Witness - [23]

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

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

‘Phone,’ the first guy commanded.

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

‘His mam,’ jeered the Asian lad.

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

‘She’s in hospital. A big operation.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART TWO I Heard it Through the Grapevine

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Fiona

It was the middle of autumn before Fiona saw the cognitive behaviour therapist. In the intervening weeks she experienced two full-blown panic attacks. The first was in the post office of all places.

She had assumed the sickening terror was linked to Danny’s death, the area it happened and by extension the car where the fear had first consumed her. So walking to the post office to pay her car tax hadn’t worried her in the slightest.

The post office wasn’t even noisy. But it was crowded and hot and cramped. A line of people snaked zigzag style in the cordoned-off aisles. There were two counters working but one clerk seemed to be stuck weighing a mountain of small packets for a customer. No one spoke and the air was tight with impatience. Fiona tried not to breathe in the stale smell coming off the elderly man in front of her. She could see the grime on the collar of his coat and the flakes of dandruff dotted through his hair. The woman behind her wore industrial-strength perfume which was even worse than the musty man smell.

Fiona felt herself gag. She cleared her throat then felt the ground tilt away, thick sweat broke along her hairline, on her scalp, under her arms. The fear came rolling like a wave, unstoppable, all-powerful, climbing her torso, robbing her of breath, of sense. She thought she would wet herself.