Witness

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Zak

Soon as he asked for witness protection the atmosphere shifted. They put him back in the cells for an hour or so and then he was shown into a room with a couple of new faces. Plainclothes cops. Little and Large, Zak thought. Little smiled a lot but it was the sort of grin a wolf might have before it attacks. Large never smiled, he looked dead depressed, his mouth turned down, shoulders curled over. He had braces on his teeth. Zak thought he was a bit old for that; most people had ’em done when they were teenagers. But maybe the guy had been in a car crash or a fight or something and the braces were to help repair the damage.

Little and Large went at it for hours: going over what Zak had seen again and again, butting in and trying to trip him up. Almost like they didn’t believe him, thought he was making it up to get off the burglary charge.

They videoed him the whole time. Whenever he asked anything, about Bess, or if they were going to give him protection, they ignored him. Said they needed a full and complete statement first.

‘I’m not going to court without,’ Zak told them. ‘They’ll kill me, they know me. You got to sort me out, new identity, the lot, me and Bess and me mam.’

‘We do this first.’ Little showed his teeth.

Finally they let him have a break and he got given a chicken tikka sandwich and a bag of crisps and a Sprite. Even let him out for a smoke. He wished he had something stronger to take the edge off. He hated being in the cell, locked in. Brought back those sick feelings. Glimpses of memories he didn’t want at the side of his head like glitches on a screen.

He remembered the fly on his face, buzzing by his nose. Buzzing in his head too so he couldn’t think. Everything fuzzy and fizzy. But he wasn’t cold any more. Hot then, lovely and hot. Even with his eyes shut he could feel the line of sunlight, feel the weight of heat pressing him down, heavy as sand. Then the commotion, voices, banging.

Little and Large talked to him again and then they were writing it all out. They wanted him to read it, sign it. ‘It’ll be okay,’ he shrugged.

‘You can’t read,’ Large said like he’d known it all along. ‘I’ll read it, then you sign.’

It sounded dead weird; nothing that wasn’t true but not put the way Zak would put it. He wrote his name on the bottom. He was left-handed and he couldn’t help but smudge the letters.

Large looked at Little. ‘Could do a video statement?’

Zak groaned. ‘Not more.’

‘We edit what we’ve already got, play that in court instead of the prosecution taking you through this.’ He put his hand on the paper statement.

‘Haven’t said I’ll testify yet,’ Zak said. ‘Need some guarantees I’ll be safe.’

‘We’re looking into it,’ Large told him. ‘It’s not a soft option. If we go ahead, accept you on the programme, you’ll be relocated, you’ll lose everyone: friends, family-’

‘I’m not going on my own,’ Zak argued. ‘My mam?’

‘It’s possible. Even so, big strain for both of you. And if you break your cover, make a call, let something slip, do something stupid, then we can’t protect you. All bets are off.’

Little took over. ‘Also, we’d need you to be rock solid for the trial, stand by your evidence.’

‘I will, course I will,’ Zak promised.

He wondered where they’d send them. If it’d be abroad. Spain maybe. He could work in a bar and it’d be warm all the time and his mam’d maybe work there too, or at a restaurant and Bess’d get the leftovers. People’d be on holiday and give good tips ’cos they were having a good time and soon they’d have their own restaurant and pay other people to work and that. But maybe Bess wouldn’t be allowed in Spain ’cos of rabies. So somewhere else. Cornwall? Midge had been down there, he said it was like another country, well chilled and full of surfers and old hippies and that.

It was really, really late when Little and Large came back the next time. They didn’t have him brought up to an interview room but talked in his cell. Zak was climbing the walls by now, his skin all twitchy like insects were crawling over him and the room shrinking in on him.

‘You’ve not been completely straight with us,’ Little said, sitting next to him on the bench. Large leant against the door.

‘I have,’ Zak retorted. ‘It’s all true, all happened like I said.’

‘Your mother, you claim to have lost touch?’

Zak’s belly ached. ‘We did.’

‘When was that?’ Little asked him.

Zak shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ He just wanted to see her.

‘Fifteen years,’ Large said, ‘you were seven years old. You were taken into care. Remember that?’

Zak began to shake, jittery inside.

‘We’ve seen the files,’ Large said. ‘Your mother went down for child cruelty and neglect. She got a five-year sentence.’

A flash: his skin hot and dry, quivering, the volley of blows. Flayed until he could barely crawl. ‘It’s not true,’ Zak shouted. He’d been bad, that was all. He’d be good now, she’d see.

‘Eleven different fractures, ruptured spleen, malnourished, dehydrated. She kept you chained in a shed.’

Scattered sensations, the bite of metal cold on his ankle, the taste of iron in his mouth, licking his palms for the salt, the crumbs of rubber on his tongue, trying to grind them smaller. ‘It was a car crash,’ he shouted.

‘A car crash that lasted seven years? That what she told you to say?’ Large asked him. ‘You were starving; you’d chewed up the lino. You were covered in your own filth. You looked like a famine victim. The social workers recommended that there be no further contact. She showed no sign of remorse.’

Zak had his hands over his ears, he wouldn’t listen to them.

‘She nearly killed you,’ Little said. ‘Why on earth – this, running off into the sunset, it ain’t going to happen, Zak. Even if we could trace her, why the hell would you want to?’

Zak started crying, he couldn’t help it. Little shuffled about a bit then got up and said they’d be back in a while.

He must have nodded off because next thing someone was shaking his shoulder and it was Large saying, ‘Come on, lad, we’re shipping you out.’

‘Where to?’

‘Hull.’

‘Hull? Where’s Hull?’ Zak knew nothing about the place but the name. He’d a feeling it wasn’t Cornwall.

‘North-east.’ Little flashed his teeth.

‘Newcastle?’ Zak sat up, swung his legs off the bench, in a daze.

‘Down a bit. It’s going to be home from now on,’ Little said.

‘Can I get my stuff?’ Zak asked; his sleeping bag was in the underground car park, his other bits.

Large shook his head, looked glum. ‘No souvenirs, no goodbyes, no forwarding address. Clean slate. Welcome to witness protection.’

‘What about Bess?’ Zak began to panic, shaking. ‘I’m not going without her.’

Large nodded. ‘She’s coming.’

That was cool then. He got to his feet. ‘Will I have to change my name?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Large nodded. ‘New name, new history, flat, job, whole kit and caboodle.’

‘And Bess?’

‘I said she’s coming,’ Large said.

‘No,’ said Zak, ‘will she have to change her name an’ all?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Mike

‘She won’t wear it,’ Mike had told Joe. Mike had been to sign on and Joe was out of the office, as he put it, so they’d met up at a cafe near the Jobcentre. ‘I told her everything like you said, about the crash and the panic alarm, but she won’t budge. She hasn’t just put her foot down,’ he said bitterly, ‘she’s nailed it to the floor.’

‘And if you go ahead?’ Joe asked.

‘I lose them, she kicks me out.’ Mike couldn’t imagine it: going home to some bedsit, no Vicky beside him, no kids making a racket. Just himself, the ultimate loser, no job, no family. ‘You’ve got other witnesses?’ He couldn’t look at Joe, the shame heavy in him, a plea in his voice.

‘We need you, Mike.’ Joe had spoken simply: no theatrics, just facts.

‘How can I?’ Mike swung his head to look out of the window: a gang of kids had chalks, were scribbling on the flagstones. There was a CD on in the cafe, Coldplay, the third album X &Y, not their best, Mike reckoned, but this particular track a masterpiece, though not the soundtrack Mike wanted to his craven betrayal. Chris Martin’s voice, pure as water, intimate as they come, singing ‘Fix You’. Not this, mate, Mike thought, no fixing this.

‘I’m not sure we could take you on but would you reconsider the witness protection programme? If we go that route,’ Joe added, ‘someone else takes the reins. I’d have nothing more to do with you. Minimum number of people involved, all very secretive – understandably.’

Mike shook his head. ‘My boy…’ Let alone Vicky. No way would she give up hearth and home and family to be shunted off somewhere like criminals.

Joe sighed, turned his coffee cup round, lining up the handle. ‘Retraction isn’t an option.’

‘Say again?’

‘When you signed your statement, you were giving your consent to give evidence if required. You were told that at the time.’

‘And if I won’t?’ Mike demanded.

‘You’d get a witness summons, if you failed to attend you could be held in contempt of court, arrested, fined, even imprisoned.’

‘What! You wouldn’t do that!’

‘It wouldn’t be up to me,’ Joe said. ‘I wouldn’t have any say. Be down to the judge.’

‘And they’d really do that?’ The guy was telling him that if he didn’t sacrifice his family, he’d end up in prison.

‘Oh, yes. This is a very serious matter. Prosecution is in the public interest, a hostile witness would not be tolerated.’

‘I couldn’t pay a fine, I’m signing on. Get banged up-’ Mike pushed his plate away, the pastry untouched, he couldn’t eat.

‘If you told your wife-’

‘You don’t know Vicky.’ Mike pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut tight. This was a total disaster. He sat up, looked across at Joe. ‘If it was down to me, if it only affected me, I’d not think twice. That’s why I came forward in the first place.’

‘I could talk to her.’ Joe took a drink.

‘No,’ said Mike quickly, ‘it wouldn’t help.’ Vicky had him by the balls and now the criminal justice system did too. Pulling in different directions.

‘There is another way.’ Joe folded his hands on the table, leaned in, his voice a shade quieter but still unruffled, like this was a chat about the weather not Mike’s future going in the shredder. Mike looked at him.

‘You could testify and not tell your wife.’

‘But the papers, the news,’ he objected. The murder had been front page stuff all along, it would be again once the trial started.

‘You’ll be an anonymous witness. Your name won’t be used. Mr B or whatever.’

For some mad reason Mike thought of Reservoir Dogs, the scene where they got their names, Mr Pink complaining.

‘She won’t know,’ Joe said. ‘And you won’t be the first person to do it.’

‘Straight up?’ Mike smelt hope, he felt the prospect of a solution dawning before him. Maybe this could be fixed. He would be able to do what he’d wanted to do all along and still have Megan and Kieran and Vicky.

‘I’d say it’s your only option.’ Joe took another sip of his drink.

He’d have to lie to her, something he didn’t like, but then he didn’t like the ultimatum she’d given him. The lie would be there between them. Things would never be the way they had been. But that was true already. Vicky’s selfishness, as he saw it, her refusal to let him take a stand and the way she’d twisted things when he’d told her about Stuart, had changed things. A side to her he didn’t like, a hardness. Not willing to put herself in his shoes for five minutes, or even think about the Macateers, what that mother must be going through. I’m all right Jack, that was Vicky’s take on it, looking out for her own and sod the rest. So, Mike’s way of thinking, a lie here and there wasn’t the be all and end all any more.

‘I’ll do it,’ Mike told Joe, ‘but she mustn’t know.’

Joe dipped his head, drained his coffee.

‘Don’t ring the house, and no letters,’ Mike warned him.

‘I can text you,’ Joe suggested, ‘will that be all right?’

‘Yeah, text’s fine.’ Mike pulled his plate back, bit into the pastry, famished now, the sweet raisins and currants just the job.

‘Good.’ Joe took his number and got to his feet, said he’d be in touch.

Mike felt better. So much better that he whistled all the way home: ‘Here Comes The Sun’.

He told Vicky that he’d retracted his statement and that the police were not happy with him. She studied his face and he half thought she’d spotted the lie but then she just said, ‘It’s for the best, Mike.’

A couple of weeks before the trial, Joe texted him to arrange something called a pre-trial visit. It just so happened that Vicky was there when the text came through, doing her books at the kitchen table. Mike was filling in his notes for Jobseeker’s Allowance. He had written: Visited library and searched online for vacancies; filled in an application form for a packer at a fulfilment centre, and was considering what to put next when his phone went. He picked it up and saw it was a text from Joe. He wanted to kill it but he felt her eyes on him, so he opened the message and skimmed it, his mind scrabbling, like a rat in a tin, for a cover story.

‘Who’s that?’ Vicky’s eyes pinned him to his chair.

‘Our kid,’ Mike’s voice was creaky, ‘wants to know if I’m up for a pint tonight.’ Martin never asked Mike for a drink, they only met up at family dos these days, but it was the best Mike could come up with.

‘Thought he did five-a-side on Tuesdays,’ she said, one eyebrow raised, her pen tapping the table.

‘Not all night.’ Mike stood up. ‘Anyway, I can’t be arsed.’ He went up to the toilet, read the text again, then deleted it. And prayed that they’d not have reason to see Martin any time soon.

So many lies, just to tell the truth.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Cheryl

Joe, and this volunteer Benny, showed Cheryl where she’d give her evidence. It was a little room down in the basement, empty apart from a table and two chairs. There was a monitor on the table and a camera fixed on top of that. That was where Cheryl would sit. Benny would sit in the other chair.

Milo was at the crèche at the Town Hall. ‘Think of it as a rehearsal for you both,’ Joe had said. ‘On the day you’ll know what’s what.’

Cheryl looked round the little room. There were no windows or anything so it felt like you were underground. Everything looked new and clean, like it was for show. With the three of them standing there it felt crowded.

‘What will they ask me?’ Cheryl said. A sickly, cold feeling creeping through her – not long and it would be the real thing.

‘The prosecution barrister will take you through your statement, first,’ Joe said.

‘I’ll see them on the screen?’ Cheryl pointed to the monitor.

‘Yes. And you’ll have a microphone attached to your clothes but your voice will be distorted. The big screens in the courtroom will be switched off and only the judge and jury and the barristers will see you on their screens. Then the defence barristers will question you. You’re likely to get two sorts of questions: those that cast doubt on your evidence – did you really see such and such, can you be certain, can you remember clearly – and other questions which will examine your motives, try and cast doubt on your credibility as a witness.’

Cheryl didn’t like the sound of that. ‘They gonna say I’m a liar?’

‘They will imply you might have other reasons for coming forward because of an existing relationship with the defendants,’ Joe said. ‘A grudge, or an attempt to get the reward money. Don’t let them get to you, stay calm. If you do start getting upset count to five before you answer. There’s only one thing that matters and that is giving your evidence: what you saw, what you heard, telling the court what happened.’

She had butterflies in her belly already.

‘If you get distressed,’ Benny said, ‘I can hold this up.’ He picked up a piece of red card, the size of a cigarette packet. ‘It’s a signal to the judge.’ He was being kind but it made her feel even worse. ‘We’ll have tissues here, water. Before you start you will swear on a holy book, or affirm.’

Cheryl nodded like she was following but her head was buzzing, her mind cloudy.

Up in the offices where all the witnesses came, Joe went over the arrangements with her again. A week on Monday he would collect her and Milo from outside the supermarket at nine. They would take Milo to the crèche and let Cheryl settle him in then Joe would bring her here. When Cheryl had finished giving her evidence, they’d fetch Milo and he’d drop them both back at the supermarket. She would tell friends and family that she was going into town shopping. Any problems, she had his number.

It didn’t take long for problems to pitch up. Starting with Vinia. She came round at teatime. Nana had made chicken and rice and insisted Vinia fetch a plate and eat some. Milo had eaten most of his and was messing now, dribbling juice into his bowl and making the grains of rice float around. Cheryl took the bowl from him, gave him a biscuit and fussed about clearing up, feeling edgy with Vinia being about.

Nana wiped her mouth, set her cutlery side by side. Cheryl saw she had only picked at her food. ‘Rose tells me the trial for Danny will be starting Monday week. All the family will be going.’

