just a kid.’

Fiona nodded fiercely. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She held up her hands, looked a question, the woman nodded and Fiona went through to the kitchen. She washed her hands with cold water, then handwash, until the blood had gone and they were blotchy red and white. She collected her things together and asked Carmel if she would like another midwife to call as the visit had been cut short.

‘I’m fine.’

‘There will be someone here tomorrow,’ Fiona told her.

Fiona sat in her car. She felt immensely tired, her back ached, her stomach was hollow. She was desperately thirsty. Around the green space police tape shivered in the light breeze, glinting in the sun. The sound of her phone jolted her. She took it from her bag. Home. Owen wondering where she was. She was on a half-day, four-hour shift. Should have been back two hours ago. She couldn’t face talking to him now. There were two earlier missed calls. She groaned. Go home, she told herself.

She drove carefully, the pedals biting into her feet, fearful that she would drift off and lose concentration. Everything looked so ordinary, so normal. She had an irrational desire to wind down her window and shout to people: a boy’s been shot! See their faces change. Make them pause. Stupid, she muttered to herself.

She pulled into the drive and parked the car. Gathered up her bags and jacket and went in the side gate expecting the french windows would be open. The garden was empty.

Owen was in the living room, playing his games. Chisel-faced men in uniforms, men with guns, sweeping through abandoned houses. ‘You could have rung,’ he complained without turning round. ‘I needed that money.’

Rage reared in her. Owen turned, saw her face, took in her uniform, the blood, the overshoes. ‘Oh, God.’ His voice had softened.

‘They shot a boy,’ she began, sorrow replacing anger. Her fingers stiff, splayed bouncing on her lips. ‘Your age.’

He swallowed, uncertain how to respond.

‘In Hulme, on the field by the dual carriageway, near the bridge. I couldn’t save him.’ Tears spilt down her cheeks, blurring everything. ‘Sorry.’ She wiped at her eyes.

Owen was blushing, his face and his neck red. ‘You could give us a hug,’ she chided him. He looked at her uniform.

‘It’s dry,’ she said.

He lumbered to his feet, came closer. She wrapped her arms around him. Still a child really, though he was taller than her now, broad like his father. She was careful not to weep all over him. They were on their own together and she always tried to remember she was the grown-up, not to expect him to meet her emotional needs. She withdrew. ‘I need to shower. I didn’t get any cash. It’ll have to be tomorrow.’

He grunted. Went back to his game.

She undressed. Her tights were stuck to her knees with discs of blood. She peeled them off, put them in the bin. She soaped and scrubbed her hands and feet, then washed her hair in the shower. She sat down under the water, knees bent up, resting her head on them. She let the water drum upon her upper back, where her spine felt rigid, fused hard as stones. She tried to clear her mind but each time she closed her eyes, Danny swung into view: his eyes on her, that steady warmth, looking joyous almost, just before she lost him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered over and over. Sitting there until her back was numb from the jets and the room was dense with steam.

Feeling raw and slightly giddy, Fiona sat down to eat with Owen. It was a fine June evening and they ate on the patio. The air was full of drifting seeds, woolly clumps from the stand of poplars that ran along the edge of the meadows near the river. She and her ex, Jeff, had chosen the house because of its location. They were still close to the city, fifteen minutes in the car to town outside rush hour, but had the advantages of being on the edge of the housing development with uninterrupted views across the meadows to the Mersey. A small back garden and a rather characterless semi were a small price to pay for the pleasure of being close to the open land.

Fiona doled out lasagne and handed Owen his plate, took some salad. Her son was avoiding her eyes, skulking behind his long, black fringe. Eyes studiously downcast. She felt a flare of resentment; what was he so scared of? That she might weep again or shake or show some other embarrassing emotion? Precisely that, she thought. With all the intense selfishness of a teenager, Owen hated adult displays of feeling though his own moods were mercurial and dramatic.

She cut into the pasta, scooped a small forkful up. It smelt good, her mouth watered. Then she felt a rush of nausea. She set her fork back down. ‘He was one of my babies,’ she told him.

Owen gawped. ‘He was a teenager.’

‘Now he is,’ she told him. ‘A twin.’ She frowned, her eyes stung. Owen hastily looked away.

He cleared his throat. ‘It was on the news,’ he said. ‘He died.’

She’d known. He’d died there, in her shadow. The sky trapped in his eyes. Everything that came after: the breath she shared, the medical efforts, the oxygen and drugs, the mercy dash – irrelevant, surplus to requirements.

She felt her nose redden and the prickle of tears. Bit down hard on her inside cheek and watched as the swifts wove arcs in the sky.

Owen shovelled his food down, eating only with his fork, gulping his orange juice in between.

She cut a piece of cucumber in half. Ate that, a sliver of red onion, some lettuce. Took a sip of the Sauvignon, so cold it made her teeth ache. The meat in tomato sauce was congealing on her plate. Ask me about it, she demanded in her head. Ask me now. Just show a glimmer of interest. She wanted to talk about it, all the details, go over it. Tell him everything, not just the facts that the police wanted, but all the rest. How she felt. Ask me how I am. Ask me.

Owen pushed back his chair, the metal legs scraping, screeching on the flagstones. ‘Going out,’ he said.

Panic exploded in her chest. Stay, she wanted to say. Don’t go. Be careful! This – the soft air, the food, home, it’s a mirage. Gone in an instant. It’s not safe out there.

‘Back by ten,’ she told him, ‘school tomorrow.’

‘’Kay.’

She turned to watch him go: a clumsy bear of a boy. An impression strengthened by the ridiculous baggy black denims, the huge black T-shirt. At fifteen it was as if the light in him had gone out. Just a phase, everyone told her, and she hoped that was the case, and that it would not be long-lived.

She took more wine. Drank deep. Felt her edges smudge. Stayed there for a while watching the birds. Then forced herself up to go and walk Ziggy.

The dog ran ahead of her hoovering up smells, tail waving. Ziggy was a mongrel they’d rescued from the dogs’ home. Owen’s dog. Arranged when he was six in the wake of his dad leaving them. The dog was average, unremarkable. Tan-coloured, pointy ears and muzzle. An every-dog. The sort that could illustrate the alphabet letter D or a brand of dog food. Impossible to mistake for any pedigree breed. He was good-natured, biddable.

Owen was meant to walk him once a day, Fiona the other time. But in recent months Owen’s personality transplant meant he’d given up on the walking. It ranked alongside brushing his hair and clearing up his room. Boring, beneath him.

Fiona felt a stab of guilt. Then a wash of shame. Her son was alive. She should have clung to him despite his protestations. Rejoiced. He was a lovely boy beyond the practised disenchantment, the grunts and the sneers. He was caring and honest. As a younger child he’d been avidly interested in the world and its workings, genial, prone to giggles. Easy company. He would be again, surely.

She wondered about Danny and his mother. Had they squabbled and fallen out? Was he surly and sullen at home? What had his parting words been? Something mundane: I don’t want tea. Or edgy: I heard you, I’ll do it later! Or poignant: Love you, Mum. Fiona had a sudden urge to text Owen – Luv u. He’d not thank her for it, would probably not even acknowledge it. His phone was always off when she tried it, or out of credit when she asked why he’d not responded to her messages. Mysterious how he still seemed able to communicate with his mates on it.

Ziggy waited at the bridge to see which route they were taking. Fiona signalled ahead: ‘Go on Zig.’ The dog waited and trotted over the bridge when Fiona reached the steps. The pub on the other bank, Jackson’s Boat, once derelict, had been done up a couple of years ago and there were parties sitting at the picnic tables. The smell of fried food lingered in the air, children squealed in the playground. Back in the mists of time she and Jeff had occasionally treated themselves to Sunday lunch there, Owen in his pushchair.

The lane led through an avenue of trees, the canopies in full leaf, the track beneath still muddy in the shadiest places from last week’s rains. Fiona hoped she wouldn’t run into any of the regulars, the dog walkers who’d come to know each other through their animals. A rag-tag community, all shapes and sizes. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She tried to immerse herself in the natural world around her: the heady perfume of dog-roses, splashed pink among the hedgerows, the clamour of sparrows, a small tortoiseshell butterfly dancing in the nettles, the flash of orange and the blue edging far fancier than its name suggested. They crossed into the little wood by the nature reserve building and she saw a wren busy in the undergrowth and a ball of gnats in a roiling jig under the boughs of the trees. The path led on to the water park. The lake was the colour of blue-black ink, ruffled despite the still of the evening. The motorway ran at the other side, its roar ever-present. Pylons stood sentinel, their wires stretched high above the water. Bulrushes and Himalayan balsam, with its sweet, waxy scent, lined the banks. The lake was used for sailing and canoeing but the water was clear of craft now, the boats locked away in the yard on the far side near the fancy motorway footbridge with its triangular frame. Now only ducks and Canada geese, gulls and a solitary heron broke the water’s surface.

Ziggy ran down to the shore and barked half-heartedly at a clutch of geese. The birds ignored the dog. They were resident here all year; their marbled olive-green and white guano decorated the banks and the paths. Further along Fiona saw fishermen, hunkering down for the night, with their green tents and paraphernalia, rods already baited and propped on stays.

Fiona and Ziggy passed a man and a woman with a golden retriever. Strangers: smiles and nods exchanged. When the path left the lakeside, she took the turn up to the river. The banks had been raised for flood defences, and the broken bricks and chunks of concrete peeked through the grass here and there. A path ran along the top and another had been carved out halfway down. Fiona took the lower route, which was punctuated by heaps of debris – kindling and plastic waste – left by the storms. As they neared the bridge again, she was tiring. She stopped and stared into the river, following the ripple where some obstacle altered the current. Ziggy ran ahead then back, waited unsettled, head cocked on one side. They turned for home. The air was cooling now, the sun lost behind the tiled roofs, the swifts still in flight. She had read that they sleep in flight, roosting high above the ground, unable to fly again if they are forced to land. Ziggy waited for her at the back gate. Fiona looked up at the house. Owen was still out. She wasn’t due in work till Wednesday. She must ring in the morning, tell them she hadn’t finished her last visit.

She locked the gate behind them, let the dog in. She took off her trainers and cleared up the dishes even though it was Owen’s job, unable to let them sit and then face another argument about it. She poured a glass of wine.

It was almost nine. She tuned the radio into the local station. Why was she doing this? Proof? Prurience? The jingle came on then the time signal. The newscaster gave her introduction, then announced the headline: Police in Greater Manchester have launched a murder inquiry after a sixteen-year-old boy was shot and killed in the Hulme district of Manchester earlier today. The youth has not yet been named.

‘Danny,’ Fiona whispered, ‘Danny Macateer.’ She turned the radio off and sat in silence until she heard Owen come in at quarter past ten, his footsteps thudding up the stairs, shaking the house. She stood and went up after him. Met him on the landing.

