Witness

EPILOGUE

Zak wondered how people stuck it: going to work in the dark, coming home in the dark. Animals hibernated. People should too. He managed up until Christmas but after that he found it harder to get out of bed in the mornings. Especially if he’d had a few the night before.

He got a warning, then a written warning. Not that he could read it. Then he got the push. The Jobcentre wouldn’t let him sign on for Jobseeker’s Allowance because he was voluntarily out of work; he would be sanctioned, they said, though he could appeal for hardship payment. He couldn’t face it.

He tried some of his old scams but it was tougher up here: either people were tighter with their cash or he was losing his touch. Wouldn’t need to bother if they’d given him the reward. Tight gits. Zak still couldn’t believe he wouldn’t get a penny, all he’d done.

Now he got letters through, some official with red lettering. He knew that wasn’t good. Then a bloke came round, a bailiff. Zak had till the end of the week to pay his rent or he’d be evicted. He had the numbers for Little and Large but all they’d do was slap his wrists and stick him in some other poxy job. Maybe not even that. They had warned him over and over like some stuck record, that if he messed up he’d be thrown off the programme. He sold the TV and DVD player to a pawn shop, made enough for the train and a bit left. He had to buy a ticket for Bess as well.

He felt better as soon as they got off the train and were walking down Piccadilly ramp into town. The place hadn’t changed. Like he’d never been away. It was raining, a fine drizzle. A tram hooted. He’d have to steer clear of Midge, if Midge wasn’t locked up, avoid Hulme way but there were other places he could try. He wondered if Russell was still caretaking at the flats.

Once he got himself sorted out he could maybe try and find his mam, see how she was doing. She might have somewhere he could stay. A nice house with a conservatory and fish in a pond and big leather sofas.

First things first and that meant something to help him sleep and then somewhere to kip. He bought a bottle of White Lightning at the mini-market and some rolling tobacco. There used to be a place down the other side of Victoria Station, under the bridge, that he’d used a couple of times, in between a dumpster and the wall. Arranged right you could open the lid of the dumpster and prop it against the wall, make a roof to keep the rain off. Yeah, he’d try there – he’d a good feeling about it.

He walked down Market Street, Bess at his side. The African guys were still selling umbrellas and the old guy who did rock ’n’ roll under a fishing tent was belting it out. Zak bought a sausage barm from the cart at the bottom of the hill. ‘’Ere, have one for the dog,’ the woman said, ‘on the house.’

‘Ta,’ he said.

‘Ey, I’m sick of this bloody rain,’ she said, handing him his change. ‘Drives you mad.’

Zak checked the sausage wasn’t too hot and gave it to Bess. Then took a bite of his own and set off along Corporation Street where the Ferris wheel was turning. The white framework and the lights blurry in the misty rain.

A woman stopped to make a fuss of Bess and a bit further on Zak could see the emo kids in little groups hanging in the rain outside Urbis. Home, thought Zak, smiling. How could he ever live anywhere else?

Jeri came for Nana’s funeral. Cheryl didn’t ask him to, he just said when is it and I’ll come up. He couldn’t come for the whole nine nights but he would come on the eve of the final ceremony and stay a few days.

She hadn’t told him about the pregnancy yet but she knew she’d have to. She’d do it after the service, when it was all over. She didn’t want it interfering with giving Nana her send-off.

He arrived into chaos: people crammed into the sitting room, others clattering in the kitchen, clearing up and serving food, Milo writhing in her arms, on a crying jag.

Cheryl’s heart jumped at the sight of him. He made his way through the crowd and kissed her, touched Milo’s cheek. The gesture brought an image of Nana, her palms stroking Milo’s face, singing his name as Cheryl swung him. Cheryl had to blink hard and rein in her tears.

They were barely alone that first night. Not until the early hours when the last of the tipsy mourners had left.

‘You look tired,’ Jeri said when he came in from the shower, a towel round his waist and his chest, his skin a golden caramel colour, dotted with droplets of water.

‘Mega.’ She kissed him. His lips were soft, tentative. His arms went round her and she closed her eyes, leaned into him, kissed his neck. His skin was smooth and warm and she felt the bump of his pulse through her lips.

‘You want to sleep?’ he murmured.

