Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘Don’t be disgusting,’ she’d exclaimed, then.

  He’d laughed. ‘It’s perfectly normal,’ he said.

  Then, she had believed him. Now, she’s not so sure.

  The prodding at her back is insistent.

  She squeezes her eyes shut, tries to ignore it.

  A hand snakes around her waist.

  ‘Don’t.’ She pushes it away.

  ‘Come on,’ he wheedles. ‘You can tell I’m horny.’

  ‘I’m not feeling up for it tonight. I’ve got my period.’

  ‘So?’ The hand strays downwards.

  Sod it! She shouldn’t have let on.

  She feels strong fingers between her thighs.

  They tug at the tampon. ‘What have we here?’

  A sudden movement.

  She turns.

  He dangles the tampon over his face, sniffs appreciatively, then drops it onto the bed.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He moves to mount her. ‘I’ll be quick.’

  It’ll Sort

  Wilma stood on Maggie’s doorstep. ‘Well?’ she challenged with a hostile stare.

  ‘What’s up?’ Maggie drew her dressing-gown tighter across her chest. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ She took in Wilma’s dishevelled state: bird’s nest hair, skimpy jacket over leopard-print pyjamas, bare feet protruding from an outsize pair of fluffy mules.

  ‘Aye. Time ah wisna standin here,’ Wilma shivered. ‘Can ah come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ Maggie took a step back. ‘Come away through.’

  Wilma shot down the hallway, switched on the dining-room light, parked herself on a chair.

  Maggie shut the front door and followed. ‘You look perished. Can I get you something? Cup of tea?’

  ‘It’s a bloody drink ah’m needin.’ Wilma stamped her feet. ‘Brandy, if ye’ve got it.’ She rubbed the circulation back into her hands. ‘An mak it a big one.’

  Maggie sank to her knees and rummaged in the back of the sideboard. ‘I’m sure I had some left,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘From the Christmas cake.’

  ‘Which Christmas was that?’ Wilma muttered sotto voce.

  ‘I can hear you, madam.’ Maggie didn’t turn. ‘Here it is,’ she unearthed a dumpy bottle. Half-turning, she held it up to the light.

  ‘Christ,’ Wilma eyed the inch of amber liquid in the bottom. ‘That wouldn’t last a minute in my house.’

  Clutching her trailing housecoat in one hand, Maggie struggled to her feet. ‘Do you want it or not?’

  ‘Give it here.’ Wilma stuck out a blue-tinged hand. ‘Dinna bother wi a glass.’

  ‘So.’ Maggie sat facing her friend. ‘What’s this all this about?’

  ‘What?’ Wilma’s face and hands had resumed a pinkish tinge, which was more than could be said for Maggie who, roused from sleep, was chalk white.

  ‘This nocturnal…’ She fought for clarity. ‘Visitation.’

  Wilma made a face. ‘Ye couldna use jist the one syllable when four would do?’

  ‘Wilma Harcus, if you think you’re going to come knocking on my door at,’ she checked her watch, ‘two in the morning. And then take the piss, you’ve got another think…’ She broke off as a fat tear slid down Wilma’s cheek.

  ‘Wilma.’ Maggie shoved the empty bottle aside, grasped her friend’s hand. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘H-here,’ Wilma hiccupped. ‘H-him.’ She brushed a sleeve across her dripping nose.

  ‘Ian?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Have you two had a row?’

  ‘Ah’d say,’ Wilma produced a sheepish grin, ‘that was a fuckin understatement.’

  Inwardly, Maggie sighed. If the pair of them had had a set-to, she’d have put money on Wilma coming out on top, especially now she had her boxing gym training behind her. Covertly, she checked her neighbour’s knuckles for signs of injury. Found none.

  ‘What brought that on?’ she asked.

  ‘Och,’ Wilma muttered into her chest, ‘he wis kickin up.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Us.’

  ‘The agency?’

  ‘Aye. Wettin hisself on account of the hours ah’ve been puttin in. Says it’s one thing you knockin yer pan oot, it’s anither me daein the same.’

  ‘Well.’ Maggie stroked Wilma’s hand. ‘He’s right, you know.’