Cheryl struggled for something to say, felt the vibes in the room, strung tight like piano wire. Nana had been triumphant when Carlton and Sam Millins were charged. ‘At last,’ she’d crowed to Cheryl, ‘how the mighty are fallen.’ But she was fair too, and had continued to welcome Vinia into her house unlike some who cut Vinia dead because she was Carlton’s stepsister.

‘Will you go, too, Nana T?’ Vinia asked.

Nana nodded. ‘I think so. Rose would like me there. And the satisfaction of seeing justice done. I know Carlton is family, Vinia, but he took a life and he must pay.’

‘If he’s guilty,’ Vinia said. ‘He says he didn’t do it.’

Nana didn’t reply to that, just sucked her teeth and put the telly on. Nana didn’t know Vinia was visiting Sam Millins. Cheryl hadn’t dared tell her. Vinia couldn’t help having Carlton as her stepbrother but being Sam’s girlfriend – that was different. That was a choice and one that Cheryl herself couldn’t get her head round. Cheryl had tried to talk to Vinia about it.

‘No one would blame you if you walked away. It’s not fair for him to expect any more after a couple of dates. He could be in jail for years, Vinia.’

‘You just don’t like him,’ Vinia complained.

‘No, I don’t. And neither did you, till now.’

‘He’s different on his own, he’s real gentle.’

Cheryl threw her hands up, shook her head. ‘You know what he’s done! You should get out now.’ How could she let him touch her? How could she bear his company?

‘I promised him – that I’d stay true.’

Cheryl stared at her friend. Vinia was supposed to be the wild one, never let a man hold her back, reckless and devil-may-care, and here she was like some wet airhead. ‘It’s your life, Vinia!’ How could she make her see sense? ‘You stick with him, it’s not going to go well.’

‘Least I’ll have a decent life.’

‘With him in prison?’

‘He’s gonna make sure I’m looked after. Cars and clothes, a nice place to live.’

He could do it, Cheryl knew that, the gangs made money, lots of it. Made it hard for the younger kids to say no when they saw the likes of Sam Millins dripping gold and driving top of the range. ‘He’s buying you,’ Cheryl said.

Vinia’s face hardened. ‘You got Milo,’ she said, ‘you got Jeri. You so pretty you can have anyone catches your eye. You don’t know what it’s like.’

‘Back up!’ Cheryl protested. ‘I ain’t had no boyfriend since I got caught with Milo till now, not like I’m married an’ all. Jeri – anything could happen, or not. You’re saying you will stand by Sam because he’s loaded and you’re lonely?’

‘You don’t get it.’

Cheryl lost her temper. ‘You bet I don’t! He killed Danny!’

There was a silence. Vinia’s eyes glittered. ‘You don’t know that.’

‘Everyone knows.’

‘He drove the car, is all.’

Cheryl felt sad then, that Vinia was fooling herself, twisting it all to make Sam seem less guilty. They both knew you didn’t have to fire the gun to face the charge.

After that day Cheryl didn’t expect Vinia to call round any more, thought the friendship was broken, but she kept coming and Cheryl didn’t know why or how to stop her.

Now Cheryl cleared the plates and scraped the chicken bones into the kitchen bin. She washed up and put the kettle on for coffee. She stepped outside for a cigarette and leaned against the wall, blowing the smoke up into the air, making smoke rings one time.

Vinia came out and sat on Milo’s rocker, her knees tucked up to her chin. ‘You want to try these.’ Vinia held up a packet of cigarettes. ‘I can get you some really cheap, two hundred for twenty quid.’

Smuggled they must be, or stolen, thought Cheryl. ‘Ta, can you split them?’

‘Yeah, just a packet if you want. They herbs?’ Vinia nodded at the troughs along the side wall, full of thyme and chives and oregano.

‘Yeah.’ Cheryl waited. No way was Vinia interested in Nana’s garden. So what did she really want to say? Cheryl blew another smoke ring.

‘The trial,’ Vinia said, ‘will you come with me?’

Cheryl’s heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t believe she was hearing this. Vinia, Miss Self-Sufficient, asking Cheryl for help. And doing it knowing how badly Cheryl felt about Danny’s death, how she despised Carlton and Sam, how she thought Vinia was messing up getting involved with Sam. Cheryl couldn’t say yes: she’d be down in that little basement room giving evidence, her voice all gruff, sneaking out afterwards. Was this a trap? A test? Was there some way they’d found out that Cheryl had betrayed them? The possibility made her mouth go dry, sweat prickled under her arms.

Cheryl flicked the ash from her cigarette, tried to ignore her heart bumping in her chest. Suddenly she had the answer. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘If Nana’s going, I won’t have anyone to look after Milo. Sorry.’

Vinia shrugged and lit her cigarette. Cheryl took another drag and hoped Vinia wouldn’t notice how badly her hand was shaking.

Cheryl got up with Milo at half past three. His nappy was dirty but once she’d changed him, he settled back okay. She sat by his cot a moment, watching the way his eyelids fluttered and the perfect curve of his cheek in the glow from the nightlight.

She had not been down to Bristol yet. She’d put Jeri off, explaining that Nana wasn’t great, the doctors had mentioned anaemia and her blood pressure was too high so she tired more quickly; two nights would be too much.

Jeri was disappointed but brightened up and promised he’d get up to see her in Manchester soon, could well be last minute as he was doing a lot of travelling: summer festivals and parties. She should come! He could put her on the guest list for the Spanish one, the last weekend in September. ‘Bring the baby. It’s lovely,’ he told her, ‘really chilled. Dancing on the beach till dawn. You’d love it.’ He talked about introducing her to people – they were always looking for new talent for the music videos. With looks like hers she’d walk it. She’d be brilliant.

Cheryl didn’t have a passport. Milo neither. She had never been abroad and passports cost money they didn’t have. She smoothed it over saying she’d have to apply for them, it would be nice to see more of the world.

Cheryl stood up to get back to bed and heard a noise from downstairs. Her belly flipped. She opened her bedroom door and saw, with a rush of relief, that Nana’s door was open, her light on. Nana wasn’t sleeping too good. ‘It comes with age,’ she told Cheryl, ‘I sleep like a baby again.’

‘You’re not that old, Nana,’ Cheryl had said, ‘going on like you ninety or something.’

Cheryl went down to check. Nana was in her chair, eyes closed, a rug over her knees. ‘You okay, Nana?’

She opened her eyes. ‘Queasy, is all.’

‘The chicken?’

‘The chicken was fine, fresh and cook through,’ Nana objected. Then suspicious, ‘Why, you feel sickly yourself?’

‘A bit,’ Cheryl admitted. But she knew most of it was nerves, the whole business with Vinia and the trial, her insides all knotted up with it. Sometimes it felt like she was the one going to be in the dock. ‘Maybe a bug,’ she said.

‘Dry toast and water.’ Nana’s remedy for any bellyache.

‘G’night.’

‘God bless, sweet pea.’

Cheryl dreamt she was at the beach with Jeri. It was warm and the sea was still and aquamarine. She was dancing with him, Jeri’s hands on her hips, his face close to hers. Then she was looking for Milo, she had lost Milo, she was begging people to help her find him but they were just laughing at her like she made no sense. Cheryl was running to find him but the sand was dragging her down, her ankles, her muscles burning with the strain, only able to move in slow motion. Sam Millins had Milo! Sam and Carlton had him! In the distance they were walking away. Milo was bigger, almost grown, and he was in the middle, Carlton on one side doing his rolling walk, Sam with a gun in his hand. Cheryl called for Milo again and again but he never looked back.

Cheryl started awake, still wrapped in the dream. The sheets were damp with sweat and she felt greasy, shivery. She still felt sick. She threw up in the bathroom and had dry toast for breakfast. She just hoped Milo didn’t catch it too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Fiona

Joe Kitson came with her to visit the court, at the beginning of September, a couple of weeks before the trial. He met her in Albert Square, near the Town Hall, and they set off to walk down to the Crown Court. She was grateful for his company. She trusted him, she realized. And his calm manner, his steadiness, allayed her own anxieties. Good midwives, good doctors had something of the same quality. She herself had it at work but in this alien context it deserted her.

‘Do you do this for all your witnesses?’

‘Not all,’ he said. There was a warmth in his eyes. Fiona checked: he didn’t wear a ring. With a jolt she understood that she really was attracted to the man. She felt a flush spread across her neck and cheeks. It was years. There had been a few relationships since Jeff but it was awkward with having Owen and though she liked the men she’d never fallen in love with any of them. And so she’d never gone all out to make something long-lasting develop. Shelley reckoned it was a deliberate tactic. Once bitten twice shy. Fiona just argued that she hadn’t met the right person yet.

‘But a case like this,’ he was saying, ‘it’s very hard to get people to testify. I’ll do all I can to get them on board, and keep them there.’

‘There are other witnesses?’

‘There are. But I’m afraid I can’t tell you more than that.’

Fiona thought back to the day: she’d been so focused on Danny that she recalled little else. She remembered the churchgoers streaming across the grass, Danny’s mum and sister among them. But before that? Kids on bikes. A man on his mobile. She couldn’t even remember what he looked like.

They reached the side street and Joe showed her to the entrance which was specially for witnesses; he rang the intercom and a guard opened the door. They had to walk through a metal detector, and the guard searched Fiona’s bag.

Upstairs, they reached a suite of rooms. Joe took her in and they were met by Francine, a volunteer with the witness service, who would explain all the procedures and look after Fiona during the trial.

‘Come through,’ Francine said. ‘It’s a bit of a warren.’

They went along a narrow corridor with rooms off to the sides. Fiona glimpsed people waiting in chairs, some in the corridor itself. Waiting to give evidence. It would be her turn in a couple of weeks.

Francine took them into the kitchen and made tea for them. There was a whiteboard on the wall, columns with names and abbreviations. Francine noticed her reading it and explained: the case, defendants and witnesses, which volunteers were assigned to who, which court it was in.

The place reminded Fiona of a local clinic: the interface of public and professional, the whiteboard, the waiting area with toys and magazines.

‘You can’t discuss your evidence with me,’ Francine explained, ‘but any questions you have about the process I’m here to answer. And if I can’t, I’ll find someone who can.’

‘Are any of the courts free?’ Joe asked.

‘I’ll check,’ Francine said. She turned to Fiona. ‘It helps to see where you’ll be. Sometimes we just use photographs to explain the layout, but I’ll find out if we can go in.’

Fiona sipped her tea. People – volunteers, she assumed – were coming and going, chatting to each other. Occasionally someone altered an entry on the whiteboard.

Francine came back. ‘Yes, we can get a look now,’ she said.

‘Are you all right if I leave you with Francine?’ Joe asked Fiona. ‘I need a word with them in the office.’

‘Fine.’

‘I’ll see you back here.’

The courtroom was more or less as she imagined except for the frosted glass box that surrounded the dock. She remarked on it.

‘That’s to prevent the defendant from communicating with their supporters. They’ll be behind them in the public gallery.’ Francine gestured to the bank of seats at the back of the court. ‘This is the witness stand. You can go in if you like.’

Fiona did. Opposite her was the jury box and to her right the raised dais where the judge would sit. In the well of the court were the lawyers’ benches and then above those to Fiona’s left rose the dock and public gallery.

She felt exposed. ‘They said there’d be screens?’

‘That’s those.’ Francine pointed to maroon curtains bunched at the back of the witness stand. ‘Don’t know why they call them screens – sounds better, I suppose. They pull those round before you come in and just leave them open so the judge and jury and the barristers can see you. You’ll come in from the stairs there.’ Francine showed her a flight of steps that led up to the witness stand from below the court. ‘It means you won’t need to walk through open court otherwise there’d be no point in the screens.’

The air in the room was dead, sound muffled. Fiona felt a chill along her arms as she imagined it full of people. She wondered what other murder trials had unfolded here, what horrors had been spoken about by people standing on this spot.

‘It can be a bit daunting,’ Francine said. ‘Some people get nervous, then often it’s not as bad as they thought. And I’ll be with you all the time. You’ll be given a copy of your statement to read through when you arrive and then when you get called I’ll accompany you. The prosecution barrister will talk you through your evidence then each of the defence barristers will have an opportunity to question you.’

‘Each?’ It hadn’t occurred to her that there’d be more than one, but of course there would.

‘Two defendants – they’ll be running separate defences.’

Fiona came down the steps from the witness stand. ‘How long will it take?’

Francine smiled. ‘Hard to say. You’re here on Tuesday but they might not call you till after lunch.’

‘And the whole trial?’

‘A couple of weeks for a murder.’ It sounded so mundane, so everyday, the way she said it, though Fiona was sure she would not intend it to sound like that. And this was everyday for the court, she supposed.

‘Is there anything else you want to ask?’ Francine led the way to the exit.

Fiona decided to tell her, her throat tightening as she spoke. ‘After it happened, I had a series of panic attacks. I was off work. I haven’t had one in the last few weeks but if it did happen…’

Francine took it in her stride. ‘We can always stop, ask the judge for a break. It’s not unusual for people to get distressed while they’re giving evidence. Any problem, you let me know and I’ll alert the court.’

‘Thank you.’

Joe offered her a lift home. She accepted. It was a high summer’s day, the sky a perfect blue, the city traffic impatient, everyone hot and sticky. Joe’s car smelt of hot plastic. He wound the windows down. Fiona rested her elbow on the window edge.

‘So, you’re back at work,’ he said. ‘How’s that?’

‘Frantic. We’re really short-staffed. They are recruiting more people but the birth rate’s still rising so we can’t meet the demand. It’s a constant frustration, not being able to do the job as well as you can because you’re spread so thinly.’

‘I know the feeling.’

‘I thought the police service had lots of money thrown at it.’ They passed a pavement café, people seated, the aluminium furniture glaring in the sun.

‘Doesn’t always land in the right hands.’

She looked at him, shocked. ‘Corruption?’

He glanced her way, laughed, a rich infectious sound. ‘No, no. Thank God. Just the powers that be deciding on priorities. Terrorism,’ he explained.

‘Ah.’

‘And there’s a lot swallowed up with special events: football matches, party conferences, demonstrations.’

‘How long have you been in the police?’

‘Twenty-four years, near enough. Another six and I can retire on full pension.’

‘Pretty cushy.’

He laughed again. ‘Maybe. I’m on the old scheme. It doesn’t work like that any more.’

‘So, what will you do then?’

He didn’t reply at first, concentrating on crossing the roundabout, finding a gap in among the lorries and vans. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I’ve a place in France – I’ve been doing it up. Be nice to spend more time there.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘The Pyrenees, the east, not far from Narbonne.’

‘Lovely, I was in Provence in July.’ The question of what to do with Owen had dissolved when he accepted an invitation to go with a friend and his family to Cyprus. Fiona and Shelley booked rooms in a small hotel next to a spa. They’d taken trains all the way to Avignon and hired bicycles to get about once they were there. Shelley and she had got on famously, accommodating each other’s different interests by spending a couple of days apart and enjoying some notably giddy evenings drinking the local wine and setting the world to rights. Back home it rained every day but in France the sun shone and Fiona grew tanned and fit. She slept well but whenever her thoughts turned to the trial she felt herself tense, her sense of well-being drain away. It was a lowering obstacle on the horizon growing ever closer.

‘I can’t go out there yet, anyway,’ Joe said as he pulled up outside Fiona’s house. ‘My kids live with me and there’s no way on God’s earth they want to move to France.’

He had kids! ‘How old?’

‘Seventeen and fourteen, girl and a boy. Never a dull moment.’

‘Tell me about it. Owen’s sixteen and I keep wishing we could flash forward a couple of years, people say they improve again.’

‘Hah!’ He laughed. ‘I’m still waiting.’ The sage green eyes shining, lines crinkled at the corners.

