Witness (7 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Zak

H
e’d watched the taller girl get some money from a hole-in-the-wall and reckoned it was worth a shot.

‘D’you wanna buy a dog?’

‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’ The smaller one had mean eyes, little slits all suspicion. He had ’em pegged as sisters.

‘Nothing. But I can’t look after her any more. Just been chucked out my flat, I haven’t got anywhere to stay. I hate to let her go.’ He shuffled, stuck his hands in his pockets, swung his head to the side and down.

The taller one was stooping down, patting Bess on the head. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Bess. She’s a lovely nature. Lab cross.’ He’d no idea what with but she was big and golden. ‘She’s had all her jabs,’ he added. ‘She was my dad’s then he died and I took her.’

‘Aw.’ The taller one straightened up, her eyes soft,

‘I want her to go to a good home.’

‘How much?’ demanded the little one. Then she cast an eye at her sister. ‘Mum’d die.’

‘She’d come round,’ the taller one said, smitten.

‘She’s a good guard dog,’ Zak put in. ‘She’ll bark if you want her to. Better than an alarm.’

‘She’s lovely, Shiv.’ She grinned at her little sister. ‘What’s she eat?’

‘She’s not fussy but lamb’s her favourite, any brand.’

‘How much?’ repeated Shiv.

‘Twenty-five.’ It was nothing. You’d pay ten for a rabbit in the pet shops. Zak hoped he’d get twenty.

‘How old is she?’ Shiv asked.

‘Nearly five.’

‘What’s that in dog years?’ The tall one was petting Bess again.

‘Thirty-five,’ said Zak. ‘You times it by seven. Labradors, they live to fourteen or fifteen so she’s only a young one.’ Zak was aware of a pair of CSOs strolling up the precinct in their high vis jackets and dark caps. He wanted to make the sale before they got too close. ‘She’s well trained, tell her to stay and she won’t budge. Sit there all night, she would.’

‘What do you think, Shiv?’ Her voice was bubbly with excitement, a smile flickered round her lips.

‘Mum’d kill us.’

‘Go over there,’ Zak suggested to the tall one, ‘then call her.’ The CSOs had stopped, were talking to one of the African lads flogging brollies.

The girl walked over to the shop doorway. Bent down. ‘Come on, Bess.’ Bess ran over and stood at her feet. The girl clapped her hands. She walked back, Bess at her heels.

‘Twenty,’ Shiv said to Zak.

Zak made out he was torn for a moment. Looked at Bess then back to the girl. Nodded. The taller one burst out laughing. She took a fresh note out of her purse and Zak thanked her. He knelt down, hugged Bess, ruffled her head.

‘You’ll want her lead.’ He pulled the coil of rope from his pocket. ‘She’s fine without but some places you have to put them on the lead. You’re meant to round the shops.’ He hooked the lead into the ring on Bess’s collar.

‘When’s her birthday?’ Shiv asked.

‘Next week, August 10th. She’ll be five then.’

‘She’s a Leo,’ the tall girl said. ‘Sociable, outgoing.’

‘Sounds right,’ Zak smiled. The CSOs were on the move again. ‘Look after her, won’t you?’

‘We will,’ chorused the sisters.

Zak left them and walked up the tram platform. In the reflection of the glass he saw them set off towards Boots. Shiv went in the shop, the other girl waited outside with Bess.

A few minutes later, Shiv came out and they linked arms and walked further along. Then they went into the market. Zak slipped down from the tram stop and ran along the road to the alley that led into the middle of the market. He stopped at the bottom of the alley. The stalls were close together and the aisles between them narrow. He couldn’t see the girls. Had no idea where they were but that was okay. Better in fact.

He whistled once, three shrill notes, and within seconds Bess was hurtling into the alley, no lead attached to her collar, not any more. Zak always made sure to fix the lead on with a soft, thin wire ring, little more than fuse wire that would open with the slightest tug, let alone the frantic yank when Bess heard him whistle for her.

He and the dog walked smartly up the alley and then down the steps to the canal. Out of sight, together again, and twenty quid richer.

