Authors: Cath Staincliffe
Cheryl
T
he tradition was to celebrate the one who had passed for nine nights. No one seemed to know why it was that number, not even Nana who usually couldn’t shut up about the old country customs back in Jamaica.
The Macateer house was full of people. Some had come up from London and Bristol and Birmingham, branches of the family Cheryl didn’t even know. It wasn’t just for family either, everyone in the community turned up. No invitation needed. Some nights it was hard to figure out how they would all fit in: it wasn’t a big house. But they did and the food and the drinks kept coming. Plates of fried chicken and fish, curry and patties, rice and peas, loaves of white bread and big, fat sponge cakes.
The place was noisy with chatter and laughter, got raucous as the evenings deepened and more rum and Red Stripe was consumed. People sang old tunes, hymns, gospel, some nights they’d put music on and dance. Cheryl wondered how Auntie Paulette and Nadine and the others could stand it. Didn’t they want to grieve in peace?
‘That come later,’ said Nana, ‘after the funeral. All the time in the world they have then.’ She was up most nights, sitting beside her friend Rose, slipping to the kitchen to clear up paper plates or wash glasses. With so many there of Nana’s own age Cheryl saw her in a different light. She was the most outspoken, prickly even. She’d say a thing and then there’d be a pause and someone would cut their eyes at her but Nana would stand her ground. Little things or big, it didn’t seem to matter. She was loudest of all talking about what had happened to Danny and how shameful it was that people were running scared, keeping quiet. ‘Like a new set of chains, slaves to fear,’ she pronounced one night, just as Cheryl was preparing to head back home to put Milo to bed. Late already and Milo grizzling in her arms. Rose nodded at Nana’s words but other people murmured, disliking the sentiment. There were people in the room linked to Carlton, though neither he nor Vinia had been down. Auntie Paulette kept saying she didn’t want anyone at the funeral that was part of the gangs but the gangs weren’t a fixed thing. Not like joining the gym or enrolling at college. No membership cards or contracts. Some people were there for life, or death, calling the shots and making the money, but the younger kids might run an errand now and then, hide a gun or deliver a package. Might do a favour for a friend or a cousin and never a thing more. Others would start their own operation, something small that wouldn’t disrespect the main players. Most of the people in the room had a notion who’d killed Danny Macateer. And Cheryl knew for sure. Even though she hadn’t seen them fire the gun. It sat inside her like something rotten, a clump of dirt making her sick.
The day of the funeral was dull but dry, the sky a grey, wool blanket trapping the air which smelt of steel. Outside the church a crowd of reporters with cameras filmed everyone arriving. They kept a distance, behind the railings across the road, and they were quiet, though there was the click and flash and ding and sizzle as they took their pictures. The church was full, people standing at the back, and folding chairs brought out to create extra rows behind the pews. As people arrived there were greetings, men shaking hands and hugging each other, acquaintances waving, people who hadn’t met at the nine nights smiling in surprise and recognition. Cheryl’s heart kicked when she saw Vinia and her mother: had Carlton come? Of course not, he’d be a fool to do that for all his front.
Cheryl, Nana and Milo were three rows back, behind the immediate family who would follow the coffin into church. Above the altar hung a huge banner, a picture of Danny. It wasn’t a formal one, not a school photo or a pose from a family wedding, but something more relaxed. As if someone had just caught the moment: Danny, his head tilted a little, his eyes alive with merriment, his smile wide and open. The life in him!
Danny Martin Macateer
, read the words beneath in black edged with gold,
1993–2009
. It brought a lump to Cheryl’s throat, it hurt to swallow.
‘Who took the picture?’ she asked Nana, who’d been party to many of the arrangements.
‘Nadine.’
Cheryl wondered what it was like to lose a twin. Had they shared that special bond you read about? When Danny was shot, had Nadine felt it? Or sensed something really bad was going down? She’d been in church at the time, had she turned dizzy or felt a spike of pain pierce her heart?
Music started up, some piano sounding sweet and low, and the procession came down the central aisle. Reverend James and then Danny’s coffin, a huge bouquet on top, yellow roses, white lilies, green ferns and golden dahlias. The family followed and slid into their places. Cheryl could see Nadine’s back, the arch of her neck, the shape of her head, so like her brother’s.
There were prayers from the Reverend and readings from the Bible then testimonials. People queued up to speak about the boy, to make jokes, and share memories, read poems and quotes. Mr Gaunt, Danny’s music teacher, spoke and Mr Throstle the school head whose voice wavered towards the end of his praises. Danny’s uncle and his cousin took a turn, then another cousin. Danny’s band played a song he’d written, the little guy on the drums, his eyes red from weeping. Bobby Carr, the community leader, spoke about the peril that stalked the streets and the need for hope and vision, the need to take the guns from the hands of the boys who were lost and brutalized and deadly and give them work, hope, life. He promised Danny Macateer should not die in vain. Cheryl clamped her teeth tight together and felt the acid rise behind her breastbone, the sweat prickle around the edge of her hair.
