Little shook his head.
‘Why not? Does it cost more or summat?’ Zak felt like crying. He did not want to be Ryan.
They wouldn’t budge. ‘It’s all sorted now, birth certificate and all. No can do.’
Ryan Wilson had no other family and had dropped out of school, drifted about for a bit. They kept it simple.
Once Zak got settled at work, he told the rest to call him Matt, said it was his middle name. He carried on like that. Only used Ryan for the official stuff. Handy in a way: if someone called asking for Ryan he knew it wasn’t a mate. Not that he’d much to do with the others outside work, the odd kickabout with the younger ones but mostly he’d go home, take Bess out then have some scran and watch telly. Little and Large had warned him not to get too pally too soon. Keep his distance. They’d be checking up on him. So once or twice a week he’d get a call from them, or one of them would pitch up at the flat unannounced.
A couple of months after he’d started the job, he heard one of the lads bragging about some weed. Zak asked if he could get him some. It arrived the next day. Zak got home, saw to Bess, had a pot noodle then fired one up. He was catatonic by 9 p.m. Next thing, Large is on the phone, on his case. Why wasn’t he at work?
‘Migraine,’ he told him. ‘Happens now and again.’
Zak should have been happy: he had Bess, he had a warm flat, a place of his own, didn’t have to look for somewhere to crash every night. He could lock the door and keep the world out, get up when he liked at weekends, watch telly all night long if he liked. He could afford to eat three times a day. But he felt lost and lonely. Zak accepted he’d have to stay in Hull till the trial.
‘What about after?’ he asked Large.
‘It’s not that bad,’ Large told him.
‘Compared to what? When can I move?’
‘We’ll talk after the trial. Look, we’ve sorted you out: nice flat, regular work. Not easy.’
Then it was the trial. He had to be kept close, they said. It was like going back to those first two weeks with Little and Large babysitting him. They took him to a motel outside town. Bess had to go into kennels.
‘No way,’ Zak said. ‘She’s never been in kennels, she’ll hate it.’ Why couldn’t they stay at the safe house again? Why couldn’t Bess stay at the flat and them take him back there after the trial? He tried facing them down, saying he wouldn’t go ahead if they sent Bess to kennels. Little went ballistic and Large sent him out to cool down and told Zak he was on very thin ice and that protection could be withdrawn if he wasn’t fully cooperative. So they were at the Travelodge for two nights and the day in between. Adjoining rooms. There was nothing to do but drink and watch telly. Then the second night Large told him they’d an early start in the morning. His time had come.
Zak didn’t sleep much. It was hard without Bess around. When he did nod off he had dreams that woke him up again, shadows coming after him, blows landing on his back, on his arms and his belly, words raining down like stones. Chained and he couldn’t get away. Bits in his mouth and flies on his face. The dark swallowing him.
At Hull County Court he had to sit in this room with a man and talk into a monitor. They showed him the room was bare, no picture on the wall, no notices, nothing that could give anyone in the court in Manchester a clue as to where Zak was. It hit him like a thump in the guts: Carlton’s crew would be doing all they could to shut people up and what Zak was doing today was painting a massive target on his chest. That’s why he had to be poxy Ryan Wilson once he walked out again. Ryan Wilson who didn’t know Manchester much and had led a blameless if aimless life.
The usher read out the oath and Zak copied him then they played Zak’s video statement that Little and Large had cobbled together from their early interviews with Zak. It meant Zak wouldn’t have to go through it all for the prosecution. Man, it was embarrassing: he looked a mess and he kept stumbling over his words and that. It covered the basics: that he’d been in the middle of a house burglary when he’d seen Derek Carlton shoot the boy crossing the rec. That Zak knew Carlton by sight, by reputation, and had scarpered, taking his dog and the proceeds of the robbery with him.
One of the lawyers told the court that Zak had been arrested in the process of committing another burglary and had volunteered information about the murder in return for immunity from prosecution and witness protection.
Then they played more of the video, the bit where he was saying how everyone knew it was Carlton and Millins who did it and how when they were picked up someone brought the gun to Midge for safe keeping. Zak hadn’t wanted to say that but they kept on at him; that it was all or nothing and the gun was vital evidence.
He’d seen it in his head, what must have happened next: the SWAT team raiding Midge’s. Midge and Stacey pulled out of bed and cuffed. The police finding the gun. Midge getting charged then realizing he’d not seen Zak for a while and putting two and two together and coming up with Judas. Midge, who’d always given him a brew or shared a spliff, who’d fenced his stuff. Midge, who’d taken Bess to the PDSA when Zak had the pneumonia. And he had to dob him in. That was the worst of it.
The woman asked him where he’d been living last June.
‘No fixed abode,’ he said. That’s what they called it.
‘Were you employed?’
‘No.’
‘In receipt of benefits?’
‘No.’
‘You were surviving on the proceeds from your criminal activity?’
‘And begging,’ Zak agreed.
‘Were you having regular eye examinations?’
She was cracked. ‘No!’
‘So you don’t know whether your vision is impaired?’
‘I can see fine,’ Zak said, catching up. Her making out he was short-sighted: shabby.
‘Can you read the sign above the exit?’ She pointed.
Zak stalled; he could see it fine on the monitor but reading was another matter. Then the other lawyer, the prosecution guy, was up complaining as Zak said, ‘I can’t read all that good.’ And the judge called the lawyers up and they had a bit of a barney then the woman carried on. ‘We don’t know how well you see but the house was about thirty yards away. Even with good vision it may have been difficult to identify who you saw.’
‘It were easy,’ Zak said, ‘I’d know him anywhere. He wears those baggy shorts and he had a yellow wife-beater on.’
‘What?’ demanded the judge.
‘It’s a sort of vest,’ Zak said, miming the shape on himself, sketching the armholes. ‘Big pits. And it was Sam Millins’ car, an’ all.’
‘Please confine yourself to only answering those questions put to you,’ the judge said.
‘Had you consumed any drugs that day?’
Took Zak a moment to remember. ‘No.’ He’d scored later at Midge’s.
‘What about alcohol?’
‘Just some cider. White Lightning.’
‘How much?’
‘Half a bottle?’
‘What size bottle?’
Zak sighed. ‘Three litres.’
‘How strong is that?’
‘Pretty strong.’
‘Seven and a half per cent proof, to be exact. And you drank a litre and a half. You would have been drunk.’ Her nose turned up, a flicker of disgust in her eyes.
‘No! I’m used to it,’ Zak said.
‘What about the previous night, did you take any drugs then?’
Zak shrugged. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Try.’ Her mouth set tight.
He came clean. ‘Maybe a bit of weed.’
‘Skunk?’
‘Yeah.’ He could do with some now.
‘For the benefit of the jury, skunk is the strongest strain of cannabis known and it remains in the system for up to ten days in regular users. Would you say you were a regular user?’ she asked Zak.
‘Yeah.’ He didn’t like the way she was painting him, a druggie, an alkie.