Witness (14 page)
Authors: Cath Staincliffe
Zak
S
oon as he asked for witness protection the atmosphere shifted. They put him back in the cells for an hour or so and then he was shown into a room with a couple of new faces. Plainclothes cops. Little and Large, Zak thought. Little smiled a lot but it was the sort of grin a wolf might have before it attacks. Large never smiled, he looked dead depressed, his mouth turned down, shoulders curled over. He had braces on his teeth. Zak thought he was a bit old for that; most people had ’em done when they were teenagers. But maybe the guy had been in a car crash or a fight or something and the braces were to help repair the damage.
Little and Large went at it for hours: going over what Zak had seen again and again, butting in and trying to trip him up. Almost like they didn’t believe him, thought he was making it up to get off the burglary charge.
They videoed him the whole time. Whenever he asked anything, about Bess, or if they were going to give him protection, they ignored him. Said they needed a full and complete statement first.
‘I’m not going to court without,’ Zak told them. ‘They’ll kill me, they know me. You got to sort me out, new identity, the lot, me and Bess and me mam.’
‘We do this first.’ Little showed his teeth.
Finally they let him have a break and he got given a chicken tikka sandwich and a bag of crisps and a Sprite. Even let him out for a smoke. He wished he had something stronger to take the edge off. He hated being in the cell, locked in. Brought back those sick feelings. Glimpses of memories he didn’t want at the side of his head like glitches on a screen.
He remembered the fly on his face, buzzing by his nose. Buzzing in his head too so he couldn’t think. Everything fuzzy and fizzy. But he wasn’t cold any more. Hot then, lovely and hot. Even with his eyes shut he could feel the line of sunlight, feel the weight of heat pressing him down, heavy as sand. Then the commotion, voices, banging.
Little and Large talked to him again and then they were writing it all out. They wanted him to read it, sign it. ‘It’ll be okay,’ he shrugged.
‘You can’t read,’ Large said like he’d known it all along. ‘I’ll read it, then you sign.’
It sounded dead weird; nothing that wasn’t true but not put the way Zak would put it. He wrote his name on the bottom. He was left-handed and he couldn’t help but smudge the letters.
Large looked at Little. ‘Could do a video statement?’
Zak groaned. ‘Not more.’
‘We edit what we’ve already got, play that in court instead of the prosecution taking you through this.’ He put his hand on the paper statement.
‘Haven’t said I’ll testify yet,’ Zak said. ‘Need some guarantees I’ll be safe.’
‘We’re looking into it,’ Large told him. ‘It’s not a soft option. If we go ahead, accept you on the programme, you’ll be relocated, you’ll lose everyone: friends, family—’
‘I’m not going on my own,’ Zak argued. ‘My mam?’
‘It’s possible. Even so, big strain for both of you. And if you break your cover, make a call, let something slip, do something stupid, then we can’t protect you. All bets are off.’
Little took over. ‘Also, we’d need you to be rock solid for the trial, stand by your evidence.’
‘I will, course I will,’ Zak promised.
He wondered where they’d send them. If it’d be abroad. Spain maybe. He could work in a bar and it’d be warm all the time and his mam’d maybe work there too, or at a restaurant and Bess’d get the leftovers. People’d be on holiday and give good tips ’cos they were having a good time and soon they’d have their own restaurant and pay other people to work and that. But maybe Bess wouldn’t be allowed in Spain ’cos of rabies. So somewhere else. Cornwall? Midge had been down there, he said it was like another country, well chilled and full of surfers and old hippies and that.
It was really, really late when Little and Large came back the next time. They didn’t have him brought up to an interview room but talked in his cell. Zak was climbing the walls by now, his skin all twitchy like insects were crawling over him and the room shrinking in on him.
‘You’ve not been completely straight with us,’ Little said, sitting next to him on the bench. Large leant against the door.
‘I have,’ Zak retorted. ‘It’s all true, all happened like I said.’
‘Your mother, you claim to have lost touch?’
Zak’s belly ached. ‘We did.’
‘When was that?’ Little asked him.
Zak shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ He just wanted to see her.
‘Fifteen years,’ Large said, ‘you were seven years old. You were taken into care. Remember that?’
Zak began to shake, jittery inside.
‘We’ve seen the files,’ Large said. ‘Your mother went down for child cruelty and neglect. She got a five-year sentence.’
A flash: his skin hot and dry, quivering, the volley of blows. Flayed until he could barely crawl. ‘It’s not true,’ Zak shouted. He’d been bad, that was all. He’d be good now, she’d see.
‘Eleven different fractures, ruptured spleen, malnourished, dehydrated. She kept you chained in a shed.’
Scattered sensations, the bite of metal cold on his ankle, the taste of iron in his mouth, licking his palms for the salt, the crumbs of rubber on his tongue, trying to grind them smaller. ‘It was a car crash,’ he shouted.
‘A car crash that lasted seven years? That what she told you to say?’ Large asked him. ‘You were starving; you’d chewed up the lino. You were covered in your own filth. You looked like a famine victim. The social workers recommended that there be no further contact. She showed no sign of remorse.’
Zak had his hands over his ears, he wouldn’t listen to them.
‘She nearly killed you,’ Little said. ‘Why on earth – this, running off into the sunset, it ain’t going to happen, Zak. Even if we could trace her, why the hell would you want to?’
Zak started crying, he couldn’t help it. Little shuffled about a bit then got up and said they’d be back in a while.
He must have nodded off because next thing someone was shaking his shoulder and it was Large saying, ‘Come on, lad, we’re shipping you out.’
‘Where to?’
‘Hull.’
‘Hull? Where’s Hull?’ Zak knew nothing about the place but the name. He’d a feeling it wasn’t Cornwall.
‘North-east.’ Little flashed his teeth.
‘Newcastle?’ Zak sat up, swung his legs off the bench, in a daze.
‘Down a bit. It’s going to be home from now on,’ Little said.
‘Can I get my stuff?’ Zak asked; his sleeping bag was in the underground car park, his other bits.
Large shook his head, looked glum. ‘No souvenirs, no goodbyes, no forwarding address. Clean slate. Welcome to witness protection.’
‘What about Bess?’ Zak began to panic, shaking. ‘I’m not going without her.’
Large nodded. ‘She’s coming.’
That was cool then. He got to his feet. ‘Will I have to change my name?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Large nodded. ‘New name, new history, flat, job, whole kit and caboodle.’
‘And Bess?’
‘I said she’s coming,’ Large said.
‘No,’ said Zak, ‘will she have to change her name an’ all?’
Mike
‘
S
he won’t wear it,’ Mike had told Joe. Mike had been to sign on and Joe was out of the office, as he put it, so they’d met up at a cafe near the Jobcentre. ‘I told her everything like you said, about the crash and the panic alarm, but she won’t budge. She hasn’t just put her foot down,’ he said bitterly, ‘she’s nailed it to the floor.’
‘And if you go ahead?’ Joe asked.
‘I lose them, she kicks me out.’ Mike couldn’t imagine it: going home to some bedsit, no Vicky beside him, no kids making a racket. Just himself, the ultimate loser, no job, no family. ‘You’ve got other witnesses?’ He couldn’t look at Joe, the shame heavy in him, a plea in his voice.
‘We need you, Mike.’ Joe had spoken simply: no theatrics, just facts.
‘How can I?’ Mike swung his head to look out of the window: a gang of kids had chalks, were scribbling on the flagstones. There was a CD on in the cafe, Coldplay, the third album
X&Y
, not their best, Mike reckoned, but this particular track a masterpiece, though not the soundtrack Mike wanted to his craven betrayal. Chris Martin’s voice, pure as water, intimate as they come, singing ‘Fix You’. Not this, mate, Mike thought, no fixing this.
‘I’m not sure we could take you on but would you reconsider the witness protection programme? If we go that route,’ Joe added, ‘someone else takes the reins. I’d have nothing more to do with you. Minimum number of people involved, all very secretive – understandably.’
Mike shook his head. ‘My boy …’ Let alone Vicky. No way would she give up hearth and home and family to be shunted off somewhere like criminals.
Joe sighed, turned his coffee cup round, lining up the handle. ‘Retraction isn’t an option.’
‘Say again?’
‘When you signed your statement, you were giving your consent to give evidence if required. You were told that at the time.’
‘And if I won’t?’ Mike demanded.
‘You’d get a witness summons, if you failed to attend you could be held in contempt of court, arrested, fined, even imprisoned.’
‘What! You wouldn’t do that!’