Finally Nadine walked to the front. She looked a thousand years old, her eyes bottomless. She raised her face to speak then faltered, shook her head and covered her mouth. Murmurs of support echoed from the congregation. She tried again, her voice just audible. ‘This is how I remember Danny, my brother. His spirit is with me still. He will always be with me.’
A large screen to the left of the altar lit up and a cascade of images and music unfolded, fragments from Danny’s YouTube pieces, home movies, band practice. Danny fooling around, showing off, Danny concentrating, one arm rubbing the back of his neck, Danny singing, his eyes closed, mouth close to the mic, Danny trying to moonwalk, Danny with a wig on performing a speech from his drama course, opening a Christmas present. Laughing, head flung back, arms wide. The life shining from him. The picture froze and Reverend James thanked them all and invited them to the burial at Southern Cemetery.
Finally, as the procession followed the coffin out of the church, faces blurred with grief, ‘Abraham, Martin, John’ soared, filling the space, Marvin Gaye’s song about how the good die young. Cheryl sobbed and clung to her nana and Milo crawled between them pulling at their sleeves, disturbed by all these tears.
At the cemetery, a couple of miles south of the church, Milo was restless and Cheryl let him wander about while they lowered the coffin into the grave and Reverend James spoke again. The mourners sang at the graveside – one of the cousins had printed off hymn sheets. The day was still, muffled, but the voices sounded raw and broken. Cheryl couldn’t sing. Her chest felt too tight.
They waited until the grave was filled. Cheryl knew there were old stories from the islands of the dead trying to walk again, or of robbers taking the body, and people were still superstitious even in a different country and modern times.
Back at the church hall, Milo staggered about between legs, under the buffet tables, fractious and full of temper. Cheryl took him out and pushed him in his stroller round the car park until he fell asleep. After that, for the next two hours, even the sound of the band playing didn’t wake him.
The day wound on, the lights came on in the hall, half the guests were outside smoking. Cheryl had lost count of the people she’d spoken to, the cigarettes she’d had. Vinia had been cosying up to one of the boys from Birmingham, even though she knew he was due to be a daddy with another girl.
When they finally left, Vinia walked back with them. A starless sky. The streets looked tired in the sodium light, jaundiced. Cheryl wanted Vinia gone but Nana asked her if she’d like to stay and she said yes, double quick.
Milo never stirred when Cheryl put him in his cot. He’d got his second wind late afternoon and been on the go ever since, playing hide and seek and tig with the other kids. Cheryl looked at him lying there, his cheek sticky with sugar from some cake, his knees grubby, the curls at the nape of his neck tangled. He was perfect. Beautiful. Every time she saw him afresh she felt the glow in her heart, the big, hot, rush of love for him.
Nana was sitting in her chair, eyes closed, head resting back while Vinia made some tea. Nana looked old, the skin slack on her jaw, draped loose on her neck. Her brow and the sides of her mouth, deep furrows. When she opened her eyes to take the mug from Vinia, Cheryl saw that the whites of her eyes were yellow.
‘It’s a terrible thing.’ Nana blew on her tea.
Cheryl and Vinia murmured in agreement. Though Cheryl felt like strangling her if she said it again.
‘And no one speaks up. Someone knows.’
‘It’s not easy, Nana,’ Cheryl said.
‘I ain’t saying it’s easy but it is right. There is right and there is wrong.’
‘It was a lovely service.’ Vinia tried to head Nana off but she wasn’t for turning.
‘It wasn’t easy for Dr Martin Luther King but he speak out,’ she began the litany. ‘It wasn’t easy for Nelson Mandela but he never give in. Never.’ The skin on her face wobbled as she shook her head for emphasis. ‘Years in prison.’ She was on a roll now, jabbing her finger at them, her frown deeper, voice husky like she was wearing it out. ‘It wasn’t easy for Rosa Parks but she stood up.’
‘No, Nana, she sat down.’ Cheryl quipped. She’d been reared on the stories of these heroes, Rosa Parks refusing to go to the back of the bus, parking herself on one of the ‘white’ seats, a civil rights pioneer. Vinia laughed.
Nana snorted her displeasure, her eyes grew hard. ‘There’s talk your stepbrother might know something,’ she challenged Vinia.
Cheryl tensed, pressing her toes into the floor. Was that why Nana had asked her friend if she wanted to stay? To try and shame her into saying something?
‘That’s crazy,’ said Vinia. ‘Stupid talk.’
‘No way!’ Cheryl backed Vinia up.
Nana sipped her tea. ‘Sad day,’ she said and struggled to her feet. Cheryl didn’t know if she meant the day was sad because of the funeral, or because people were afraid to speak about the murder. ‘Goodnight and God bless,’ she told them.
‘G’night,’ Cheryl said, hands cupping her own drink, the heat hurting her fingers, studying the tremor on the surface of the tea, unable to meet Nana’s eyes.
