‘Me? Don’t be thick!’
‘Listen.’ Her face was white, naked. ‘That’s what they do. They have ways of finding out who’s a witness and then they get to them.’
‘What ways?’ He couldn’t believe this.
She closed her eyes tightly, her fists balls of fury. ‘It doesn’t matter what ways, they just do.’
‘Suddenly you’re an expert on gang crime?’
‘Everyone knows!’ Her voice grating. ‘They’ll threaten you, make you stop.’
‘No,’ he argued, putting his hand on her knee trying to calm her. She shoved it away.
‘They could.’ She was taut, ready to snap.
‘Vicky.’ He caught her hand, held it between his own. ‘They’ve not even charged anyone yet. They’re still appealing for help. It means they haven’t got enough to pick the bloke up, not enough evidence. People like us don’t get targeted; he won’t know us from Adam.’ He spoke faster as she tried to interrupt, emphasizing his words, as if the right stresses could force her to change her mind. ‘But until there’s a trial there’s no risk at all. The only reason they’d put the frighteners on someone would be to stop them testifying, and then it’d only be those people they knew. Others in the neighbourhood, families and that. And there is no trial.’ He bent his head, forcing eye contact, her hand warm in his. ‘There probably never will be. Okay?’
She gave a half nod, nothing wholehearted but enough to make him relieved. On the television, the team had moved on to an armed robbery.
‘I can put another channel on.’ He held up the remote.
‘I’m not bothered, now,’ Vicky said.
Mike applied for every job going. He used the advice he got from the lad at the Jobcentre and drew up a CV. He worked out a batch of answers to use for the various questions like: What do you think you could contribute to our company? What are your strongest qualities? and Tell us about your hobbies and pastimes. Why some manager in a call centre had the faintest interest in Mike’s hobbies was beyond him but he played the game. He didn’t get any interviews.
Some mornings he went to the local library, read the newspapers. Every two weeks he had to go in and sign on and have a jobsearch review: give evidence of three steps he had taken each week to prove he was actively seeking work. It was better than in his dad’s time when they queued like cattle at the dole office every week and were viewed with suspicion and condescension by the staff. Mike had gone with his dad once. The place had been full of people whose lives were fragmenting or already in chaos. The air was sour with the reek of poverty, unwashed bodies and clothes, cigarettes and alcohol. The kids there were wild with boredom, their antics prompting the parents to lash out with angry slaps. The men were crazed with frustration, some of them tanked up already. A fight had kicked off and the clerks had sealed themselves in the back and the security guards turfed everyone out until things were sorted again. They filed back in, queued again and finally got seen by some pinch-faced woman whose attitude suggested she tarred them all with the same brush. The feckless, the undeserving poor.
Where Mike signed on now was a purpose-built facility with brightly upholstered chairs, wooden coffee tables, counter staff trained to smile. The culture had shifted even if some of the clients looked like those Mike remembered: the long-term unemployed, the very poor, the ill-equipped. The rest were a hotch-potch: men and women like Mike slung out of work after half a lifetime never missing a day, professional types with their shiny shoes and crisp shirts, or students highly qualified and hungry for a job. But even with the carpeted floors and the computer terminals and the fancy logos Mike felt the desperation among the people forced between its doors. He hated the place and how it made him feel.
A month after the Crimewatch appeal, and Vicky had taken on more clients. Mike now walked Megan to school and picked her up, while Vicky drove Kieran in. She’d got extra work from two residential care homes for the elderly. The Perms, she called them. They all wanted the same hair. ‘Will we be the same?’ she asked Mike one Saturday teatime as she got back. ‘Well, you’ll be bald, but will I suddenly want to look like my grandma?’
‘Bald?’
‘Thinning on top, now.’ She nodded at his head. ‘Ten years be nothing left.’
‘You going off me?’
‘Never.’
‘Prove it,’ he said.
‘Now? The kids are in the garden.’
‘A quickie?’
She rolled her eyes but the smile breaking on her face gave him his answer.
It was on the local news, after the national headlines. A reward had been offered for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Danny Macateer’s killers. Vicky turned to watch on her way out of the room with the dustpan and brush. Mike saw the tension grip her shoulders, saw her lift her chin. But she said nothing. He thought of the shooter, the man he’d seen raising the gun. Was he watching this? Did it make him feel big? Was he sure he could keep people quiet, confident no one would dare speak out and he’d get away with it, or was there that little bit of him waiting for a knock on his door?
He didn’t deserve to get away with it. Scum like that. Whatever Vicky thought, if the police caught him then Mike would be there like a shot. Swearing on the Bible, saying his piece. Doing all he could to help put the guy inside for life.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cheryl
Nana hadn’t been feeling too good. She took herself off to the doctor’s and when she came back she told Cheryl that they were sending her for tests.
Cheryl felt something twist inside her. ‘What kind of tests?’
‘I don’t know, I ain’t no doctor. They just want to check all is as it should be. I’s not getting any younger.’ Nana was folding and unfolding a tea-towel. Cheryl wanted to grab her hands, stop her.
‘I could come with you,’ Cheryl offered, feeling clumsy, not sure how to be.
Nana sucked her teeth and told her she could manage just fine, fine and dandy. ‘Could be weeks, they said, for the appointment.’
Milo fell over, stumbled backwards and bumped his head on the corner of the couch. All cushioned there – so he was fussing more than hurt. Cheryl scooped him up, kissed his cheeks. ‘Hi, Nana, say hi!’ she coached him, swinging him towards Nana.
Nana clapped her hands. ‘Here’s Milo.’ She stroked the child’s face. ‘It’s still dry,’ she said to Cheryl. ‘You taking him out?’
‘Storytime at the library then maybe the park.’
‘Good. Get some bread on the way back.’
‘And milk?’
‘Yes.’ Nana went to her bag.
‘I’ve got some,’ Cheryl said. ‘My benefit’s in.’
Nana nodded, took a coin from her bag anyway, gave it to her. ‘Get him an ice-cream or something.’
Cheryl sat with Milo and half a dozen other mums and toddlers on the carpet in the children’s section. The librarian, Maeve, made the story come alive, even for the littlest ones who were more inclined to crawl away or try to eat the books. She pointed out the details in the big picture book, repeated the simple sentences and encouraged any and all contributions from the children. Each week she finished with some action rhymes which the mothers could repeat at home: ‘Pat-a-Cake’, ‘Incy Wincy Spider’, ‘Five Little Speckled Frogs’ and ‘The Wheels on the Bus’.
Milo crooned along, shouting loudly the words at the end of each line.
When the session was over, Cheryl hung around until the rest had gone then asked Maeve if she could book on to one of the computers. Maeve scanned her card, put her on terminal two and told her to yell if she needed any help. Cheryl picked out a couple of board books for Milo, nothing he could rip up, and settled him at her feet.
She launched the browser then glanced about: someone else on a computer further along, a couple of people scanning the fiction section and three students working at the tables. No one near enough to see.