‘It wouldn’t be up to me,’ Joe said. ‘I wouldn’t have any say. Be down to the judge.’
‘And they’d really do that?’ The guy was telling him that if he didn’t sacrifice his family, he’d end up in prison.
‘Oh, yes. This is a very serious matter. Prosecution is in the public interest, a hostile witness would not be tolerated.’
‘I couldn’t pay a fine, I’m signing on. Get banged up—’ Mike pushed his plate away, the pastry untouched, he couldn’t eat.
‘If you told your wife—’
‘You don’t know Vicky.’ Mike pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut tight. This was a total disaster. He sat up, looked across at Joe. ‘If it was down to me, if it only affected me, I’d not think twice. That’s why I came forward in the first place.’
‘I could talk to her.’ Joe took a drink.
‘No,’ said Mike quickly, ‘it wouldn’t help.’ Vicky had him by the balls and now the criminal justice system did too. Pulling in different directions.
‘There is another way.’ Joe folded his hands on the table, leaned in, his voice a shade quieter but still unruffled, like this was a chat about the weather not Mike’s future going in the shredder. Mike looked at him.
‘You could testify and not tell your wife.’
‘But the papers, the news,’ he objected. The murder had been front page stuff all along, it would be again once the trial started.
‘You’ll be an anonymous witness. Your name won’t be used. Mr B or whatever.’
For some mad reason Mike thought of
Reservoir
Dogs
, the scene where they got their names, Mr Pink complaining.
‘She won’t know,’ Joe said. ‘And you won’t be the first person to do it.’
‘Straight up?’ Mike smelt hope, he felt the prospect of a solution dawning before him. Maybe this could be fixed. He would be able to do what he’d wanted to do all along and still have Megan and Kieran and Vicky.
‘I’d say it’s your only option.’ Joe took another sip of his drink.
He’d have to lie to her, something he didn’t like, but then he didn’t like the ultimatum she’d given him. The lie would be there between them. Things would never be the way they had been. But that was true already. Vicky’s selfishness, as he saw it, her refusal to let him take a stand and the way she’d twisted things when he’d told her about Stuart, had changed things. A side to her he didn’t like, a hardness. Not willing to put herself in his shoes for five minutes, or even think about the Macateers, what that mother must be going through. I’m all right Jack, that was Vicky’s take on it, looking out for her own and sod the rest. So, Mike’s way of thinking, a lie here and there wasn’t the be all and end all any more.
‘I’ll do it,’ Mike told Joe, ‘but she mustn’t know.’
Joe dipped his head, drained his coffee.
‘Don’t ring the house, and no letters,’ Mike warned him.
‘I can text you,’ Joe suggested, ‘will that be all right?’
‘Yeah, text’s fine.’ Mike pulled his plate back, bit into the pastry, famished now, the sweet raisins and currants just the job.
‘Good.’ Joe took his number and got to his feet, said he’d be in touch.
Mike felt better. So much better that he whistled all the way home: ‘Here Comes The Sun’.
He told Vicky that he’d retracted his statement and that the police were not happy with him. She studied his face and he half thought she’d spotted the lie but then she just said, ‘It’s for the best, Mike.’
A couple of weeks before the trial, Joe texted him to arrange something called a pre-trial visit. It just so happened that Vicky was there when the text came through, doing her books at the kitchen table. Mike was filling in his notes for Jobseeker’s Allowance. He had written:
Visited library and searched online for
vacancies; filled in an application form for a packer at
a fulfilment centre
, and was considering what to put next when his phone went. He picked it up and saw it was a text from Joe. He wanted to kill it but he felt her eyes on him, so he opened the message and skimmed it, his mind scrabbling, like a rat in a tin, for a cover story.
‘Who’s that?’ Vicky’s eyes pinned him to his chair.
‘Our kid,’ Mike’s voice was creaky, ‘wants to know if I’m up for a pint tonight.’ Martin never asked Mike for a drink, they only met up at family dos these days, but it was the best Mike could come up with.
‘Thought he did five-a-side on Tuesdays,’ she said, one eyebrow raised, her pen tapping the table.
‘Not all night.’ Mike stood up. ‘Anyway, I can’t be arsed.’ He went up to the toilet, read the text again, then deleted it. And prayed that they’d not have reason to see Martin any time soon.
So many lies, just to tell the truth.