‘In a little while.’ She raised her face and looked at him. The swirl of desire washed through her spine and her limbs and deep inside her. She felt weak.

He nodded and led her to the bed.

Vinia was at the funeral. Cheryl was glad she’d come even though the friendship was in tatters. Nana had been like a grandmother to Vinia, who’d not known her own, both of them dying when she was still small. Nana regularly fed and sheltered Vinia when Cheryl brought her back from school. Times in Vinia’s own home were always stormy and Nana’s was a refuge of sorts.

Cheryl felt spacey all day, reeling between hot tears and a cold, shattered, numb sensation. Jeri wore a beautiful black suit made of fine, soft wool and a white shirt. He looked wonderful, Cheryl thought, like a model himself in a glossy magazine, advertising a watch or men’s fragrance. When they first arrived at the church she could sense the ripple of interest from the congregation. She could imagine the gossip.

At the cemetery, Vinia came up to them. Cheryl’s heart sank. Not now, she thought.

‘Jeri,’ Vinia greeted him. ‘Hi, Milo.’ Milo grunted. He’d got a cold and he was grumpy with it. Vinia’s eyes were red, her nose puffy. She’d been crying. ‘Cheryl, I am sorry,’ Vinia said.

‘Thanks.’ Cheryl tried to smile, moved to walk away but Vinia put her hand out, touched Cheryl’s arm. ‘You were right.’ Vinia lowered her voice, glanced at Jeri.

About what? Had Vinia found out Cheryl had testified? Cheryl’s belly churned, her pulse rate rose. Instinctively she drew away from Jeri, turned her back to him, blocking his view of Vinia.

‘I’ve written to him,’ Vinia said. ‘It’s over. You happy now?’

Cheryl shrugged. ‘’Spose.’

Vinia’s bravado faltered. Her eyes grew wet. ‘I miss you, girl.’ She looked ashamed.

Cheryl swallowed. Gave a nod.

‘We good?’ For the first time she saw the need in Vinia and the fear too, the apprehension that Cheryl might still rebuff her, and Cheryl understood that this had not been easy for her friend.

‘Yeah,’ Cheryl nodded.

Vinia gave a little breath, found her cigarettes and held them out to Cheryl, who hesitated then shook her head.

Vinia signalled towards Jeri with her eyes, raised her eyebrows in a silent question: you told him?

Cheryl shook her head and shot Vinia a warning look then turned to go. ‘We’ll see you at the hall.’

They sat in the living room, Jeri and Cheryl, side by side, drained by the day. Milo was asleep upstairs. Cheryl was on edge, running versions of her announcement in her head while Jeri talked about Jamaica and how they might travel.

‘I can’t come,’ Cheryl said, the words blunt.

‘Why?’ He frowned. ‘We can sort out the passports. I know you don’t like taking money but-’

‘I’m pregnant.’ Her voice shook.

Jeri turned to her, his face blank with amazement. Time stretched out. ‘Oh, man,’ he said eventually.

Cheryl searched his face, looking for clues to revulsion or pleasure or annoyance. Finding nothing.

‘I thought you should know,’ she said flatly. ‘Doesn’t mean I expect anything.’

‘It’s a surprise.’ He got to his feet. He had his back to her, still in his white shirt, his suit trousers. His hands in his pockets. ‘Oh, man,’ he said again softly.

Cheryl had her hand over her mouth. She had no more tears today but her lips were trembling. She didn’t want him to know how much this hurt. She’d been such a fool to think she could hold on to a man like him with his glamorous job and his money and his fine looks.

The silence yawned between them. Then, ‘Do I get a say?’ His voice was tight.

‘In what?’ Whether she kept the baby? Did he want her to get rid of it?

He turned to look at her; his face was drawn. A line furrowed his brow. ‘You don’t expect anything from me,’ he said steadily. ‘Is that because you don’t want anything from me? You’d rather be on your own? My part’s over?’

He thought she’d used him. She shook her head, she didn’t know what to say. ‘It was an accident,’ she told him.

He pressed his hands to his head, squashing his dreads. Sighed. ‘I don’t know where I stand with you, Cheryl. We get on real well, it’s going fine, then suddenly you’re busy, you can’t get to Bristol, I can’t visit you here. You make stupid excuses about babysitters. You treat me like a yo-yo.’