  Wilma shook her off. ‘That’s as may be, but the stushie wisna on account of agency business. It’s been brewin for a while. What finally got his goat wis ma extra wee shift at the pub. Anyhow,’ she set her chin. ‘It’s nae up tae him. He disna own me.’

  ‘No.’ Maggie’s heart tugged as she recalled the row she’d had with George over the Seaton job. ‘He doesn’t.’

  ‘An we’re no goin tae make a success of things sittin on oor fat arses. Oh.’ Wilma put a hand to her mouth. ‘Didna mean that whit div ye say…?’

  ‘Literally,’ Maggie finished the sentence.

  The doorbell chimed.

  ‘Shush,’ Wilma put a finger to her lips. ‘Switch the light off.’

  ‘Why?’ Maggie protested. ‘Nobody can see us.’

  ‘It’ll be Ian. He might go round the back.’

  It rang again.

  Oh to hell! Maggie cursed. All she needed was for Colin to waken.

  Wilma leapt to her feet and made a dive for the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. She tiptoed back across and sat down.

  The two sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity before they heard footsteps receding, a door slam shut.

  ‘You’ll think ah’m a daft cow.’ Loud whisper. ‘Divorcin wan bugger an then fallin oot wi the next.’

  ‘You don’t need to whisper, Wilma. He’s gone. But from what you’ve told me, Darren was a different kettle of fish altogether.

  ‘Ye can say that again. I’ve still got the marks.’

  Maggie chose not to go there. ‘But,’ she probed, ‘Ian seems so easy-going.’

  ‘He is.’ Wilma sounded shame-faced. ‘It’s jist, ah used tae think – when Ian an me met up first – folk were better over here than in Torry. An men were better than women, wherever. But since you and me got together, well…ah reckon now ah’ve a career,’ she paused. ‘A proper business career,’ she enunciated carefully. ‘Not a bunch of low-paid skivvying jobs. He should give my opinions the time of day.’

  Lord! Maggie thought she had a lot to answer for as it was. Now she was turning Wilma into a feminist. Come to think on it, she’d become much more vocal herself since she’d taken on the agency. She smiled as she recalled the tongue-lashing she’d given Detective Inspector Chisolm the first time he’d called.

  ‘So,’ she continued, ‘how did it end up?’

  ‘Told him to stuff his effin bungalow up his effin arse.’

  Maggie burst out laughing. ‘You never did.’

  ‘Aye.’ Outraged voice. ‘And I meant it.’

  ‘Which is why we’re sitting here in the dark in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Aye,’ Wilma mumbled. ‘Sorry to wake you, Maggie. And you needing all the rest ye can get.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Just as long as Colin doesn’t decide to join us,’ Maggie stifled a yawn. ‘Now why don’t I put the kettle on?’

  ‘I’ll not be needing tea.’

  ‘No.’ Maggie rose. ‘But I could use something warm in my stomach to send me back to sleep. And while I’m at it I’ll fill you a hot water bottle.’ She crossed to switch on the light. ‘Then you can cosy up in Kirsty’s bed.’

  ‘Thanks pal.’

  ‘And Wilma…’

  From beneath heavy eyelids Wilma peered up.

  ‘It’ll sort.’

  IV

  A Fly Cup

  The body lay, half in half out of the bed, one ha
nd clutching at the counterpane. As if the woman had decided to get up. Changed her mind. Tried to climb back in again.

  That’s women for you, was PC Ian Souter’s first reaction. His mind jumped to the last female corpse he’d attended: student Lucy Simmons spread-eagled on a cold, hard tombstone in a dank, dark kirk-yard. Briskly, he dismissed the thought.

  The bedside light was on. He looked around. The room was large, big enough to fit in the entire first floor of his chalet bungalow in Bridge of Don, he thought covetously. And well-furnished, in a dated sort of a way: embossed wallpaper, velvet pile carpet, heavy brocade curtains over delicate voile blinds. The fitted oak wardrobes looked bespoke, even to his untrained eye. A pair of matching, solid wood cabinets framed the sumptuously dressed king-size bed. Like the downstairs – what little Souter had seen as he and Miller charged through the front door – it all screamed money.