‘Hey,’ she kept her voice light, ‘I said ten.’

He gave a sigh.

‘I love you, you know,’ she said quickly. ‘Don’t ever forget that.’ He made a noise in his throat. She squeezed his shoulder. He swung past her into the bathroom, a half-smile on his lips.

She cleared up the living room, set the alarm, put Ziggy in the kitchen. Routines. Then she went to bed, promising herself that if she couldn’t doze off, she’d get up and read or something. It didn’t matter; she’d no work in the morning. She felt so tired, as though she’d not enough blood in her any more, insubstantial. She closed her eyes. And slept.

CHAPTER TWO

Mike

Mike’s first thought was that it was a movie. Someone making a film. The guy stepping out of the Beemer, raising his arm. The retort of the weapon cutting through the traffic noise, through Joe Strummer’s snarling vocals and the thrash of guitars. You saw plenty of filming in the city. Granada Studios were in town. Only a couple of miles or so from here. They used locations for Coronation Street, for other programmes they made. The Town Hall was popular – it doubled as the Houses of Parliament inside – all the marble pillars and stone stairways, elaborate ceilings and mullioned windows. They’d filmed across the way from Mike’s one time. An episode of Cracker, Robbie Coltrane, the big man himself, playing the police shrink, criminal profiler they called it. Coltrane had to knock on this door and when it opened he stepped inside. All morning they’d filmed. Mike had to move his van round the corner out of the way. The little street was chocker with cables and flight cases and the crew. Must have been twenty people milling around. Coltrane did his move again, and again. Up to the door, knocking, stepping inside. Mike grew bored after a while but Vicky was fascinated. She watched from their upstairs bedroom window. Circle seats. Working out what all the crew’s jobs were. Mike left for work. He had to wait for a signal from a guy in a knee-length bubble coat and headset before he could walk down the road to get his van. In case his shadow or his footsteps or something spoiled the shot.

So that was Mike’s first thought: a film. But there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach like he knew before he’d even thought it through. No vans or cables, no UNIT signs on the lampposts, no clusters of make-up artists or technicians. No camera.

The lad crossing the grass, he had his back to the man with the gun. Mike wanted to call out, the word rose in his throat. NO! A warning to the lad or a plea to the shooter. The word died on his lips as the lad was jolted, spun a quarter turn then, arms flailing, fell. Lay twitching.

Mike slammed on his brakes, felt the seat belt bite his shoulder, hauled the wheel over to the left and mounted the pavement. Earning a blast on the horn from the car in his wake. He killed the engine and The Clash cut out mid-beat.

Across the far side of the recreation ground the bloke with the gun slid into the passenger seat, pulled the door to and the car set off at speed, the driver gunning the engine. The car was side on and Mike couldn’t see the registration plates. Wouldn’t be able to read them at this distance. There was a woman coming out of one of the houses, dressed in a blue uniform. A nurse. The car almost mowed her down, bucked and swerved past her. She was running to the boy. Mike pulled out his phone and pressed 999 as he jumped down from the van. He walked quickly, closing the distance between himself and the figures on the ground. The lad in his green top and jeans, the nurse crouched over him. Across the way, at the corner of the houses, a dog stood barking up at the roof. At something Mike couldn’t see. Pigeons perhaps, or a cat.

‘Ambulance,’ he snapped when they asked him which service he required.

‘What’s your emergency?’

‘There’s a lad been shot on the field near Abbey Street, in Hulme. Beyond the bridge.’

‘Please stay on the line.’

Mike kept walking, and the operator asked him all sorts of impossible questions about the situation and the lad’s health. He tried to stay calm, to get enough breath and control the trembling in his voice as he answered her. He was close enough now to see the lake of blood, glossy in the light, and the nurse doing mouth-to-mouth. He relayed what he could see, told her what the nurse was doing. She kept him talking until the sirens materialized. He thanked her several times before sliding his phone shut. Watching the paramedics scurry from the ambulance, Mike stepped back. The lad wasn’t moving. He couldn’t be very old. Maybe fourteen or fifteen.

Then there was a crowd in Sunday best swarming to the field. A black woman near the front, running fast, her face a mask of fear. Mike had to look away. He tried to swallow, suddenly thirsty. He had some Coke in the van but it didn’t seem right to walk away.

The black woman was on her knees by the paramedics, an older woman beside her, others around them. The woman was shouting and crying, her distress making her words unintelligible but Mike knew exactly what she meant. Any human being would: my son, my son! Mike bit his tongue, took a steadying breath.

Four squad cars arrived, and other assorted vehicles as the lad was stretchered into the ambulance. His mother, an older woman and a teenage girl were directed to an unmarked car. Manchester Royal Infirmary was the nearest A &E, only a couple of streets away. They’d be there in no time, Mike thought. The police were edging people away, asking them to go to the road by the houses, to give their details.

The policeman who first spoke to him was a pudgy lad with large blue eyes. Staring eyes, like he’d had a surprise and never got over it. He took Mike’s name and address, date of birth, and asked him what he was doing in the area.

Mike explained and gestured to his van.

‘And can you tell me what you saw?’

‘I saw the shooting,’ Mike said.

The police officer glanced swiftly at him, as if to check he was serious. Then nodded and wrote something in his notebook. ‘Can you come over here, sir? We’d like to take some details now.’

It was another hour and a half before they were done. There was a lot of waiting about. Mike tried ringing Vicky but there was no answer on either her mobile or the landline. Then he sat in a car with a woman who took a detailed account from him, and she seemed to deliberately take it slowly. First interrupting him and wanting him to elaborate on things, then asking him to repeat what he’d just told her. He was thirsty and asked if he could get his Coke but she wouldn’t let him. She drummed up a bottle of water, warm but wet. Mike drank it all. Someone removed his shoes and returned them after taking an impression of the soles.

A lot of the questions were about the man with the gun. His height and size, which arm he raised, his stance, his clothes, his hairstyle. Mike could see the guy in his mind’s eye but when she repeated her questions uncertainty corroded the picture. He was black, yes, like the boy he shot. Tall, solid build. Baggy yellow and blue clothes, like the basketball players wear. But Mike was too far away to be sure about his hair, or his features.

‘Could you identify him?’ she asked. It was warm in the car, even with the windows open, and tiny beads of sweat framed her forehead. Mike could smell his own sweat. Rank. He wanted to apologize for it. It couldn’t be pleasant. You must get used to it, he thought, people in a state. He recalled the nurse standing up once the ambulance arrived, her hands and knees crimson and blood daubed on her uniform, a smear on one cheek. Looking dazed and lost.

‘I was too far away,’ he admitted.

Finally the woman told Mike he could go. They’d be in touch.

‘Is there any news,’ he asked ‘from the hospital?’

She pulled her mouth down, took off her specs, there were deep red grooves either side of the bridge of her nose. ‘They couldn’t revive him,’ she said.

Mike nodded once, his hands balled into fists.

He’d missed nine deliveries. He was one of the few drivers who covered Sundays – same rate, Ian never paid double time. Most of the trade was home shopping, people ordering from catalogues and, more often nowadays, online.

Ian owned the business. Mike had been a postman before that, kept it up when Kieran came along but by the time he was a year old and it was clear there was something wrong, him being so difficult to manage, Vicky begged Mike to find something with more sociable hours. Where he wasn’t heading off at four in the morning leaving her to cope on her own. Mike didn’t mind the driving job, liked his own company, listened to music or the radio when he got bored; Radio 5 Live or Radio 4. Learnt all sorts.

With the money Vicky made from her mobile hairdressing and tax credits from the government they could just about manage. It was touch and go at times: no leeway if the washing machine packed in or the gas bill doubled. Annual holidays were beyond their means and Vicky’s old banger was running on a lick and a prayer but holidays weren’t really an option with Kieran anyway. Change of any sort, the slightest deviation from routine, brought out the worst of his behaviour.

Mike looked at his clipboard. Two of the parcels were 24-hour express. Timperley and over in Urmston. Opposite sides of the city. ‘Sod it,’ he said quietly, deciding he would make an early start tomorrow and try to clear the backlog plus whatever else was on his sheet. He looked over to the rec, the white tent which now shielded the ground where the lad had lain. ‘It’ll keep.’

Back home he could smell pizza. Vicky was in the garden with the kids. Megan was on the slide; she skimmed down then raced across the grass to greet him. He swung her up and she let out a peal of laughter. ‘Again, Dad.’

‘Later, matey, Dad’s tired. Hey, Kieran.’

His son was nestled in the corner of the small area of decking, facing the walls. Mike could see the toys scattered between his legs. The bafflingly random items that Kieran formed an attachment to. A small rubber ring for a dog, a thimble, a piece of yellow felt, a plastic snake.

‘Did you get the straws?’ Vicky asked.

‘Oh, shit.’ Mike couldn’t face going out again. The only way Kieran would drink was through a particular make of striped plastic straws. No others. The child would die of dehydration rather than compromise. And the only place that sold those straws was Morrison’s supermarket, the nearest branch out in Reddish.

‘They’ll be shut, now,’ Mike said.

‘How could you forget!’ Her eyes were blazing.

‘Aren’t there any left?’

They bought in bulk, a system that worked for months at a time making them complacent, not aware of dwindling supplies.

Vicky swore and stalked into the kitchen. Mike followed. ‘I rang,’ he said. ‘You never answered.’ Bit of a red herring, really, he would never have made it to the supermarket even if he had got through and Vicky had reminded him.

‘Yes, well, he’s hidden the phone again,’ she hissed, pulling at the drawers, rifling through, just in case. Another of Kieran’s obsessions: taking and hiding phones.

‘And your mobile?’

‘Recharging. Look!’ She turned, furious, her face contorted, holding up the transparent plastic box. ‘That’s it!’ A single straw.

Mike’s mouth began to twitch, a bubble of hysteria fluttered in his chest. His diaphragm and belly convulsed. Don’t say it, he thought. Don’t.

‘It’s not funny, Mike.’ She looked askance. ‘It’s the last straw!’

Laughter burst from him. Snatching his breath and sight and sense. And then his face was wet and his shoulders shook and he lifted his hands to his face.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Vicky said quietly. ‘What on earth is it?’

CHAPTER THREE

Cheryl

It was hot for once and Milo was fretting after his midday nap so Cheryl texted Vinia. Asked if she’d like to hang out. Take Milo down the play park together. Vinia was cool with it. Said half an hour and pitched up in twenty which was some sort of a record. She was always late was Vinia, be late for her own funeral, that girl, Nana said. Many a time.

Nana had gone to church after giving out about how it would do the child good to visit the Lord, like she always did. How back home in Jamaica no one would dare miss church. And Cheryl nodded and shrugged and then objected that Milo had gone down and she wasn’t going to wake him.