Zak wondered if they’d put out a reward for information about the murder. If it was big enough, really really big, then it might be worth him coming forward but he’d want guarantees as well. Carlton saw him, he was sure of that, would know him by Bess down there barking when it all kicked off if nothing else. Zak tried to steer clear of Carlton and his like but they made a point of knowing who was doing what on their turf. Zak was small-time, no threat to them. But if the cops did offer a reward, like they did when no one snitched, then he’d need a new identity, a place to live, somewhere for his mam and Bess. If the reward money was a lot, and it’d have to be a lot to break the silence, then maybe they’d go abroad, somewhere nice like Ibiza. Party all the time. Have a place by the beach and a pool. He could be a DJ, just for the fun, wouldn’t need to work if the reward was big enough. He was imagining this when he saw the lads. Four of them on bikes, hoods up, circling round the end of the street like hyenas waiting for carrion. There was no way he was going past them, even with the dog at his side.

He spun on his heels and began to retrace his steps but one of them noticed him. He heard a yell, a ripple of sounds, the threat in the air like electricity, pricking his skin and pressing inside his skull.

He picked up speed but heard the air move behind him, the whirr of wheels, the clatter of gears.

‘Oy, dosser.’

‘Eh, tramp.’

Then the thud of something on his back. The rattle of a can hitting the road. A gale of laughter.

He turned now, pulling Bess in front of him, his hand in her collar.

‘You got a light?’ The lad had a shaved head, skin the colour of porridge, his neck was a mix of fuzzy tattoos and angry pimples. Zak stared. Stupid question, he knew it wasn’t a light they wanted.

‘Yeah.’

Zak pulled out his lighter, tossed it to the guy who caught it, dropped it, drove his heel down on to it and mashed it into the ground. ‘Whoops!’ He grinned. There were brown lines on his teeth. ‘What else you got?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Empty your pockets.’ A ginger lad, freckly. They’d no fear of Bess, barely cast her a glance. How could they tell she was soft? If he had a pit bull would they have left him alone?

Zak brought out his tobacco in one hand, a twist of draw, all he had left, in the other.

‘Wacky backy,’ the Asian guy said. He let his bike drop, stepped up to Zak. He had a scar by his eye, the line paler, puckered. He took the tobacco and the draw. ‘And the rest,’ he said.

‘That’s it.’ Zak could smell the guy’s aftershave, the sweat beneath it.

‘Phone,’ the first guy commanded.

‘I need my phone.’ Zak tried to keep calm, like it was a fact not an argument. ‘My mam, she needs it to keep in touch with me.’

‘His mam,’ jeered the Asian lad.

‘Mummy’s boy, is he,’ the ginger lad said. Then spat on the floor.

‘She’s in hospital. A big operation.’

‘Give it here.’ The Asian lad moved closer. Zak pulled his phone out. That raised a laugh. Old and scratched, chunky too, the sort you couldn’t give away.

The Asian lad threw it to Ginger who rode off down the road with it before coming back and chucking it to the one with the tattoos. He peered at it, pressed some buttons. ‘Let’s have a chat to Mummy, then.’

Zak felt his bowels loosen with fear and a sullen rage burn his gullet. ‘She’s on the ward,’ he said. ‘Her phone’ll be off. Give it here.’

‘No can do,’ the guy said. Then he lost interest. Dropped the phone and positioned the front wheel of his bike on top of it, then lifted and slammed the bike down. The phone skittered off across the tarmac. One of the others, the one who hadn’t done much, put his bike down and got the phone. Dropped it down the drain. ‘You should upgrade.’

They howled with laughter. Before they stopped, the Asian guy had punched Zak hard and he was falling backwards. Bess was barking. The others moved in. The next blow caught his ear. He rolled away, curling as small as he could, his arms trying to protect his head. A kick to his kidneys, one to his arse, pain rippling, throbbing. Black and red in his head.

Memories: metal on stone, the smell of his own dirt. His mouth was full of the bits again; chewy wisps of thread and the rigid shavings of rubber. The flavour of soil and sweat and elastic bands. Sometimes the tang of blood. Some of his teeth had gone. His gums were sore. In the daytime a band of light spangled golden around the door. If he wriggled and stretched out his leg, a line of it would fall across his foot. A beam of warmth. But at night it was dark as soot.

Then the lads were gone. He heard them pedal away, jeers fading. He lay there, the grit stinging his cheek, trembling and nauseous. They could have killed him, another few kicks in the right place. He could be lying dead. Like Danny Macateer. Never see Bess again, never see his mam. A ruptured gut or a knife in the throat or a bullet in the back.