She didn’t want to get out of the car, she wanted to keep talking. ‘I guess Manchester has a lot going for it: clubs, bands, uni. Why would they want to give up all that for a backwater in rural France?’

‘Exactly. Tuesday, you’ll be all right if I meet you there – now you know the way?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you bringing anyone with you?’

She was surprised, it had never occurred to her.

‘You’re allowed: a friend, a supporter, someone to hold your hand.’

‘I want you to do that,’ she said softly.

His face stilled, he blinked, dropped his eyes.

She’d misjudged it. Oh, God. She felt awful, riddled with hot shame and embarrassment. ‘Sorry, that was-’ she stumbled over her words – ‘I shouldn’t, please-’

‘It’s all right,’ he said, looking at her.

‘Unprofessional and-’

‘Fiona, it’s all right.’ He caught her gaze, warmth in his again. ‘I’d love to hold your hand. But that will have to wait till this is all over.’

She felt like squeaking, running. There was a trace of a smile around his mouth. She was giddy and guilty, blood singing in her veins.

‘Thank you,’ was all she said.

She’d actually taken the whole day off and it was only lunchtime. She was restless, itching to do something, work off some of the febrile energy fizzing inside her. A day like this, bold with sunshine, was so rare she wanted to make something of it. Even if September yielded an Indian summer, the sun would be lower in the sky, the air softer, the sting of heat gentler.

She made a sandwich and ate it on the move, gathering things together. She called Ziggy and put him in the back seat. Left a note and sent a text to Owen: there was pizza in the freezer.

She no longer used the car to go to work but was comfortable driving again; she’d done some supermarket trips and driven across town to a training seminar but not any further yet. Now she refused to start worrying about whether she’d cope with a longer journey. She was still taking the pills, she reminded herself, and it was nearly three months since her last attack.

The road out of the city to the south-east was always busy; the traffic sped up along the intermittent stretches of dual carriageway then slowed to a crawl as they were funnelled through the narrower parts. She took the turning for the High Peak, climbing out of the valley and up past the big houses close to Lyme Park, the country estate. Out along the road which zigzagged the side of the hills, she admired the tubs and baskets of flowers that spilt bright colour in front of houses and shops. She had all the windows down and Ziggy stood with his nose out, his eyes closed against the rush of air. Why did dogs do that, Fiona wondered, they all seemed to like it. Was it some race memory of life on windswept plains, did it mimic the thrill of running?

It took her almost an hour to reach the parking spot, in the fold of hills. She changed into her walking boots and rubbed sunscreen on her face and arms. She kept Ziggy on the lead for the first part of the walk. The track led up across farmland and there were sheep in the fields: given half a chance he’d have bounded after them, a game to him but a recipe for heart failure for many a sheep.

Fiona’s calves, the backs of her thighs, ached as the incline grew steeper, the path now climbing between two old dry-stone walls, the slabs of rock encrusted with lichen and here and there tiny violets and thyme growing in the crevices.

She stopped to get her breath, looking back the way she had come. The hillsides were vivid green, the grass as smooth as suede. The few trees that were above the valley stood sentinel, heavy with foliage, alongside the field walls. In one field she could see a tractor at work and the round bales of hay, small as wooden toys. There was a little mere too, the sun glinting on the water in silver stripes.

When they had climbed over the stile into open country, she let Ziggy off the lead. He meandered ahead of her, head down, in an ecstasy of scent trails. Here purple heather and close-cropped turf quilted the peaty soil and cotton grass danced, white feather-heads shivering even though Fiona could feel no wind. Rushes and reeds marked the boggy parts of the moor. A ridge ran from this point for a couple of miles due south. Huge limestone boulders lay tumbled along it, riddled with fissures and holes, the legacy of centuries of wind and water. Fiona heard the spiralling song of skylarks and spotted a pair high above.

She walked along the ridge, following the path as it snaked between the stones and through small streams where hart’s tongue fern lapped at the water’s edge. She let her thoughts roam as free as she was. Ruminating upon Joe. Was he interested in her? In a relationship? He said his children lived with him, was it a permanent set-up? It sounded like it. What had happened to their mother? Had she left? Divorced him, died?

Jeff had left her for another woman. The hurt of that had never really gone away. Shelley was right, it had shadowed the relationships she’d had since and made her cling to her independence. If she didn’t give them much then little could be taken away. But it was a half-life however much she tried to make of it. In time, and not so long from now, Owen would go out into the world. She would be alone. Walking the dog, delivering babies, climbing hills. It wasn’t enough. She wanted more, she wanted love and intimacy.

Joe seemed interested. I’d love to hold your hand. But that will have to wait till this is all over. He might be stringing her along, happy to let her believe there might be more to come so she would do her best as a witness. That possibility and the suspicion behind it rankled with her and she scolded herself. When her thoughts lit on the trial, the pleasure she felt at seeing Joe again was dampened by a wave of anxiety. She felt the squirt of panic in her stomach, the clamouring of her mind. She was dreading it. She quickly drew on the CBT techniques that she’d learnt. Stood still and focused on her physiology, her breathing, the set of her muscles, and derailed those responses. It worked; she stopped the panic from growing, from devouring her.

She walked on another mile and found a natural picnic area, a bowl surrounded by a horseshoe of rocks. She took her rucksack off and lay down, stretched out on the grass, wriggling until she found the most comfortable position. Ziggy ran to her and sniffed at her face which tickled and made her laugh. She pushed him away.

The sun was warm on her skin and even with her eyes closed the world was full of light. She could still hear the fluting cadence of the larks and fainter, further away, the piercing, eerie cry of a hawk. She rubbed the palms of her hands over the springy tufts of grass and smelt the sweet, peaty aroma of the earth. She was drifting, lulled into a doze with the warmth and peace of the place.

An aeroplane woke her; she blinked and scanned its jet trail chalked through the blue above. Ziggy was lying a little way away, head on his paws. Fiona sat up and got the water bottle from her rucksack, drank deep. She threw Ziggy a dog biscuit, then ate the apple she’d packed.

The rest of the route took her to the end of the ridge and down through a forested valley, sown with conifers and oak, rowan, silver birch and beech trees, the ground underfoot crunchy with beech mast and pine cones. They passed a waterfall which roared over a cliff and thundered its way on to a plateau of large stones below. Twisted trees and huge ferns at either side of the force were slick with green slime. Fiona sat and watched the sheets of water for a while, the mizzle of spray settling on her hair and clothes. Ziggy drank from a pool near the bottom. They tracked the stream back to the road, the way dappled with shadows from the trees and the golden sunlight.

By the time she reached the car, the blister on her heel had popped, a bite with each step, reminding her how long it had been since she’d given the boots a good outing.

She was honest with herself: those moments with Joe had been a glimpse of the life she hungered for. She might – she hoped she would – live another forty years, that was almost a lifetime for generations who had come before. She would not waste it. It’s all there is, she thought, and then we die. She would not let fear or false humility or convenience trap her into a lonely existence. She wanted to share it with somebody. If not Joe, then she would find someone else, actively look for love. Other people did it, dating sites and the like; she would too, a promise to herself. She finished her water and put Ziggy in the car. The dog was shattered, he fell asleep immediately. Then she drove home, the sun, a glorious blood-red blaze, setting in her rear-view mirror.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Cheryl

Cheryl waited until Nana had been in bed for an hour then she went into the bathroom with the kit. She’d taken forever to buy it, hanging round the pharmacy until the girl behind the counter was giving her funny looks, like she was going to nick something.

After a week of being sick she finally clocked this was not a bug. And it wasn’t down to nerves about the trial. The smell of food, meat particularly, brought water to her mouth and convulsions to her stomach. She had to hold her breath when she changed Milo’s nappies too, turning her head away to gasp lungfuls of air. And her boobs hurt, tight and tender.

Cheryl unwrapped the stick and peed on it. She closed her eyes and waited. Counted to ten. She was numb and tired, her feet were cold. If the result was negative, what then? Relief. Life would go on in the same old way. She’d get past going to court on Monday then be back to normal. Milo would start nursery school part-time in the New Year. Cheryl would check out the model agency, get a fresh portfolio together. Have a bit more money and not be fretting so much. She’d stopped the nails since the thing with the benefit fraud people. Cancelled those she’d already booked in. Maybe she’d take up Jeri’s offer of putting her in touch with some of those video makers.

She’d had to wait for her benefit to go in until she could afford to buy the testing kit. Eight quid a pop. If the test was negative she’d have more freedom, more choices, stuff she could do. Get to know Jeri better, work out if they were heading for something serious, or if they were just having fun for a while.

He’d sent her some music, a compilation from the festivals he’d guested at. Awesome stuff. He texted her most days now, called too. Touching base, he said. Never the other way – she had to watch her credit.

Last night he’d called: how did she fancy a night out on Sunday. He could get a flight late afternoon, be in Manchester for six, fly back Monday night. He was eager, giddy like.

Monday was the trial.

‘Oh, Jeri, I’m sorry, I can’t. Monday I’m busy.’

‘How come?’ His voice had gone flat.

She wanted to tell him, imagined the way the weight would lift if she could share this with him. ‘I’ve got an interview at the Jobcentre first thing. If I don’t go they cut me off.’ She hoped he wouldn’t realize that she didn’t have regular visits to the Jobcentre.

‘That’s cool,’ he said, sounding more relaxed, ‘I can keep the bed warm.’

‘But Nana’s out Sunday too, so I’ll have Milo.’ The lies were sour in her mouth.

‘Man! Don’t they have babysitters up there?’ He sounded mean now, the first time he’d ever expressed a cross word to her.

‘We’ll do it another time, Milo’s not used to other people, I wouldn’t feel right. It’s been so long but I really can’t make this weekend, babe. Hey, maybe we’ll come to you when you get home, a few days like you said, but I’ll have to bring Milo.’

‘Deal. And my niece is a highly accomplished babyminder, so once he’s settled we can do our own thing.’

He had chatted on and Cheryl squashed any thought of a possible pregnancy into a tight corner at the back of her head. He told her about the advertising company who wanted one of his tunes for an online campaign and the possibility of a Jamaican gig in the summer. ‘You could come, catch up with your roots.’

‘Oh, man, I’d love that,’ she said. She could take pictures for Nana; see all the old home places Nana talked about.

‘Good luck, Monday,’ Jeri said as they finished up.

Cheryl froze then recalled her story. ‘Ta. It’ll be cool.’

‘Night, babe.’

‘Night.’

Cheryl opened her eyes and peered at the plus sign and the bold capitals pregnant. Tears stung her eyes. There was always an abortion but she couldn’t imagine that, not for her. She thought of growing big again, and the labour. Telling Nana. Telling Jeri. Something like this wasn’t part of his dreams. Babyfather when they’d barely spent a month together in real time. She had managed fine without Milo’s dad. A boastful boy who had several other kids dotted round the area and who Nana had chased off when he called round feigning an interest in Milo – then three months old. He was in the army now; Cheryl hadn’t seen him for over a year. So maybe she would have to do the same again. No exciting new modelling assignments, no man, no trip to the West Indies. Future postponed.

Cheryl worked out her dates. Only one time had she and Jeri taken a risk. The baby would come in April. A girl perhaps. Dark like her or more light-skinned with Jeri’s fine almond eyes. Alongside the worry and the sadness, Cheryl felt a tickle of joy. A sister for Milo. She put her hand on her belly, imagined it there, small as a jelly bean.

Sunday night, close to dawn, something woke Cheryl. She groaned and rolled on to her back, waiting for Milo to cry out again, but he was quiet. Maybe it was something outside? There were foxes sometimes that screamed and cats that howled like babies.

Cheryl was turning over again when she heard a thump, felt it shudder through the bed, through her. Not the door, but what? Someone in the house, someone breaking in?

She got out of bed and put her bathrobe on. Her heart going wild. They’d found out she was going to be a witness. They were coming for her! Fear scouring through her veins. She stopped at the bedroom door, uncertain whether to wait where she was. She couldn’t just stay here, do nothing. Quietly as she could she opened the door. The landing was dark, the doors shut. She listened, closed her eyes to hear better. Couldn’t make out any sounds that didn’t fit, couldn’t sense any presence. She snapped the landing light on.

She stood, her legs itching from being still, eyes gritty and full of sleep. Still nothing. She looked across to Nana’s door, she didn’t want to disturb her, she had such trouble sleeping now, but what if someone had broken in and was hiding in there?

Torn, Cheryl tiptoed across the landing and listened, her ear to the door. Nothing. Then she knocked gently. ‘Nana?’ Turned the handle and went in, looked across to the bed but the covers were thrown back. Cheryl put on Nana’s light and saw her, on the floor, at the far side of the bed, on her side. Her eyes were fluttering, her skin a horrible yellow shade to it.

‘Nana?’ Cheryl felt her own skin crackle like lightning. She knelt beside her; put her arm on Nana’s shoulder. ‘Are you all right? Nana?’

Nana gave a little whimper, her eyes blinking away, and a bit of drool leaked from the corner of her mouth. Her hands were trembling.

‘Oh, Nana. Wait there!’ Like she could go anywhere else. Dumb.

Cheryl ran to her room and rang 999, asked for an ambulance, her voice all shaky as she gave her name and address. She went back to Nana, knelt beside her, held her hand, and tried to answer all the questions: can you confirm the number you are calling from; what’s the address of the emergency; can you tell me what happened; are you with the patient now; can you tell me how old the patient is; do you know their date of birth; is she conscious; is she alert and responsive; is she breathing?

The operator said an ambulance was on its way. Could she make sure the door was open so they could get in?

Cheryl ran downstairs; she unlocked the front door and left the latch off. Ran back, still on the phone, still answering questions, following instructions: has there been any change; could you please gather together any medication the person uses, the paramedics will bring that with them.

Cheryl collected the tablets from Nana’s bedside table and the ones she had downstairs in the top cupboard in the kitchen.

When she got back upstairs Nana’s eyes were closed, and still. Cheryl’s guts turned to ice. ‘Nana?’ She squeezed Nana’s knuckles and stroked her head, the hair soft with the oil that Nana rubbed on it.

‘She’s asleep,’ Cheryl told the operator, hearing the terror in her own voice.

‘Is she still breathing? Listen and put your hand by her mouth.’

Cheryl put her hand close to Nana’s lips; felt a slight, damp stream of air. ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘That’s good; the ambulance will be with you any time now.’

‘Tell them to come upstairs,’ Cheryl said, she couldn’t remember if she’d already said that earlier. Nana was quiet. Cheryl wondered what was wrong. Then there were voices and she felt the temperature fall as the paramedics came in and up the stairs.

One of them got down by Nana and began to examine her, the other talked to Cheryl, lots of the same questions as the operator had asked. Cheryl was still on the phone. ‘You can hang up,’ the paramedic told her. Cheryl noticed he’d had his teeth done, veneers, a bit too big, too long, like horse’s teeth.

The one on the floor said they needed the stretcher.

Nana’s eyes stayed closed, she didn’t even open them when they moved her. They put all the tablets in a bag and wrote her name on it.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Cheryl asked.

‘Hard to say. Best we get her in and let the doctors see. She allergic to anything?’

Cheryl shook her head.

They took the stretcher down and out into the ambulance. It was growing light, the sun a soft orange ball to the east, the sky a pale baby blue.

‘Ask at A &E,’ the man said.

It was going to be a nice day. The thought made her want to cry. She rubbed at her face. They closed the ambulance doors and drove away.

Cheryl went inside, the pulse hammering in her throat. Milo was awake, she heard him cry out. A sudden cramp seized her, a rush of saliva in her mouth. She reached the kitchen sink in time. Retched until she was empty. She cleared up then went to get Milo. She changed him and sat him in his high chair with a banana while she got herself changed. She half-filled a bottle with apple juice and diluted it, grabbed a packet of raisins and made a little sandwich with honey in for him to have later. Added extra nappies to his bag, and a change of clothes.