‘No!’ She had to put him off because of the trial, that was why. Mostly why.

‘You were happy enough for me to come for the funeral but now that’s done, I’m not needed. Yeah?’

She couldn’t tell him about the trial. She couldn’t ever tell anyone. That secrecy was all that kept her safe, her and Milo and the little baby to come. And the rest? Holding him at arm’s length? Not getting too close, too eager. How could she explain that?

‘Why me?’ She found her voice. ‘You could be with anyone. All those talented people, musicians and dancers – all those places – your life…’ She knew she wasn’t making sense. She pressed her temples. ‘I thought you’d drop me, even before the baby, thought you’d hurt me.’

‘Why?’ His eyes flashed.

‘Because I’m not like you.’ Her eyes burned. ‘I don’t even have a pay cheque. I haven’t got a passport. I was trying to be realistic. This…’ She flung her arm out, taking in the room. ‘This is it!’

‘You think so little of me? Of yourself? I started out in a place just like this!’ He raised his voice. ‘There was never enough money. You think I’ve forgotten all that?’

‘But you could have anyone,’ Cheryl said.

‘Most of them, the hangers-on, the groupies, they’re takers, Cheryl. They like the image, the lifestyle. It’s all skin deep. You’re different. You’re real.’ When he spoke again his voice was very quiet. ‘Least, I thought you were.’

In the pause that followed she heard an ambulance siren. She wondered who was hurt and what had happened to them. If there was more trouble.

‘I was scared,’ Cheryl said, ‘I’m sorry. And I really didn’t know you, if I could trust you. I still don’t.’ She stared across at Nana’s chair, empty.

‘I could say that too,’ he said.

‘I’m not ashamed of who I am,’ she added, ‘I’m not. I’m as good as anyone else. I care about you,’ Cheryl cried, ‘I really like you but it’s all mixed up and I don’t know what’s going to happen.’

‘Hey.’ He moved to sit beside her, pulled her into his arms. ‘Hey.’

She wept dry tears, for herself, for Nana.

‘I’m here,’ Jeri said, ‘I’m here because I want to be with you. You’re beautiful, outside and in. I can’t get you out of my head, girl. First time I saw you, blew me away, I knew. That feelin’ – man… I really like you, Cheryl, and we’re having a baby. You and me. We’re having a baby, yeah?’

Cheryl nodded, choking on a sob.

‘We’ll work it out, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

Cheryl pulled away and looked at him. He held her eyes, his own bright and steady.

Joe Kitson rang Cheryl. He was putting her forward for the reward money. If approved, and he’d do his damnedest to make sure it was, she’d be given a code to take into a city centre bank so her anonymity would be preserved.

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

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

‘Oh Cheryl, I am sorry.’

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

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

Cheryl sniffed hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike left the paper in the cafe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It’s Fiona,’ she said, ‘I’m er… I need to talk to you, please can you ring me?’

The minutes inched by. She finished ironing and put the clothes away. As she returned to clear up she misjudged and kicked the leg of the ironing board. The iron teetered and as she grabbed for it, catching the handle with one hand, the edge of the metal grazed her other arm inside her wrist. The burn was fierce and brought tears to her eyes. She ran it under cold water for a while, watching the shiny skin pucker and redden. She’d some Germolene somewhere which would dull the stinging.

She was rifling in the medicine chest when the door bell rang.

‘Forgotten your key again,’ she muttered. Owen was getting more disorganized as he grew older, not less. She felt a wash of mild relief that he was back.

In the hall she saw the silhouette at the front door. Not Owen. The hairs on her neck stood up and her pulse went wild. She stood for a moment, indecisive, giddy. Then stepped closer. ‘Who is it?’ She tried to sound strong, calm.

‘Joe Kitson.’

She wanted to hit him for frightening her. She opened the door, her greeting flustered and awkward. ‘Come in, erm, I thought you were Owen, and then you weren’t.’ He looked older, thinner.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ She went into the kitchen with him. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Tea would be wonderful. Just milk, no sugar.’

‘You’ve come from work?’

‘Still at work but the beverages there are undrinkable.’ He slid his coat off and draped it over the chair back. Sat down.

‘The witness, Zak,’ Fiona said.

Joe nodded.

‘It’s never going to go away, is it?’ She tried to keep her voice level. Switched the kettle on.

‘They don’t know who you are,’ he said.

‘But it’s possible that one day someone could find out.’

‘It’s extremely unlikely,’ Joe said.

She put the tea bags in the mugs, got the milk out.

‘Carlton and Millins are behind bars, along with several associates on related charges. What’s left of the gang is in disarray, defunct to all intents and purposes.’

‘But they killed Zak.’

‘They knew him,’ Joe said. ‘Face, name, the lot. He was connected to the gang, loosely but even so when he appeared for the prosecution he knew he’d have to hide for the rest of his life. He would have been safe if he’d stayed in the programme.’ Joe leant forward, his palms on the table. ‘They don’t know you, not your name, not your face, you are not one of them.’

‘But some people do.’ She turned to make the tea. ‘The woman I was visiting, other mums in the area probably.’

‘No one’s saying anything,’ Joe said. ‘We got a result. Imagine the difference it makes to those women’s lives, to those families, not having Carlton and Millins terrifying the community. They stand to gain, everyone does. I give you my word, you’ll be all right.’

She passed him his drink. ‘I still get the panic attacks,’ Fiona said. ‘I was so hopeful, with the therapy and the drugs. I so wanted it to work. To be better.’

He nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’ He sipped his tea.

She imagined the talk sliding into pleasantries, chit-chat about jobs and holidays, and then him leaving. Maybe she should just let it be. But she had to know. ‘You never got in touch.’

‘No.’ He coloured and cleared his throat. ‘I… er…’ He sighed, placed his mug down, twisted it, lining the handle up just so. ‘I’ve been on leave.’

‘Oh?’

He met her gaze. ‘Stress,’ he said drily but there was a different look in his eyes, a wounded look. ‘Just started back.’

She scrabbled for something to say. ‘It’s very common.’

‘The job, it’s erm…’ He faltered, tapping his finger against the handle of the cup. ‘It got to me. But,’ he brightened his tone, ‘according to the occupational shrink I am fit for purpose.’

She was full of questions. Had it been the Danny Macateer case that had got to him or another? Had he been in hospital? Was he taking drugs for his trouble, too? But she sensed that it had cost him to tell her at all and that he was not comfortable talking about it. ‘Good,’ she managed.

‘I didn’t feel up to socializing.’ He wrinkled his nose.

‘Yes, of course.’ And now? ‘We are a pair,’ she joked. ‘Stressed and petrified.’

He smiled and the warmth of it turned her stomach. She drank some tea.

Then Owen and Molly were back wanting toasties and hot chocolate and Joe said he had to get back.

Fiona saw him to the door. There was a pressure tight in her chest, fluttering in her stomach. Don’t make a fool of yourself, she thought. He’s not interested. Can’t blame him. ‘Perhaps we could go for a drink, sometime,’ she said quickly.

‘I’d like that,’ he said.

Her heart skipped a beat and a glow suffused her cheeks.

‘I can’t say when,’ he apologized.

‘No, of course, you’ll be busy. But you’ll call?’ She heard the uncertainty in her tone. So what, she thought, that’s how it was, how she was.

‘I will.’ He put his hand out to reach hers, squeezed her wrist and she screamed in pain. Joe dropped her hand and reared back in alarm. ‘Fiona?’

‘It’s all right,’ she gasped, tears springing in her eyes. ‘Just my wrist. I burnt it on the iron.’

He blew out a breath. ‘Sorry.’ Nodded at her. ‘I’ll ring you. Promise.’

She nodded back, beaming, embarrassed at how touched she felt and how elated. Her nerves alight, dancing on tiptoe and her wrist stinging like hell.

Cheryl felt another contraction start, the dull cramp growing tighter as it built, a band around her belly and her back. She blew out, leaning forward and pressing the hot water bottle close.

Milo, with his Dalmatian doggy hot water bottle, mimicked her, frowning and hissing.

‘Look at him!’ Vinia laughed. ‘Still got belly ache, Milo?’ He nodded. Then as Cheryl’s contraction ebbed away, he turned back to the TV where Wallace and Gromit were after the Were-Rabbit.

‘Forty seconds.’ Vinia was timing her.

‘How long since the last?’

‘Four minutes. Should we call?’

‘When I had Milo it was like this for ages. If they get any longer, maybe then.’

Vinia went back to flicking through the free newspaper. Cheryl paced about the living room, her hands at the hollow of her back.

‘Hey, we could get a dog,’ Vinia said.

‘No way! Nutjob! With two kids-’

‘This one’s good with children. Listen.’ Vinia read it out: ‘Bess is a reliable and friendly dog with a lovely nature and is ready for rehoming-’

‘Oh!’ Cheryl winced and clutched the top of the sofa.

‘Another?’

Cheryl nodded; too busy riding the pain to say anything. It lasted longer, she was sure. It hurt more. ‘Call now,’ she said.

Babies didn’t pay attention to shifts, Fiona had learnt that way back when she’d first done her training. And with some labours she would carry on working after her shift had finished because the continuity mattered to her, to the mother, to a successful outcome. She anticipated tonight was shaping up like that. Cheryl Williamson was booked in under the domino scheme: she would spend the first stage of labour at home then transfer to hospital for the delivery and third stage and be discharged within hours if there were no complications. For someone like Cheryl, with another child at home, it meant less disruption and for the hospital it meant a bed freed up for a woman who might need more medical assistance.

The housemate, Vinia, opened the door. Fiona had met her once, wanting to make sure that Cheryl would have some support in the days after the birth. Fiona had been seeing Cheryl for the last two months, ever since she’d returned to her role working in the community. And, boy, was she glad to be back. The first few days had felt like a trial, a test. Was she tempting fate coming back here, was she trying to induce a panic attack? She had to prove to herself that what Joe had said was true: she was not a target and she would not let the fear define her. True, her world was a harsher place since the murder: the experience had left her raw – as if someone had peeled back a protective layer to expose her vulnerability, to expose everybody’s vulnerability. The sense of security she’d had before was gone forever. The death and then the trial had changed her, as they had so many others. There was no way back. Only forward.

She always thought of Danny Macateer when she drove past the recreation ground but these days there was no splintering of confidence or shortness of breath, just sadness, an ache that the boy had died. Sorrow soft inside.

‘How’s she doing?’ Fiona asked Vinia.

‘Fine but they’re speeding up. She’s upstairs now, needed the loo.’

They went up to Cheryl’s room. Milo was lying on the floor, flying a toy plane around with one hand.

‘Okay, mister,’ Vinia said. ‘Bedtime.’

Milo got to his feet, stared at Fiona.

‘Hello,’ she said, ‘remember me? That’s a lovely plane. You flying off to bed now?’

He nodded and Vinia took him out. Fiona put her bag down and Cheryl came in.

‘How are you?’ Fiona asked.

‘Okay.’

‘Any show?’

‘Yes. And the pains are getting closer.’

‘Okay,’ said Fiona. ‘You pop on the bed and I’ll do your temp and BP, then if that’s all right with you I’ll do an exam, see where you’re up to.’

‘Thanks. Ooh!’ Cheryl’s face changed, shutting down as she focused on a fresh contraction.

Fiona placed her hand on the top of Cheryl’s bump and timed the contraction. Cheryl grasped her other hand, squeezing it tight. The girl was breathing well, steadily, moaning softly.

‘That’s it,’ said Fiona, ‘that’s good. Eighty seconds.’ Substantial. ‘How long since the last one?’

‘Not long. Three minutes?’ Cheryl said.

Fiona handed her a thermometer and asked her to place it under her arm, then she checked her blood pressure. Both were fine.

‘We’ll have a listen to the baby.’ She got out her sonic aid and placed it low on Cheryl’s abdomen. The baby had been fully engaged for the last three weeks so Fiona was pretty sure where she’d find the heartbeat. The whooshing of the womb and the galloping sound of the heartbeat echoed in the room.

Cheryl smiled. ‘So fast,’ she said.

Fiona nodded. ‘Your waters haven’t gone?’

‘No.’

‘Great. Can you lie back for me?’ Fiona put on her apron and snapped on the thin gloves. She used some gel to lubricate her fingers then bent to examine Cheryl. With a little spike of surprise she realized that the rim of the cervix was thin, almost fully effaced, and as she gently spread her fingers she estimated it was about nine centimetres dilated. It wouldn’t be long till second stage. ‘Nine centimetres,’ she told Cheryl. ‘We should take you in straight away. Is Vinia staying here with Milo?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Jeri?’

