Then there was a crowd in Sunday best swarming to the field. A black woman near the front, running fast, her face a mask of fear. Mike had to look away. He tried to swallow, suddenly thirsty. He had some Coke in the van but it didn’t seem right to walk away.
The black woman was on her knees by the paramedics, an older woman beside her, others around them. The woman was shouting and crying, her distress making her words unintelligible but Mike knew exactly what she meant. Any human being would: my son, my son! Mike bit his tongue, took a steadying breath.
Four squad cars arrived, and other assorted vehicles as the lad was stretchered into the ambulance. His mother, an older woman and a teenage girl were directed to an unmarked car. Manchester Royal Infirmary was the nearest A &E, only a couple of streets away. They’d be there in no time, Mike thought. The police were edging people away, asking them to go to the road by the houses, to give their details.
The policeman who first spoke to him was a pudgy lad with large blue eyes. Staring eyes, like he’d had a surprise and never got over it. He took Mike’s name and address, date of birth, and asked him what he was doing in the area.
Mike explained and gestured to his van.
‘And can you tell me what you saw?’
‘I saw the shooting,’ Mike said.
The police officer glanced swiftly at him, as if to check he was serious. Then nodded and wrote something in his notebook. ‘Can you come over here, sir? We’d like to take some details now.’
It was another hour and a half before they were done. There was a lot of waiting about. Mike tried ringing Vicky but there was no answer on either her mobile or the landline. Then he sat in a car with a woman who took a detailed account from him, and she seemed to deliberately take it slowly. First interrupting him and wanting him to elaborate on things, then asking him to repeat what he’d just told her. He was thirsty and asked if he could get his Coke but she wouldn’t let him. She drummed up a bottle of water, warm but wet. Mike drank it all. Someone removed his shoes and returned them after taking an impression of the soles.
A lot of the questions were about the man with the gun. His height and size, which arm he raised, his stance, his clothes, his hairstyle. Mike could see the guy in his mind’s eye but when she repeated her questions uncertainty corroded the picture. He was black, yes, like the boy he shot. Tall, solid build. Baggy yellow and blue clothes, like the basketball players wear. But Mike was too far away to be sure about his hair, or his features.
‘Could you identify him?’ she asked. It was warm in the car, even with the windows open, and tiny beads of sweat framed her forehead. Mike could smell his own sweat. Rank. He wanted to apologize for it. It couldn’t be pleasant. You must get used to it, he thought, people in a state. He recalled the nurse standing up once the ambulance arrived, her hands and knees crimson and blood daubed on her uniform, a smear on one cheek. Looking dazed and lost.
‘I was too far away,’ he admitted.
Finally the woman told Mike he could go. They’d be in touch.
‘Is there any news,’ he asked ‘from the hospital?’
She pulled her mouth down, took off her specs, there were deep red grooves either side of the bridge of her nose. ‘They couldn’t revive him,’ she said.
Mike nodded once, his hands balled into fists.
He’d missed nine deliveries. He was one of the few drivers who covered Sundays – same rate, Ian never paid double time. Most of the trade was home shopping, people ordering from catalogues and, more often nowadays, online.
Ian owned the business. Mike had been a postman before that, kept it up when Kieran came along but by the time he was a year old and it was clear there was something wrong, him being so difficult to manage, Vicky begged Mike to find something with more sociable hours. Where he wasn’t heading off at four in the morning leaving her to cope on her own. Mike didn’t mind the driving job, liked his own company, listened to music or the radio when he got bored; Radio 5 Live or Radio 4. Learnt all sorts.
With the money Vicky made from her mobile hairdressing and tax credits from the government they could just about manage. It was touch and go at times: no leeway if the washing machine packed in or the gas bill doubled. Annual holidays were beyond their means and Vicky’s old banger was running on a lick and a prayer but holidays weren’t really an option with Kieran anyway. Change of any sort, the slightest deviation from routine, brought out the worst of his behaviour.
Mike looked at his clipboard. Two of the parcels were 24-hour express. Timperley and over in Urmston. Opposite sides of the city. ‘Sod it,’ he said quietly, deciding he would make an early start tomorrow and try to clear the backlog plus whatever else was on his sheet. He looked over to the rec, the white tent which now shielded the ground where the lad had lain. ‘It’ll keep.’
Back home he could smell pizza. Vicky was in the garden with the kids. Megan was on the slide; she skimmed down then raced across the grass to greet him. He swung her up and she let out a peal of laughter. ‘Again, Dad.’
‘Later, matey, Dad’s tired. Hey, Kieran.’
His son was nestled in the corner of the small area of decking, facing the walls. Mike could see the toys scattered between his legs. The bafflingly random items that Kieran formed an attachment to. A small rubber ring for a dog, a thimble, a piece of yellow felt, a plastic snake.
‘Did you get the straws?’ Vicky asked.
‘Oh, shit.’ Mike couldn’t face going out again. The only way Kieran would drink was through a particular make of striped plastic straws. No others. The child would die of dehydration rather than compromise. And the only place that sold those straws was Morrison’s supermarket, the nearest branch out in Reddish.
‘They’ll be shut, now,’ Mike said.
‘How could you forget!’ Her eyes were blazing.
‘Aren’t there any left?’
They bought in bulk, a system that worked for months at a time making them complacent, not aware of dwindling supplies.
Vicky swore and stalked into the kitchen. Mike followed. ‘I rang,’ he said. ‘You never answered.’ Bit of a red herring, really, he would never have made it to the supermarket even if he had got through and Vicky had reminded him.
‘Yes, well, he’s hidden the phone again,’ she hissed, pulling at the drawers, rifling through, just in case. Another of Kieran’s obsessions: taking and hiding phones.
‘And your mobile?’
‘Recharging. Look!’ She turned, furious, her face contorted, holding up the transparent plastic box. ‘That’s it!’ A single straw.
Mike’s mouth began to twitch, a bubble of hysteria fluttered in his chest. His diaphragm and belly convulsed. Don’t say it, he thought. Don’t.
‘It’s not funny, Mike.’ She looked askance. ‘It’s the last straw!’
Laughter burst from him. Snatching his breath and sight and sense. And then his face was wet and his shoulders shook and he lifted his hands to his face.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Vicky said quietly. ‘What on earth is it?’
CHAPTER THREE
Cheryl
It was hot for once and Milo was fretting after his midday nap so Cheryl texted Vinia. Asked if she’d like to hang out. Take Milo down the play park together. Vinia was cool with it. Said half an hour and pitched up in twenty which was some sort of a record. She was always late was Vinia, be late for her own funeral, that girl, Nana said. Many a time.
Nana had gone to church after giving out about how it would do the child good to visit the Lord, like she always did. How back home in Jamaica no one would dare miss church. And Cheryl nodded and shrugged and then objected that Milo had gone down and she wasn’t going to wake him.
‘Where did I go wrong?’ Nana muttered to the mirror, adjusting the veil on her hat. ‘Well?’ She turned to Cheryl, one arm out, palm up, the other on her waist. Asking now for Cheryl’s opinion about her outfit.