Witness - [39]

While Milo listened to Each Peach Pear Plum at Storytime, Cheryl looked up the number on the library computer again. Nana was at the hospital seeing one of the doctors there. She didn’t want an audience, thank you very much.

Home again, Cheryl rang the number, her head buzzy and a knot in her belly. When she spoke her voice sounded weird, like it didn’t belong to her. ‘I know who shot Danny Macateer,’ she said, ‘but if they find out I’ve told anyone they’ll kill me.’

She was standing in the front room, at the window, gazing through the net curtains. Nana had the winter ones up, thick, lace effect, a flower design. Cheryl watched a woman walk past carrying shopping, looking worn out.

The man, his name was Joe, told her they would protect her identity.

‘I can’t move away,’ she said, ‘I’ve got family.’

‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘No one in the area will ever know that you helped us. You will be an anonymous witness; no one will know who you are.’ He thanked her for coming forward, said he understood how difficult that must have been. But how important it was. ‘We will need you to come in and make a full statement,’ he said. He told her where the police station was and said she could choose a time to suit her.

‘This afternoon,’ Cheryl said. She’d go crazy if she had to wait overnight. She had someone coming for nails at one. ‘About three. I’ve got a little boy; I’ll have to bring him with me.’

‘No problem,’ said Joe. ‘Take my mobile number. It’s always on, you can get me wherever I am.’ He read it out. Then, ‘Can I take your name?’

Cheryl felt a chill inside, a giddy feeling, like she might fall over. ‘Do you have to?’ Couldn’t she be anonymous to him, too?

‘I will need it for your evidence but it won’t be shared with anyone else. I guarantee that.’

He waited.

Cheryl looked back into the room: at the mantelpiece with Nana’s fancy gold-coloured clock, her own school photos on the wall, the embroidered mats on the back of the sofa that Milo always pulled off. Within her the fear that if she told him her name there would be no going back. That the room and everything else in her life might be lost.

She pressed her lips tight together, heard her breath shudder. Then the sound of the man’s breath at the other end of the line. She thought of Danny singing his song and the way her legs had weakened when she heard the firework. She thought of Milo. Imagined him not coming home one night. Imagined him growing up without the gangs at his heels. ‘Cheryl,’ she said. ‘Cheryl Williamson.’

Cheryl didn’t know which bus would take her to the police station, or if they even ran on time. So she decided to walk. She guessed it would take about half an hour. She fed Milo early and changed his nappy, got his bag sorted and some juice to take. He had his nap while she did a French manicure and pedicure for a friend of Vinia’s. The girl paid Cheryl and gave her a couple of quid tip, which was cool.

Cheryl was just going to get Milo up when there was a knock at the door. She thought perhaps Vinia’s friend had forgotten something. A man and a woman stood there. In suits. Her first thought was Jehovah’s Witnesses but they weren’t smiling so they couldn’t have been selling anything.

The woman stared at her. ‘Cheryl Williamson?’

They knew her name! Cheryl felt her stomach drop. Were they from the police? Had Joe sent them? Was it a trap?

‘We’re from the Department for Work and Pensions. Can we come in a moment?’ The woman wore dark lipstick, purple, too severe for her face. The man was young and fat with baby blue eyes; he carried a file.

‘I’m just going out,’ Cheryl said.

‘That’ll have to wait,’ the woman told her.

Cheryl let them in; she didn’t know what else to do. Perhaps if they were quick she’d still make her appointment. ‘What’s it all about?’ Cheryl tried to keep the apprehension from her voice. Maybe it would be some scheme they wanted her to go on, access into work or something. But who’d look after Milo? And she’d miss him; he was only a baby really.

‘You claim Income Support,’ the woman said, ‘we have copies of your files here. Your benefit is means tested and you have a duty to report any change in circumstances, including any additional income.’

The man patted the file with one dimpled hand. Cheryl felt her face grow warm.

‘You declare that you have no income from employment but that isn’t true, is it, Miss Williamson? You are running a business from home.’

Running a business! Cheryl nearly laughed but knew that would be a stupid thing to do. ‘No, I’m not,’ she said. ‘What business?’

‘You’re denying it?’ The woman motioned to the man and he opened the file and passed her a piece of paper. She had a fancy pen and wrote something down. ‘A nail salon,’ she said with an edge and made a point of looking over at the trolley in the corner where Cheryl’s polishes and creams, glue and false nails and tools were all kept in plastic containers. See-through containers. ‘Benefit fraud is an extremely serious offence.’

Fraud! How did they know? Had someone shopped her? She felt grubby; they thought she was a scrounger, milking the system, making a mint. It had never been like that, she just tried to help out a bit so they could cover the bills, get things fixed when they broke. Twenty quid here and there. She kept looking down. ‘I’m going to be really late,’ she said. ‘Can I do this tomorrow?’