Witness - [66]

‘What about the gun, what sort was that?’

‘No idea.’

‘Any detail at all, colour, size?’

‘I couldn’t see, really, not at that distance.’

‘So it might not have been a gun?’

Was she serious? ‘He shot it, he shot the lad.’

‘You assumed that from what you saw-’

‘More than an assumption,’ Mike argued. ‘He had his arm up like this and then the lad was hit, fell down, that’s common sense, that’s not an assumption.’

‘I beg to differ,’ she said stiffly. ‘Did you make other assumptions too?’

‘Like what?’ Mike was getting ratty, all this nit-picking.

‘You couldn’t see the man’s face but you assumed he was black.’

Mike bridled. ‘No way. I could see his face – just not clearly. And he was black. I could see his arms too, and his legs. They were black an’ all, they matched.’ Someone began to giggle and the judge raised his head and looked daggers. ‘I didn’t need to assume anything,’ Mike went on. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make out his face, I wish I had but that’s how it is.’ He didn’t think she liked his answer, she went all pinched mouth then handed him over to the other defence bloke.

He had only one question for Mike. ‘Did you see the driver of the car?’

‘No,’ said Mike.

And that was it.

Mike had the rest of the day to kill. Vicky would be suspicious if he got in early. He was ravenous and found a little cafe off Deansgate that served all day breakfast for £3.99. He got that – no mushrooms – and a cup of tea to wash it down. As he ate he considered the morning. In one way it had been an anticlimax, like Mike was just one in a long line of people saying their ten penn’orth and the exciting bit would be at the end when the verdict came in. And Mike’s contribution hadn’t amounted to much. He hoped to God they had someone who was there and could describe the men, both of them, someone more reliable than yesterday’s witness who sounded like she was in it for a fast buck. It wouldn’t have gone to trial if they hadn’t got enough evidence, surely?

It was hard to know what the jury had thought but he hoped they’d be able to tell that Mike was being straight in spite of the way the defence woman had rubbished what he’d said.

It was nearly one o’clock. Three hours till he could get the tram. He’d do a bit of window shopping. He was thinking of getting a bike for work, cost a bit upfront but he’d save on the fares and cycling an hour a day would keep him in shape. Day like today, fair and bright, nothing better. Different story on a dark winter’s morning in the pissing rain. Still, others managed: waterproof clothes and the lot. Mike was disheartened when he saw the cost of bikes. He could go for something bottom of the range but would it take the welly?

Wandering round the Arndale Mike realized that the reason it felt like a let-down was that he’d no one to share it with. No one waiting for him after it was done to pat him on the back. Couldn’t sit with someone and pick it over, brag about the bits when he’d got the upper hand, complain about the things the woman said. Then he felt guilty for thinking like that – it wasn’t about him, was it? It was about a lad being murdered and trying to get justice. Mike’d go through the rest of his life carrying this secret. Just like the other one. One at each side, like scales. Or maybe not. It didn’t work like that; the good didn’t balance the bad. What he’d done today made no odds to Stuart’s family, couldn’t change what had happened back then: the child coming home from school, humiliated again, going to his room, changing his clothes, not able to face another day, another hour. Tying the knot and slipping the home-made noose round his neck. Mike groaned. There was no penance would right that wrong, remove his guilt. You were a child, Vicky had said. But that wasn’t enough of an excuse. All he could do was be a better man, a good man.

Mike browsed the music shops up on Oldham Street. Drew up lists in his head of what he’d get when he could afford it. Jan downloaded stuff and had an MP3 player on his phone. Mike told him all about the Manchester Greats: bands he had to listen to, Joy Division, The Smiths and Happy Mondays. The music still as powerful as it had been all those years ago.

Finally it was home time.

Vicky was waiting for him, face like frost, when he got in. ‘Where’ve you been?’

Mike’s pulse went stratospheric. How the hell did she know?

‘Work,’ he managed.

Vicky shook her head, a sneer twisting her lip. ‘Good wedding, was it? Anyone I know?’

What the fuck?

Vicky pressed the answer machine. An accented voice, male: Mike, it’s Jan. Your phone’s off. Theyoffer overtime tomorrow, extra four hours, thoughtyou like to stay on. Hope wedding was good. Bye.

Mike’s brain was scrambled; he studied the carpet, helpless.

‘Well?’

Hole in the ground. And he was in it, right down the bottom. There was a noise from the kitchen, Megan ran in, grabbed her doll’s pram and dragged it after her back outside.

‘You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?’

‘What!’ She was off her head. He felt a laugh blistering inside him but knew he had to be very careful. ‘You know I’m not, I’d never.’