Slowly he got to his knees, nothing broken, though his ribs hurt when he took a breath and his wrist was killing. Bess licked his face. He should train her to fight, he thought, train her to rip their throats out, take their faces off. Maybe he should muzzle her, make her look vicious. Whip the muzzle off next time he was threatened. Get a gun. Something to scare the shit out of them.

When he was fully upright, his head spun and he was sick, a thin stream of bile, bitter as anything. His eyes stung, he rubbed them hard. He’d have to get a new phone.

He still had the twenty in his shoe. That was summat. He’d drop in on Midge, get a little something, a drink too. Long as Midge didn’t go on about the murder. He got his supply of drugs from Carlton, he’d be listening to all the gossip like the rest. Zak’s ear felt hot and wet; it was bleeding. He’d try the corner shop, they didn’t bother with a dress code. Serve anyone.

Could have been worse, he told himself. All the same he’d steer clear of this part of town for a while. No sense in asking for trouble. Wankers.

PART TWO

I Heard it Through the Grapevine

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Fiona

I
t was the middle of autumn before Fiona saw the cognitive behaviour therapist. In the intervening weeks she experienced two full-blown panic attacks. The first was in the post office of all places.

She had assumed the sickening terror was linked to Danny’s death, the area it happened and by extension the car where the fear had first consumed her. So walking to the post office to pay her car tax hadn’t worried her in the slightest.

The post office wasn’t even noisy. But it was crowded and hot and cramped. A line of people snaked zigzag style in the cordoned-off aisles. There were two counters working but one clerk seemed to be stuck weighing a mountain of small packets for a customer. No one spoke and the air was tight with impatience. Fiona tried not to breathe in the stale smell coming off the elderly man in front of her. She could see the grime on the collar of his coat and the flakes of dandruff dotted through his hair. The woman behind her wore industrial-strength perfume which was even worse than the musty man smell.

Fiona felt herself gag. She cleared her throat then felt the ground tilt away, thick sweat broke along her hairline, on her scalp, under her arms. The fear came rolling like a wave, unstoppable, all-powerful, climbing her torso, robbing her of breath, of sense. She thought she would wet herself.

She turned abruptly, pushing past the queue, fighting her way to the door. Outside, she doubled over, her heart thundering in her ears, her mouth gummy.

‘You all right, love?’ A white-haired woman with a shopping trolley put her hand on Fiona’s arm. Fiona couldn’t reply, her throat was locked, her chest exploding. She knew there was something she should do, something to remember, but her mind was tangled.

Suddenly her stomach heaved and she vomited on to the pavement. The woman took a step back. ‘You’d better go home.’

Fiona gulped, nodded, her mouth sour, her nose and throat stinging from the acid.

‘Can you manage?’

Fiona coughed. Her breath came fast, rapid. Stars bursting in her eyes, then she remembered:
breathe
slowly
. Joe’s words, the policeman. Fiona tried to master her breath. Took a sip, shuddered, took another tiny sip. Little bird breaths.

The woman frowned.

‘I’ll be all right, thanks,’ Fiona managed. The woman wasn’t convinced but she gave a quick nod and set off with her trolley. Fiona sipped again. Waited until she felt able to move. Then walked home, her legs unsteady, her breath rank.

You might never have another
, the cardiologist had said. Liar, thought Fiona, and now what?

Almost as great as the fear of a repeat attack was the dread of becoming housebound. She could live without town and shopping (there was the internet for that) and even without work, which had surprised her as she’d always loved her job, but not being able to walk the fields and the woods, or set out along by the river: to lose that would be intolerable. So the afternoon of the post office meltdown, even though she still felt sick and scalded, she forced herself to go out with Ziggy.

Apprehension wormed about in her stomach and her back was stiff, her thoughts edgy, as she set out. She watched Ziggy trot from scent to scent and they made their way to the nature reserve. There were blackberries, fat and shiny, alongside the path and she had a spare plastic bag in her pocket. She tasted one, the flavour deep and fruity, a perfect mix of sweet and tart. She picked lots, savouring the occasional bite of a thorn from the brambles, her fingers turning purple, gritty with specks leftover from the flowers. She attained a sort of equilibrium. When the bag was half full, she stopped. The juice drying on her hands was sticky.

