She couldn’t tell him about the trial. She couldn’t ever tell anyone. That secrecy was all that kept her safe, her and Milo and the little baby to come. And the rest? Holding him at arm’s length? Not getting too close, too eager. How could she explain that?
‘Why me?’ She found her voice. ‘You could be with anyone. All those talented people, musicians and dancers – all those places – your life…’ She knew she wasn’t making sense. She pressed her temples. ‘I thought you’d drop me, even before the baby, thought you’d hurt me.’
‘Why?’ His eyes flashed.
‘Because I’m not like you.’ Her eyes burned. ‘I don’t even have a pay cheque. I haven’t got a passport. I was trying to be realistic. This…’ She flung her arm out, taking in the room. ‘This is it!’
‘You think so little of me? Of yourself? I started out in a place just like this!’ He raised his voice. ‘There was never enough money. You think I’ve forgotten all that?’
‘But you could have anyone,’ Cheryl said.
‘Most of them, the hangers-on, the groupies, they’re takers, Cheryl. They like the image, the lifestyle. It’s all skin deep. You’re different. You’re real.’ When he spoke again his voice was very quiet. ‘Least, I thought you were.’
In the pause that followed she heard an ambulance siren. She wondered who was hurt and what had happened to them. If there was more trouble.
‘I was scared,’ Cheryl said, ‘I’m sorry. And I really didn’t know you, if I could trust you. I still don’t.’ She stared across at Nana’s chair, empty.
‘I could say that too,’ he said.
‘I’m not ashamed of who I am,’ she added, ‘I’m not. I’m as good as anyone else. I care about you,’ Cheryl cried, ‘I really like you but it’s all mixed up and I don’t know what’s going to happen.’
‘Hey.’ He moved to sit beside her, pulled her into his arms. ‘Hey.’
She wept dry tears, for herself, for Nana.
‘I’m here,’ Jeri said, ‘I’m here because I want to be with you. You’re beautiful, outside and in. I can’t get you out of my head, girl. First time I saw you, blew me away, I knew. That feelin’ – man… I really like you, Cheryl, and we’re having a baby. You and me. We’re having a baby, yeah?’
Cheryl nodded, choking on a sob.
‘We’ll work it out, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
Cheryl pulled away and looked at him. He held her eyes, his own bright and steady.
Joe Kitson rang Cheryl. He was putting her forward for the reward money. If approved, and he’d do his damnedest to make sure it was, she’d be given a code to take into a city centre bank so her anonymity would be preserved.
‘You’d have to be careful with the money,’ he said. ‘Don’t want people asking questions.’ He sounded flat, tired. ‘Say you’d inherited it or something.’
Cheryl’s throat ached. ‘My nana, she erm… she died. I could say she had some savings put away.’
‘Oh Cheryl, I am sorry.’
‘Yeah.’ Cheryl pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth.
‘I know it wasn’t about the money,’ Joe said, ‘what you did was amazing. You remember that.’
Cheryl sniffed hard.
She sat for a while after the call. So tired. The house quiet, Milo having his nap. She pulled the throw round her and curled up on the sofa. God bless, sweet pea. She slept.
Zak was getting chips. He asked for scraps as welclass="underline" the little bits of crunchy batter you got for free, and lots of salt and vinegar. He’d found a place to score just before and was looking forward to getting off his face once his belly was full.
He was heading for the corner, opening the chip paper, Bess by his heels when he saw them. Three lads. One held a baseball bat. Didn’t recognize them though there was something familiar: maybe he’d run into them before at Midge’s or somewhere.
Zak yelled at Bess to stay and ran, dropped the chips and ran, into the alley, his feet beating on the flagstones, the wind in his ears blocking out sound. They were behind him. He didn’t need to look. He pelted to the end of the alley, gulping air, and darted across to another one opposite. There were wheelie bins near the end of it, a cluster of them. Zak ran between them, tipping them over as he went, a barricade to try and slow his pursuers. As he gained the end of the alley he turned right and out of the corner of his eye, caught the flurry of motion behind.
Faster. Faster. He ran, feeling the spike of pain in his chest, his breath rasping, a stitch in his side. A junction. He swerved sharply to the right and along the cul-de-sac, into someone’s front yard, swung himself up and scrambled over the wooden door which led into the back garden and crouched, waiting, trying to halt his breath, the crackling sound it was making.
He waited. The slick of sweat cooling tight on his skin, the smell of his own fear high in his nostrils. His throat was parched and his guts hot liquid. He listened, straining to hear beyond the pulse throbbing in his skull and the drone of a plane above. He waited until cramp bit at his calves and he’d begun to shiver with cold.
Unsteadily, he got to his feet and put his face to the high, wooden door, an eye to the gap between the edge and the frame. He couldn’t see anything except the low wall opposite, some of the house beyond.
He’d have to make himself scarce, fetch Bess and get down to Wilmslow Road, take the first bus that came. Shame about the chips. He wondered if the dealer had recognized him (even though Zak had introduced himself as Matt) and called up the goons. Man, he needed a drink.
Carefully, Zak took hold of the door handle and heard the tiny snick as he raised the latch. Suddenly, the door burst backwards, slamming into him, breaking his nose and knocking him to the ground. There was a blur of blows, one to the back of his head exploded white starbursts in his eyes. Kicks and thumps to his spine and his ribs and his face. He tasted pennies. Felt the dam of pain burst over him, robbing him of speech, emptying his bladder and his bowels. He heard the snap of bones and the snarl of curses. The smack and thud of boots and the thwack of the bat. He heard barking. Something barking. I’m sorry, Mam, he begged, I’ll be good. I promise. But the blows came faster. He couldn’t remember. His eyes were full of blood and there was no air. Screams of terror died in his throat, shuddered through him. Then there was no pain. Nothing.
DANNY MACATEER WITNESS KILLED. Mike saw the caption on the newspaper sandwich boards outside the cafe. His heart stopped, then racketed on like it had lost the right rhythm. He and Kieran had been at the museum while Vicky took Megan to a birthday party. Mike bought a copy of the paper and took Kieran in, bought drinks and settled at a table. He passed Kieran a straw and once the lad was sipping away, Mike turned to the paper. He skimmed the front page, the newsprint rippling and distorting so he had to keep going back over it:
Zak Henshaw, who testified at last year’s trial into the murder of sixteen-year-old Danny Macateer, has been found beaten to death in the Anson Road area of Longsight. Henshaw (23) had been offered witness protection and a new identity in exchange for his cooperation with the police who charged gang leaders Derek Carlton (25) and Sam Millins (24) with the brutal shooting of the innocent schoolboy. At the trial the judge allowed special measures for several eyewitnesses. All gave evidence anonymously apart from Henshaw who appeared via remote video link from an undisclosed location. For unknown reasons Henshaw had returned to the city, breaching arrangements for his safety. Police are trying to establish if the attack on Henshaw was linked to the successful prosecution which saw Carlton and Millins each sentenced to life for the murder. Henshaw, a petty criminal and drug user, was homeless at the time of the murder in June 2009. A spokesman for housing charity Shelter stated that homeless people were disproportionately likely to be victims of violence.