‘Where did I go wrong?’ Nana muttered to the mirror, adjusting the veil on her hat. ‘Well?’ She turned to Cheryl, one arm out, palm up, the other on her waist. Asking now for Cheryl’s opinion about her outfit.

‘Fine.’ Cheryl nodded at the navy skirt suit. Gold buckles on the shoes, anchors on the suit buttons. Nautical Nana. ‘More than fine.’ Cheryl grinned.

‘Splendid?’ Nana demanded.

‘Splendid.’

Nana clapped her hands but the gloves muffled the sound. She went to the door. ‘I might go back with Rose.’

‘Okay,’ said Cheryl.

‘There’s some casserole left if you peckish.’

‘Ta, Nana.’

Since then Milo had woken, grumpy at first, then refreshed, and she’d fed him a banana sandwich and some juice and changed his nappy.

He had some words now; it cracked her up to hear him. ‘Woof’ had been his first word and they still couldn’t pass a dog, a picture of a dog, or hear a dog bark without Milo on the case.

Milo squealed when he saw Vinia and she picked him up and pretended to eat his cheeks, making him writhe and giggle.

When she put him down, Cheryl told him to get in his buggy and he toddled over to it and climbed in. Gave a little one-two kick of his legs in anticipation.

‘I need some cigs,’ Vinia said.

‘Call at Sid’s,’ said Cheryl. Shorthand for Siddique’s – the corner shop.

Cheryl manoeuvred the buggy out of the door and Vinia followed. Cheryl liked the heat. She’d been itching to wear her new shorts and the halter top and today was the day. Her figure was just as good as before she had Milo. Mile high legs, the agency had said, potential runway material. She’d done a few shoots, adverts, mainly print for magazines and promotions, just one for TV, but all that was impossible now, couldn’t pitch up for castings with Milo under her arm.

The sun was fierce and made the colours stronger, the red of the brick walls, the green of the plants in the hanging baskets that some people had up. The sky too looked bluer, a great bowl of blue, not a cloud anywhere. Nana had a tub by the door, no garden at the front ’cos the houses opened right on to the street, and in the tub there was a rose climbing up the wall, big, creamy flowers with that smell of lemon and spice. The smell was stronger, as well.

At the corner, Vinia went into Sid’s and Cheryl waited outside with Milo, watching people coming and going. Plenty of people out, making the most of the good weather. A guy walked by on the other side of the street, skinny, grimy, bare-chested and his skin milk-white, with a backpack on. A dog at his heels. Cheryl didn’t know him.

‘Woof!’ chirruped Milo.

‘Yes, woof,’ Cheryl agreed.

‘Woof!’ Milo was alive with glee. Like he’d never seen a dog before and this was the best dog in the universe. ‘Woof!’ He kept it up, one dimpled finger pointing to the dog, until they disappeared round the turning. Even with the dog gone, Milo muttered ‘Woof’ a couple more times. Savouring the memory.

Danny Macateer came along. A good kid. He stopped to say hello to Milo.

‘Why fer yer not at church?’ Cheryl mimicked her nana. Danny cracked a smile. She knew he got the same from his Nana Rose, and his mum. Nana Rose and Nana had come over on the same boat, way back. Young married women moving with their husbands, answering the call for workers.

‘Rehearsal,’ Danny said to Cheryl.

‘Safe!’ She nodded with approval. ‘You got any gigs?’

‘Maybe Night and Day.’

Cheryl knew it, a bar on Oldham Street that showcased new talent. She’d been to a poetry slam there once.

‘Way! Let us know.’

He nodded, a flush to his cheeks, still awkward with female attention. Cheryl was surprised that no one had snapped him up. A good-looker with brains and an easy way to him. Staying out of trouble, so far. Killer smile. If he was a few years older…

‘Later.’ Danny put his fist to Milo’s. The toddler bumped his hand against the teenager’s. Tiny against the boy’s paw. Cheryl tried to imagine Milo growing that big.

‘Woof,’ the child said.

‘Later.’ Danny nodded to Cheryl.

‘See ya.’

He went on his way. Vinia came out of the shop, lighting a cigarette. Passed one to Cheryl. She lit up, relishing the kick in her throat, the fuzzy sensation at the back of her neck as the nicotine got to work.

They set off again, Cheryl negotiating the buggy to pass people on the narrow pavement. A couple of guys went past, eyes appraising her, one of them whistled, his mate groaned. Cheryl played dumb. Used to it.

‘We’re going to the park, Milo,’ Cheryl said. ‘To the swings.’ He waved one hand.

Cheryl smiled. A lot of people would slag her off – single mum, teenage pregnancy, living on benefits – but Milo was the best thing that ever happened to her. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t do anything else with her life. Get back into modelling once he was in school. Cheryl did nails at home for a bit of extra cash. She had a flair for it. She could do something in that line, if the modelling didn’t take off. Not just beauty though, make-up for film or TV, or music videos. See her name in the credits.

Vinia worked afternoons at H &M in the Arndale. Minimum wage but a discount on the clothes. Vinia blew most of her money on clothes there. She lived at home still. Everyone Cheryl knew was still at home. Crazy prices for flats and houses, even with the recession. Cheryl didn’t mind living with Nana, it helped with having Milo too, she could leave him if she had to go somewhere or she needed a break. Nana could be a bit preachy but she’d lie down and die for Cheryl.

Vinia was telling her about a jacket she had her eyes on, white denim with beading, when a car came round the corner way too fast, the engine snarling. Cheryl pulled the buggy back sharpish and leaned into the wall, away from the road. The car was a silver BMW. Cheryl knew the car, knew the two guys in it: Sam Millins and Carlton. Carlton was Vinia’s stepbrother. They were both bad news. The car roared past them and took a right at Sid’s.

‘You heard about the Nineteen Crew?’ Vinia asked her, keeping her voice low.

Cheryl shook her head.

‘Fired into Sam’s house last night.’

Cheryl swallowed. ‘Anyone hurt?’

‘Nah. They were lucky, man.’ Vinia shook her head. ‘But everyone’s wanting payback now.’

‘Wankers,’ said Cheryl. Vinia cut her eyes at her, a warning. Vinia had to be careful around Carlton. He was a man with a lot of power. A dangerous man. Twenty-four years old and running the neighbourhood like some feudal prince.

Cheryl sighed. Eased the buggy back into the centre of the pavement.

‘Dry clean only.’ Vinia was returning to the theme of her jacket when a loud crack split the air, echoing through the sunlit streets. Vinia looked at Cheryl, Cheryl gave a slight shake of her head. This she did not want. It was never-ending. Tit for tat. Boys running wild with guns and knives.

‘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.

CHAPTER FOUR

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.

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.’

CHAPTER FIVE

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.

She had no idea what to write on the card. Everything was either tacky or pious: You are with the angels now or At peace with the Lord. Vinia was no help at all: Rest in peace her only suggestion. Cheryl didn’t know any poems and there wasn’t much room on the card anyway.

She printed For Danny. She thought of his music, his smile, the way he greeted Milo. Wrote A bright star. Pictured Auntie Paulette and Uncle Stephen, Nadine and Nana Rose without him. Added Beloved. Signed it Nana T., Cheryl and Milo.

Back at the rec, Cheryl made Vinia go on ahead and check there was nothing to upset Milo. Vinia came back, said it was all sectioned off. A tent up, you couldn’t see anything. Loads of police around. He lost a lot of blood, Vinia added. Cheryl didn’t want to think about that. Wished she hadn’t said that.

They didn’t know what to do with the flowers. There weren’t any others. They stood for a while until a policewoman came up. She took the flowers from them and put them by the lamp-post on the corner. Milo protested, held out his arms and kicked his legs, threw his piece of ribbon down.

The policewoman came back over to them. ‘We’ll be setting up a mobile incident room, here,’ she said. ‘If anyone has any information, anything that might help us, in complete confidence. And there’s Crime-stoppers too, just ring the number. Completely confidential as well.’ She smiled. Cheryl could tell she’d had her teeth whitened. Some patches glowing brighter than others. ‘Were you girls around earlier?’

‘Nah.’ Vinia shook her head. ‘Just heard about it.’ Cheryl nodded in agreement.

‘Did you know him?’

‘Knew of him, that’s all,’ Vinia said. Cheryl felt her jaw clench. Milo arched his back and yelled again.

‘And who’s this?’ The policewoman bent to speak to Milo.

‘Better get him back,’ Vinia told Cheryl, ‘must be his teatime.’

‘Yeah.’

The woman straightened up, gave them another smile.

Cheryl swung the buggy round and they set off. Milo’s cries got more frantic as the chance of him getting the flowers receded. Fat tears streamed down his cheeks. His crying drilled into Cheryl. Boring into her bones. He was enraged and desolate. She knew exactly how he felt.

CHAPTER SIX

Fiona

Fiona was dazed. The world, its minutiae, swam in and out of focus, at times hazy, then cast into sharp relief. Too harsh. Her mind was scrambled, thoughts jumbled like old sticks tangled on the river bank. On the Tuesday evening when Owen got back from school she was bewildered to find herself putting towels in the deep freeze.

She went over her memories of Danny’s death, anxious that they might fade and wilt like wildflowers brought into the house. Then she would be of no use when the police took her full statement.

She reassured her manager Shelley, who was also her close friend, that she was capable of returning to work as scheduled. Fiona couldn’t bear the thought of taking sick leave, of wandering round the house like some spare part: she needed to be busy, occupied, productive.

Tuesday teatime brought fresher weather. As she walked Ziggy the first full drops of rain fell, making little craters in the dusty footpaths. The river was hungry for rain, already the level had sunk with just a few dry days. The smell of mud, brackish and chemical, was pungent in the air. They walked along the river to the east. Fiona remembered her shoes, how the police had taken them, her cardigan: she’d have to get to a shoe shop, her trainers would do for tomorrow but they were pretty tatty.

On the walk back the sky darkened, huge bruised clouds hung low overhead and the first throaty rumble of thunder sounded. Fiona increased her pace, keeping up with Ziggy: the dog hated storms.

The deluge hit before they reached home. The rain, tropical in its intensity, flattened nettles and grass, bouncing off the hard earth. It soaked through the seams in her jacket and drenched the front of her trousers, making her limbs damp and cold.

Ziggy raced ahead, waited trembling at the gate. Fiona stood a moment, turned her face up and felt the cold, fresh water drumming on her cheeks and her eyelids, sliding down her neck. Lost in the sensation.

She was all right that first day back. More or less. She accepted the words of sympathy, the shared outrage of her colleagues, with a nod and a shake of her head. It must have been awful. That poor child. And his mother. A twin as well. Is it right you’d delivered them? Hands on her arms, on her shoulders, a hug.

