Free Witness by Cath Staincliffe Page B

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