Witness - [27]

A month after the Crimewatch appeal, and Vicky had taken on more clients. Mike now walked Megan to school and picked her up, while Vicky drove Kieran in. She’d got extra work from two residential care homes for the elderly. The Perms, she called them. They all wanted the same hair. ‘Will we be the same?’ she asked Mike one Saturday teatime as she got back. ‘Well, you’ll be bald, but will I suddenly want to look like my grandma?’

‘Bald?’

‘Thinning on top, now.’ She nodded at his head. ‘Ten years be nothing left.’

‘You going off me?’

‘Never.’

‘Prove it,’ he said.

‘Now? The kids are in the garden.’

‘A quickie?’

She rolled her eyes but the smile breaking on her face gave him his answer.

It was on the local news, after the national headlines. A reward had been offered for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Danny Macateer’s killers. Vicky turned to watch on her way out of the room with the dustpan and brush. Mike saw the tension grip her shoulders, saw her lift her chin. But she said nothing. He thought of the shooter, the man he’d seen raising the gun. Was he watching this? Did it make him feel big? Was he sure he could keep people quiet, confident no one would dare speak out and he’d get away with it, or was there that little bit of him waiting for a knock on his door?

He didn’t deserve to get away with it. Scum like that. Whatever Vicky thought, if the police caught him then Mike would be there like a shot. Swearing on the Bible, saying his piece. Doing all he could to help put the guy inside for life.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Cheryl

Nana hadn’t been feeling too good. She took herself off to the doctor’s and when she came back she told Cheryl that they were sending her for tests.

Cheryl felt something twist inside her. ‘What kind of tests?’

‘I don’t know, I ain’t no doctor. They just want to check all is as it should be. I’s not getting any younger.’ Nana was folding and unfolding a tea-towel. Cheryl wanted to grab her hands, stop her.

‘I could come with you,’ Cheryl offered, feeling clumsy, not sure how to be.

Nana sucked her teeth and told her she could manage just fine, fine and dandy. ‘Could be weeks, they said, for the appointment.’

Milo fell over, stumbled backwards and bumped his head on the corner of the couch. All cushioned there – so he was fussing more than hurt. Cheryl scooped him up, kissed his cheeks. ‘Hi, Nana, say hi!’ she coached him, swinging him towards Nana.

Nana clapped her hands. ‘Here’s Milo.’ She stroked the child’s face. ‘It’s still dry,’ she said to Cheryl. ‘You taking him out?’

‘Storytime at the library then maybe the park.’

‘Good. Get some bread on the way back.’

‘And milk?’

‘Yes.’ Nana went to her bag.

‘I’ve got some,’ Cheryl said. ‘My benefit’s in.’

Nana nodded, took a coin from her bag anyway, gave it to her. ‘Get him an ice-cream or something.’

Cheryl sat with Milo and half a dozen other mums and toddlers on the carpet in the children’s section. The librarian, Maeve, made the story come alive, even for the littlest ones who were more inclined to crawl away or try to eat the books. She pointed out the details in the big picture book, repeated the simple sentences and encouraged any and all contributions from the children. Each week she finished with some action rhymes which the mothers could repeat at home: ‘Pat-a-Cake’, ‘Incy Wincy Spider’, ‘Five Little Speckled Frogs’ and ‘The Wheels on the Bus’.

Milo crooned along, shouting loudly the words at the end of each line.

When the session was over, Cheryl hung around until the rest had gone then asked Maeve if she could book on to one of the computers. Maeve scanned her card, put her on terminal two and told her to yell if she needed any help. Cheryl picked out a couple of board books for Milo, nothing he could rip up, and settled him at her feet.

She launched the browser then glanced about: someone else on a computer further along, a couple of people scanning the fiction section and three students working at the tables. No one near enough to see.

Cheryl typed in the search bar and hit enter. She felt the skin on her arms tighten and her stomach shrink as the results appeared. Sitting up straighter she clicked the link to the Greater Manchester Police website. Danny’s name was there on the right under Featured Appeals.

Weeks had turned into months and Cheryl had waited for things to change. For the raw, tarnished feeling she had, like she’d done something awful, to evaporate but it remained. It took the shine off everything. It made her throat ache, like she wanted to cry and couldn’t. It had taken her long enough to accept it was because of Danny, because she had no guts, no honour, she was just like everyone else, weak and useless. There were times she hated Nana for her certainty and her principles and her preaching. Knowing she couldn’t match up, came nowhere close.

Cheryl swallowed, she pressed her knees together and followed the link. There was Danny’s picture, the same one that had hung over his coffin at the memorial service. Cheryl read the text.

Sixteen-year-old Danny Macateer should have been starting his A-level studies this September but on Sunday 20 June Danny was shot once in the chest as he crossed the recreation ground by Booth Street in Hulme. He was taken to hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival.