‘Storytime at the library then maybe the park.’
‘Good. Get some bread on the way back.’
‘And milk?’
‘Yes.’ Nana went to her bag.
‘I’ve got some,’ Cheryl said. ‘My benefit’s in.’
Nana nodded, took a coin from her bag anyway, gave it to her. ‘Get him an ice-cream or something.’
Cheryl sat with Milo and half a dozen other mums and toddlers on the carpet in the children’s section. The librarian, Maeve, made the story come alive, even for the littlest ones who were more inclined to crawl away or try to eat the books. She pointed out the details in the big picture book, repeated the simple sentences and encouraged any and all contributions from the children. Each week she finished with some action rhymes which the mothers could repeat at home: ‘Pat-a-Cake’, ‘Incy Wincy Spider’, ‘Five Little Speckled Frogs’ and ‘The Wheels on the Bus’.
Milo crooned along, shouting loudly the words at the end of each line.
When the session was over, Cheryl hung around until the rest had gone then asked Maeve if she could book on to one of the computers. Maeve scanned her card, put her on terminal two and told her to yell if she needed any help. Cheryl picked out a couple of board books for Milo, nothing he could rip up, and settled him at her feet.
She launched the browser then glanced about: someone else on a computer further along, a couple of people scanning the fiction section and three students working at the tables. No one near enough to see.
Cheryl typed in the search bar and hit enter. She felt the skin on her arms tighten and her stomach shrink as the results appeared. Sitting up straighter she clicked the link to the Greater Manchester Police website. Danny’s name was there on the right under Featured Appeals.
Weeks had turned into months and Cheryl had waited for things to change. For the raw, tarnished feeling she had, like she’d done something awful, to evaporate but it remained. It took the shine off everything. It made her throat ache, like she wanted to cry and couldn’t. It had taken her long enough to accept it was because of Danny, because she had no guts, no honour, she was just like everyone else, weak and useless. There were times she hated Nana for her certainty and her principles and her preaching. Knowing she couldn’t match up, came nowhere close.
Cheryl swallowed, she pressed her knees together and followed the link. There was Danny’s picture, the same one that had hung over his coffin at the memorial service. Cheryl read the text.
Sixteen-year-old Danny Macateer should have been starting his A-level studies this September but on Sunday 20 June Danny was shot once in the chest as he crossed the recreation ground by Booth Street in Hulme. He was taken to hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival.