Authors: Cath Staincliffe
Cheryl
I
t 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.
‘Fine.’ Cheryl nodded at the navy skirt suit. Gold buckles on the shoes, anchors on the suit buttons. Nautical Nana. ‘More than fine.’ Cheryl grinned.
‘Splendid?’ Nana demanded.
‘Splendid.’
Nana clapped her hands but the gloves muffled the sound. She went to the door. ‘I might go back with Rose.’
‘Okay,’ said Cheryl.
‘There’s some casserole left if you peckish.’
‘Ta, Nana.’
Since then Milo had woken, grumpy at first, then refreshed, and she’d fed him a banana sandwich and some juice and changed his nappy.
He had some words now; it cracked her up to hear him. ‘Woof’ had been his first word and they still couldn’t pass a dog, a picture of a dog, or hear a dog bark without Milo on the case.
Milo squealed when he saw Vinia and she picked him up and pretended to eat his cheeks, making him writhe and giggle.
When she put him down, Cheryl told him to get in his buggy and he toddled over to it and climbed in. Gave a little one-two kick of his legs in anticipation.
‘I need some cigs,’ Vinia said.
‘Call at Sid’s,’ said Cheryl. Shorthand for Siddique’s – the corner shop.
Cheryl manoeuvred the buggy out of the door and Vinia followed. Cheryl liked the heat. She’d been itching to wear her new shorts and the halter top and today was the day. Her figure was just as good as before she had Milo. Mile high legs, the agency had said, potential runway material. She’d done a few shoots, adverts, mainly print for magazines and promotions, just one for TV, but all that was impossible now, couldn’t pitch up for castings with Milo under her arm.
The sun was fierce and made the colours stronger, the red of the brick walls, the green of the plants in the hanging baskets that some people had up. The sky too looked bluer, a great bowl of blue, not a cloud anywhere. Nana had a tub by the door, no garden at the front ’cos the houses opened right on to the street, and in the tub there was a rose climbing up the wall, big, creamy flowers with that smell of lemon and spice. The smell was stronger, as well.
At the corner, Vinia went into Sid’s and Cheryl waited outside with Milo, watching people coming and going. Plenty of people out, making the most of the good weather. A guy walked by on the other side of the street, skinny, grimy, bare-chested and his skin milk-white, with a backpack on. A dog at his heels. Cheryl didn’t know him.
‘Woof!’ chirruped Milo.
‘Yes, woof,’ Cheryl agreed.
‘Woof!’ Milo was alive with glee. Like he’d never seen a dog before and this was the best dog in the universe. ‘Woof!’ He kept it up, one dimpled finger pointing to the dog, until they disappeared round the turning. Even with the dog gone, Milo muttered ‘Woof’ a couple more times. Savouring the memory.
Danny Macateer came along. A good kid. He stopped to say hello to Milo.
‘Why fer yer not at church?’ Cheryl mimicked her nana. Danny cracked a smile. She knew he got the same from his Nana Rose, and his mum. Nana Rose and Nana had come over on the same boat, way back. Young married women moving with their husbands, answering the call for workers.
‘Rehearsal,’ Danny said to Cheryl.
‘Safe!’ She nodded with approval. ‘You got any gigs?’
‘Maybe Night and Day.’
Cheryl knew it, a bar on Oldham Street that showcased new talent. She’d been to a poetry slam there once.
‘Way! Let us know.’
He nodded, a flush to his cheeks, still awkward with female attention. Cheryl was surprised that no one had snapped him up. A good-looker with brains and an easy way to him. Staying out of trouble, so far. Killer smile. If he was a few years older …
‘Later.’ Danny put his fist to Milo’s. The toddler bumped his hand against the teenager’s. Tiny against the boy’s paw. Cheryl tried to imagine Milo growing that big.
‘Woof,’ the child said.
‘Later.’ Danny nodded to Cheryl.
‘See ya.’
He went on his way. Vinia came out of the shop, lighting a cigarette. Passed one to Cheryl. She lit up, relishing the kick in her throat, the fuzzy sensation at the back of her neck as the nicotine got to work.
They set off again, Cheryl negotiating the buggy to pass people on the narrow pavement. A couple of guys went past, eyes appraising her, one of them whistled, his mate groaned. Cheryl played dumb. Used to it.
‘We’re going to the park, Milo,’ Cheryl said. ‘To the swings.’ He waved one hand.
Cheryl smiled. A lot of people would slag her off – single mum, teenage pregnancy, living on benefits – but Milo was the best thing that ever happened to her. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t do anything else with her life. Get back into modelling once he was in school. Cheryl did nails at home for a bit of extra cash. She had a flair for it. She could do something in that line, if the modelling didn’t take off. Not just beauty though, make-up for film or TV, or music videos. See her name in the credits.