She felt a little teary but once she was back doing her visits it passed. One of her mums-to-be showed signs of pre-eclampsia and Fiona organized a hospital admission. Another had worrying levels of sugar in her urine and Fiona recommended she see her GP: it happened to some women and not others, but they needed to consider whether there was any risk of diabetes. She went about her work: changed four nappies on newborns, dressed umbilical stumps, comforted a toddler, gave an anxious mum some help getting the baby to latch on properly and removed stitches from a tear. At each house there were papers and charts to complete. She called at the office at the end of the day. Shelley had checked her schedule and asked for a word.

‘Do you want to swap Carmen Johnson for another second-weeker?’

Carmen Johnson was the woman whose house overlooked the recreation ground. The woman Fiona was with when she saw Danny fall. Carmen was in her second week of motherhood and now only receiving visits every other day. Soon the midwives would stop calling and the health visitor would take over.

‘No, I’ll be fine,’ Fiona said.

‘Just yell,’ Shelley told her.

‘I will.’

Nothing had prepared her for the impact of returning there. As she drove closer she felt her guts cramp and her palms grow hot and sticky. She admonished herself. ‘It’ll be fine. Don’t be daft. Take it easy. It’s just a place.’ Fiona tried to empty her mind, let it fill with grey fuzz.

She turned off the dual carriageway alongside the rec. The tent and the police tape were gone but there was a police Portakabin at the northern side of the rectangle. And a splash of colour by a lamppost. Flowers. She should have bought flowers! Her thoughtlessness cut at her. She parked outside Carmen Johnson’s, gathered her bag and case, got out and locked the car.

She knocked on the door. Her face felt rigid, a mask. She tried to rearrange her features as the door opened. ‘Hello-’ The word caught in her throat, husky. She coughed.

Carmen looked perplexed, she wouldn’t meet Fiona’s eye. ‘We’re fine,’ she said. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbed at her upper arms with her hands. ‘We don’t need a visit.’

‘It’s every other day now,’ Fiona explained. Not understanding. ‘We’ll be handing over to the health visitors soon, all’s going well.’

‘Look.’ Carmen’s eyes were everywhere, her mouth working. ‘I just don’t want any trouble. That’s how it is.’ She closed the door.

Fiona stood there, her knees weak, feeling humiliated, shamed. Her cheeks aglow, her pulse hammering. Aware at first only of the bald rejection. The door closed on her. There had been times before: women resistant to visits, not wanting interference, women with things to hide or a damaged view of professionals. But this sudden switch…

Then she got it. She was ‘the trouble’. Because of what she’d seen, what she’d done. Much had already been made in the media of the community living in fear, afraid to speak out. Carmen lived here. She might have a good idea who was behind the shooting and how they ensured people’s silence. Carmen was simply protecting herself and her baby.

Fiona was back in the car, still smarting, when the pain hit. A band crushing her chest, impossible to move or breathe properly. A huge weight. She could feel her lungs contracting, the terror of a vacuum developing. Like drowning. No air, no way of moving. Sweat bathed her skin, her tongue felt huge in her mouth, her mouth chalk dry. An overwhelming sense of danger, animal-keen, consumed her, urging her to flee, but she was pinned down by the pain. She was dying. Everything went dark, then red. There was a roaring in her ears and her hands and feet were nettled with pinpricks. Her knees were juddering, heels drumming in the footwell.

She gulped and found a breath, then another. The pain dimmed, her vision cleared. Trembling spread through her body. She felt sick. Her heart hurt, thudding irregularly in her chest. She couldn’t possibly drive. Her eyes filled with tears.

Opening her phone was awkward but she only needed to press one button for Shelley’s number.

‘Please can you come and get me,’ she told her when she answered. ‘Get a cab.’

‘What?’

‘I can’t drive, Shelley.’ She reeled off the address.

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘I need to get to the hospital. I’m having a heart attack.’

The shaking wouldn’t stop, and the waves of nausea. Every time she closed her eyes, with each blink, she saw a still from Sunday: Danny prone, his leg twisted at an odd angle, blink, the fear in his tawny eyes, blink, the blood in the creases of her knuckles.

When Shelley arrived she was alive with concern. ‘Why on earth didn’t you call an ambulance?’

‘I don’t know.’ Because the ambulance was too much like Sunday? ‘It’s much better now. Perhaps it’s just angina.’

Of course A &E was busy. It always was. She spoke to the triage nurse, filled in the form and took a seat in the shabby waiting area, all lumpy green gloss paint and scuffed linoleum. There were two dozen people on the chairs.

‘No point in you waiting,’ she told Shelley.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m fine. Honestly. The pain’s all gone.’

Shelley took some persuading but they both knew enough about hospitals to realize it could be a long time before Fiona was seen. ‘Can you do me a favour, take my car home?’

‘Of course, and let me know what they say.’

She had nothing to do. Nothing to read. She passed the time examining her fellow casualties, trying to work out what accident had befallen them. Some were easy: the schoolboy in his PE kit with a makeshift sling and the elderly woman with a grazed knee complaining to all and sundry about the kerbs. But others had hidden traumas.

The time inched by. Patients were called through to the examination bays and others took their places. They would have brought Danny here. Through the other double doors straight into the resuscitation suite. And then to the mortuary.

‘Fiona Geary.’

She stood and followed the nurse to a bay. ‘You’ll know the drill,’ the woman joked. A reference to Fiona’s uniform. ‘You at St Mary’s?’ The maternity hospital was nearby.

‘Yes, on the community.’ Some of the midwives worked all their shifts in the hospital. The community midwives made the home visits before and after birth, carried out home deliveries, worked with women on the domino scheme, where they only went into hospital for the actual birth. Fiona preferred work in the community. There was more freedom and greater responsibility. Less intervention. The consultants held less sway.

The nurse handed Fiona the thermometer, which she tucked under her armpit. She tested her blood pressure. Both readings were a little high. ‘Any symptoms now?’

Fiona shook her head. ‘Just a bit tired, a bit dizzy.’

‘Any breathing trouble?’

‘No.’

The nurse checked through her form. No history of asthma, allergies, no pre-existing medical conditions. No regular prescriptions. Any family history of heart problems? Yes, her father. Fiona felt the prick of irritation. It was already all down there in black and white, she’d filled the form in today, did they think she’d developed diabetes or epilepsy in the meantime? She knew she was being unreasonable. She double-checked the same details with her own patients. She answered all the questions as reasonably as possible. The nurse left her for a few minutes and then a doctor appeared. The doctor looked at the form and listened to her heartbeat. Then she was sent back to reception to wait.

Another half-hour passed. Fiona knew that a lot could be done with heart disease. She was a little overweight but nothing excessive. They might put her on statins to lower her cholesterol, or do a bypass. A nurse brought Fiona a form and asked her to take it to Cardiology. The hospital was a maze: annexes and prefabs had been bolted on to the old Victorian buildings, sprawling in all directions and now connected up to a spanking new extension. Complicated colour-coded signs were there for navigation.

She handed the form in to the receptionist at Cardiology and took a seat. There was a water cooler there and she was thankful to drink a cup, to clear the stale taste from her mouth.

The ECG took ten minutes. The cardio guy attached the stickers to her arms, legs and chest, and she lay down on the curtained bed while the machine took its measurements.

There was nothing wrong, no arrhythmia or palpitations, no indication of any heart trauma. No echo of myocardial infarction. The cardiologist, giving her the results, asked her to describe again the symptoms she’d had. As she did, she felt her mouth get dry and her pulse speed up, a sense of dread creeping up her spine.

‘The tingling,’ he asked, ‘where was that?’

‘My feet and my hands.’

‘Any cramping in the arms?’

‘No.’

He nodded, pleased with her answers. ‘I think the good news is that there’s no sign of a heart attack. But there is an explanation that accounts for all the symptoms you describe, and that’s a panic attack.’

Fiona stared at him.

‘Have you been under any particular stress recently?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. Felt her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth.

Another nod. ‘Your GP will be able to help,’ he carried on, ‘discuss the treatment, ways of managing it. It may be a one-off. Some people have an attack once and that’s it.’

But the rest? She was appalled. It could happen again.

She went to the walk-in clinic at her GP’s practice the following morning. Dr Melling wasn’t her regular doctor but she couldn’t wait for an appointment, she had to see someone straight away. When Fiona tried to explain what had happened, starting with Sunday, the words clotted in her mouth and she was alarmed by tears in her eyes.

‘Take your time,’ the GP said.

‘The boy that was shot on Sunday,’ Fiona said.

Sympathy rippled across the doctor’s face. It made Fiona feel worse. She gave the gist of the story. ‘Then when I went back I had this, erm, this panic attack.’ She felt small and frail as she spoke. ‘The doctor at the hospital said sometimes it just happens once. But it was so awful…’

‘Have you heard from Victim Support?’

Fiona nodded, a letter had come yesterday.

‘They can help. Or we have a counsellor here, if you’d like someone to talk to. Just let me…’ She turned and hit some keys on her computer. Read up a bit. ‘Cognitive behaviour therapy can be very useful, that’s what Hazel’s trained in, good success rate reported. The other usual treatment is antidepressants. Some patients find a dual approach most useful.’

Fiona listened to her talk about side effects and the need for gradual withdrawal. ‘It may be that you’d prefer to wait and see if there is any recurrence.’

‘No,’ Fiona said quickly. The prospect of that terror clawing through her again, the flailing fear, the feeling that she was dying, was untenable. She asked for a prescription and said she would like to try the CBT. Dr Melling said there might be a wait but Fiona would get a letter as soon as an appointment was available.

Fiona filled the prescription at the pharmacy next door to the surgery. To be taken with food, it read on the label. She wasn’t hungry but she wanted the medicine so managed a couple of oatcakes and cheese.

She prayed the drugs would work quickly to protect her from the panic returning. She also hoped they would stop the pictures that were lodged in her skull. The relentless carousel of images shuttering on and on. Blink, Danny’s palm on the grass. Blink, his eyes rolling back in his skull. Blink, his mother on her knees, her face torn wide with grief.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mike

Ian was ready to sack Mike. He’d had customers on his back: several express deliveries not received, the firm’s golden guarantee rendered worthless.

Mike explained the situation and Ian had nowhere to go with it. Took a while for his body to catch up with his brain: face still grimacing, shoulders flexing as he processed the fact that witnessing a murder probably did count as a rock-solid excuse. Mike promised to stay late, clear his backlog, half-hoping Ian would give him a break, put some of his sheet on to one of the other couriers, but Ian just nodded and clapped him on the back. Trying for matey. Failing.

Word spread fast and a couple of the lads caught up with Mike in the loading bay. Mike was holding court describing the scene, telling it like a story, when Ian came out of the office, hitching his pants up. Already had the gut of a man ten years older.

‘Best get on.’ Mike broke up the little gathering before Ian could. ‘Shocking, no two ways about it. I tell you.’ He headed for his van.

‘Never seen a dead body,’ one of the younger men said.

Mike just caught the backchat as he clambered into his cab. ‘Hang around here any longer and we’ll all see one.’ The gale of laughter.

Mike felt a quickening in the pit of his guts. The shadow of the time before. The other boy who’d died, his father running into the street with his son in his arms. Mike pushed the shadow away, shaken, and stabbed at the button on the radio. Retuned to XFM, local rock station, Elbow singing ‘The Seldom Seen Kid’, plaintive riffs and Mancunian lyrics.

Vicky had been great. They’d fed the kids, got them to bed early. Mike had surreptitiously washed Kieran’s straw, turned it the other way up so the boy wouldn’t find the faint indentations his teeth had already made. Later Mike had snipped half a centimetre off the end so it’d look fresh enough to do for breakfast in the morning.

With the kids out of the way, she’d sent him for a shower. ‘You don’t half reek, Mike.’ And when he came back she gave him a cold lager, sat him down, wanted to know everything. When he got ahead of himself, she interrupted, pulled him back to the right point.

‘It’s bloody awful,’ she said when he’d done. She held his gaze. ‘You okay?’

He tipped his head.

‘Do you want to get off down the pub for a bit?’ He met up with the lads a couple of times a week.

‘Nah.’ He nodded at the fridge. ‘I’ll have another can. Maybe an early night.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ She walked to the fridge, got the beer, turned and faced him. Grinned, one tooth snagging on her bottom lip. ‘What sort of early night?’

‘Bring that over here and I’ll show you.’ He felt the heat of anticipation in his groin.

Vicky giggled, popped the ring pull and took a swig. Walked over to him, nice and slow, her hips swaying, the fine, straight blonde hair swinging in time.

She sat astride his legs, took another swig and handed him his drink. Her eyes were dancing. She smiled and reached for the buttons on his jeans.

Thursday the police wanted to see him. The murder had been all over the papers. A boy gunned down on his way to a band rehearsal. A lad who had a bright future by all accounts. Well liked in school, never in trouble. Planned to do a course in sound production and dreamed of being a successful musician. Mike had never done much at school. Just the thought of the place brought back memories he’d rather not have, set the swirl of unease moving inside him like dirty water, dampened his day.

They couldn’t tell him how long he’d be there. And the answer didn’t change when he explained things were a bit tricky work-wise. He agreed to go in for one o’clock, hoping an hour would cover it and he could call it lunch.

It was like he’d never spoken to the officer in the police car, the woman. He had to start from scratch. Sat in a meeting room with a copper who was a few years older than Mike. Grey hair but well turned out – suit and white shirt. He slipped the jacket off once they were settled. Joe Kitson, a detective inspector. ‘Call me Joe,’ he told Mike. Mike appreciated the informality. Understood it too. People would open up to you more if you were on first-name terms.

Joe asked Mike to talk him through what happened. Then he wrote down what Mike had told him. Checking sentence by sentence. He wrote on a laptop, fast, read back each complete paragraph and made sure he’d got it right. Joe didn’t talk much but he had an easy way to him, a good listener, not only for the statement but for the other stuff Mike mentioned: the situation at work, the shock he’d felt when he realized he was seeing it for real.

Then Joe printed it all out on a special form and asked Mike to read it, and sign and date it at the bottom. He’d give evidence if the case came to court, Joe said, Mike understood that?

‘Yes, of course,’ Mike said

Joe explained what would happen next. The police would be gathering as much evidence as possible to try and bring charges against the culprits. It would probably be a matter of months rather than weeks before they knew whether they had enough to mount a prosecution.

Joe told him that they intended to keep the witnesses’ identity secret to minimize any chances of coercion. He asked Mike not to advertise the fact he was giving a statement and might be called as a witness. Joe gave him his card, told him to get in touch if he had any questions, any concerns.

‘What do you reckon the chances are?’ Mike asked as Joe walked him out. ‘Reckon you’ll find out who did it?’

‘Oh, we’ve a pretty shrewd idea of who’s behind it,’ said Joe. ‘What we have to do now is see if we can prove it.’

‘Did you trace the car? You’d think a Beemer like that’d be a doddle to find.’

Joe smiled, shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’m not allowed to discuss the investigation with you.’

Mike nodded. ‘Need to know basis,’ he said. Some line off the telly. He felt a prat as soon as he said it.

‘That’s right,’ Joe agreed. They shook hands at the front desk. ‘Thanks for coming in, and I hope we’ll be in touch later in the year.’

Mike had lost an hour and three-quarters and missed two calls from Ian. He rang his boss.

‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ Ian barked. ‘I’ve had Sandringham Way mithering about a new laptop for the past hour, stayed off work to take delivery.’

‘Almost there,’ Mike lied, ‘five minutes.’

‘Keep your bloody phone on!’ Ian ended the call.

Mike sighed, slid a CD into the player. Jumped to Track 4, prepared to sing along with Jagger: ‘Hey You Get Off My Cloud’.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Zak

Topping up his phone had used up what was left from the supermarket money. And he only made a tenner on the stuff from the house. Everyone had a camera these days and the people in the pub slagged off the one he was flogging: no video and only two megapixels, they’d better on their phones. The jewellery brought a bit more.

He bought half an ounce of Golden Virginia and some Rizlas, a bottle of Lambrini. In the shop they were talking about the murder. Zak didn’t want to hear it. Made him remember the way Carlton had looked at him, trapped in the window. And if Carlton knew Zak had seen him shoot, what then? He’d be coming after Zak before too long – to shut him up.

He was living in an old house near Plattfields Park. Not on the council estate but the other side of Wilmslow Road. The place was scheduled for demolition, chain link fencing and warning signs. Zak wasn’t much of a reader but he could tell what the red and white sign with the picture of an Alsatian meant. And he knew it was just for show. Any hint of a real guard dog and Bess would have let on.

There was a gap below the fencing at one side where a part of the low garden wall had collapsed. He only needed to shove some bricks aside to wriggle under and Bess had followed.

The house was full of damp and the garden thick with saplings and brambles. Now they were in leaf and hid most of the building. It looked blind: sheets of chipboard nailed over the windows and doors. When he first found it, he could see they’d been there a good while. Broken guttering poured rainwater on to the sheet over the side door and the wood had gone black and green with mould, the bottom swelling with rot.

It hadn’t taken Zak much effort to work one edge loose, lumps of wood crumbling off like Weetabix and woodlice scurrying away. A couple of kicks had got him through the brittle door behind.

Now, when he came and went, he could swing the chipboard out a couple of feet and push it back in place. From any distance the property still looked secure.

No electrics so it was pitch dark day and night, and full of creepy crawlies, but it was safer than the streets.

Zak had nicked some candles from the health food shop. Big, fat yellow ones that burned for hours. The driest room was at the back. The old dining room. He’d got his sleeping bag in there and there was a massive fireplace where he could burn stuff. The smoke came back in the room but it was worth it to see the flames dancing and feel the glow of heat. The place was stone cold even now in summer and come winter he thought it’d be unbearable. Unless he got hold of some sort of arctic clothing, bearskin or summat, like explorers use. He’d have to move on. Maybe find out if his mam was sorted out now and move back there.

Zak had never been upstairs. Part of the staircase had come down and there was no easy way up. The floors were probably all rotten up there. The first night he’d heard noises upstairs. Come awake so sudden, Bess had growled, picking up on his fear. He’d listened awhile. Scratching sounds. He didn’t think it was rats or he’d see them downstairs too and Bess would have been after them. Maybe squirrels? Or pigeons in the roof.

Even with its gloom and damp he liked the vibe of the house. He liked to imagine it full of people. A family and all their mates. Bess by the fire or under the table when they sat down to eat. Plates piled high. And a swing in the garden and a Christmas tree, a real one in the corner.

He’d shifted Christmas trees last winter. A mate of Midge’s had a batch going for a song. Midge did him a sign on cardboard and the mate dropped them off at dawn, on the corner where a lot of commuters would be driving past into work in town. Norway Spruce, they were. £25 for five foot. Undercut all the other outlets. They were bound up tight, easy to slide on to a roof rack or in a car.

‘Just don’t let ’em open them,’ Midge’s mate warned him.

‘Why’s that?’

He tapped his nose. ‘And any you don’t shift, just leave ’em. No returns.’

Zak had sold nineteen by eleven thirty. Made a shedload of dosh. He left the last one for himself. Levelled it on his shoulder and walked back to the place he was staying. A little terrace in Fallowfield. The small bedroom at the back. No room for a tree there, and all the other rooms full of blokes over from Bulgaria, sharing three or four to a room, but he could stick it in the yard. He left it while he went to Aldi, got some decorations and a fairy, some stuff like Bailey’s seeing as it was that time of year.

He’d taken the tree out and cut off the netting and stood it up. Stared at it and heard the laughter from the kitchen doorway behind him, two of the lads. One of them slapping his knees and wheezing. Zak stared at it. Branches at the top lush and green and a skirt the same round the bottom. In between a naked trunk. A great gap where the middle should be like something had eaten the best bit.

He carried on. Put the baubles on top and bottom, left the tinsel hanging down to fill the hole. All the while the men almost hysterical behind him. Better than nothing. They shared a toast with him once he’d set the fairy on top.

Now he lit a candle, fed Bess and rolled a joint. Drank some of the Lambrini. Grew sleepy. He slid into his sleeping bag and Bess padded over to join him. She circled a couple of times then plumped down, stretched out by his side. Head on her paws. Zak always left the candle going, to take the sting out of the darkness. Not enough to see much by but he wanted the light to stop the dreams. That and the booze. It didn’t always work. It could happen any time, a beast with a gaping, black mouth, swallowing him down, where it was suffocating and cold and no one could hear him crying.

His bones ached, an icy, needling pain too deep to reach. Scars from the crash. He didn’t like to think about that. It didn’t do any good thinking about that. When they lifted him out and he was yelping with the pain. The look in their eyes: he knew it was bad, he must be very bad. And one of the men turned away, Zak saw his nose redden and his mouth tremble and saw the man was crying. Then Zak had wanted to cry too but his tears didn’t work any more.

He closed his eyes and imagined the house on a summer’s day, a barbecue in the garden. Zak flipping burgers and Bess waiting for any crumbs. His mam at the table with all the others, catching his eye and smiling at him.

Zak drifted off to sleep. Met his dreams. Found himself running, darting, dodging. The mud sucking him under. Stones thudding into him. Twitching and jerking as he slept. His restless movements echoed by the dog at his side.

CHAPTER NINE

Fiona

Fiona was rarely ill and Owen didn’t know how to react. She’d taken sick leave and explained everything to Shelley, who stressed that she was to have as long as she needed and not try and rush back to work.

Over tea that same day she told Owen. ‘So, I’m going to be at home and I’ve got some tablets from the doctor. I’ll be seeing a therapist as well.’

His face, what she could see of it, froze. His eyes met hers. Dismay. A slight curl to his lip.