She drank a glass of milk and rang a taxi. There was a tenner in Nana’s ginger jar. Rainy day money. If anything counted as a rainy day, today did.

The taxi came straight away, sounded its horn. Cheryl carried Milo out in one arm, his bag and buggy in the other. They settled in the cab.

‘Where to?’

‘Manchester Royal, A &E.’

The cab pulled out. Milo sat beside her, eyes bright, pointing at the advert on the fold-down seats opposite. ‘Woof!’ he said and kicked his legs.

‘Yeah,’ Cheryl managed, trying not to weep, ‘woof.’

There was a dull calm in A&E. None of the rushing about or panic Cheryl imagined.

Cheryl gave Nana’s name at the window and was told to wait. Someone would call her. They’d no idea how long but it was fairly quiet still. It was eight o’clock and Cheryl was supposed to be meeting Joe Kitson at nine, due at the court for ten. She couldn’t think about that now. She just couldn’t.

She let Milo toddle about for a bit, watching to make sure he didn’t trouble anyone. One woman with grey hair and age spots splashed over her face played peek-a-boo and made Milo laugh. ‘Peepo,’ he echoed. Then the woman was called through and Milo hauled himself up and sat on her empty chair for a while.

Cheryl kept checking the time, her nerves about to snap. Had they forgotten her? She couldn’t stay still any longer; she fetched Milo and went outside to the smoking shelter. She lit a cigarette, the first drag making her dizzy, the second a buzz of relief. The rest tasted foul, her mouth was dry and chalky. She had some of Milo’s juice. Milo walked along the yellow lines of the ambulance bay, humming to himself.

‘You a car, Milo?’

‘Car,’ he agreed, then ‘Tacta.’

‘Tractor.’

She’d have to stop smoking. But not yet. Not today. Not with everything going on. She heard a siren woo-wooing and called Milo closer. Finished her cigarette and took him in as the ambulance pulled up. She didn’t want him to see anything scary. Didn’t want to see it herself.

Another half-hour. Milo was getting bored and Cheryl was about to ring Joe, and tell him she was stuck at the hospital, when they called her name. The doctor checked out who she was and asked her a few questions about Nana and how she had been over the last couple of weeks.

‘Not sleeping well, tired, she thought it was the anaemia,’ Cheryl said. ‘And feeling a bit sick.’

‘And her appetite?’

‘She isn’t eating much. What’s wrong with her?’ Cheryl should have seen it, got help. Nana was sick and Cheryl had just let her carry on instead of asking her to go back to the doctor.

‘Those symptoms may have been side effects.’

‘Side effects?’ Cheryl couldn’t keep up. Milo wriggled off her lap and climbed into his buggy. She should’ve brought some toys for him, some books.

‘She was on new medication.’ Cheryl didn’t even know that, Nana never talked much about these things.

‘We’ve admitted your grandmother for assessment; we think this episode may have been a cerebral haemorrhage, a bleed in the brain. There are a number of tests we’re doing now to best assess her treatment, starting with a scan.’ Cheryl nodded, bleed, brain echoing in her head. She felt panic beating against her ribs.

‘Can I see her?’

‘I’ll check for you. I’m not sure whether she’s on the ward yet.’

Cheryl waited while the doctor rang someone up. Milo had taken his shoes and socks off. Cheryl put them in his change bag – she couldn’t face wrestling with him now.

‘They’ll ring back down,’ the doctor said. ‘Shouldn’t be long.’

Cheryl sat, the minutes scraping by. She gave Milo his raisins. Then, ‘You can go up now,’ the doctor said. ‘Medical Assessment Unit in the orange zone. Head left out of here and follow the signs.’ He made it sound easy but Cheryl took a wrong turn somewhere and had to retrace her steps. She thought of the lie she’d told Vinia – saying she was here when she’d been to the police station. Was this punishment for that lie? Nana sick, blood in her brain. But people got better, didn’t they? It was like a stroke: they did rehab and had to learn how to walk and talk again.

She had to use a buzzer to get on the ward. There were signs everywhere about germs and gel dispensers every few feet. Cheryl did her hands but Milo refused. At the desk Cheryl waited for the nurse, who was typing away. When she was done she stared at Cheryl, no smile. ‘Yes?’

‘Theodora Williamson,’ said Cheryl. She could see Nana’s name up on the whiteboard behind the desk.

‘Are you a relation?’

‘Yes, her granddaughter.’

The nurse nodded. ‘Room C, just there,’ she said. ‘And if you can keep the little boy quiet.’ Milo was singing softly to himself. Cheryl turned away, a flame of anger in her throat, her hands shaking.

There were four beds, curtains drawn round two, one empty and Nana by the window. She looked the same, eyes closed, but there was a mask over her nose, a tube leading from it to behind the bed. Cheryl guessed it was oxygen. She wheeled the buggy to the foot of the bed. Left Milo there and edged round to the chair at the bedside.

‘Night night,’ said Milo.

Cheryl took Nana’s hand. It was cool and light, the bones frail as a bird’s. Did you talk to people who’d had a brain haemorrhage? Was it like a coma where they could still hear you? Cheryl wanted Nana to wake up and smile. Or to snap at her, ‘I ain’t need no audience, child.’ And sort out getting herself home.

‘Nana?’ said Cheryl.

Milo giggled.

Cheryl’s phone rang, the ring tone – a sample from one of Jeri’s remixes – startlingly loud and punchy in the room. Cheryl jumped and pressed the screen. It was Joe Kitson.

‘Cheryl, where are you?’ The signal was poor, his voice breaking up.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

The nurse appeared in the doorway. ‘No mobiles,’ she snapped.

‘It’s just-’ Cheryl began.

‘They interfere with the equipment. You need to switch it off now.’

‘Well, where?’

‘You’ll have to take it outside.’

She’d lost the connection anyway. It was quarter past nine. She should be on her way to the crèche. Tears pressed at the back of her eyes.

‘Nana, I have to go now. I’ll be back later.’ It wasn’t enough. ‘I’ll pray for you, Nana, shall we pray?’ Cheryl closed her eyes, bent closer. ‘Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…’

When she had finished the prayer she kissed Nana on the forehead, smelt a trace of bay and rosemary from her hair oil. Nana mixed it up every few weeks, had her own recipe. Cheryl preferred hers over the counter.

‘Cheryl, where are you?’ Joe sounded worried.

‘At the hospital. My nana – she collapsed. Could be her brain.’

‘God, I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘How is she?’

‘She’s unconscious. They have to do a scan.’ She didn’t know what else to say. She watched three lads leave the building. One had a fresh white plaster cast on his leg; another had his arm strapped up. She wondered what had happened, a car crash? A fight? ‘I should be here,’ she said.

‘When’s the scan?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Cheryl, I’m sorry but I have to ask you to do this. We only get one chance.’

‘But how long-’ Her chest felt crushed, her breath thick.

‘I don’t know. It won’t be all day, I’m pretty sure of that.’

‘When she wakes up-’

‘Please. I can come and get you now.’

A pigeon landed close by and pecked at the floor. Milo clapped at it and yelled with delight when it flew off.

Nana in the bed, still and small and her face all wrinkled. Every line a story. That’s what she used to say when Cheryl tried to tempt her with anti-age creams and that. Nana in the bed. And Danny laughing with Cheryl about church, flushing at her interest when he talked about the gig at Night and Day. Danny on the screen, singing like a dream, trying to moonwalk, laughing. The life in him!

‘Cheryl, are you there?’

Nana furious at people for not speaking out: like a new set of chains, slaves to fear. ‘Yes,’ said Cheryl, ‘I’m here.’

Unlike the first time that she’d left him at the crèche, Milo was clingy, wailing when she tried to put him down then grabbing her leg and burying his face in it and sobbing.

‘You go,’ the crèche worker said, smiling: she must have seen it all before.

Cheryl stalled.

‘He’ll be fine,’ the woman said. Cheryl nodded, biting her lip, her nose tingling. The worker picked Milo up and turned away with him, ignoring his outstretched arms. ‘Mummy’s coming back soon; we’ll have a look at the toys over here.’

‘He loves dogs,’ Cheryl called after her, sniffing.

Joe smiled and thanked her again as she got back into the car. But the way his fingers tapped at the wheel as they waited for the lights to change showed he was stressed too. It was almost quarter past ten.

‘That’s more like it,’ he said as the road opened up ahead. He picked up speed.

Cheryl felt the back of her neck burn and her mouth water, then the spasm bucking in her stomach. ‘Stop! Please. I’m gonna be sick.’ Oh, God.

He didn’t need telling twice but pulled up on to the pavement. Cheryl flung the door open and bent over. She retched again and again, thin yellow stuff, until there was nothing left, just a taste like sour cherries in her mouth, her throat raw, eyes watering.

She had a tissue somewhere in her bag. She wiped her mouth and got back in. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’ll be okay, you know,’ Joe said.

Cheryl began to laugh, tears in it too.

‘What?’ He indicated, pulled out.

‘It’s not nerves – well, I am scared, but I’m pregnant too.’

‘Ah, morning sickness.’

Oh, God. It was all too much: the baby, Nana, the room she was heading towards. She was tired and shivery. She didn’t want to cry, she wouldn’t cry. Not now. She covered her eyes with her hand.

Joe said okay and left it. She was glad he didn’t keep talking, didn’t ask questions or try and cheer her up.

He parked up and she lit a cigarette as they walked around to the witness entrance. Her eyes flicking here and there, watching for familiar faces, ready to duck or run. ‘Can I finish this?’ she asked him as they reached the door. He nodded.

‘Ta.’ She smoked it quickly like it was oxygen and she needed it to breathe. There was no ashtray so she had to chuck it down, grind it underfoot. The pavement was littered with tab ends. Some had lipstick on. Cheryl had no make-up on, hadn’t even combed her hair. She wondered if the jury would trust her more looking plain and washed out.

‘Ready?’

Her stomach clenched. She nodded once. In through security and up to the office, not the waiting area she’d seen last time.

Benny, the volunteer, explained why. ‘The family are here, we don’t want them to see you.’

They were here! Danny’s twin Nadine, his parents, Nana Rose. Nana Rose didn’t know about Nana. Cheryl hadn’t had a chance to ring anyone. Nana Rose had a mobile, Cheryl knew that much, Nana had given Cheryl the number; she should ring and tell her. It would look weird if she hadn’t. She explained to Joe, who agreed. Did she want tea, coffee?

She didn’t know if she dare. She shook her head. ‘Just some water, ta.’

Cheryl rang Nana Rose. It went to voicemail. ‘It’s Cheryl, Nana’s not well. They’ve taken her into MRI. She fell this morning. They think it’s a brain haemorrhage. She needs a scan, that’s the next thing. I’ll let you know. Bye. Bye.’

It struck Cheryl that if Nana had been well, she’d be here somewhere too. Going into the court and hearing Cheryl’s voice all disguised and not knowing it was Cheryl.

Benny brought her the witness statement to read. All the stuff she’d said that Joe had typed up and she’d signed. ‘Take your time,’ Benny said, ‘read it through and let me know if there’s any mistakes. This is the statement the defence have a copy of; this is what they’ll ask you about.’

Cheryl tried to read it but it was hard, her mind kept dancing away, floating off to brood on Nana.

Joe returned with her glass of water. ‘How’s it going?’

‘My mind’s in bits,’ she sighed.

‘Read it out.’

‘What?’

‘Read it to me, out loud.’

Her cheeks grew hot, was he teasing her?

‘It helps to say it out loud, to practise. After all, you’ve never spoken about this to anyone but me.’

‘But I won’t have to read this when I go in there?’

‘No, you just use your own words to describe what happened, then answer their questions, maybe elaborate if they ask you to.’

She drank some water then did as he said, her voice husky from being sick, tripping over some words and finding others that made her voice tremble and her heart ache. But she got through it.

‘How about a biscuit?’ Joe offered.

‘Or toast?’ suggested Benny. ‘We have a toaster.’

Cheryl covered her mouth, blinked and nodded. ‘Dry,’ she managed as Benny reached the door. ‘Dry toast.’

Before she could finish the toast Benny came to tell her, ‘It’s about ten minutes now, we should go down.’

Cheryl couldn’t swallow. The food lodged in her mouth. She felt embarrassed, face burning as she had to spit out the wad of toast on to the plate.

‘Good luck,’ Joe told her. ‘Soon be over. You need to leave your phone.’

‘Oh, yeah.’

Then they were going downstairs, this way and that. Into the box. The cell. That’s what it felt like to Cheryl: underground, warm and lit and carpeted but still like somewhere you were locked up. Cheryl was trembling, she kept thinking of Carlton now, her guts iced-water at the thought he might find out she was here. Benny reminded her about the red card in case she got upset. He asked her if she would make the oath on the Bible and she said yes.

Cheryl sat on the chair.

‘A bit closer,’ Benny said. ‘Good, and when you talk just look at the screen, don’t worry too much about the camera – if you’re looking at the screen then they will see you. Can you clip this on?’ Benny passed her the little microphone and Cheryl stuck it to her top. Then Benny handed her a plastic cup of water.

There was a feeling running through Cheryl and she tried to place it: like the moments before the dentist, or waiting for a test at school, or the week before Milo was born. The sensation of something looming, no escape, no way back. A steamroller rumbling towards her, the ground shuddering.

When she was having Milo, when the pains got really bad, she was crying and saying to Nana, ‘I can’t do this, Nana, I just can’t.’

‘No goin’ back,’ Nana had said. ‘Baby’s coming and no one can stop it. You nearly there.’ Nana had rubbed Cheryl’s back, really hard, and that had helped a bit then she felt the pain rolling inside a different way and they told her to push.

Afterwards Nana was always coming up with home remedies for Cheryl and the baby. Old wives’ tales from back home. When her breasts got sore and swollen, Nana told her to comb them with her Afro comb and stick plantain leaves in her bra. Cheryl was scandalized. ‘I ain’t combing ’em! Nana, that is so gross.’

‘Is sense, you’ll see.’

The midwife said that massage did help, Cheryl could do it in a warm bath, apply steady pressure towards the nipple where the lumpiness was worst, express a little of the milk. She tried that and it got better. But she drew the line at stuffing vegetables in her bra. And now, what would Nana think of a second child? Would it be too much for her now she was sick?

‘Okay,’ Benny said. ‘They’re putting the cameras on now.’ Cheryl shuffled in her seat. Rubbed her palms on her jeans. The screen went from black to colour. She could see the courtroom, the judge. Somewhere there, out of sight, were Carlton and Sam Millins. Vinia. And the Macateers. Cheryl took a sip of the water, it was lukewarm, the plastic cup felt oily in her fingers. She rubbed her hand on her jeans again.

Then the sound came on, she could hear the rustle as people moved, the hum of chatter. Then the judge spoke.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the prosecution’s first witness will be giving evidence from a video link and their voice will be distorted. In certain cases these special measures are adopted but it is of the utmost importance that you do not assume from this any prejudice against the defendants nor attach any greater weight to the prosecution evidence. Your judgment will rest solely on the strength of the evidence you hear, not on the manner in which it is presented.’

The usher in the court stood up. ‘Witness A will now swear the oath.’

Benny nodded and held out the Bible to Cheryl. Cheryl placed her hand on the book and read the card. ‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

One of the men in wigs, a tall, skinny man, stood up and spoke to Cheryl: ‘Please tell the court in your own words what you saw on the twentieth of June last year.’