  The woman was small, slight, her short dark hair tousled from sleep. And of a certain age. Souter wasn’t great at judging, but he reckoned mid-forties. She was wearing a nightgown: pink satin edged with lace. One shoestring strap had slipped from her shoulder, the hem ridden up to her thighs. Probably cost a bomb, though the thing would hardly have covered her at the best of times. Not like the passion-killer his own wife had sported throughout the winter. Shirley felt the cold, and their house had been Baltic since they’d turned the heating down. This place, on the other hand, was toasty. He pictured the energy reminder sitting in his hall. Pulled a face.

  He squatted by the woman’s side. Grasped hold of one limp wrist, searched for the radial pulse. No joy. He looked up. Atop the bedside cabinet, a bookmark peeped from a paperback book: Lie With Me. Souter wondered if it was steamy. A china cup and saucer held the remains of what looked like tea. He noted a box of tissues – one of those cube things, flowery – halfway down the bed. On the far side, the pillow held the shape of what might be a male head. The woman’s nightie looked damp. Souter speculated whether they still had sex. A crumpled tissue lay on the floor. He resisted the urge to pick it up, take a sniff.

  They’d been attending an incident at Bridge of Dee when they got the shout. Shot out South Deeside Road on blues. Hit a snarl-up at Ardoe House – one of them posh weddings, most like. Murtle Den Road, when they finally got there, had been a bummer: muckle big houses surrounded by trees and nary a number in sight.

  It was Miller spotted the cleaner screaming blue murder at the gate. They’d made her stay outside while they checked the locus. His partner was downstairs, now, trying to get a statement out of her. Souter hoped he’d make it good, otherwise the desk sergeant would have their guts for garters.

  Souter let go of the woman’s wrist. Touched two fingertips to the soft groove beside her windpipe, reckoned he felt a fluttering there. Sod it! His youngest had a birthday that day and he’d promised to be home by lunchtime. Now he’d likely have to follow the ambulance to ARI, and God knows how long he’d get stuck there. He could always send Miller, but what help would that be? One or other of them was required to stay at the locus till they got the all clear.

  He heard a vehicle screech to a halt. Doors slammed. A bell pealed. Running footsteps on the stairs. And the paramedics were by his side. Gratefully, Souter removed his fingers from the woman’s neck.

  ‘Absent pulse.’ He nodded to the lead. ‘Maybe you’ll have better luck.’

  The man nodded. ‘Leave it to us.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Souter got to his feet. He took another, cursory, look around the room. Half hidden under the quilt, he spied a pair of spectacles, legs askew. Woman must have been reading in bed when she…

  There were no outward signs of a stroke. Most likely had a seizure, he concluded. He’d seen too many heart attacks strike down apparently healthy people. Young folk, even, like that student at St Machar. Poor bairn. Can’t have been long out of school. Souter grimaced. He knew how unpredictable the human heart could be.

  He hurried out of the bedroom and headed down the stairs.

  The cleaning woman was huddled in a cane chair, a wad of sodden tissues clutched in her fists. Her hair was in disarray, her eyes liquid from weeping, her nose red raw. Miller was crouched close on the floor at her feet. Too close, Souter reckoned. He’d caught a swift movement as he entered the room. Had his partner’s hand been on the woman’s knee? Souter couldn’t be sure. He estimated her age to be mid-twenties. Wondered if Miller had ideas in that direction. Wanker! He’d chase anything in a skirt.

  Souter turned to appraise the sleek fitted kitchen with its stainless steel appliances. His eyes lit on a state-of-the-art kitchen tap: one of those ones that dispensed boiling water like he’d seen on the telly. He grinned. Good-oh! There might even be decent biscuits.

  I’ll Be Fine

  Maggie let herself into the conservatory.

  ‘How’s you?’ She addressed the figure curled up in one of the chairs.

  Wilma raised a miserable face. ‘Not great.’ She indicated a bottle on the glass table. ‘Fancy a beer?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Maggie answered with a shudder. ‘Bit early in the day for me.’

  Wilma’s mouth turned down even further.

  ‘But don’t let me stop you,’ Maggie rushed to add, unwinding her scarf and plonking herself down opposite her friend.

  Wilma reached for the bottle and took a hearty swig.

  ‘Well…’ Maggie couldn’t wait a moment longer. ‘Did you catch Ian before he left for work?’