‘Lots of people do,’ she said amused, ‘you don’t have to be bonkers. Have you any plans for the weekend?’ She changed the conversation, letting him off the hook.

‘Maybe Central.’ The indoor skate park in town. Skateboarding was the only active thing Owen showed any interest in, and because it got him up and away from his video games she supported him to the hilt. That meant shelling out for all the gear as well as the boards and fittings. The bulky shoes with their lurid patterns (Etnies, Vans, DCs), the fluorescent belts and garish socks, the particular brands of hooded jackets.

And of course the hair, straight and dark. Owen’s natural colour was mid-brown but now he dyed it black with Fiona’s assistance. She helped him apply it, wiped the splodges from his neck and ears, reminded him when twenty-five minutes was up. How much longer would he let her help? ‘Have you got homework?’ she asked him.

Owen shrugged.

‘Well, you don’t go anywhere until you’ve checked and you’ve done it.’

Owen kept eating.

‘Did you hear me?’ She was irritated at how he ignored her.

‘I’m not deaf,’ Owen retorted and got to his feet, scraping the chair across the wood flooring.

‘Well, don’t act like you are then,’ she said sharply.

Owen glared at her, his face reddening.

Fiona couldn’t bear it. She raised a hand, fingers spread, trying to be reasonable. ‘Maybe it’s about time I trusted you to do your homework,’ she said, ‘without any nagging from me. Okay? So it’s up to you from now on.’

He waited, shoulders slumped, head on one side, mouth open, a study in tedium, to see if she had finished. Then he walked away. Her eyes prickled, she sniffed hard. It won’t always be like this, she reminded herself. It will change.

After tea she read the local evening paper. All week she had been devouring coverage about the murder. Each time she found an item her heart would swell and her throat tighten. Often she would weep, the tears always so close to the surface. She read and reread, hoping to find something there, some meaning, some understanding. She drank in the details about the boy and his family: his parents Paulette and Stephen, Danny’s twin sister Nadine, also a hard-working student who wanted to make films, the grandmother Rose. Fiona pored over the pictures, the school photographs, the family occasions.

Tonight the article carried a photograph of the family in mourning. Dark clothes and harrowed expressions outside their church. Preparations were under way for the funeral. Momentarily Fiona considered going. But the germ of the idea was crushed by the weight of fear. It might prompt another attack. The GP had told her that it could be a couple of weeks before the medication started working and she should avoid stressful situations. It felt craven, cowardly, but she could not risk it. Both for her own sake but also because she knew it would be unforgivable if she went and the worst happened and she distracted attention from what really mattered. The burial of a child.

She didn’t like to throw the papers in the bin, it seemed irreverent. Instead she cut out the articles about Danny first and put them in a large envelope. She left it in the dining room, with her work files. She did it secretively, waiting until she was alone, though she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it seemed ghoulish.

Fiona no longer trusted herself to drive. The car brought associations of both the murder and the crippling panic. So when the police wanted her to go in and make a statement she asked if it would be possible to do it at her house. She might have been able to work out a bus route or hire a cab but if going over the incident made her ill with anxiety she wanted to be under her own roof. The man she spoke to, DI Kitson, agreed and turned up promptly on the Tuesday afternoon.

Joe was a nice man, softly spoken. She’d expected someone with more bluster or drive, someone sharper round the edges. He put her at her ease and set up his laptop to take notes. She liked the way he listened to her, really listened, instead of simply waiting for her to stop talking so he could start, which is how many of her male colleagues in senior positions behaved. And he thought carefully when she asked him questions rather than jumping straight in with a response.

He had a sketch of the area – the main road and the recreation ground. The houses and their back yards all marked off exactly like the diagrams on house deeds. He took it a stage at a time, asking her to show him where she was when she left the house, after she crossed the road, when she reached Danny – and what else she saw, who else she remembered each time. She was back there, blink, the sun hot on the nape of her neck and her hands on Danny’s chest, blink, his blood still warm on his T-shirt. She felt sick, felt her gullet spasm and her ears buzz. She made a noise and he saw. He knew.

‘Breathe out,’ he said, ‘slowly. Good, that’s good. Wait, shallow now.’ It was ironic – exactly the sort of coaching she would use with one of her mums in labour.

He repeated the words until she’d calmed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘something like this, it’s a terrible thing.’

‘I have a son,’ she said. A sudden urge to confide. Wiping at her face with her fingers.

He nodded. He knew of course, that was one of her background details.

Joe explained there were two areas he wanted to focus on more closely, to see if she could add anything further: one was the car that had almost run her over and the other was the man behind the wheel. She’d already described a silver BMW. He asked if she could recall any details.

‘I didn’t see the number plate.’

‘What about the windscreen, the tax disc?’

She shook her head. ‘It was so fast.’

‘Any decals, decorations, anything dangling from the rear-view mirror?’

It was a blank. All she could see was the sheen of the glass and the glimpse of the man.

‘What did he look like?’

‘He was white, a slim face, a wide mouth.’ She had practised this, gone over it again and again in her mind’s eye, determined not to let the snapshot fade. ‘Very short hair, pretty really, like a male model. Good cheekbones. I’m sorry.’ She laughed at herself and Joe gave an easy grin. ‘A bit like Johnny Depp,’ she added. ‘That sounds so stupid. But that’s who he reminded me of.’

‘That’s very good. Anything else? Clothes, hands?’

‘I only saw his face. He braked, I jumped back, there was this moment-’ her voice shook and her mouth felt dry – ‘we were just staring at each other, both shocked.’ She recalled the way he glared at her. ‘And then he drove on.’

‘And the other man?’

‘I barely registered him. I could tell there were two people in the car but I only saw the driver.’

Joe shifted in his seat. Typed a bit more into his laptop. Then he explained that he’d like her to try and identify the man she saw but she would have to do that at the police station. It was important to make sure it was done above board, the right checks and balances. ‘Someone else has to do it, I’m not allowed.’ He smiled. ‘Make sure I don’t tip you the wink.’

Fiona felt uneasy. ‘I don’t know.’

‘We could pop along now,’ he said quietly. ‘No fuss, no complicated arrangements. Be back within the hour.’ His eyes were greeny grey, the colour of shale, of bay leaf.

Later she thought he had planned it like that, making it easier to do because she wouldn’t be anticipating it, wouldn’t have a chance to get cold feet.

Still she hesitated. ‘But if I…’

He read her mind. ‘You find it’s too much, I’ll bring you straight home.’

She agreed. Wanting to be brave, wanting to impress him. Pathetic, she told herself.

The drive took only ten minutes and when they got to the police station it was all set up. Joe left her with a jovial, whiskery man and a younger woman. There was a monitor for her to watch and a camera would record Fiona’s reactions for evidence.

‘What we have are eight video IDs,’ the man said. ‘I’d like you to watch them, all of them, and only at the end tell me if the man you saw driving the BMW is among them and which number he is. You can look again at any of the images and we can freeze them for you too, if you ask. You can’t ask me any questions and please take your time. Is that all right?’

It was and the woman set the camera going.

They were like moving mug-shots, Fiona thought to herself, the men looking straight ahead then turning this way and that for the profiles. The men were all white with short hair. She saw him, number four, with a lurch of recognition. Then did as instructed and watched the rest. None of the others came close. ‘Number four.’ Her voice sounded dusty. ‘That was him.’ The man put number four back on the screen. He had large, dark eyes. A sensuous mouth, the sculpted face. Dress him in ringlets and kohl, pantaloons and a frilly shirt, and he could be Captain Jack in Pirates of the Caribbean.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Completely.’

‘Thank you.’

The woman stopped filming. Then Fiona had to answer several questions and her answers were recorded on forms: when and where she had seen the man, how close she had been, whether her view had been obstructed and so on.

Joe met her afterwards. He had already spoken to the man conducting the identification.

‘How did I do?’ Fiona asked.

‘Very well,’ Joe smiled. ‘You identified Sam Millins. He’s known to us already and his name is high on the list for this inquiry.’

She soaked up his air of satisfaction. She wanted to please him. ‘Were there other witnesses?’ she asked.

Joe nodded. ‘One, so far. We hope there will be others.’

‘In the paper, they talk about people being afraid to talk to the police.’

He sighed. ‘That’s our biggest problem.’

She told him about Carmen Johnson: how the new mum turned Fiona away, unwilling to be associated with her.

After Joe had dropped her home, Fiona found herself wondering about him: whether he was married and had children, what he did outside work. And whether she would see him again.

CHAPTER TEN

Cheryl

The tradition was to celebrate the one who had passed for nine nights. No one seemed to know why it was that number, not even Nana who usually couldn’t shut up about the old country customs back in Jamaica.

The Macateer house was full of people. Some had come up from London and Bristol and Birmingham, branches of the family Cheryl didn’t even know. It wasn’t just for family either, everyone in the community turned up. No invitation needed. Some nights it was hard to figure out how they would all fit in: it wasn’t a big house. But they did and the food and the drinks kept coming. Plates of fried chicken and fish, curry and patties, rice and peas, loaves of white bread and big, fat sponge cakes.

The place was noisy with chatter and laughter, got raucous as the evenings deepened and more rum and Red Stripe was consumed. People sang old tunes, hymns, gospel, some nights they’d put music on and dance. Cheryl wondered how Auntie Paulette and Nadine and the others could stand it. Didn’t they want to grieve in peace?

‘That come later,’ said Nana, ‘after the funeral. All the time in the world they have then.’ She was up most nights, sitting beside her friend Rose, slipping to the kitchen to clear up paper plates or wash glasses. With so many there of Nana’s own age Cheryl saw her in a different light. She was the most outspoken, prickly even. She’d say a thing and then there’d be a pause and someone would cut their eyes at her but Nana would stand her ground. Little things or big, it didn’t seem to matter. She was loudest of all talking about what had happened to Danny and how shameful it was that people were running scared, keeping quiet. ‘Like a new set of chains, slaves to fear,’ she pronounced one night, just as Cheryl was preparing to head back home to put Milo to bed. Late already and Milo grizzling in her arms. Rose nodded at Nana’s words but other people murmured, disliking the sentiment. There were people in the room linked to Carlton, though neither he nor Vinia had been down. Auntie Paulette kept saying she didn’t want anyone at the funeral that was part of the gangs but the gangs weren’t a fixed thing. Not like joining the gym or enrolling at college. No membership cards or contracts. Some people were there for life, or death, calling the shots and making the money, but the younger kids might run an errand now and then, hide a gun or deliver a package. Might do a favour for a friend or a cousin and never a thing more. Others would start their own operation, something small that wouldn’t disrespect the main players. Most of the people in the room had a notion who’d killed Danny Macateer. And Cheryl knew for sure. Even though she hadn’t seen them fire the gun. It sat inside her like something rotten, a clump of dirt making her sick.

The day of the funeral was dull but dry, the sky a grey, wool blanket trapping the air which smelt of steel. Outside the church a crowd of reporters with cameras filmed everyone arriving. They kept a distance, behind the railings across the road, and they were quiet, though there was the click and flash and ding and sizzle as they took their pictures. The church was full, people standing at the back, and folding chairs brought out to create extra rows behind the pews. As people arrived there were greetings, men shaking hands and hugging each other, acquaintances waving, people who hadn’t met at the nine nights smiling in surprise and recognition. Cheryl’s heart kicked when she saw Vinia and her mother: had Carlton come? Of course not, he’d be a fool to do that for all his front.

Cheryl, Nana and Milo were three rows back, behind the immediate family who would follow the coffin into church. Above the altar hung a huge banner, a picture of Danny. It wasn’t a formal one, not a school photo or a pose from a family wedding, but something more relaxed. As if someone had just caught the moment: Danny, his head tilted a little, his eyes alive with merriment, his smile wide and open. The life in him! Danny Martin Macateer, read the words beneath in black edged with gold, 1993-2009. It brought a lump to Cheryl’s throat, it hurt to swallow.

‘Who took the picture?’ she asked Nana, who’d been party to many of the arrangements.

‘Nadine.’

Cheryl wondered what it was like to lose a twin. Had they shared that special bond you read about? When Danny was shot, had Nadine felt it? Or sensed something really bad was going down? She’d been in church at the time, had she turned dizzy or felt a spike of pain pierce her heart?

Music started up, some piano sounding sweet and low, and the procession came down the central aisle. Reverend James and then Danny’s coffin, a huge bouquet on top, yellow roses, white lilies, green ferns and golden dahlias. The family followed and slid into their places. Cheryl could see Nadine’s back, the arch of her neck, the shape of her head, so like her brother’s.

There were prayers from the Reverend and readings from the Bible then testimonials. People queued up to speak about the boy, to make jokes, and share memories, read poems and quotes. Mr Gaunt, Danny’s music teacher, spoke and Mr Throstle the school head whose voice wavered towards the end of his praises. Danny’s uncle and his cousin took a turn, then another cousin. Danny’s band played a song he’d written, the little guy on the drums, his eyes red from weeping. Bobby Carr, the community leader, spoke about the peril that stalked the streets and the need for hope and vision, the need to take the guns from the hands of the boys who were lost and brutalized and deadly and give them work, hope, life. He promised Danny Macateer should not die in vain. Cheryl clamped her teeth tight together and felt the acid rise behind her breastbone, the sweat prickle around the edge of her hair.

Finally Nadine walked to the front. She looked a thousand years old, her eyes bottomless. She raised her face to speak then faltered, shook her head and covered her mouth. Murmurs of support echoed from the congregation. She tried again, her voice just audible. ‘This is how I remember Danny, my brother. His spirit is with me still. He will always be with me.’

A large screen to the left of the altar lit up and a cascade of images and music unfolded, fragments from Danny’s YouTube pieces, home movies, band practice. Danny fooling around, showing off, Danny concentrating, one arm rubbing the back of his neck, Danny singing, his eyes closed, mouth close to the mic, Danny trying to moonwalk, Danny with a wig on performing a speech from his drama course, opening a Christmas present. Laughing, head flung back, arms wide. The life shining from him. The picture froze and Reverend James thanked them all and invited them to the burial at Southern Cemetery.

Finally, as the procession followed the coffin out of the church, faces blurred with grief, ‘Abraham, Martin, John’ soared, filling the space, Marvin Gaye’s song about how the good die young. Cheryl sobbed and clung to her nana and Milo crawled between them pulling at their sleeves, disturbed by all these tears.

At the cemetery, a couple of miles south of the church, Milo was restless and Cheryl let him wander about while they lowered the coffin into the grave and Reverend James spoke again. The mourners sang at the graveside – one of the cousins had printed off hymn sheets. The day was still, muffled, but the voices sounded raw and broken. Cheryl couldn’t sing. Her chest felt too tight.

They waited until the grave was filled. Cheryl knew there were old stories from the islands of the dead trying to walk again, or of robbers taking the body, and people were still superstitious even in a different country and modern times.

Back at the church hall, Milo staggered about between legs, under the buffet tables, fractious and full of temper. Cheryl took him out and pushed him in his stroller round the car park until he fell asleep. After that, for the next two hours, even the sound of the band playing didn’t wake him.

The day wound on, the lights came on in the hall, half the guests were outside smoking. Cheryl had lost count of the people she’d spoken to, the cigarettes she’d had. Vinia had been cosying up to one of the boys from Birmingham, even though she knew he was due to be a daddy with another girl.

When they finally left, Vinia walked back with them. A starless sky. The streets looked tired in the sodium light, jaundiced. Cheryl wanted Vinia gone but Nana asked her if she’d like to stay and she said yes, double quick.

Milo never stirred when Cheryl put him in his cot. He’d got his second wind late afternoon and been on the go ever since, playing hide and seek and tig with the other kids. Cheryl looked at him lying there, his cheek sticky with sugar from some cake, his knees grubby, the curls at the nape of his neck tangled. He was perfect. Beautiful. Every time she saw him afresh she felt the glow in her heart, the big, hot, rush of love for him.

Nana was sitting in her chair, eyes closed, head resting back while Vinia made some tea. Nana looked old, the skin slack on her jaw, draped loose on her neck. Her brow and the sides of her mouth, deep furrows. When she opened her eyes to take the mug from Vinia, Cheryl saw that the whites of her eyes were yellow.

‘It’s a terrible thing.’ Nana blew on her tea.

Cheryl and Vinia murmured in agreement. Though Cheryl felt like strangling her if she said it again.

‘And no one speaks up. Someone knows.’

‘It’s not easy, Nana,’ Cheryl said.

‘I ain’t saying it’s easy but it is right. There is right and there is wrong.’

‘It was a lovely service.’ Vinia tried to head Nana off but she wasn’t for turning.

‘It wasn’t easy for Dr Martin Luther King but he speak out,’ she began the litany. ‘It wasn’t easy for Nelson Mandela but he never give in. Never.’ The skin on her face wobbled as she shook her head for emphasis. ‘Years in prison.’ She was on a roll now, jabbing her finger at them, her frown deeper, voice husky like she was wearing it out. ‘It wasn’t easy for Rosa Parks but she stood up.’

‘No, Nana, she sat down.’ Cheryl quipped. She’d been reared on the stories of these heroes, Rosa Parks refusing to go to the back of the bus, parking herself on one of the ‘white’ seats, a civil rights pioneer. Vinia laughed.

Nana snorted her displeasure, her eyes grew hard. ‘There’s talk your stepbrother might know something,’ she challenged Vinia.

Cheryl tensed, pressing her toes into the floor. Was that why Nana had asked her friend if she wanted to stay? To try and shame her into saying something?

‘That’s crazy,’ said Vinia. ‘Stupid talk.’

‘No way!’ Cheryl backed Vinia up.

Nana sipped her tea. ‘Sad day,’ she said and struggled to her feet. Cheryl didn’t know if she meant the day was sad because of the funeral, or because people were afraid to speak about the murder. ‘Goodnight and God bless,’ she told them.

‘G’night,’ Cheryl said, hands cupping her own drink, the heat hurting her fingers, studying the tremor on the surface of the tea, unable to meet Nana’s eyes.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mike

Mike woke suddenly at five. Bolt upright in bed, slippery with sweat. He grabbed a breath, listened, wondering whether Megan had cried out, though she usually came into their room if she’d had a bad dream and wriggled between them. No one got much sleep after that, her elbows and knees sharp as tacks. Plus she snored. A four-year-old! Mike asked Vicky once if they should get her checked out. Vicky rolled her eyes and told him to forget it: they’d enough on their plates seeing doctors for Kieran, Megan was just fine.

The house was quiet. Vicky, beside him, turned over and pulled at the duvet. Mike lay back down and closed his eyes. Had he been dreaming? He didn’t usually remember his dreams. Now he sensed an aftertaste, like a blurred reflection of something wrong, something shameful. The old sour feeling from way back, times he didn’t want to think about. He wiped it away, steam on a mirror, and tried to sleep; if he got back off sharpish he’d have another two hours.

Their routine proper began at seven. Kids up and dressed. Breakfast, packed lunches. At twenty past eight Vicky did the school run. Kieran was at Brook School, a place catering for children with Autistic Spectrum Disorder. There’d never been any suggestion of him going into mainstream schools, his needs too varied, too complex. Stick him in the local primary and he’d have sat in the corner for six hours, unreachable.

The staff at Brook were fantastic. Kieran had his own programme, a combination of one-to-one and group sessions to assist with his physical, mental and social skills. He’d come on in leaps and bounds, now able to greet people he’d not met before and sometimes answer simple questions. They all knew there were limits to what Kieran would achieve. He’d never live independently. Probably never take a bus ride unaccompanied. That frightened Mike more than anything. That when he and Vicky went, not to be maudlin or owt, Kieran would be in the care of the state. You couldn’t put that on to Megan, she’d have her own life to lead, maybe her own family. Might live abroad or anything.

Vicky had been home with Megan for three months after she was born but they couldn’t manage without Vicky’s income. She’d asked her mum to have Megan while she visited her customers but her mum’s health wasn’t great so it was a relief when they got a place at the childminder’s and were able to claim the fees back. Now Megan was at the nursery attached to the primary school and thriving on it. Vicky worked school hours and some evenings when Mike could sort the kids.

Mike let his thoughts drift. Wondered if a holiday might possibly be an option this year. Some last-minute bargain break. It would mean organizing respite care for Kieran. They’d only done that once before and they weren’t sure whether the pain was worth the gain. The stress of worrying how Kieran was, the guilt of being off on the beach, at the café or in the pool without him. Vicky had missed him, grown tearful by the end of the stay, homesick for the lad. Mike too, though not so bad. ‘It’s been good for Megan,’ he told Vicky, ‘look at her.’ She was laughing and splashing in the toddler pool.

‘She’s happy anywhere,’ Vicky said.

The alarm woke Mike just as he slipped away. He came swimming to consciousness: his mouth dry, his head aching. He wondered if he was coming down with a cold. Too bad. They didn’t do illness. Couldn’t afford to.

At the loading bay, Mike checked off his delivery sheet and packed the van so he’d got the parcels in the right sequence Most of it was short-run stuff, within ten miles of the depot. But he’d one delivery out into Cheshire, beyond Bollington. That’d make a change. The winding lanes instead of city bottlenecks. A bit of scenery. He’d aim for that in the middle of the day, have his butties in a lay-by somewhere. It was shaping up to be fine: a few clouds but no rain forecast.

Ian was prowling around looking for an argument so Mike got his stuff packed and didn’t hang about.