‘I saw Danny Macateer.’ Cheryl’s tongue felt too big for her mouth, her lips were dry. The room was cool and she felt goose pimples flare on her arms. ‘I was on Abbey Street, near the shop, on the corner with Faraday Street. We said hello and that and he went on.’

‘Which way did he go?’

‘Along Abbey Street towards the main road.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘I set off home, down Faraday Street.’

‘You knew Danny?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘From around, from church and that.’ Cheryl couldn’t tell them that their nanas were best friends, nothing had been kept in her evidence that might give a clue to who she was.

‘How did he seem?’

The question floored her. His smile, the way he laughed when she mimicked Nana Rose. His quiet pride in his music. She swallowed. ‘Good. Happy, he was going to a rehearsal.’

‘Tell us what happened then.’

‘I was walking down Faraday Street, a car came past the other way; it was Carlton and Sam Millins.’ Cheryl could hear voices in the court, reactions to what she had said.

‘Derek Carlton?’

‘Yes.’ No one calls him Derek, she thought. She wanted to laugh. ‘They went the same way as Danny, turned into Abbey Street.’

‘How did you know it was Derek Carlton and Sam Millins?’

‘I saw them. And it was Sam’s car – the BMW.’

‘How do you know both these men?’

‘They live in the area. Everyone knows them, their gang runs the place, they cause a lot of trouble.’

One of the other lawyers got to her feet. She had a round, pale face and round glasses. ‘Hearsay and prejudicial,’ the woman said to the judge.

The judge told the jury to disregard the last statement. Cheryl felt her skin tighten. This was stupid; she couldn’t tell them what mattered. The whole gang stuff had killed Danny. It didn’t just hurt the people running round with drugs and guns, it made things bad for everyone.

‘Are you sure that the men you saw that day were Derek Carlton and Sam Millins?’

She spoke as firmly as she could: ‘Yes.’

‘And you were able to pick them out of video IDs when you were first interviewed by the police?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who was driving the car?’

‘Sam Millins.’ She looked straight at the screen, unblinking.

‘Please tell us what happened after that.’

‘I heard a shot.’

‘Where were you then?’

‘Further down Faraday Street.’ She imagined Vinia listening, knowing that she and Cheryl had been there that day, trying to remember who else had been about, who might have turned grass. There’d been plenty of people out and about and Faraday Street ran for several blocks, Cheryl hoped that Vinia would imagine this witness had reached a different stretch of the road. Would not put together what she was hearing with her best mate Cheryl.

‘You recognized it as a gunshot?’

‘I guessed it was. I’ve heard them before.’ Welcome to my world, Cheryl thought. ‘And then the car came across Faraday Street really fast, along Marsh Street. They’d been round the block.’

‘Did you go to see what had happened?’ the man asked.

‘Yes. I saw it was Danny, he was on the ground.’ A lump filled Cheryl’s throat. He should have been getting on the bus, going off to his rehearsal, playing his music, growing up, falling in love.

‘Were you shocked?’

‘Yes. He was a good kid; he wasn’t mixed up in any bad stuff. They should’ve left him alone.’ Her voice broke.

The lawyer thanked her and sat down.

Cheryl felt wiped out, tense, her back ached and she’d a metallic taste in her mouth.

After a moment the woman lawyer stood up, the round-faced one: she was defending Carlton. Cheryl almost blurted out a laugh when she introduced herself as Miss Mooney. ‘You say you knew Danny Macateer?’

‘Yes.’

‘You liked him?’

‘Yes.’

‘You knew Derek Carlton and you believed him to be involved in criminal activities in your neighbourhood?’ Miss Mooney spoke quickly, like she was spitting out facts, knew where she was headed. Cheryl sensed a trick, felt her belly twist.

‘So perhaps you thought blaming Derek Carlton for Danny Macateer’s death would be a convenient way to get rid of Derek Carlton?’

‘No!’ Cheryl said. ‘I only blamed him ’cos of what I saw.’

‘Really?’ Miss Mooney making her out to be a liar.

‘Yes,’ she snapped back.

‘Let’s take a look at what you saw, shall we? You claim you were on Faraday Street that day. What was the weather like?’

‘The weather?’

‘You don’t recall?’

‘Hot, really hot and sunny.’ Cheryl remembered the shimmer above the tarmac as they set out, how high the sky seemed, the big bowl of it and Nana’s roses full of perfume. Oh, Nana.

‘Which side of the road were you on?’

‘The other side from the shop.’ Vinia had come out of the shop, they’d crossed over. Milo was in his buggy. She’d turned the buggy away but that was after she saw the car.

‘And exactly where on the street were you?’

‘I don’t know.’ She had to be careful, Vinia was listening, Vinia who was now Sam’s woman.

‘You don’t know,’ Miss Mooney drawled as though this was exactly what she expected. Like one of the teachers at school, all sarky and disappointed in people. ‘What made you notice the car?’

Again she wasn’t sure what the right answer was. She hesitated. The goosebumps still prickled her arms but she was sweating too. ‘The noise, I think. It was going fast.’

‘How fast?’

‘Maybe forty?’

‘Forty miles an hour and the sun was high overhead, am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘How far away was the car when you first noticed it?’

‘Not far.’

‘You say you don’t know whereabouts on Faraday Street you were – had you passed the hairdresser’s, were you closer to Abbey Street at the top or Marsh Street?’

Cheryl felt trapped. She had to say something. ‘Marsh Street, past the salon, I think.’ Being as vague as she dare.

‘Barely yards. I refer the jury to the map of the area.’ There was another screen in the court, a map drawn on it, streets marked. The woman moved a computer pointer to indicate Faraday Street. ‘This is reproduced in the papers you have,’ the woman told the jury. ‘A hot summer’s day, the car came out of the side road, Marsh Street, only yards away and was travelling at speed past you, the sun glaring off the windscreen, how could you possibly identify who was inside?’

‘Because I saw them! I saw Carlton. On my life!’

‘Was he wearing sunglasses?’ she asked crisply.

Cheryl’s mind scrabbled for the picture in her head. She’d been looking away most of the time, shielding Milo, eager to make herself invisible, not wanting any contact with Carlton and his mates.

‘I don’t know,’ Cheryl admitted.

‘You don’t know,’ Miss Mooney smiled. ‘And I put it to you that you don’t know because you didn’t actually see who was in that car.’

‘I did!’

‘What about when the car drove past a second time. Could you see the occupants then?’

‘There were two people still in it.’

‘Could you see them?’

Cheryl paused. She bit her tongue, reluctant to answer. She’d sworn to tell the truth. ‘Not really.’

‘Did you get the registration of the car on either occasion?’

‘No.’

‘You told the court you heard a shot, you then saw a car travelling at speed away from the direction of the gunshot and you didn’t think to get the registration number?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Cheryl said defensively.

‘You didn’t go to the police, that day, did you? You went home?’

Cheryl cleared her throat. ‘Yes.’ Like everyone else, she’d scurried away to hide.

‘You didn’t go to the police for eight months, in fact. Were you waiting to see if the police caught the culprits before you falsely accused Derek Carlton?’

‘No!’

‘The reward then. You were waiting for that – and you saw your chance to make money by coming here and telling us a pack of lies. Maybe settling an old score.’

‘That’s not true,’ Cheryl shouted. ‘That’s lies.’

‘I submit that you are misleading this court. You can’t remember where you were when you heard the car, it drove past you at such speed it would be nigh on impossible to see who was in the car, even without the likely glare of the sun on the windows. You claim Derek Carlton was the passenger in the car yet you are unable to tell the court whether that person was even wearing sunglasses or not. You see Danny Macateer lying dead after hearing gunshots yet you wander off home without any thought for reporting this supposed sighting-’

‘I was scared,’ Cheryl interrupted. ‘I thought they’d kill me!’

There was a commotion in the court with lots of people shouting at once. The judge told the jury this was inadmissible as evidence. His voice was sharp as he instructed Cheryl not to speak except to answer a question put to her.

What could she tell them? That the bang of a firework had finally shown her how scared she was, would always be as long as the gangs held sway. That she didn’t want her son growing up only to see him sucked in or mown down. That somehow she had found enough courage to pick up the phone.

Miss Mooney came after her again. ‘Some months later, only after a substantial reward had been offered, you finally approached the police. And for some malicious design of your own making you dreamt up these claims which bear little scrutiny.’

‘They did it,’ Cheryl said, ‘everyone knows-’

The judge stopped her again. ‘We are only interested in your eyewitness testimony. Rumour and gossip have no place in this courtroom.’

‘What did you really see that afternoon?’ asked Miss Mooney.

‘What I told you-’

She cut Cheryl off. ‘Were you even on that street?’

‘I swear. I saw them,’ she said fiercely.

‘If Derek Carlton had been wearing sunglasses would you still have been able to identify him?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘Because I know him, I know his hair and how he walks, everything.’ She felt hemmed in by the questions.

‘Are you close?’

‘What? No!’

‘You have never been in a close relationship to him?’ she asked waspishly.

‘No.’ Like Cheryl was some jilted girlfriend.

‘You don’t like him?’

‘I hate him,’ Cheryl said. ‘He’s a gangster.’

There were shouts and objections in court.

‘And you’d go to any ends to see him convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. Because this is a vendetta, isn’t it?’ Her tone was harsh.

‘No!’

‘No further questions.’

Cheryl felt like someone had knocked her about, shaky again and sick. Her stomach growling with hunger, her breasts sore. She wanted to go, get back to Nana, fetch Milo. She felt dirty.

But the other defence lawyer was on his feet. Mr Merchant. Young but big with double chins and a small brown beard, too small to hide the chins. A posh voice.

‘When the car first drove past you, you were at the passenger side, am I right?’

‘Yes.’ Cheryl’s nerves were thrumming, her pulse stuttering.

‘And you have told the court that the car was travelling at speeds of forty miles an hour or more, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘The road is narrow, would you agree?’ he asked briskly.

‘I suppose.’

‘It’s a residential street, small terraced properties, just room for two cars to pass on either side?’

‘Yes.’ What did it matter? Cheryl wondered.

‘Then you would have been close to the car?’

‘Yes.’

‘So close that any passenger and the bodywork of the car itself would have obscured your view of the driver, isn’t that the case?’

‘No, I saw him.’ It was like everything she told them was crumbling, dissolving.

‘With your Honour’s Permission?’

The judge nodded and then Mr Merchant explained he was now showing a reconstruction filmed on the same street using a similar model of car with volunteers taking the roles of driver and passenger and a camera filming the witness’s point of view.

Cheryl watched as the film played out. It was stagy and cheap, like one of those health and safety films they’d watched in technology. Someone in court laughed aloud. The film showed just what the witness could see: the car drove by and there was the blur of the passenger but nothing of the driver.

‘You would have to bend down to peer in and see the driver,’ announced Mr Merchant.

‘I must have seen him before they got to me, then,’ Cheryl said crossly.

‘But not five minutes ago you told this court that only the noise alerted you, and given the short distance and the speed the car was travelling at you would scarcely have had a chance to see anything, isn’t that really the truth?’

‘No.’ He doesn’t believe me, she realized, he thinks I’m a liar. The risk she was taking, the fear she carried, leaving Nana on her own in the hospital – all that and he made her out to be some scheming bitch.

‘Remember you are on oath.’

‘I saw them,’ Cheryl repeated, her jaw stiff, her mouth gluey.

‘What was my client, Mr Millins, wearing?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Cheryl.

‘Nothing? Not one item?’

‘He was sitting down, driving.’

‘Presumably he was dressed?’

People laughed and Cheryl wanted to spit at the man making her feel stupid. ‘I can’t remember his clothes.’

‘Was he wearing a hat?’

Sam Millins often did, a little pork-pie type, but it would be dangerous to guess. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know a considerable amount, it seems to me. I put it to you that the reason you don’t know so much is that this is all an invention, a web of lies concocted for your own ends.’

‘No!’ What could she say to make them believe her?

‘Because you bear this defendant some sort of grudge, you’d like to see him punished and you’d like to get your hands on the reward money.’

‘That’s not true.’ Cheryl was close to tears, her fists were clenched, her shoulders rigid.

‘My client stands to lose his liberty and his reputation. The charge of murder is the most serious of all. You place him close to a murder but your account is full of holes. Beyond alleging that you saw him there, that you saw his car, you have not been able to give one shred of supporting evidence to back up that assertion. You don’t know, you can’t remember: that’s all we are hearing. No further questions.’

He turned away and Cheryl was left shivering, tears burning the back of her eyes. They were done with her.

‘Let’s get you a cup of tea,’ Benny said. ‘You deserve it.’

Cheryl cleared her throat, took off the microphone.

Upstairs Joe was waiting. ‘How’d it go?’

‘They didn’t believe me.’ A nugget of rage boiled inside her.

He smiled. ‘You can’t know that, the jury will make their own minds up.’

‘They made out like I was in it for the money, that I had some issue with Carlton and Sam Millins, and all these stupid questions-’

‘It’s their job, it’s not personal.’

‘It felt personal!’ Cheryl shook her head, disgusted with it all. Weary. ‘I’ve got to get to the hospital.’

‘Tea’s here.’ Joe nodded as Benny came in with tea and a plate of toast. ‘Only take a minute.’ All fatherly.

Cheryl tried to smile but her face was all wonky. She sipped the tea and ate the toast. She turned her phone on but there were no messages. Then Joe drove her to the crèche. This time Milo kicked off because he wanted to stay, he’d found a play set with Dalmatian puppies and a kennel and was in woof heaven.

‘Go see Nana,’ Cheryl told him. She put him under one arm and he kicked his legs and yelled. She struggled outside and he calmed down when they got to the car.

‘Whatever happens with the verdict,’ Joe said as he drove towards the hospital, ‘what you did today will make a real difference. The more people speak out, the more people will in future. Like a snowball. The community protect the gangs out of fear – what you did today helped change that. They’ll see it is possible to be a witness and be safe. You should be proud of yourself, you really should.’

Cheryl blinked. ‘I’m glad it’s over. They were so mean, really tight.’ She felt drained, hollow.

‘That’s what they do, they have to try and discredit the witnesses to save their clients. But you did good. Think what it means to the Macateers.’

He was right, that was something, that was important. Despite her exhaustion she felt a surge of pride. A lift in her mood. She’d done it! Been bold. Stood up to Carlton, borne witness for Danny. Oh, if only Nana knew – though she could never tell her – how proud that would make her.

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ Joe said, ‘but you know how to reach me if you need anything.’

‘Like getting rid of benefit investigators?’

Joe laughed. He pulled up outside the main entrance. ‘I hope your grandma’s better soon. And good luck with the baby,’ he said.

Cheryl nodded. He was the only person who knew. She’d tell Nana as soon as she could. It’d be something to look forward to. When Cheryl had found out she was carrying Milo she had been so anxious about Nana’s reaction, even wondered about an abortion. But when Cheryl, in tears, told her, Nana just said to dry her eyes. ‘A child is a blessing-’ she’d touched Cheryl’s cheek – ‘a gift.’

Milo was drowsy but not asleep; she put him in his buggy and waved as Joe drove off. She felt a sweep of fatigue. The day had gone on forever. If Nana was okay maybe she’d take Milo home, they could both have a nap then come back to visit after tea.

When she reached the ward, the nurse she’d seen before was at the desk. ‘Miss Williamson,’ she said, ‘we were about to ring you. Doctor would like a word.’ She pointed the way.

Cheryl wheeled Milo into the small room and parked him beside her. There was a woman there in a white coat.

‘I’m afraid I have some very bad news,’ the doctor said. ‘Your grandmother suffered a second cranial bleed just over an hour ago. We did all we could but attempts to revive her failed and she died.’