‘He should be here any time, he got the train.’

‘You might want to tell him to go straight to St Mary’s.’

‘Ooh!’ Cheryl bent over, another contraction sweeping through her, her fist balled on her knees, face contorted.

‘Breathe through it, that’s good.’

When the pain left Cheryl said she needed to wee again and Fiona gave her a stick to use so she could check her urine. Fiona texted Owen telling him she would be late home and asking him to make sure Ziggy got a walk.

She was about to ring Despatch for the ambulance car when Cheryl called out from the bathroom. Fiona went to her. Cheryl was standing clinging to the wash basin, the spatter of liquid pooling at her feet. ‘It’s my waters,’ she said. ‘I think the baby’s coming. Aah!’ She gasped and her legs trembled.

‘Okay, darling,’ Fiona said, ‘just breathe, that’s lovely. You’re doing really well. I’m just going to have a look.’

Fiona got to her knees and lifted Cheryl’s nightdress: what she saw confirmed every instinct. ‘Okay, the baby’s in a hurry so we’ll stay here. I’ve some things in the car, I’ll bring those. We’ll be fine.’

Vinia came out on to the landing. ‘Cheryl?’

‘Can you find some spare sheets and towels, the older the better,’ Fiona asked her.

‘She having the baby here?’ Vinia looked appalled.

‘Yep. Just wait with her while I fetch my things.’

Fiona called one of the other midwives on the rota and asked her to come, then set about preparing for the delivery. Vinia helped her cover the floor and the bed with plastic sheeting then old sheets and covers. She checked the room temperature and Vinia organized the baby things, pulling them out of the bag Cheryl had packed for the hospital.

Cheryl stood swaying, holding on to the footboard of the bed. ‘I want to push,’ she said. She began to moan: long, deep sounds.

‘Just let it come, Cheryl, try and open up, try and relax, good girl.’

Fiona turned to Vinia. ‘Rub her back, low down.’

Three more contractions and the head was crowning. Cheryl was crying, tears dripping down her face. ‘Good girl,’ Fiona reassured her, ‘you’re doing brilliantly, really good. Won’t be long now and the baby’ll be here. Have you got any names?’

Cheryl sniffed. ‘Dora for a girl, after my nana. I think it’s a girl.’ Then she wailed again. ‘It’s coming,’ she screamed. ‘It hurts!’

Fiona stroked her shoulders; let her settle instinctively on all fours on the floor. It was a great position for delivery but awkward for the midwife who had to hunker down behind and monitor what was going on. The room was cramped with the three of them there but she’d just have to deal with it.

‘That’s it, push now, Cheryl, long and steady, keep going, keep going, that’s great, that’s lovely.’ Fiona could see the cap of dark hair, the ball of the baby’s skull, see it straining to emerge. She asked Cheryl to wait, telling her to pant. This would allow the perineum to stretch and she’d be less likely to tear. When the next contraction came she let her push again, urging her on, and saw, with pleasure and relief, the head crown.

‘The head’s out, Cheryl. Well done.’ Fiona watched the head rotate, the natural preparation for the birth of the shoulders.

The door bell rang, it would be the second midwife, and Vinia went to let her in. It was customary to have two of them at the birth. If there were any problems one could tend to the mother and the other to the child.

Cheryl began to groan again and Fiona instructed her, ‘Push nice and steady, that’s good. You’re doing really well. Keep going.’

Cheryl yelled and bore down. She felt the pressure between her legs, the shocking sensation of the baby, bone and muscle, forcing her way out. The tearing pain that made her scream and then Jeri was there, coming in with Vinia, his face wide with apprehension and fear flashing his eyes.

‘Aw, Cheryl baby.’ He knelt before her.

‘She’s coming,’ Cheryl panted. ‘Oh, Nana, help me.’

‘Aw, man,’ said Jeri.

Cheryl rocked back slightly, grunting, and put her arms around Jeri’s neck. ‘It hurts,’ she cried.

‘Okay, babe,’ he whispered to her, ‘it’s cool, all cool. You’re good.’

Cheryl yelped. Another rippling pain.

‘Push this time,’ Fiona said, ‘good and strong, hard as you can.’