It took him forever to make his first two drops. Extensions to the tram network meant diversions and road closures, forcing the heavy traffic into a smaller number of routes. He made a stop in Ancoats where the process of converting crumbling warehouses from the rag trade into luxury gaffs for professionals continued even in the teeth of the recession. Then he crossed town to Salford Quays, where the BBC’s Media City was nearing completion.

Coming back into Manchester took him along Princess Road and past the recreation ground. There was a mobile cop shop there now and placards on the lamp-posts: Witness Appeal, Serious Incident. That’s when he saw the car.

Up ahead of him, taking a right, a silver BMW X5. He felt his guts clench and a jolt travel the length of his forearms. He checked his mirrors, indicated and nipped out. If he could just get the number plate. There were two other cars between him and his quarry, waiting for the lights to change.

He could get a picture. He rooted for his phone and pulled it out, switched the camera on. The traffic lights went red-and-amber then green. The Beemer moved at speed into the side road. One guy inside, but the angle of the sunlight cast reflections on the driver’s window and Mike couldn’t make the man out.

Halfway down the side street one of the other cars slowed to park. No indicator. Mike swore at him and swung out to overtake, his pulse jumping, just in time to register the Beemer perform a U-turn. Heading back towards him. Mike jammed on his brakes and grabbed the phone. Suddenly he was slammed forward, his head glancing off the windscreen, the seat belt biting into his shoulder, head snapping back and a burning at his wrists. He heard the sound of metal and glass and the whoomp of the impact, as the car behind him rear-ended his van. Then the whoop of an alarm, fast and urgent, howling in his ears, matching his heartbeat.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Zak

He’d watched the taller girl get some money from a hole-in-the-wall and reckoned it was worth a shot.

‘D’you wanna buy a dog?’

‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’ The smaller one had mean eyes, little slits all suspicion. He had ’em pegged as sisters.

‘Nothing. But I can’t look after her any more. Just been chucked out my flat, I haven’t got anywhere to stay. I hate to let her go.’ He shuffled, stuck his hands in his pockets, swung his head to the side and down.

The taller one was stooping down, patting Bess on the head. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Bess. She’s a lovely nature. Lab cross.’ He’d no idea what with but she was big and golden. ‘She’s had all her jabs,’ he added. ‘She was my dad’s then he died and I took her.’

‘Aw.’ The taller one straightened up, her eyes soft,

‘I want her to go to a good home.’

‘How much?’ demanded the little one. Then she cast an eye at her sister. ‘Mum’d die.’

‘She’d come round,’ the taller one said, smitten.

‘She’s a good guard dog,’ Zak put in. ‘She’ll bark if you want her to. Better than an alarm.’

‘She’s lovely, Shiv.’ She grinned at her little sister. ‘What’s she eat?’

‘She’s not fussy but lamb’s her favourite, any brand.’

‘How much?’ repeated Shiv.

‘Twenty-five.’ It was nothing. You’d pay ten for a rabbit in the pet shops. Zak hoped he’d get twenty.

‘How old is she?’ Shiv asked.

‘Nearly five.’

‘What’s that in dog years?’ The tall one was petting Bess again.

‘Thirty-five,’ said Zak. ‘You times it by seven. Labradors, they live to fourteen or fifteen so she’s only a young one.’ Zak was aware of a pair of CSOs strolling up the precinct in their high vis jackets and dark caps. He wanted to make the sale before they got too close. ‘She’s well trained, tell her to stay and she won’t budge. Sit there all night, she would.’

‘What do you think, Shiv?’ Her voice was bubbly with excitement, a smile flickered round her lips.

‘Mum’d kill us.’

‘Go over there,’ Zak suggested to the tall one, ‘then call her.’ The CSOs had stopped, were talking to one of the African lads flogging brollies.

The girl walked over to the shop doorway. Bent down. ‘Come on, Bess.’ Bess ran over and stood at her feet. The girl clapped her hands. She walked back, Bess at her heels.

‘Twenty,’ Shiv said to Zak.

Zak made out he was torn for a moment. Looked at Bess then back to the girl. Nodded. The taller one burst out laughing. She took a fresh note out of her purse and Zak thanked her. He knelt down, hugged Bess, ruffled her head.

‘You’ll want her lead.’ He pulled the coil of rope from his pocket. ‘She’s fine without but some places you have to put them on the lead. You’re meant to round the shops.’ He hooked the lead into the ring on Bess’s collar.

‘When’s her birthday?’ Shiv asked.

‘Next week, August 10th. She’ll be five then.’

‘She’s a Leo,’ the tall girl said. ‘Sociable, outgoing.’

‘Sounds right,’ Zak smiled. The CSOs were on the move again. ‘Look after her, won’t you?’

‘We will,’ chorused the sisters.

Zak left them and walked up the tram platform. In the reflection of the glass he saw them set off towards Boots. Shiv went in the shop, the other girl waited outside with Bess.

A few minutes later, Shiv came out and they linked arms and walked further along. Then they went into the market. Zak slipped down from the tram stop and ran along the road to the alley that led into the middle of the market. He stopped at the bottom of the alley. The stalls were close together and the aisles between them narrow. He couldn’t see the girls. Had no idea where they were but that was okay. Better in fact.

He whistled once, three shrill notes, and within seconds Bess was hurtling into the alley, no lead attached to her collar, not any more. Zak always made sure to fix the lead on with a soft, thin wire ring, little more than fuse wire that would open with the slightest tug, let alone the frantic yank when Bess heard him whistle for her.

He and the dog walked smartly up the alley and then down the steps to the canal. Out of sight, together again, and twenty quid richer.

Zak wondered if they’d put out a reward for information about the murder. If it was big enough, really really big, then it might be worth him coming forward but he’d want guarantees as well. Carlton saw him, he was sure of that, would know him by Bess down there barking when it all kicked off if nothing else. Zak tried to steer clear of Carlton and his like but they made a point of knowing who was doing what on their turf. Zak was small-time, no threat to them. But if the cops did offer a reward, like they did when no one snitched, then he’d need a new identity, a place to live, somewhere for his mam and Bess. If the reward money was a lot, and it’d have to be a lot to break the silence, then maybe they’d go abroad, somewhere nice like Ibiza. Party all the time. Have a place by the beach and a pool. He could be a DJ, just for the fun, wouldn’t need to work if the reward was big enough. He was imagining this when he saw the lads. Four of them on bikes, hoods up, circling round the end of the street like hyenas waiting for carrion. There was no way he was going past them, even with the dog at his side.

He spun on his heels and began to retrace his steps but one of them noticed him. He heard a yell, a ripple of sounds, the threat in the air like electricity, pricking his skin and pressing inside his skull.

He picked up speed but heard the air move behind him, the whirr of wheels, the clatter of gears.

‘Oy, dosser.’

‘Eh, tramp.’

Then the thud of something on his back. The rattle of a can hitting the road. A gale of laughter.

He turned now, pulling Bess in front of him, his hand in her collar.

‘You got a light?’ The lad had a shaved head, skin the colour of porridge, his neck was a mix of fuzzy tattoos and angry pimples. Zak stared. Stupid question, he knew it wasn’t a light they wanted.

‘Yeah.’

Zak pulled out his lighter, tossed it to the guy who caught it, dropped it, drove his heel down on to it and mashed it into the ground. ‘Whoops!’ He grinned. There were brown lines on his teeth. ‘What else you got?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Empty your pockets.’ A ginger lad, freckly. They’d no fear of Bess, barely cast her a glance. How could they tell she was soft? If he had a pit bull would they have left him alone?

Zak brought out his tobacco in one hand, a twist of draw, all he had left, in the other.

‘Wacky backy,’ the Asian guy said. He let his bike drop, stepped up to Zak. He had a scar by his eye, the line paler, puckered. He took the tobacco and the draw. ‘And the rest,’ he said.

‘That’s it.’ Zak could smell the guy’s aftershave, the sweat beneath it.

‘Phone,’ the first guy commanded.

‘I need my phone.’ Zak tried to keep calm, like it was a fact not an argument. ‘My mam, she needs it to keep in touch with me.’

‘His mam,’ jeered the Asian lad.

‘Mummy’s boy, is he,’ the ginger lad said. Then spat on the floor.

‘She’s in hospital. A big operation.’

‘Give it here.’ The Asian lad moved closer. Zak pulled his phone out. That raised a laugh. Old and scratched, chunky too, the sort you couldn’t give away.

The Asian lad threw it to Ginger who rode off down the road with it before coming back and chucking it to the one with the tattoos. He peered at it, pressed some buttons. ‘Let’s have a chat to Mummy, then.’

Zak felt his bowels loosen with fear and a sullen rage burn his gullet. ‘She’s on the ward,’ he said. ‘Her phone’ll be off. Give it here.’

‘No can do,’ the guy said. Then he lost interest. Dropped the phone and positioned the front wheel of his bike on top of it, then lifted and slammed the bike down. The phone skittered off across the tarmac. One of the others, the one who hadn’t done much, put his bike down and got the phone. Dropped it down the drain. ‘You should upgrade.’

They howled with laughter. Before they stopped, the Asian guy had punched Zak hard and he was falling backwards. Bess was barking. The others moved in. The next blow caught his ear. He rolled away, curling as small as he could, his arms trying to protect his head. A kick to his kidneys, one to his arse, pain rippling, throbbing. Black and red in his head.

Memories: metal on stone, the smell of his own dirt. His mouth was full of the bits again; chewy wisps of thread and the rigid shavings of rubber. The flavour of soil and sweat and elastic bands. Sometimes the tang of blood. Some of his teeth had gone. His gums were sore. In the daytime a band of light spangled golden around the door. If he wriggled and stretched out his leg, a line of it would fall across his foot. A beam of warmth. But at night it was dark as soot.

Then the lads were gone. He heard them pedal away, jeers fading. He lay there, the grit stinging his cheek, trembling and nauseous. They could have killed him, another few kicks in the right place. He could be lying dead. Like Danny Macateer. Never see Bess again, never see his mam. A ruptured gut or a knife in the throat or a bullet in the back.

Slowly he got to his knees, nothing broken, though his ribs hurt when he took a breath and his wrist was killing. Bess licked his face. He should train her to fight, he thought, train her to rip their throats out, take their faces off. Maybe he should muzzle her, make her look vicious. Whip the muzzle off next time he was threatened. Get a gun. Something to scare the shit out of them.

When he was fully upright, his head spun and he was sick, a thin stream of bile, bitter as anything. His eyes stung, he rubbed them hard. He’d have to get a new phone.

He still had the twenty in his shoe. That was summat. He’d drop in on Midge, get a little something, a drink too. Long as Midge didn’t go on about the murder. He got his supply of drugs from Carlton, he’d be listening to all the gossip like the rest. Zak’s ear felt hot and wet; it was bleeding. He’d try the corner shop, they didn’t bother with a dress code. Serve anyone.

Could have been worse, he told himself. All the same he’d steer clear of this part of town for a while. No sense in asking for trouble. Wankers.