Cheryl’s heart tore, the pain ripping through her like an electric shock, taking her breath. No! Her eyes swam. Nana died without her, she should have been here, and she should never have left her. Now she was dead. No! Please God, no! Nana was dead. Cheryl placed her hands over her eyes, leaned her elbows on her knees.

‘Peepo!’ Milo said.

Cheryl burst into tears.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Mike

DANNY MACATEER TRIAL OPENS. It was on the front page of the Manchester Evening News, with pictures of the boy’s family arriving at court. Decked out smart but sober. Mike bought a copy on his way to the tram after he’d finished work.

The story carried over on page two with more background to the case and the pictures of the lad they’d used before. On the tram Mike counted maybe a third of the people reading the paper, and this time tomorrow it’d be in again and it’d be Mike they were reading about; Witness B. It made him feel good, a glow inside.

The new place he was working was a temporary contract – three months, minimum wage, £5.80 an hour. A fulfilment centre for a batch of online shopping outfits. The work itself wasn’t exactly fulfilling: matching orders from the stacks in the warehouses, wheeling them through to Despatch. Seven hours a day. But the other staff were okay, a right mix: Polish, Latvian, African, couple of Somalis and a lad from Congo, a Scouser, the rest Mancunians of all creeds and colours. Mike liked Jan, the Polish lad. He was into chess and soon had most of them playing to pass the lunch break. Mike hadn’t won a game yet but he was getting better at it. Mike had met up with Jan a couple of times after work for a pint. Jan was thinking about going back home now the bottom had dropped out of the employment market in the UK. They were all on temporary contracts, made it easier for the company to respond to fluctuations in demand – they just let them go when orders dropped off.

Mike had got a text from Joe confirming that he would still be needed Tuesday. Mike had replied and then deleted it. He had booked a day’s leave and told work it was a family wedding. He hadn’t told Vicky anything and that’s the way it would stay.

Tuesday he left the house as usual at seven fifteen. Then he had to hang about in town until ten when he could get into court, the back way like before. This volunteer Benny showed him into the waiting room. There were a group of lads there already and pretty soon the place filled up. Seven trials on, Benny told him, a couple due to finish today.

Mike read his witness statement through. There were bits he’d forgotten, like the dog barking at the house at the edge of the rec, and there were other bits that were bigger in his head than they were just written down. Like the shooting – in Mike’s head it was almost slow motion, the man stepping out of the car, raising his arm, Mike seeing the lad walking over the grass, his back to the shooter, the way the lad jerked and spun round before falling. It must have been quick but in Mike’s head it took forever.

After he’d got to the end, he read a magazine for a bit, aware of the tension in the place. Each time one of the volunteers came in to call someone, everyone was on pins, swapping glances, on the verge of wishing each other good luck though they were all strangers. Mike wondered if he should feel more sense of worry or dread about it. He didn’t share Vicky’s paranoia and believed Joe when he said there was no link between the bother they’d had and the gang. But should he be more wary about being in court?

Joe arrived and asked him how he was, if everything was okay, and Mike said fine. Then Benny said it was his turn and Mike’s nerves kicked in, but nothing too heavy.

They went down through the building. Mike reckoned he’d a good sense of direction but he’d lost his bearings by the time they got to court. It all speeded up then, he went into the witness box and Benny sat behind him. There were curtains round the box, just the front open, and he felt like a horse with blinkers on. He’d a daft urge to whip ’em back and eyeball the guys in the dock. He swore the oath then the prosecution barrister asked him to tell the jury what he’d seen.

He laid it out, driving up Princess Road, seeing the man step out of the car, the shot, Mike slamming on his brakes and pulling over. He remembered The Clash was playing but he left that out. Then running to help, the nurse already with the boy, Mike calling the ambulance. Mike felt his heart pick up pace as he talked but he thought he sounded calm enough.

The barrister asked what else he could remember and he mentioned the dog because that was in his statement, and the ambulance coming, then the churchgoers, the boy’s family, arriving. Mike’s chest was tight then, remembering the woman crying over her son, and the older one, the grandma, on her knees on the grass. Mike was thinking what it would be like if they lost Kieran or Megan. Massive.

Next, the woman who was defending Derek Carlton questioned him. Had he been able to identify the man who’d fired the gun?

‘No,’ Mike replied. ‘He was a black guy but I couldn’t make his face out.’

‘You were some distance away. How far do you think?’

‘Thirty yards?’

‘More like fifty,’ she corrected him, a glint in her eye like she’d scored a point. ‘So, it could have been anyone firing that gun.’

‘I suppose,’ said Mike. ‘He was a big bloke though and I remember his clothes. A yellow top, and dark shorts.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yes.’ Was she messing with him?

‘Not a red top?’

Mike was sure. Was he sure? ‘Yellow,’ he said.

‘But you couldn’t see his face?’

‘I could see it, just not very well. Not enough to describe him.’

‘Do you recall his hair?’

‘No.’

‘You were driving at the time, yes?’

‘That’s right.’ He’d probably still be doing it, if it hadn’t been for the murder.

‘So any sighting of this man would have been fleeting, a second, perhaps less?’

Mike hesitated. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Presumably you were also watching the road, negotiating traffic and so on?’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘Your attention was divided?’

Mike felt like his story was slipping away from him. ‘Yeah, but I saw him shoot the gun.’

‘Which hand did he have the gun in?’ the woman asked.

‘You what?’

‘Don’t you understand the question?’ Patronizing.

‘The right hand,’ Mike said tightly.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ He saw what she was doing; trying to trip him up, make him muddled. Best not to think too much about the answers. But had he blown it? What if the guy was left-handed and Mike had just delivered him a get-out-of-jail-free card? Shit.

‘And the car – can you describe that?’

‘Silver BMW, X5. I couldn’t see the plates though, it was side on.’

The woman looked a bit unsure of herself at that and Mike loosened his fists.

‘You know your cars!’ she said drily. Some of the jurors smiled at that. Mike thought back to the other Beemer he’d seen, the one that distracted him and led to the bump and him losing the driving job. Had that been the same car? The police had never said anything about finding the car. The wise move would have been to get rid of it straight after the murder. Ship it abroad or break it up for parts. Or maybe it had been a stolen car, though the witness in the paper yesterday had identified it as belonging to one of the defendants – but she hadn’t seen the reg plate either.

‘What about the gun, what sort was that?’

‘No idea.’

‘Any detail at all, colour, size?’

‘I couldn’t see, really, not at that distance.’

‘So it might not have been a gun?’

Was she serious? ‘He shot it, he shot the lad.’

‘You assumed that from what you saw-’

‘More than an assumption,’ Mike argued. ‘He had his arm up like this and then the lad was hit, fell down, that’s common sense, that’s not an assumption.’

‘I beg to differ,’ she said stiffly. ‘Did you make other assumptions too?’

‘Like what?’ Mike was getting ratty, all this nit-picking.

‘You couldn’t see the man’s face but you assumed he was black.’

Mike bridled. ‘No way. I could see his face – just not clearly. And he was black. I could see his arms too, and his legs. They were black an’ all, they matched.’ Someone began to giggle and the judge raised his head and looked daggers. ‘I didn’t need to assume anything,’ Mike went on. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make out his face, I wish I had but that’s how it is.’ He didn’t think she liked his answer, she went all pinched mouth then handed him over to the other defence bloke.

He had only one question for Mike. ‘Did you see the driver of the car?’

‘No,’ said Mike.

And that was it.

Mike had the rest of the day to kill. Vicky would be suspicious if he got in early. He was ravenous and found a little cafe off Deansgate that served all day breakfast for £3.99. He got that – no mushrooms – and a cup of tea to wash it down. As he ate he considered the morning. In one way it had been an anticlimax, like Mike was just one in a long line of people saying their ten penn’orth and the exciting bit would be at the end when the verdict came in. And Mike’s contribution hadn’t amounted to much. He hoped to God they had someone who was there and could describe the men, both of them, someone more reliable than yesterday’s witness who sounded like she was in it for a fast buck. It wouldn’t have gone to trial if they hadn’t got enough evidence, surely?

It was hard to know what the jury had thought but he hoped they’d be able to tell that Mike was being straight in spite of the way the defence woman had rubbished what he’d said.

It was nearly one o’clock. Three hours till he could get the tram. He’d do a bit of window shopping. He was thinking of getting a bike for work, cost a bit upfront but he’d save on the fares and cycling an hour a day would keep him in shape. Day like today, fair and bright, nothing better. Different story on a dark winter’s morning in the pissing rain. Still, others managed: waterproof clothes and the lot. Mike was disheartened when he saw the cost of bikes. He could go for something bottom of the range but would it take the welly?

Wandering round the Arndale Mike realized that the reason it felt like a let-down was that he’d no one to share it with. No one waiting for him after it was done to pat him on the back. Couldn’t sit with someone and pick it over, brag about the bits when he’d got the upper hand, complain about the things the woman said. Then he felt guilty for thinking like that – it wasn’t about him, was it? It was about a lad being murdered and trying to get justice. Mike’d go through the rest of his life carrying this secret. Just like the other one. One at each side, like scales. Or maybe not. It didn’t work like that; the good didn’t balance the bad. What he’d done today made no odds to Stuart’s family, couldn’t change what had happened back then: the child coming home from school, humiliated again, going to his room, changing his clothes, not able to face another day, another hour. Tying the knot and slipping the home-made noose round his neck. Mike groaned. There was no penance would right that wrong, remove his guilt. You were a child, Vicky had said. But that wasn’t enough of an excuse. All he could do was be a better man, a good man.

Mike browsed the music shops up on Oldham Street. Drew up lists in his head of what he’d get when he could afford it. Jan downloaded stuff and had an MP3 player on his phone. Mike told him all about the Manchester Greats: bands he had to listen to, Joy Division, The Smiths and Happy Mondays. The music still as powerful as it had been all those years ago.

Finally it was home time.

Vicky was waiting for him, face like frost, when he got in. ‘Where’ve you been?’

Mike’s pulse went stratospheric. How the hell did she know?

‘Work,’ he managed.

Vicky shook her head, a sneer twisting her lip. ‘Good wedding, was it? Anyone I know?’

What the fuck?

Vicky pressed the answer machine. An accented voice, male: Mike, it’s Jan. Your phone’s off. They offer overtime tomorrow, extra four hours, thought you like to stay on. Hope wedding was good. Bye.

Mike’s brain was scrambled; he studied the carpet, helpless.

‘Well?’

Hole in the ground. And he was in it, right down the bottom. There was a noise from the kitchen, Megan ran in, grabbed her doll’s pram and dragged it after her back outside.

‘You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?’

‘What!’ She was off her head. He felt a laugh blistering inside him but knew he had to be very careful. ‘You know I’m not, I’d never.’

‘So what else is it? You’ve blobbed work, lied to them, lied to me. You’re always sliding off with your phone.’

Twice! He’d done it twice, maybe three times tops. When Joe got in touch and Vicky was there, she had a knack of always being there, spooky bad timing. And she was nosy, always had to know who was texting him. Mike had to sneak off for some privacy and to come up with an alias for who sent the text. ‘I’m not sleeping with anyone, I swear.’

‘Where were you?’

‘An interview.’ Mike coughed. ‘A new job. I couldn’t let work know – they’d be brassed off, so I fed them the line about a family wedding.’

‘What job?’ She wasn’t buying it but it was all he had to sell. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Didn’t know if I’d get it, didn’t know if you’d like the idea.’

‘Why?’

Mike’s brain was doing a Basil Fawlty, John Cleese lurching around in blind panic. He tried to find something suitably disgusting. Gross. ‘Abattoir.’

‘Is this bullshit, Mike?’

How could she tell? ‘No!’

‘You can’t stand blood and guts.’

‘I know. More money though. Didn’t get it,’ he added. ‘It was horrible, nearly chucked up.’

She stared at him. ‘Is this the truth?’

He tried not to blink. ‘Yeah, honest.’

‘Give me your phone.’

‘What?’ He wondered if he could pretend it was missing, that Kieran had squirrelled it away somewhere.

‘Something to hide?’ Her lip curled.

‘No, just be nice to be trusted, seeing as I haven’t done owt wrong.’ He was sinking.

‘We’ll see, shall we?’

‘Vicky-’

‘Give it here.’ She’d got her face on, hard as stone, eyes all glittering.

He handed it over. He’d deleted all his messages, made a habit of it, and his call register. She was going through his contacts.

‘Who’s JK?’

Joe Kitson. ‘What?’ Mike’s skin fizzed, his bowels loosened.

‘You heard.’

‘Oh, bloke at work, John King. I’ll prove it, shall I?’ He put his hand out. ‘Like a word with him, would you?’ Irate himself now.

‘Yeah, I would.’

Mike felt sick. He called Joe Kitson, praying the man would be quick on the uptake. Mike spoke quickly, a laugh in his voice. ‘John mate, Mike here, from work. Do us a favour, say hello to the missus, will yer? Settle a bet. I’ll tell you the rest at work tomorrow. I’ll put her on. Cheers, John.’

Vicky’s turn to look a bit sick. Mike passed her the handset.

‘Hello?’ Vicky said.

‘What’s this bet then?’ Mike could hear Joe ask.

‘Nothing really,’ she said awkwardly. ‘See you.’ Her face flared crimson as she handed Mike his phone. ‘I don’t remember you mentioning a John,’ she said, still not admitting defeat.

‘Course you do.’ Mike’s knees were weak and his heart was going like a pump hammer. ‘Worse at chess than I am. Quiet bloke.’ He grinned. ‘You daft cow.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly.

‘I should think so an’ all.’

She snatched the paper up from where he’d left it and started walking towards the kitchen. ‘Next time just bloody tell us, then.’

‘What? That I’ve got a bit on the side?’

Vicky turned and hurled the paper at him and then began to laugh. He loved her laugh, rich and dirty. He loved her. And he’d got away with it. ‘Get us a beer,’ he said.

‘Get it yourself,’ she told him. But she went to the fridge, anyway.

Oh, God. It was all going to be okay.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Zak

Zak gave his evidence via video link from Hull County Court. Hull was a dump. Freezing cold and nothing going on. It was by the sea and the wind blew from the east. Little said it came all the way from Siberia. With knives in it. Even the rain fell sideways. Zak’s bones hurt deep inside.

Little also told Zak it had been an important port for hundreds of years, a big trading post and a fishing port until the Cod Wars, but there were still working docks. Zak wasn’t impressed. Okay there was a marina and arcades and stuff in the town but the rest of it, the places Zak lived and worked, were minging.

Zak had been in one place for a couple of weeks, straight after they arrived from Manchester. Like a safe house with no personal stuff anywhere and alert alarms in all the rooms. From outside it just looked like all the other houses in the row. Little and Large took turns with him in the days, talking him through his new identity and what he was to tell people. At night another guy came, a minder. He stayed up all night watching the nature channel on satellite TV. He only spoke when Zak spoke to him and then never gave anything away. Like words were money and he was skint. The worst thing was no drugs, not being able to have a puff or a snort and chill out. He even had to have his cigs out in the back yard.

They let him walk Bess, always one of them following him. At first he had felt safe, a bit like the hospital but the food not so good, then he got bored and by the end of those two weeks he was close to exploding just for summat to do. Then they got him the flat, and the job. The flat was in a three-storey block. Nine flats each floor, beside a dual carriageway. Zak’s was at the back so he could hear the traffic but his view was just rooftops, rows of them. He’d a bedroom, kitchen, living room and bathroom. Low ceilings, dark carpet. He got excited thinking about decorating it, making it comfy. Never had a place of his own for more than a few weeks, and most of those just a room in a squat or a place that only the desperate would pay good money for. Then something would happen, like gatecrashers turning the place into a war zone, or kids stealing the lead piping so there was no water any more, or a shortfall in the rent and he’d be off.