  ‘Aye. Sneaked in when he was shaving.’

  ‘And?’

  Wilma set her beer down. ‘I wouldn’t say he was pleased to see me, for all I had his breakfast laid out.’

  ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘Said I could stuff the breakfast for starters. And that’s not all. He told me he wished he’d never met me, and to pack my bags and be out of here before he got home. Said by all accounts that wouldn’t be a problem, I was that used to moonlight flits when I was with Darren.’

  Maggie’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, Wilma…’

  ‘I’ve effing blown it.’ Wilma’s eyes welled with tears.

  ‘Come on.’ Maggie crossed to her side. She drew Wilma into her arms. ‘I’m sure it’s not that bad.’

  Wilma pulled away. ‘You don’t know my Ian. Look at the way he dug his heels in over the agency.’

  ‘Yes, but he came around.’

  ‘Took him long enough. And he still isn’t convinced. You should see the look I get, some nights, when I’m in late. Like he doesn’t know if I’ve been out on the ran-dan or what.’

  Maggie squatted at Wilma’s feet. ‘I’m sure you’re imagining things. He must have heard my car at all hours too, the front door closing, whatever.’

  ‘That’s just it. He thinks you’re a bad influence on me.’

  That’s rich coming from you, Maggie thought. ‘Does he really?’ was all she managed.

  ‘Yes, and…’ Wilma started to cry, ‘…I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Well, if the agency’s the root of the problem,’ Maggie responded half-heartedly, ‘I suppose you’d better give it up.’

  ‘I don’t want to give it up,’ Wilma bleated. ‘And besides, what will you do?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Maggie reassured her, heart pounding. She had a sudden urge to throw up.

  ‘I love the bugger,’ Wilma snivelled. ‘That’s the problem. Never met anyone like him – fella that would look up to a woman like she was a pop star or something. Doesn’t force himself on her. Wants to look after her, instead of her seeing to him.’

  Like George, Maggie thought with a pang. Steady, thoughtful, loving George.

  ‘We didn’t start out with much,’ Wilma ran on, ‘him and me. But we’ve been doing away. And now, with the agency and that… I had such plans, Maggie. Put a proper extension on the back instead of this DIY job.’

&nb
sp; ‘I like your conservatory,’ Maggie offered.

  ‘Change my car, mebbe. How Ian’s managed to keep it on the road this long’s a fucking miracle.’

  ‘He’s an ace mechanic, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Aye. And now all that’s out the window.’

  ‘It will blow over.’ Maggie cupped the big woman’s face in her hands. ‘Maybe Ian feels threatened by the agency, the fact you’re doing your own thing might be a blow to his masculinity. Maybe he’s feeling neglected, what with the hours you put in and…’

  Wilma tossed her head. ‘He’s getting his load off, if that’s what you’re getting at.

  ‘It isn’t.’ Maggie recoiled in shock, then mustered a smile. ‘All I was going to say is keep a low profile for a bit, spoil him rotten. Nothing like a few good dinners.’

  ‘And a bit of nookie,’ Wilma cut in.

  Maggie grimaced. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘That’s all very well, what you’re saying. But he’s stubborn. What if he does throw me out? I’ve nowhere to go.’

  ‘He won’t throw you out. You’ve a good man there, Wilma. If you love him, hang onto him. Being on your own is no fun.’ She worked to keep her voice steady. ‘You only have to look at me.’

  ‘Oh, pet.’ Wilma scrubbed the tears from her eyes. ‘Here’s me sounding off and I haven’t even offered you a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’m fine. It doesn’t…’ She broke off as the back door swung open and Ian barged in.

  His eyes swept the space: a tear-stained Wilma huddled in the chair, beer bottle in front of her, Maggie crouched by her side.

  ‘What’s cooking with you two?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ they answered in unison.

  ‘I was just leaving.’ Maggie jumped to her feet. She grabbed her scarf, and scuttled out the back door.

  A Case Number

  ‘Well, Souter?’ The sergeant looked up. He peered over the rim of his reading glasses.

  PC Ian Souter shuffled his size twelve feet. Willie Esson was a big man, with a temper to match, and Souter had been at the wrong end of it once too often.