‘I suppose,’ said Mike. ‘He was a big bloke though and I remember his clothes. A yellow top, and dark shorts.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Yes.’ Was she messing with him?
‘Not a red top?’
Mike was sure. Was he sure? ‘Yellow,’ he said.
‘But you couldn’t see his face?’
‘I could see it, just not very well. Not enough to describe him.’
‘Do you recall his hair?’
‘No.’
‘You were driving at the time, yes?’
‘That’s right.’ He’d probably still be doing it, if it hadn’t been for the murder.
‘So any sighting of this man would have been fleeting, a second, perhaps less?’
Mike hesitated. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Presumably you were also watching the road, negotiating traffic and so on?’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘Your attention was divided?’
Mike felt like his story was slipping away from him. ‘Yeah, but I saw him shoot the gun.’
‘Which hand did he have the gun in?’ the woman asked.
‘You what?’
‘Don’t you understand the question?’ Patronizing.
‘The right hand,’ Mike said tightly.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ He saw what she was doing; trying to trip him up, make him muddled. Best not to think too much about the answers. But had he blown it? What if the guy was left-handed and Mike had just delivered him a get-out-of-jail-free card? Shit.
‘And the car – can you describe that?’
‘Silver BMW, X5. I couldn’t see the plates though, it was side on.’
The woman looked a bit unsure of herself at that and Mike loosened his fists.
‘You know your cars!’ she said drily. Some of the jurors smiled at that. Mike thought back to the other Beemer he’d seen, the one that distracted him and led to the bump and him losing the driving job. Had that been the same car? The police had never said anything about finding the car. The wise move would have been to get rid of it straight after the murder. Ship it abroad or break it up for parts. Or maybe it had been a stolen car, though the witness in the paper yesterday had identified it as belonging to one of the defendants – but she hadn’t seen the reg plate either.
‘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. They offer overtime tomorrow, extra four hours, thought you 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.’
‘So what else is it? You’ve blobbed work, lied to them, lied to me. You’re always sliding off with your phone.’
Twice! He’d done it twice, maybe three times tops. When Joe got in touch and Vicky was there, she had a knack of always being there, spooky bad timing. And she was nosy, always had to know who was texting him. Mike had to sneak off for some privacy and to come up with an alias for who sent the text. ‘I’m not sleeping with anyone, I swear.’