Vinia worked afternoons at H&M in the Arndale. Minimum wage but a discount on the clothes. Vinia blew most of her money on clothes there. She lived at home still. Everyone Cheryl knew was still at home. Crazy prices for flats and houses, even with the recession. Cheryl didn’t mind living with Nana, it helped with having Milo too, she could leave him if she had to go somewhere or she needed a break. Nana could be a bit preachy but she’d lie down and die for Cheryl.
Vinia was telling her about a jacket she had her eyes on, white denim with beading, when a car came round the corner way too fast, the engine snarling. Cheryl pulled the buggy back sharpish and leaned into the wall, away from the road. The car was a silver BMW. Cheryl knew the car, knew the two guys in it: Sam Millins and Carlton. Carlton was Vinia’s stepbrother. They were both bad news. The car roared past them and took a right at Sid’s.
‘You heard about the Nineteen Crew?’ Vinia asked her, keeping her voice low.
Cheryl shook her head.
‘Fired into Sam’s house last night.’
Cheryl swallowed. ‘Anyone hurt?’
‘Nah. They were lucky, man.’ Vinia shook her head. ‘But everyone’s wanting payback now.’
‘Wankers,’ said Cheryl. Vinia cut her eyes at her, a warning. Vinia had to be careful around Carlton. He was a man with a lot of power. A dangerous man. Twenty-four years old and running the neighbourhood like some feudal prince.
Cheryl sighed. Eased the buggy back into the centre of the pavement.
‘Dry clean only.’ Vinia was returning to the theme of her jacket when a loud crack split the air, echoing through the sunlit streets. Vinia looked at Cheryl, Cheryl gave a slight shake of her head. This she did not want. It was never-ending. Tit for tat. Boys running wild with guns and knives.
‘It came from over there.’ Vinia gestured in the direction of the dual carriageway and the recreation ground. She made to walk that way but Cheryl put a hand on her friend’s arm.
‘Wait, there might be more.’
Vinia took a drag of her cigarette and rolled her eyes at Cheryl’s caution. There were no more loud noises until the same car appeared, crossing the road ahead of them. Gone round the block. It careered down the centre of the narrow road and disappeared. Cheryl could smell rubber burning and see the cloud of exhaust, hot, making the road junction ripple in the heat.
‘Come on,’ said Vinia.
They walked quickly to the corner then along Marsh Street to the end. Cheryl saw someone on the grass, halfway across the rec. He had a green sweatshirt on. A woman was running up to him, kneeling down. Some kids on bikes were racing to reach the scene of excitement first. Her heart thumped in her chest. ‘No,’ she moaned. She pulled on her cigarette, her hand trembling, took the smoke in deep.
Vinia swore under her breath.
‘I’m going home.’ Cheryl wheeled the buggy round.
‘Don’t you want to see who it is?’
‘I know who it is.’ Her throat hurt and she felt sick.
Vinia had her hands on her hips, glaring at her.
‘It’s Danny Macateer.’ Cheryl’s eyes burned. She threw down her cigarette.
‘No!’ breathed Vinia. ‘How can you tell from here? We need to get a closer look.’
‘I’m not taking Milo there!’ Cheryl was furious. ‘You think a baby should see that?’ She couldn’t bear the way Vinia was talking about it, the avid interest in her eyes.
‘How do you know it’s him?’
Cheryl didn’t want to tell Vinia that she’d chatted to him. Not wanting to share the words they swapped. ‘He always wears that green top. You go.’ She was anxious to be free of Vinia. ‘I’m going back.’
‘Okay.’
Cheryl pushed the buggy as fast as she could go, biting her lips, her nose stinging, her chest aching. She burst into the house, dragging the buggy in after her. Slammed the door and sat down hard on the sofa.
Later
, he’d said.
Later
. There wouldn’t be any later. He’d not get to rehearse, or play the gig, or make his mum proud. It wasn’t fair. The bastards had shot him down for no reason. He wasn’t in with the gangs. They’d shot him. Maybe a mistake. Or just because they could. And no one could do anything to stop them.
Zak
Z
ak had spent all morning on the supermarket car park near the precinct. He did try getting into the precinct first, tied up Bess at the bike racks, but the guard gave him a stone dead look and jerked his head. ‘On yer way.’
‘I haven’t done ’owt.’ Zak protested, all injured pride.
‘And yer not going to, neither.’ The guy was chewing gum. Nicorette. Zak could smell it. Rank. He’d got some from the GP once, on prescription, sold it in the pub for a knock-down price.
‘Yer can’t do that,’ Zak said. Though he knew he could. Said it for the wind-up really. Liked the idea of toying with the guy for a bit. Bound to be on a short fuse, on the gum, trying to kick the smokes. ‘’S a public place.’
‘Wrong.’ The guy gave a smug little smile. ‘This is a private development, privately owned. Anyone may be refused entry or ejected. And I’m refusing you.’
‘Why, what’s your grounds?’
‘I’m not obliged to say.’
Zak snorted. Drew the roll-up out from behind his ear and fired up.
The guy’s cheek twitched, like there was a bug under the skin. ‘No smoking,’ he said tightly.
Zak took a pull, released it slowly, like an old advert, the smoke swirling up all lazy and relaxed. ‘I’m not inside.’
‘Within ten metres of the entrance.’ The bug jumped again.
Zak took a step back, and another drag.
The guard’s jaw jerked up, his eyes darkened.
‘Fair enough.’ Zak raised his hand, flaunting the ciggie. ‘I get the message. You have a nice day, now.’ He gave a little bow and spun away. Walked back to Bess. She wriggled like mad, ecstatic, as though he’d been gone for hours. He patted her back, rubbed the loose fur under her chin.
After that they went round the other side of the block to the supermarket car park. He left Bess at the far end where there was some shade.
Zak struck lucky first time: a good omen. A youngish woman, early twenties like him, plain-looking with a trolley full of food. He’d watched her load her stuff into the hatchback then return the trolley to the bays and get her pound back. He met her halfway back to her car.
‘Excuse me—’ Zak was always polite – ‘can you help us out? Me mam’s been taken into hospital and I’m trying to get the bus fare to get down there and visit. I don’t like to ask …’
But, already embarrassed, she was fishing in her pocket, handing him the pound coin, apologizing that she hadn’t any more change on her.
There were two advantages to working the supermarket car park as Zak saw it: first off, because you had to use a pound for the trolley then just about everyone had a spare quid on them and second, they were on their way home after the big shop and wouldn’t be hanging around to see him use the same line ten, twenty, thirty more times. Way past the point where he’d made enough for a day-rider on the bus.
The morning went well. He’d a few who refused to acknowledge him and a smart-arse who suggested he get some money out of the hole-in-the-wall or find a job. Then smart-arse’s mate joined in – offering Zak a lift, was she in Wythenshawe? Going that way. The men despised Zak, and it was mutual. Not a thought about why someone might choose to go begging if they had any other way of getting by.
He cleared £22 in an hour and a half. That’d cover food for Bess and some scran of his own: he could feel his belly growling. He’d get a tenner of weed. The price had rocketed recently. His dealer Midge had hung out for long enough but the market wasn’t moving so what could you do?
There was a Pound Shop further down Princess Road, good for dog food, and a Bargain Booze next door. Café on the corner. He and Bess headed down there. He could smell the bacon half a mile away. He got a bacon, sausage and egg barm and a large cola. Ate in the café while Bess waited outside. His mouth flooded with juices at the first bite: the salt of the meat and the silk of the yolk just perfect. The woman was happy to fill Bess’s dish with water. Important she got plenty to drink when it was hot. He saved a piece of sausage for her, a treat. They’d some big chocolate muffins and he got one for out. He had to eat it quick; the chocolate pieces melting in the heat.
He put the tins of dog food and the cider he bought in his backpack and went over to the park. Had a drink and a fag. He was feeling good, he told himself, everything going his way. He only had 60p credit on his phone so he texted Midge to say he’d be round later and to keep him ten quid’s worth. He ought to top up his phone; he liked to keep in credit in case he got news about his mam.
The cider coming after the meal, took the edge off. When he was working everything was wound up tight, ready to flee or fight if need be. No knowing what might kick off. A clenched fist inside his guts. Eyes everywhere. He never let that show; it’d scare the punters off if you were all wired. Now, he could chill. The sun was fierce on his face. He slipped off his top and spread it out beneath him. Lay back on the grass. He always went freckly in the sun, burnt easily, but some sun was good for you, vitamins or something. Bess whined and wriggled closer, laid her head on his chest. He grabbed the scruff at the back of her neck. ‘Good dog, atta girl.’ He felt the thud of her tail twice on the ground.
A while later he decided to head off for Midge’s. They cut through the estate. Some kid in a buggy took a shine to Bess, calling after her. At Marsh Street, Zak went left, saw the house at the end facing across the rec to the big road, kitchen window flung open. Singing to him. An invitation. Too good to be true? Sixth sense told him there was no one home. He went round on to Booth Street, no car outside the front. The tiny space in the back yard wouldn’t fit a car, motorbike at most. Zak rang the front door bell, waited, listened. Nada.
