‘Just do it!’ He flung a hand at the school meals form, pushed away from the table and walked to the fridge.
‘Bit early, isn’t it?’ Her voice tight as he opened the door.
Swearing, Mike slammed it shut, the fridge rocking, bottles and jars inside clanking.
That he should come to this. A man unable to feed and clothe his children. After years of solid hard work, careful budgeting. Years of being prudent and reliable, responsible and honest – and for what? Now he couldn’t even provide for his family.
The dole officer had the decency to be honest with Mike about the prospects. Over fifty people chasing every vacancy, more if it was above minimum wage.
‘Anything you can do to improve your profile would help.’
He gave Mike leaflets and offered him a special assessment interview. The lad was friendly, polite and sympathetic but they both knew he was on a hiding to nothing with Mike.
Mike’s dad had been on the dole for a couple of years back in the eighties. He’d become depressed and irritable, carping at Mike’s mum about the meals she scraped together, bossing Mike about more than usual. He was in danger of turning into his father. An appalling thought.
Danny Macateer’s murder was on Crimewatch. They showed a re-enactment, and some of what Mike had told Joe Kitson was repeated.
‘I told them that-’ he turned to Vicky – ‘about the car, the colour of the guy’s clothes.’ He’d a sense of delight, a glow of excitement, daft but there all the same.
Vicky looked like he’d slapped her.
‘What?’
Kirsty Young on the telly was talking about how someone must know something, asking them to pick up the phone.
‘The reason no one’s come forward is because it’s a gang thing,’ Vicky said.
‘The lad wasn’t in a gang, they said that all along,’ Mike told her.
‘But those that did it are, and no one will dare say anything. If they do they’ll be punished.’
‘It’s not right.’ He shook his head, not seeing where she was going with it.
‘What if they come after you?’
‘Me? Don’t be thick!’
‘Listen.’ Her face was white, naked. ‘That’s what they do. They have ways of finding out who’s a witness and then they get to them.’
‘What ways?’ He couldn’t believe this.
She closed her eyes tightly, her fists balls of fury. ‘It doesn’t matter what ways, they just do.’
‘Suddenly you’re an expert on gang crime?’
‘Everyone knows!’ Her voice grating. ‘They’ll threaten you, make you stop.’
‘No,’ he argued, putting his hand on her knee trying to calm her. She shoved it away.
‘They could.’ She was taut, ready to snap.
‘Vicky.’ He caught her hand, held it between his own. ‘They’ve not even charged anyone yet. They’re still appealing for help. It means they haven’t got enough to pick the bloke up, not enough evidence. People like us don’t get targeted; he won’t know us from Adam.’ He spoke faster as she tried to interrupt, emphasizing his words, as if the right stresses could force her to change her mind. ‘But until there’s a trial there’s no risk at all. The only reason they’d put the frighteners on someone would be to stop them testifying, and then it’d only be those people they knew. Others in the neighbourhood, families and that. And there is no trial.’ He bent his head, forcing eye contact, her hand warm in his. ‘There probably never will be. Okay?’