Sticky like blood. A stab of horror. She flashed back to that day, the shower, peeling the tights from her knees. His eyes, the boy’s eyes. She slewed her mind away, catalogued what she could see, determined to root herself in the here and now. The horse-chestnut cases still green and heavy in the tree; the sycamore leaves dying at the edges, splashed with sooty fungus, tar spot, there every year, though it never harmed the trees; the hen blackbird, dusty brown, seeking food in the mulch beneath the hedge; the whine of a wasp, drunk on rotten fruit. The gradual dying of the year. But this would all renew, return. This was her church. She fought for control and clung to her harvest. With some apples she could make a pie, or a crumble. She wiped her fingers on a tissue, texted Owen, asked him to get some Bramleys and some cream; there was a small supermarket on his way home.

Walking back, Fiona ran into the old American couple with their terriers. She smiled and nodded, her teeth clenched as they nattered about the weather and the deterioration in the quality of the kennels they used. By the time they moved on, her jaw ached with the effort. But she had coped.

Owen arrived back without any apples or cream.

‘Oh, brilliant!’ She rounded on him. ‘I texted you.’

He stared at her, affronted. ‘I didn’t get any text.’

‘How come?’ she demanded. ‘How come you never get my texts? Or do you just ignore them?’ Her voice rising. ‘I can’t make apple and blackberry pie with no bloody apples.’

‘Big deal.’ He slung his bag down, kicked off his shoes.

‘Pick them up,’ she yelled. ‘Put them away.’ She heard the shrill of her tone, hated it.

Owen flushed, glared at her from under his fringe.

She put a hand out, grabbing the post at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Look, I’m sorry. It happened again,’ she said quietly. ‘In the post office, another panic attack.’

‘Not my fault,’ he muttered and went upstairs, leaving his bag and shoes where he’d dropped them.

Three weeks after the post office and she was feeling much better. The medication seemed to be doing its work. She had some minor side effects, nausea and a dry mouth, but overall she felt calmer and safer. She was doing her best to keep a structure to her day. In the morning she did chores, the ongoing housework, then all the things there had never been enough time to do. She was clearing the spare room, sorting through old sports equipment and extra duvets, games and toys that Owen had outgrown, spare shoes. She found a set of watercolours and dabbled at them but her efforts only irritated her. The daubs on the page bore no resemblance to the pictures in her head. They’d been a present for Owen but he’d never shown any interest. If Owen had an artistic bone in his body it was a small and well-hidden one.

The idea of learning a craft, finding a hobby, appealed to her. Something for the afternoons, and those evenings when she wasn’t interested in what was on television. At school she’d loved pottery, the heft of stone cold clay in her hands, the giddy spinning wheel, the magic of the kiln. They’d made coil pots and ornaments, hedgehogs and little dishes shaped like leaves. Pedestrian. But she’d used clay for her O level art project. Made a large vase, the green slip glaze on it luminous, as vibrant as she could get it. Her parents had displayed it on their sideboard but she’d no idea what had happened to it. After they’d both died, when she’d cleared out her mother’s retirement flat, there’d been hardly anything left.

Pottery was impossible on her own at home. No wheel or kiln. The only place would be a night class and that meant going out, meeting people. That frightened her. She completed jigsaws and worked in the tiny back garden. She tried sudoku and crosswords but the afternoons began to yawn and her walks with Ziggy grew longer.

Since the post office she practised walking to the local shops and back every other day. Her own form of behavioural therapy. At first just there and back. Then going into one place and buying something. Then a couple of places. She managed fine. Taking things gradually and helped by the medication, she grew more confident.

Shelley had been more than happy to come round and visit. But she thought Fiona might try going out with her now. A meal maybe? Fiona liked the idea. She was lonely and the thought of Shelley’s anecdotes from work, gossip about the other staff, her smiles, a restaurant meal, would be a welcome change. Would Shelley come to Chorlton, so Fiona could walk there? Could they meet early before it got too busy? Sure. Shelley agreed to all her conditions.

Fiona never even made it to the restaurant. And what made it most devastating, once she’d weathered that black, bleak, overwhelming anxiety and the indignity of cracking up in public, was the fact that there was nothing, not one, single, identifiable element that she could seize on to explain why the attack had come on in that place, a quiet junction of two suburban side streets, or at that time. If there was no particular trigger that set her off then she could be rendered disabled and petrified, suffocating and gripped by dread, anywhere, any time. Nowhere was safe.