He told Bess to sit by the gable wall. Sunday afternoon and Zak could see people crossing Marsh Street further along. He waited until no one was visible on Marsh Street itself or along the alleyway that separated the backs of this row of houses from those running parallel and tried the back gate. Wouldn’t shift. He jumped up, gripping the top and hoisted himself up, trainers scrabbling for purchase. The yard was small, neat, paved with pink and white flags and a white plastic table and chairs by the back door. The wheelie bin was just below the open window. Sweet. He took a look in, listened again. Not wanting any surprises. He emptied his backpack, leaving the dog food and cider on the table.
He went in head first, lowered himself down and took his weight on the edge of the sink. Always liked gymnastics, only thing he was any good at in school. Managed to get his feet down without knocking anything off the draining board.
He swept through the downstairs first, looking for anything small and valuable. In drawers, cupboards, on the coffee table. His heart was racing, sweat sticky on the back of his neck. Found a camera, and a small bamboo box with two twenties in. He took the stairs two at a time, no telling how long they’d be out. Might just have gone for a paper, or popped round to the neighbour’s.
Nothing in the bathroom. Little bedroom full of kid’s stuff, bunk beds, small TV and, yes!, an Xbox 360. He disconnected it, fitted it in his bag, heavy but worth the effort. His lucky day.
In the big bedroom at the front there were a couple of necklaces and some rings, a nice little ornament, a girl and some birds, the sort people collect. Worth a few quid.
Zak glanced out of the window and saw to his left a silver BMW drive up along the top end of the rec. The car stopped suddenly and threw a load of dust up behind it. A man jumped out. A big guy with his hair cut close, a number two, and a short beard like a dark rectangle under his mouth. He was wearing a yellow vest, lots of bling and dark baggy baseball shorts, high-tops. Zak knew him: Carlton. Hard man. The car was his mate’s. Carlton was holding a gun. Aiming at a lad crossing the grass, bound for the big road. The lad didn’t see him.
Zak heard the crack of the shot as the kid fell. Zak’s stomach plummeted, there was a yawning inside, like a hole waiting for him. A current of fear zapping through him. There was a moment when Carlton was looking straight across to where Zak stood paralysed. Could Carlton see him? Zak was sweating more; he had that loose, sick feeling. Then Carlton ran towards the car. Zak hoofed it downstairs. He could hear Bess barking, warning him, sensing danger. There was a hessian bag hanging up in the kitchen, writing on it. Zak grabbed it and chucked it out of the window. He knew he wouldn’t fit through with the backpack on, all the stuff in it, so he used an apron and rolled it into a rope, his hands shaking, fumbling. He tied one end to the pack and, standing on the sink, lowered his booty down carefully on to the wheelie bin. He let go of the apron-rope and was starting to smile when the backpack tilted sharply to the right and tumbled down on to the flags.
Zak swore, clambered up and out of the window. Slithered down on to the wheelie bin and then righted himself. He didn’t stop to assess any damage but slung the dog food and cider in the shopper and then opened the bolt on the back gate to let himself out.
Bess stopped barking and wagged her tail. He headed back away from the recreation ground, into the estate. He was shaking. Got to get to Midge’s, have a blow, calm down. Wishing this wasn’t happening. It had all been going so well.
He heard the whoop of sirens after a while and increased his pace. By the time they got to Midge’s, Zak was tight as a cat’s arse, heart going like the clappers. He didn’t mention the shooting, didn’t want Midge to know he was there. Word would get round about it all soon enough. Zak didn’t want it in his head. He just bought his stuff. Had a blunt one then and there, shared the cider.
The figurine was smashed to bits but he showed Midge the Xbox and Midge said he might be interested for his nephew. They tried it out but the bastard thing was knackered. He should have known.
That night, back in the derelict house he was dossing in, he couldn’t settle. His skin humming and the ball of dread there again. Echoes bounced in his head: fists and sticks, a locked room, hot delirium. He woke in the early hours with a whimper, spitting and retching. Trying to get rid of the sensation in his mouth: the brittle, bitter flakes, the taste of salt and rubber and soil. His mouth watering and his back aching with each uncontrollable spasm. He tried to tell himself it was just a dream but he knew it was more than that.
He rolled another smoke, extra strong. Felt his skin slacken, everything melt. ‘Something’ll turn up,’ he whispered to Bess. ‘It’ll be all right.’