Mike
M
ike woke suddenly at five. Bolt upright in bed, slippery with sweat. He grabbed a breath, listened, wondering whether Megan had cried out, though she usually came into their room if she’d had a bad dream and wriggled between them. No one got much sleep after that, her elbows and knees sharp as tacks. Plus she snored. A four-year-old! Mike asked Vicky once if they should get her checked out. Vicky rolled her eyes and told him to forget it: they’d enough on their plates seeing doctors for Kieran, Megan was just fine.
The house was quiet. Vicky, beside him, turned over and pulled at the duvet. Mike lay back down and closed his eyes. Had he been dreaming? He didn’t usually remember his dreams. Now he sensed an aftertaste, like a blurred reflection of something wrong, something shameful. The old sour feeling from way back, times he didn’t want to think about. He wiped it away, steam on a mirror, and tried to sleep; if he got back off sharpish he’d have another two hours.
Their routine proper began at seven. Kids up and dressed. Breakfast, packed lunches. At twenty past eight Vicky did the school run. Kieran was at Brook School, a place catering for children with Autistic Spectrum Disorder. There’d never been any suggestion of him going into mainstream schools, his needs too varied, too complex. Stick him in the local primary and he’d have sat in the corner for six hours, unreachable.
The staff at Brook were fantastic. Kieran had his own programme, a combination of one-to-one and group sessions to assist with his physical, mental and social skills. He’d come on in leaps and bounds, now able to greet people he’d not met before and sometimes answer simple questions. They all knew there were limits to what Kieran would achieve. He’d never live independently. Probably never take a bus ride unaccompanied. That frightened Mike more than anything. That when he and Vicky went, not to be maudlin or owt, Kieran would be in the care of the state. You couldn’t put that on to Megan, she’d have her own life to lead, maybe her own family. Might live abroad or anything.
Vicky had been home with Megan for three months after she was born but they couldn’t manage without Vicky’s income. She’d asked her mum to have Megan while she visited her customers but her mum’s health wasn’t great so it was a relief when they got a place at the childminder’s and were able to claim the fees back. Now Megan was at the nursery attached to the primary school and thriving on it. Vicky worked school hours and some evenings when Mike could sort the kids.
Mike let his thoughts drift. Wondered if a holiday might possibly be an option this year. Some last-minute bargain break. It would mean organizing respite care for Kieran. They’d only done that once before and they weren’t sure whether the pain was worth the gain. The stress of worrying how Kieran was, the guilt of being off on the beach, at the café or in the pool without him. Vicky had missed him, grown tearful by the end of the stay, homesick for the lad. Mike too, though not so bad. ‘It’s been good for Megan,’ he told Vicky, ‘look at her.’ She was laughing and splashing in the toddler pool.
‘She’s happy anywhere,’ Vicky said.
The alarm woke Mike just as he slipped away. He came swimming to consciousness: his mouth dry, his head aching. He wondered if he was coming down with a cold. Too bad. They didn’t do illness. Couldn’t afford to.
At the loading bay, Mike checked off his delivery sheet and packed the van so he’d got the parcels in the right sequence Most of it was short-run stuff, within ten miles of the depot. But he’d one delivery out into Cheshire, beyond Bollington. That’d make a change. The winding lanes instead of city bottlenecks. A bit of scenery. He’d aim for that in the middle of the day, have his butties in a lay-by somewhere. It was shaping up to be fine: a few clouds but no rain forecast.
Ian was prowling around looking for an argument so Mike got his stuff packed and didn’t hang about.
It took him forever to make his first two drops. Extensions to the tram network meant diversions and road closures, forcing the heavy traffic into a smaller number of routes. He made a stop in Ancoats where the process of converting crumbling warehouses from the rag trade into luxury gaffs for professionals continued even in the teeth of the recession. Then he crossed town to Salford Quays, where the BBC’s Media City was nearing completion.
Coming back into Manchester took him along Princess Road and past the recreation ground. There was a mobile cop shop there now and placards on the lamp-posts:
Witness Appeal, Serious Incident
. That’s when he saw the car.
Up ahead of him, taking a right, a silver BMW X5. He felt his guts clench and a jolt travel the length of his forearms. He checked his mirrors, indicated and nipped out. If he could just get the number plate. There were two other cars between him and his quarry, waiting for the lights to change.
He could get a picture. He rooted for his phone and pulled it out, switched the camera on. The traffic lights went red-and-amber then green. The Beemer moved at speed into the side road. One guy inside, but the angle of the sunlight cast reflections on the driver’s window and Mike couldn’t make the man out.
Halfway down the side street one of the other cars slowed to park. No indicator. Mike swore at him and swung out to overtake, his pulse jumping, just in time to register the Beemer perform a U-turn. Heading back towards him. Mike jammed on his brakes and grabbed the phone. Suddenly he was slammed forward, his head glancing off the windscreen, the seat belt biting into his shoulder, head snapping back and a burning at his wrists. He heard the sound of metal and glass and the whoomp of the impact, as the car behind him rear-ended his van. Then the whoop of an alarm, fast and urgent, howling in his ears, matching his heartbeat.