Witness - [11]

‘Yes.’

‘Sign my name as well.’

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

‘No. Leave them where he fell.’

‘Yes.’

‘God love you, child.’

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

‘I’ll come,’ Vinia said.

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

‘I can’t go home.’

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

‘Okay.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Did you know him?’

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

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

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

‘Yeah.’

The woman straightened up, gave them another smile.

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

CHAPTER SIX

Fiona

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was all right that first day back. More or less. She accepted the words of sympathy, the shared outrage of her colleagues, with a nod and a shake of her head.