Cheryl locked her arms tight round Jeri’s neck and burrowed her face into his shoulder, strained and keened, the solid weight of the baby splitting her open. She would tear apart, she would die from this.

‘Good girl, keep going, baby’s coming, keep pushing, good girl,’ Fiona said.

Then with a shocking rush the baby came, slithered out in a stream of fluid and blood and mucus.

‘Baby’s here, well done, good girl.’ Fiona helped Cheryl turn, undid the buttons on her nightdress and placed the baby on her chest. Covered the baby with a thick towel.

Cheryl looked down at the fine sweet face, the damp, black hair, looked into the dark eyes, pools of ink, shining bright. ‘Hello, my little one, hiya. Hiya.’ She kissed the baby’s head and each eye, its nose, breathed in the strange smell: like toast and brine.

Cheryl lifted the towel and looked at the baby, tiny limbs, the knees still bent up, and between them a penis, a little spiralled shell. ‘A boy,’ she said to Jeri.

Jeri’s eyes were soft, tears on his lashes. ‘He’s perfect,’ he said. He grabbed Cheryl’s hand and kissed it. ‘Oh, baby. Oh, man. Blow me away.’

‘Would you like to cut the cord in a minute?’ Fiona asked him.

He nodded.

Vinia was sitting in the bed now, shaking her head. ‘Man, I am not ever going there. I’m going to tie my knees together. You tell me I so much as look at a man.’

Cheryl laughed.

Jeri used the special scissors to cut through the twisting rope then Fiona attached the clip.

‘I brought this.’ Jeri held up a silver fifty pence piece. ‘My mum said I have to give the baby silver, keep it safe.’

‘Go on then,’ Cheryl told him. He placed the coin in the little fist and the baby waved its hand.

‘He’s holding it, look at that,’ Jeri crowed.

‘There are lots of traditions with silver,’ Fiona told them. ‘And some of the Jamaican families used to bury the placenta or the cord and plant a tree.’

‘Nana told me that when I had Milo,’ Cheryl said. ‘I didn’t fancy nothing like that in the garden but we took some of his hair and put that in one of the tubs.’

Fiona asked Jeri to hold the baby while she helped Cheryl deliver the placenta.

‘There’s more!’ Vinia groaned. ‘Lord have mercy.’ Then the bell went and she escaped downstairs. This time it was the other midwife.

The contractions for the placenta hurt just as bad as the ones for the baby but Cheryl knew getting it out would be easier. When she was done and cleaned up, no stitches even, Jeri handed the baby back and Cheryl put him to her nipple. The baby latched on and sucked.

‘Been here before,’ Fiona smiled. ‘So, if it’s not Dora what will you call him?’

They’d not agreed any boy’s names; she’d been so sure she was having a girl. She looked at the baby, its eyes steady on her face as it suckled. ‘Daniel,’ she said. Jeri looked at her, head tilted, questioning. It was right, she knew. It just felt so right. ‘Daniel,’ she said again. Then to Jeri, ‘You can pick a middle name.’

Jeri nodded, moved closer, stroked the baby’s head with his fingers.

‘That’s a lovely name,’ Fiona said.

It was dark when Fiona finally left. She was shattered, her eyes gritty and sore, her back stiff. She’d shared sandwiches and tea with them and they’d christened Daniel with a tot of rum. Now she needed her bed.

There was a full fat moon silvering the roofs and the parked cars and the trees at the end of the street. Fiona put all her bags in the boot and started the car. She drove to the recreation ground and parked there. She got out and stood by the car. There was barely any traffic across on the main road. The night was cool but not cold. It was almost May. She looked across the grass and thought of the boy who had died there, of delivering the twins, Danny and Nadine, so many years ago, and of tonight’s birth. The tiny infant who shared his name. She closed her eyes and remembered: his large boy’s hands, the smell of spearmint on his breath, his gaze, the brown eyes, tawny, reflecting her silhouette and the blue sky beyond her. A rim of gold edged each iris. The bloom of love. The sky in his eyes.

She looked up at the moon, caught the flash of a silhouette. Thought for a moment they were bats. Then saw: the spinning, swooping dives, the scissoring of wings, arcing across the moon. Her heart soared, a pinwheel of joy. The swifts were back.