Crying Out Loud by Cath Staincliffe Page A

What’s it like?’
    â€˜Freezing.’ He folded his arms tightly.
    â€˜What else?’
    â€˜The wind’s blowing. It’s dark.’
    â€˜What are you wearing?’ I asked.
    â€˜Jeans, sweat-top, jacket.’
    â€˜Good. What’s in your pockets?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Damien?’
    â€˜Some stuff: wrap of coke, a joint, lighter.’
    Maybe that’s why he hesitated. ‘OK, what did you do next?’
    â€˜Took the stuff.’ Something we hadn’t covered last time. So maybe this was progress.
    â€˜The coke?’
    â€˜And the joint,’ he said. ‘I needed a little something, take the edge off.’
    â€˜Where were you while you did this?’ Surely he’d not be in plain view.
    â€˜In the bus shelter.’
    â€˜Did you see anyone?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Cars?’
    â€˜Some, not many.’
    â€˜Then what?’ I was making notes as he spoke, writing quickly in a shorthand I’ve invented. It’s a bit like text messaging – heavy on the consonants – but I also include sketches where that’s useful.
    â€˜I needed some money, to get the bus. There were some places up the hill; I thought I’d check them out.’
    â€˜Why up the hill? That’s away from the main road, isn’t it?’
    He raised his head. ‘Yeah, but there’s a pub along the bottom road, and a garage. There’s going to be cameras. Don’t wanna end up on You’ve Been Framed ,’ he said. ‘But I have – been framed,’ he added morosely.
    You confessed, I wanted to point out, hardly a stitch up, but I stuck to my script – no diversions. ‘You set off up the hill, what can you see?’
    â€˜Not much. Lights in the windows at one place up the hill.’
    â€˜You still cold?’
    â€˜Worse. Sometimes the weed’ll do that,’ he said, as if passing on a tip.
    â€˜Any noises?’
    â€˜Can’t remember.’
    â€˜The drugs: how do they make you feel?’ I said.
    â€˜Bit of a buzz, a lift.’
    â€˜Do they distort anything?’ He’d been stoned; I wanted to know how that skewed his perception.
    â€˜It’s only coke and weed,’ he said derisively. ‘Not like I’m on acid or shrooms.’
    I nodded. ‘Go on.’
    â€˜I passed the place with the lights on. Too risky. Checked the cars on the road, though; people leave change for parking, even if there’s no valuables but they were locked. Immobilizers on.’ The way he elaborated made me think he was actually remembering rather than making this up. That’s what Sinclair had said: liars keep it simple, shorn of detail.
    â€˜What sort of cars?’
    â€˜A Mondeo and an old Volvo.’ No hesitation – there for the asking. He laughed, his eyes flared with surprise. ‘Sound, man.’
    â€˜Looks like it works,’ I remarked. ‘So, you pass the cars.’
    â€˜Go up and round the bend. There’s a bloke coming down.’
    â€˜What’s he wearing?’
    He closed his eyes. ‘A dark coat.’
    â€˜What else?’ I said.
    â€˜Dunno.’
    â€˜Is he carrying anything?’
    â€˜No—’ Damien broke off, corrected himself. ‘A backpack.’
    â€˜Does he say anything?’
    â€˜No. He’s in a hurry.’
    â€˜Walking fast?’
    â€˜Yeah. And  . . . breathing hard.’
    I wondered what the hesitation meant. Was he recovering the memory or fleshing out his phantom suspect for me? I needed to push and find out as much as I could about the man he claimed to have seen. ‘Describe him?’
    â€˜Can’t remember. Never really got a look at him, and I wasn’t drawing attention to myself.’
    â€˜Was he taller than you?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Smaller?’
    â€˜The same.’ Again it sounded like a stab in the dark.
    â€˜You sure it was a