Little and Large made it clear that wasn’t an option. Banged on and on about it being his responsibility, his side of the deal. Large kept saying it was his big chance, turn his life around, settle down. But it was Hull, he didn’t know anyone, he didn’t belong. He missed Manchester.

Zak asked them about other destinations but Little snapped it was witness protection not a sodding travel agency. Same with his new name. Ryan Wilson. Ryan! He hated the name. There’d been a Ryan in one of the homes, a psycho bully who robbed everyone’s stuff and had pointy, baby teeth and asthma.

But they forced him to have the name and he had to practise writing it. He told them he didn’t go in for much reading and writing but they insisted he’d need a new signature. Not being good with reading limited the jobs they could find him. In the end he started at a recycling centre: sorting glass and metal. The rubbish came in on a wide belt and the ‘operatives’ as they were called stood either side picking off items for the different crates. You had to wear full protective clothing: overalls and gloves and boots. The place was cold and the work made a right racket, the crashing of glass and the metal clanging. It stank too from the bits of old booze and food and that. You got all sorts coming on the belt. A dead dog one time, just a pup. That cut Zak up to see it.

Zak’s new life story was that he’d grown up with his mam in Wigan. ‘I don’t talk like I come from Wigan,’ he’d told Large.

‘No one over this side’ll know the difference,’ Large said, fiddling with the braces on his teeth.

Then they’d moved to Hull.

‘Why? Why would anyone come here?’

‘For work.’

‘There isn’t any.’

‘She worked for Woolies before they went bust, transferred here. Died of cancer three years ago.’ Large looked at him carefully. Zak didn’t like him peering like that. Knew he was thinking about Zak’s real mam and all that bother. What did they know? She was all he had, her and Bess. He’d been really naughty, must have, and she had to punish him. Went a bit too far, that’s all. Zak shuddered, got up and stretched.

‘Her name was Julie Wilson. You never knew your dad.’

‘You got that right.’

They began to call him Ryan and he hated it. ‘Can’t I have a nickname?’

‘Like what?’ Little laughed. ‘Fingers?’

‘Behave!’ Zak said.

‘Willie – short for Wilson.’ Little kept laughing.

Zak went outside for a fag.

‘A middle name, then?’ he asked when he got back in.

Little shook his head.

‘Why not? Does it cost more or summat?’ Zak felt like crying. He did not want to be Ryan.

They wouldn’t budge. ‘It’s all sorted now, birth certificate and all. No can do.’

Ryan Wilson had no other family and had dropped out of school, drifted about for a bit. They kept it simple.

Once Zak got settled at work, he told the rest to call him Matt, said it was his middle name. He carried on like that. Only used Ryan for the official stuff. Handy in a way: if someone called asking for Ryan he knew it wasn’t a mate. Not that he’d much to do with the others outside work, the odd kickabout with the younger ones but mostly he’d go home, take Bess out then have some scran and watch telly. Little and Large had warned him not to get too pally too soon. Keep his distance. They’d be checking up on him. So once or twice a week he’d get a call from them, or one of them would pitch up at the flat unannounced.

A couple of months after he’d started the job, he heard one of the lads bragging about some weed. Zak asked if he could get him some. It arrived the next day. Zak got home, saw to Bess, had a pot noodle then fired one up. He was catatonic by 9 p.m. Next thing, Large is on the phone, on his case. Why wasn’t he at work?

‘Migraine,’ he told him. ‘Happens now and again.’

Zak should have been happy: he had Bess, he had a warm flat, a place of his own, didn’t have to look for somewhere to crash every night. He could lock the door and keep the world out, get up when he liked at weekends, watch telly all night long if he liked. He could afford to eat three times a day. But he felt lost and lonely. Zak accepted he’d have to stay in Hull till the trial.

‘What about after?’ he asked Large.

‘It’s not that bad,’ Large told him.

‘Compared to what? When can I move?’

‘We’ll talk after the trial. Look, we’ve sorted you out: nice flat, regular work. Not easy.’

Then it was the trial. He had to be kept close, they said. It was like going back to those first two weeks with Little and Large babysitting him. They took him to a motel outside town. Bess had to go into kennels.

‘No way,’ Zak said. ‘She’s never been in kennels, she’ll hate it.’ Why couldn’t they stay at the safe house again? Why couldn’t Bess stay at the flat and them take him back there after the trial? He tried facing them down, saying he wouldn’t go ahead if they sent Bess to kennels. Little went ballistic and Large sent him out to cool down and told Zak he was on very thin ice and that protection could be withdrawn if he wasn’t fully cooperative. So they were at the Travelodge for two nights and the day in between. Adjoining rooms. There was nothing to do but drink and watch telly. Then the second night Large told him they’d an early start in the morning. His time had come.

Zak didn’t sleep much. It was hard without Bess around. When he did nod off he had dreams that woke him up again, shadows coming after him, blows landing on his back, on his arms and his belly, words raining down like stones. Chained and he couldn’t get away. Bits in his mouth and flies on his face. The dark swallowing him.

At Hull County Court he had to sit in this room with a man and talk into a monitor. They showed him the room was bare, no picture on the wall, no notices, nothing that could give anyone in the court in Manchester a clue as to where Zak was. It hit him like a thump in the guts: Carlton’s crew would be doing all they could to shut people up and what Zak was doing today was painting a massive target on his chest. That’s why he had to be poxy Ryan Wilson once he walked out again. Ryan Wilson who didn’t know Manchester much and had led a blameless if aimless life.

The usher read out the oath and Zak copied him then they played Zak’s video statement that Little and Large had cobbled together from their early interviews with Zak. It meant Zak wouldn’t have to go through it all for the prosecution. Man, it was embarrassing: he looked a mess and he kept stumbling over his words and that. It covered the basics: that he’d been in the middle of a house burglary when he’d seen Derek Carlton shoot the boy crossing the rec. That Zak knew Carlton by sight, by reputation, and had scarpered, taking his dog and the proceeds of the robbery with him.

One of the lawyers told the court that Zak had been arrested in the process of committing another burglary and had volunteered information about the murder in return for immunity from prosecution and witness protection.

Then they played more of the video, the bit where he was saying how everyone knew it was Carlton and Millins who did it and how when they were picked up someone brought the gun to Midge for safe keeping. Zak hadn’t wanted to say that but they kept on at him; that it was all or nothing and the gun was vital evidence.

He’d seen it in his head, what must have happened next: the SWAT team raiding Midge’s. Midge and Stacey pulled out of bed and cuffed. The police finding the gun. Midge getting charged then realizing he’d not seen Zak for a while and putting two and two together and coming up with Judas. Midge, who’d always given him a brew or shared a spliff, who’d fenced his stuff. Midge, who’d taken Bess to the PDSA when Zak had the pneumonia. And he had to dob him in. That was the worst of it.

The woman asked him where he’d been living last June.

‘No fixed abode,’ he said. That’s what they called it.

‘Were you employed?’

‘No.’

‘In receipt of benefits?’

‘No.’

‘You were surviving on the proceeds from your criminal activity?’

‘And begging,’ Zak agreed.

‘Were you having regular eye examinations?’

She was cracked. ‘No!’

‘So you don’t know whether your vision is impaired?’

‘I can see fine,’ Zak said, catching up. Her making out he was short-sighted: shabby.

‘Can you read the sign above the exit?’ She pointed.

Zak stalled; he could see it fine on the monitor but reading was another matter. Then the other lawyer, the prosecution guy, was up complaining as Zak said, ‘I can’t read all that good.’ And the judge called the lawyers up and they had a bit of a barney then the woman carried on. ‘We don’t know how well you see but the house was about thirty yards away. Even with good vision it may have been difficult to identify who you saw.’

‘It were easy,’ Zak said, ‘I’d know him anywhere. He wears those baggy shorts and he had a yellow wife-beater on.’

‘What?’ demanded the judge.

‘It’s a sort of vest,’ Zak said, miming the shape on himself, sketching the armholes. ‘Big pits. And it was Sam Millins’ car, an’ all.’

‘Please confine yourself to only answering those questions put to you,’ the judge said.

‘Had you consumed any drugs that day?’

Took Zak a moment to remember. ‘No.’ He’d scored later at Midge’s.

‘What about alcohol?’

‘Just some cider. White Lightning.’

‘How much?’

‘Half a bottle?’

‘What size bottle?’

Zak sighed. ‘Three litres.’

‘How strong is that?’

‘Pretty strong.’

‘Seven and a half per cent proof, to be exact. And you drank a litre and a half. You would have been drunk.’ Her nose turned up, a flicker of disgust in her eyes.

‘No! I’m used to it,’ Zak said.

‘What about the previous night, did you take any drugs then?’

Zak shrugged. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Try.’ Her mouth set tight.

He came clean. ‘Maybe a bit of weed.’

‘Skunk?’

‘Yeah.’ He could do with some now.

‘For the benefit of the jury, skunk is the strongest strain of cannabis known and it remains in the system for up to ten days in regular users. Would you say you were a regular user?’ she asked Zak.

‘Yeah.’ He didn’t like the way she was painting him, a druggie, an alkie.

‘So when you broke into the property on Booth Street, when you saw events on the recreation ground, you were under the influence of drink and drugs. Surely these would affect your ability to see and remember what you saw?’

‘No,’ Zak contradicted her.

‘Did you work with Derek Carlton?’

‘No.’

‘But you were involved in stealing goods and the handling of stolen goods?’

‘Sometimes,’ he conceded.

‘And the supply of drugs?’

‘Not the drugs, well, not much. Personal use only.’ Zak grinned. No one else did.

‘Do you find today’s proceedings amusing?’ she asked him, her face all sour.

‘No.’

‘Then please refrain from making jokes. You are aware this is a murder trial?’

‘Course.’

‘And that we are here to get to the truth of the matter. You deny being involved with Derek Carlton but is it not the case that on more than one occasion you ferried packages between suppliers and dealers?’

Zak had done Midge the odd favour. Small scale. ‘Maybe a couple of times.’

‘I beg to differ. I suggest you were up to your neck in illicit drug dealing and associated violence and it would be very convenient for you to blame Derek Carlton for this murder thereby getting rid of the competition.’

‘No way! That’s mental!’ Zak said.

‘Is it true you said nothing until you were arrested in the course of breaking into a supermarket and attempting to steal goods?’

‘Yeah, but-’

‘Blaming Derek Carlton would be a way of evading justice.’

‘No, it’s not-’

‘I think it is. Two birds with one stone. You save your own neck and you see off a rival at the same time. You are a known criminal with a history of drug abuse, why should anyone here believe a word you say?’ Her words lashed at him.

‘You calling me a liar?’ Zak could feel the hot rush of rage in his guts.

‘Aren’t you a liar?’

‘Piss off!’

There was a flurry of reactions in the court and the judge told Zak he would be held in contempt if he was abusive.

‘I’m not lying,’ he shouted, his skin crawling, roaring in his ears.

The judge said they would take a brief break to enable the witness to compose himself and then resume.

The usher tried to calm Zak down – offered him a drink. Zak felt boxed in. He asked if he could take a leak – just needed to move, get up and out – but the guy said it’d be better to wait. They’d start again soon, he said, just answer the questions, don’t let it get to you.

Zak shuffled in the seat, muttered a bit, then the woman, skanky bitch, was back in his face again. ‘You knew Derek Carlton’s accomplices?’

‘Like who?’

‘Michael Revington? The man you called Midge?’

Zak didn’t want to talk about Midge, he felt bad. ‘Yeah.’

‘You stayed at his house, spent time with him?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You claim in your statement that Michael Revington took possession of the handgun used to shoot Danny Macateer?’

‘I think it was, no one said that-’ Zak couldn’t finish, she talked over him.

‘I suggest another version of events: I suggest you played a far greater role in things than you are admitting. I put it to you…’

Her voice banging on and on, Zak could feel his nerves jangling, sparking.

‘… that it was you who delivered that gun for safekeeping to Michael Revington and-’

‘No way! That’s slander that is, you can’t say that!’

‘And that you know a lot more about the murder of Danny Macateer than you have told the court and you have twisted everything round to suit your own ends,’ she said vehemently.

Zak’s head was bursting. She was saying he’d been in on the shooting, that he’d do something like that. ‘I’m not havin’ this-’

‘You didn’t actually see who fired that gun but that doesn’t matter, does it, the truth doesn’t matter, only saving your own skin – even if you send two innocent men to prison. This is a tissue of lies, why don’t you admit it?’

‘I’m not doin’ this. You can go fuck yourself.’ Zak got to his feet, ripped off the microphone. The usher stood up, trying to calm him.

‘Sit down!’ thundered the judge. Then everyone was yelling. Zak reached the door of the room and wrenched at it. It was locked. He kicked it hard, bastard pain in his foot. Slammed his hands against it. Smacked his head into it, hard, harder, blotting out all the thoughts, the avalanche of feelings, the thumps and slaps and curses.

Then the door was unlocked and Little was yanking him out and spitting words at him. His wolf’s grin looking like he was ready to rip Zak’s throat out. In the end Zak had to go and sit back down. It was that or be arrested then and there and banged up for contempt. He was tempted but he had Bess to think of.

There was another ten minutes of slagging off from the woman and then the other brief, the one looking after Sam Millins, started in on him. More of the same: trashing Zak’s reputation, liar, conartist, beggar man, thief. He’d invented a pack of lies to escape the law, he was a completely unreliable witness and his account could not be trusted. The fact that his evidence was even being admitted today indicated how weak the prosecution case actually was. Whoever killed Danny Macateer that day it was not his client and the garbled rag-bag account they had just heard was simply the desperate imaginings of someone who told the police what he thought they wanted to hear to escape jail himself.

‘Crap!’ Zak said.

‘Precisely,’ replied the brief. People sniggered and then he was done.

Little and Large were not pleased. He’d come within a hair’s breadth of being done for contempt and if that had happened he’d have been off the programme, beyond their protection. Plus his antics on the stand (as they called it) had been bloody atrocious. Zak couldn’t be bothered to defend himself any more.

‘You’ve done it now, your name’s out there,’ Large said, ‘in lights, Blackpool illuminations. Keep your head down and your nose clean, Ryan. There’s a lot of people would like to take you apart for what you’ve done. They’ll be looking for you.’

‘What about the reward?’ Zak asked them. ‘I kept my end of the bargain.’

Little went red, like he’d burst, and Large laughed. ‘What planet are you on, lad? Evidence leading to a conviction – could go either way thanks to your performance. There might not be any conviction. If these guys get sent down, it’ll be in spite of you not because of you.’

Zak shook his head, a bitter taste in his mouth. Shafted.

They dropped him at his flat and went to bring Bess. She danced around him like a mad thing.

‘What about a move?’ Zak asked Large. ‘You said maybe after the trial?’

‘No chance.’

‘Well, a better job then,’ he wheedled.

‘Doing what, exactly? No skills, no qualifications.’

‘I like animals.’

‘Try the Jobcentre, keep an eye out. It’s time to stand on your own two feet, Ryan.’

Stop calling me that, Zak thought.

‘Any problems, any bother, call the number,’ Large said. ‘We can get you to safety.’

‘So you’d move me if there was bother,’ Zak asked, wondering if that was a plan.

Large sighed. ‘Genuine bother, and a move could be worse than here.’

How? thought Zak.

Large got up to go and Zak said, ‘Can you give us summat to get some grub in? No money till tomorrow.’ He’d get something to take the chill away, something to make him relax.

Large shook his head but came up with a fiver anyway.

‘I need dog food an’ all,’ Zak complained. Even though he had plenty in the cupboard.

Large signalled for him to give the fiver back and gave him a ten. ‘That’s your lot,’ he said, ‘you have to make your own way now. Don’t mess up, lad.’

Zak took Bess up to the park but he couldn’t shake off the feeling he had. A dirty shame at the way they’d talked about him in court, how they’d treated him. Like he was rubbish, no respect, nothing. Like he wasn’t even a human being with feelings. He needed something to help him forget, to rub out the feeling.

He settled Bess and headed out once it got dark. There was a pub on the far side of the dual carriageway on the estate. Bit of a dive but exactly the sort of place where he could score. A bit of weed or some coke. Something to take the edge off. No – more than that. Something to help him get completely off his face. That’s what he needed now. And a tenner should cover it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Fiona

Fiona had been following the trial in the newspapers and on television. First there had been two anonymous witnesses, one a passer-by like she was and the other a local woman who knew both Danny and the men accused of killing him. She had given her evidence by video and with her voice distorted so she wouldn’t be recognized. That took real guts, Fiona thought.

Then yesterday had been a shambles by all accounts. The man who was on the witness protection programme appeared on remote video link losing his temper and swearing and trying to walk out of wherever he was and almost getting arrested. His behaviour was a gift to the defence. He’d come over as chaotic and unreliable and much had been made of his criminal background.

Joe had rung her last night. He didn’t go into any details, said nothing that she couldn’t have got from the media, but he told her the guy hadn’t done them any favours and it was a godsend she’d be on the stand the next day, redressing the balance.

He sounded weary, she thought.

‘It must be a strain for you,’ she said, ‘not knowing how it will go.’

‘Yeah, but it’s worse if you don’t even get to court. Some cases, they eat away at you.’

She thought he might say more, the wistful note in his voice, but he changed topic, picked up the pace. ‘Still, everything all right for tomorrow?’

‘Yes. I will get the tram but the early one.’

She’d been dillying and dallying over whether to get a taxi or the tram, fretting that if there was any disruption to the tram service she’d be late.

‘You sure? I can sort out a lift.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I’ll see you there then. Goodnight.’

Owen had come in then, he’d been walking Molly home. Molly who’d been there after school one day last week coming down from Owen’s room with him when Fiona got home. Chatty and giggly with dyed black hair and panda eyes. Owen’s girlfriend. Owen blushed as he introduced them. Molly was in his English class, music too. Delicate-featured, half his size, Molly volunteered fulsome replies to Fiona’s pleasantries. A dark-haired pixie. Fiona peeped out of the living-room window when they’d left and saw them kissing, Owen stooping over to cuddle her.

Fiona was moved to see him so affectionate, delighted. Fiona presented Owen with a box of condoms the next day. Well, she left them in his room while he was skateboarding and told him as they were finishing dinner, let him eat first. She knew there’d likely be some awkwardness and he’d want to escape.

‘I know you might not need them yet but they’ll last a while. And it’s important you use them when you do have sex.’ She’d seen her share of young parents-to-be, still kids themselves, lives knocked sideways with an unexpected pregnancy.

Owen groaned and shook his head. Got to his feet.

‘Sex is great-’

‘Ugh, Mum!’

She felt her own face warm. ‘It’s a beautiful thing. It’s even better when you stay safe. Now that’s all I need to say,’ Fiona told him. ‘And don’t forget the dishwasher,’ she called after his retreating back.

This evening she reminded him about her court appearance.

‘Right,’ he nodded and kept on nodding as though if he did it for long enough he might dredge up something to say.

Fiona laughed and Owen scowled. ‘What?’

‘Nothing. You make me laugh, that’s all.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’ It was something to do with his awkwardness, the gap between the size of him and his childishness, the clumsiness and naivety. She found it funny when it wasn’t driving her to distraction.

The day of her court appearance was cool and grey with a fresh wind and she walked Ziggy early. Just a short run about the meadow, down to the bridge and back. There were gulls soaring high and circling over the river, the birds the same colour as the clouds. A cormorant took off from the far bank; its large wings made long slow strokes, powering it up and into the trees.

Fiona could smell the dark, sweet scent of water: earth, a hint of sewage and something flowery, reminiscent of shampoo. She wondered if waste-water ever got into the system, all those chemical fragrances. Ziggy chased a squirrel, then set out after a magpie. She called to him and they went back.

She had dreamt about Joe; a shameless, sexy dream that felt so real that when she woke she could feel the physical effects, the glow of warmth between her legs, the excitement fizzing on her skin, in her veins.

Now, when she met him at the witness suite, she was riddled with embarrassment, her greeting forced and brittle, barely able to take in what he was actually saying. He went to fetch her tea and Francine came into the waiting room. A Chinese couple were sitting in one corner with someone Fiona assumed was another volunteer. The other seats were empty. Francine gave Fiona her statement to read. Fiona’s hand shook lightly as she took the papers. A family passed along the corridor and with a start Fiona recognized them: the Macateers, Danny’s parents, Nadine, the grandma.

Fiona began to read. Remembered how she had sat with the police at the edge of the recreation ground, telling them what had happened. The sun high above, her palms, her knees, rusty with blood. Her eyes seized on the phrases stark and shorn of detail: they almost knocked me down, he wasn’t breathing, he was losing a lot of blood, I performed CPR.

The room was warm, airless, no hint of the wind blowing outside. Fiona felt a stir of anxiety, a band of heat across her shoulders. She took a slow breath. Joe appeared with her tea. It was hot and she scalded her lip, the burn bringing tears to her eyes.

‘All okay?’ He nodded at the statement.

‘Yes.’

‘And you?’ he asked gently.

‘Just want to get through it.’

He wore a dark shirt, charcoal grey with a thin lilac stripe in it. No tie. Top button undone. No hair visible there. She was appalled at her own shallowness. A murder trial and she was like some lovesick girl. This was his job, that was why he was here. Nothing more. She wondered about his kids again, was tempted to ask what they were like. Tell him about Owen and Molly.

Joe’s phone beeped and he excused himself, went out to take the call. Francine came back and chatted to Fiona – would she want to swear on a holy book or affirm? ‘Affirm,’ Fiona said. She’d no religious affiliation, didn’t believe in a God.

‘It shouldn’t be much longer,’ Francine reassured her. Fiona drank her tea. The Chinese couple said something to the volunteer, who got up to leave with them. ‘Just going for a smoke break,’ the volunteer said to Francine.

‘Maybe I’ll join them,’ Fiona joked.

‘Do you smoke?’ Francine asked her.

‘No, but I could start.’

Francine smiled. ‘I’ll go and see where we’re up to.’

Fiona stretched her neck, rolled her ankles, then Francine was back. ‘Yeah, they’re ready. We’ll go down.’

Fiona felt dizzy, heard the hum in her ears, took a breath and blew out slowly and followed Francine into the corridor. Joe was there. He nodded at her. His soft green eyes shone. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘You’ll be fine.’

She couldn’t speak. She kept one hand against the wall as they went downstairs, not trusting her balance. It felt as if the building was listing to one side, and that she would make a misstep.

The humming in her ears grew louder, a static that interfered with her sight as well as her hearing. They went along and down some other stairs into a room where Francine asked her to wait a minute. Then she took her up a narrow wooden staircase and into court.

The drone in Fiona’s head persisted as she read out the affirmation. She could see the piece of card trembling in her hand and her own words sounded muffled. She took another slow breath, tried to focus on what she could see rather than the turmoil inside.

The jury sat in front of her across the court, two rows of them, a mix of men and women, different ages, most of them white but there were two black women and an Asian man. The judge up on his dais at Fiona’s right was looking at papers, and below, slightly to the left between her and the jury, were the benches with lawyers and clerks. Fiona could sense but not see the crowd of people in the public gallery; there were whispers from there and an occasional cough.

The prosecuting barrister, a tall, skinny man, began talking Fiona through the main points of her testimony. The questions were easy, her replies straightforward, and the swarm in her head subsided. If she stuck to simple facts, didn’t submerge herself in the memory, she could keep it together.

‘Yes, I heard this bang, the shot, and looked out of the window.’

‘What did you see?’

‘I saw him falling,’ she answered.

‘What did you do?’

‘I asked the woman I was with to ring an ambulance then I ran outside. To go and help.’

‘If I can refer the jury to the map, Your Honour,’ said the barrister. ‘The witness was at this point here when she crossed the street.’

Fiona watched him identify the place on a large map that was on the screens.

‘Tell us what happened as you crossed the road.’

‘A car came along, very quickly. I nearly ran into it. They braked and swerved then drove on.’

‘Which direction did they come from?’

‘My left, erm, from the north.’

‘From here.’ He indicated on the map.

‘Yes.’

‘Can you describe the car?’

‘It was a BMW, silver.’

‘Did you see the occupants?’

‘Yes. There were two people in the front but I only got a good look at the driver.’ She had lurched to a halt inches from the vehicle, seen his face, angry and intense.

‘You later identified this person as Samuel Millins?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did Samuel Millins communicate with you in any way?’

‘No – he just glared at me.’

‘And when the car drove off, what did you do?’

‘I went to try and help.’

‘What did you find?’

The boy lay on his back, one leg buckled to the side, his arms outflung. ‘The boy, Danny, there was a wound in his chest; he was losing a lot of blood.’ Pooled in a slick beneath his shoulders, soaking into the grass, into the hard earth among the daisies and dandelions.

‘What did you do?’

‘I took my cardigan off, tried to use it to stop the bleeding.’ His eyes locked on hers.

‘What happened then?’

‘He stopped breathing. I couldn’t find his pulse. I began CPR, tried to start the heart.’ Her voice cracked a little; she cleared her throat. The smell of soap on his skin, the fine down on his cheek. The sun on her neck, his blood warm on her hands. The memory clawed at her. She blinked and tried to relax her shoulders.

‘And then?’

‘The ambulance came and the people from church – his family.’ They were here, Fiona thought, listening to her, drowning in their own memories. How could they bear it? To wake every day with that loss in their hearts, the absence, the child missing from their world. At work she had dealt with women who miscarried, whose babies were stillborn limp and blue, or whose babies were sick and couldn’t be saved. Fiona had witnessed their grief, offered what comfort she could, but to lose a child after fifteen years – to lose him to violence, the bite of a bullet tearing his future away. She thought of life without Owen, squashed the thought.

The barrister representing Sam Millins was a podgy man with a beard. He thanked her for coming but he was a little concerned with some points of her evidence and he’d like to examine these.

Fiona swallowed and felt her ears pop.

‘How would you describe your state of mind when you left the house to attend to the victim that day?’

‘Well, I was worried, frightened and shocked, I think.’

‘Yes. Thank you. And when the car almost ran you over, is it fair to say that added to your shock?’

‘Yes.’ She had been shaking, her nerves electric, senses sharp as glass.

‘You say the car used its brakes. Did it come to a halt?’

‘Not completely, it slowed then went faster again.’

‘So you only saw the driver momentarily?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘When the victim sadly died you were eager to help the police?’

‘Of course,’ Fiona said.

‘You wanted to do anything you could to bring those responsible to justice?’

‘Yes,’ she answered.

‘And you were asked to see if you could identify the driver of the car from video records held by the police?’

‘Yes.’ Remembering the smooth way Joe had organized it so she wouldn’t get a chance to freak out.

‘So you were determined to find the culprit among the records you were shown?’

‘No,’ Fiona objected with an eddy of dislike at the implication she was on some sort of vendetta, ‘only if he was there.’

‘You glimpsed the driver for one fraction of a second, in a state of deep shock, yet you expect us to accept that you could identify his face many days later?’

‘Yes,’ she insisted.

‘And you had absolutely no doubt?’ He almost sneered, implying her certainty was preposterous.

‘No. He was just like I remembered.’

‘Witness identification is notoriously unreliable, you could have been mistaken, after all.’

‘I don’t think so. In my experience shock heightens the senses, it was like seeing a snapshot of him and he was distinctive enough for me to spot him immediately when I saw him on the video.’

‘Distinctive?’ The man frowned.

‘He looks like Johnny Depp,’ said Fiona, slightly embarrassed, ‘but different hair.’

There was whooping and cheering in the court and the judge got irritated. The clerk called for quiet.

‘So your identification was based on the notion that the man driving the car looks like a film actor?’

‘One particular film actor.’ She would not be made a fool of, she’d not back down. ‘That makes him memorable.’

Someone wolf-whistled and the judge put his hand to his head and then said gravely, ‘If there are any more interruptions from the public gallery I will clear the court. That is not a threat, that is a promise.’

‘You work in the area for the NHS. That is correct?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘For how long?’

‘Twenty-one years.’ Where had the time gone?

‘You must know the community well.’

‘Yes, the families.’

‘And we all have families,’ he said. ‘You would know my client then?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You can’t be sure?’ He seized on any inference he could.

She had to be alert, not lose a jot of concentration. ‘I’m sure.’

‘You hadn’t ever seen him in the neighbourhood before that day in June last year?’

Each question was chipping away at her certainty. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Had the man proof that she’d met Sam Millins before? Could she have forgotten? Had she visited his mother, his sister, in the course of work? The ringing started in her ears.

‘But you can’t be one hundred per cent sure of that?’

‘I don’t recall meeting him, seeing him ever.’ Fiona fought to hide her irritation.

‘You see, I think you may well have come across Sam Millins. My client is not denying he has a reputation in the neighbourhood and you may well have had him pointed out to you over the last few years and then in the heat and confusion of the tragic and violent incident in June 2009 imagined that he was the man driving the car.’

‘I didn’t imagine anything,’ Fiona said hotly.

‘You were aware that there were gangs operating in the area?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you never heard who was involved?’

‘It’s not something people talk about.’ She remembered the new mother turning her away, the day of her panic attack. I just don’t want any trouble. That’s how it is. Closing the door.

‘No?’ He acted sceptical. ‘So you had no idea that Derek Carlton, a black man, and his friend Sam Millins, a white man, had a reputation as gang leaders in the area?’

‘No.’

He gave a little smile and shook his head, implying she was not being honest with her answers. Fiona felt annoyed.

‘You didn’t see the car until it was almost upon you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You couldn’t see it when you heard gunfire and looked out of the house?’

‘No, I don’t remember seeing it,’ she stuttered, flustered.

‘You don’t know where it came from? Only the general direction?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You don’t know who shot Danny Macateer?’

‘No.’ She made an effort to calm herself, not show how wound up she really was.

‘How did you get here today?’

‘On the tram.’

‘How long did that journey take?’

‘Half an hour.’

‘Where did you sit?’

‘In the front behind the driver.’ She was puzzled by the turn of questions.

‘There is a window between the driver’s cab and the compartment?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, the driver would be visible to someone sitting where you were?’

‘Yes.’ What was he on about?

Mr Merchant nodded his head slowly, solemnly. ‘Can you describe the driver of the tram?’

‘No.’

‘Even though you would have seen him pass you as the tram slowed to stop at the station platform, then had half an hour in close proximity? Considerably longer than the fleeting glimpse of my client.’

‘I know what I saw.’ Doubt was nibbling at her stomach but she could not buckle now. He was trying to undermine her. She had seen Sam Millins. She closed her eyes. She remembered the huge rush of horror as she ran from the house, the sick feeling, the blur of motion and the snarl of brakes. Sam Millins’ face. The jaw, the chiselled cheekbones, his eyes flashing with rage. The wild beating of her heart, the roar of adrenalin. That man had murdered Danny Macateer, along with his accomplice. He sat just yards away now.

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

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

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

‘I need to go home.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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