Witness (24 page)

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?’