Witness - [38]

.

‘He wants me to go down to Bristol next weekend.’

‘You go, girl.’

Cheryl hummed. ‘I’d have to leave Milo, two nights. Nana’d be wiped out. One’s enough.’

‘She can nap in the day,’ Vinia pointed out. ‘You not interested,’ she joked, ‘move over and make room, honey. I’ll get me some.’

Cheryl was unsure, uneasy about going. Not just on Nana’s account neither. She liked Jeri, she liked him so much, but sometimes she wondered why he bothered with her. She’d gone over to Liverpool one time, when he was working, spent the night in a smart hotel and he’d come to Manchester again, a rare Saturday night off when he’d met Milo and Nana.

Nana had gone into holy-roller mode, quizzing Jeri about his folks and his church and all. He was polite with her but didn’t pretend to be religious and Nana made it clear that he was a great disappointment in that regard. She seemed to think his work as a DJ was akin to some loser on a boom box in a shebeen, even when Cheryl explained that Jeri was playing in proper clubs and on the radio and not some illegal drinking den. ‘Got bookings all over, Nana, Ibiza, Japan even. He pays tax. It’s a really good job.’

When Jeri came to Manchester they stayed at the Hilton on Deansgate. Cheryl knew Jeri wanted to impress her and he did. It was expensive, even for someone like him who was used to hotels. She loved it. The bed big as a boat, the yards of carpeting, the thick white bath towels. They ate in the restaurant there that evening, views looking right out over the city. She felt ignorant and clumsy at first, seeing the formal tableware, the bright expression of their waiter in his fancy apron. But Jeri put her at ease, had the same easy friendly manner with everyone, not stuck up. He told her he’d once been a waiter, knew what it was like to get snobby customers, the sort that liked to make you feel small, like they were better than you. She imagined Carlton there in the restaurant, how it would all be about face and impression, scoring points. Every interaction a power play.

When Jeri talked about his music, his face came alive, bright with excitement. ‘Still can’t believe how lucky I am,’ he said. ‘Started out at school, playing on borrowed decks, got to do a couple of music festivals, promoter caught me, liked what he saw and next thing he’s got me a spot in Monte Carlo. Kid off a shit estate up there spinning tunes and they’re all going for it – fat cats and the yachting brigade – chanting my name!’

‘Yachting?’ Cheryl laughed. ‘But you still live in Bristol?’

‘Love it. Moved house though – like a shot. You come down; I’ll give you the tour.’

She smiled. ‘Rags to riches.’

‘Summat like that,’ he grinned back at her.

They’d gone back to their room and got to know each other real well in that wide bed. Jeri laughed when he came, Cheryl cried when she did. And that was just fine.

She was falling for him deep and that was scary, she didn’t see how it could work, him jetting here and there, a big name on the dance scene, and her stuck in Hulme on benefits with Nana and Milo.

Bristol was a step too far too soon. Going there would show she was committed and surely it wouldn’t be long after that, knowing he had won her, that Jeri would cool and turn, moving on to the next girl who caught his eye.

Cheryl finished painting Vinia’s sunsets and made a cup of tea. The milk had run out so she left Vinia blowing at her nails and went along to Sid’s for some.

It was a foggy night; she could smell yeast on the air from the lager plant up on Princess Road. The fog hung in shreds round the street lights and distorted and muffled the sounds: traffic from the main road, footsteps and the cough of a car engine that wouldn’t start.

Cheryl bought cigs and some Murray Mints for Nana. She was 2p short but Sid let her off.

‘I’ll bring it next time,’ she promised. She knew he sent money home to Pakistan.

‘Don’t be daft,’ he told her, ‘it’s only pennies.’

Sid was there from seven thirty in the morning till eleven at night, seven days a week. Cheryl wondered how he stood it – the boredom – even with his telly tuned to some Urdu station.

Cheryl had just left the shop, opening the packet to have a smoke on the way home, when the shot rang out. Jesus! Deafening. A boom that she felt through the soles of her feet, in her teeth. She ducked, instinctively, and ran back into the shop. ‘Oh, God! Oh, no!’ Her heart thundering in her chest, her muscles spasming with fear.

‘Hey!’ Sid was all concern.

‘They’re shooting!’ she shouted. Dread burning in her blood: guns blazing, someone getting killed.

‘No – listen.’

She did, heard a cracking sound, then a droning whistle.

‘Fireworks,’ he said. ‘The big one was a mortar.’

She felt like weeping.

‘It’s against the law to sell them at this time of year,’ Sid said.

‘It’s against the law to shoot people too,’ she snapped, cross suddenly, fed up with it. ‘That doesn’t stop ’em.’

Sid laughed and Cheryl started too, wiping her face and sniffing, still trembling.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked her.

‘Yeah.’ Just scared. Always scared. This was how it would be, she thought, on forever. Like Sid in his shop, day after day, year in year out. Suffocating. Waiting for the next time, the next crack of gunfire, the next death, and the one after that. A whole life holding her breath.