by Denise Mina
‘Sean, I don’t want to get married.’
‘You feel that way now—’
‘I might never want to get married.’
He stopped, grasping for the first time the enormity of the change in her.
‘Have you turned lesbian or something?’ Paddy looked at the man she might have spent her life with. He didn’t mean to be unkind. He was handsome and noble and decent but, God help him, just not very bright. ‘I want a career and I don’t think I can get married and have one, so I’m choosing the career.’
He shot her a warning look. ‘Why do you need to try and be a man? What’s wrong with just being a woman?’ ‘That’s stupid, Sean.’
‘It’s good enough for every other girl in the family.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Your mum’s gonnae—’
‘Don’t! Don’t bring my family into this, Seanie. This is about you and me and everything we’ve meant to each other.’ Her eyes ran despite her, filling her nose and making her breathless. ‘I can’t talk to you without thousands of relatives invading the pitch. Never mind my mum and dad and the Pope and all our future children, we need to talk about you and me. Just you and me.’
‘I only bring them in because we’re getting married, Paddy. I only do that because I’m serious about ye.’
She was crying openly now, her face wet, crying not just for the loss of Sean but for the fright she’d had, and for Dr Pete and Thomas Dempsie, crying for the loss of certainty. Sean fumbled for her hand, pulling it out of the sleeve of her duffel coat and holding it in both of his. Her fingers were cold, and as he rubbed them to warm her he felt the smooth skin where her ring should have been and began to cry himself.
‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ he said.
‘It’s not what I want.’
‘I got punched at work because of you.’
‘It’s not what I want.’
‘But I love you.’
They held hands and wept, unaccustomed to sharp emotion, looking away from each other into the dark.
When the tears had stopped, her hand was swollen red with all the rubbing. Sean took out his cigarettes again and lit one without offering, dropping the packet back in his jacket pocket.
‘Why did you agree to marry me then if you didn’t want to?’ he said bitterly.
Paddy leaned over and took out the cigarette packet, helping herself to one, making him smile. She put it in her mouth and pointed it at him. ‘Give us a light.’
Sean leaned into her, touching the red tip of his cigarette to hers. She inhaled, sucking in her cheeks, drawing fire from him.
‘I want you to get me in to see Callum Ogilvy.’ She exhaled and waited for him to shout at her. ‘I can’t get you in,’ he said softly.
‘Yes, you can. You’re his family. You could get to see him now he’s in hospital.’
Sean wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling them into his chest, touching a knee to his forehead. ‘I can’t believe you’re asking me for help with your career.’
‘It will help my career,’ she nodded guiltily. ‘It will, I can’t deny that. On the other hand, it’ll make a big difference to Callum. Eventually he’ll be interviewed and if it’s by anyone else they’ll make him out to be an evil child and he’ll be stuck with it for the rest of his life. At least this way we can control how he’s portrayed.’
‘And you get a big exclusive?’
‘We could fight about it,’ she said, taking the cigarette out of her mouth and blowing on the tip to encourage it, ‘or we can accept that’s how it is and stay pals.’
‘You’re choosing your career over me?’
‘Sean, I’m not what you want.’ She felt energetic suddenly, excited that she was out of the yoke of her engagement. ‘I’d have been a rotten wife. I’d make your life a misery. I’d have been the worst Catholic wife in history.’ He nudged her with his elbow. ‘You’d be a good mum.’
‘Not a Catholic mother, not me.’
He touched her ankle, stroking the back of his fingers down her tights, testing to see if it was OK to touch. ‘Aye, ye would.’
She rocked towards his ear. ‘I don’t even believe in Jesus.’
He looked incredulous. ‘Get tae hell.’
‘Honestly.’
‘But you were in the Sacred Heart prayer group for a year.’
‘I only went because you were there.’ He slapped her arm, exaggerating his surprise to have an excuse to touch her. ‘But you always bless yourself when you go in or out of a house.’
‘My mum likes it. I’ve never had a drop of faith. I knew I was lying when I made my first communion.’ She grinned, relieved that someone finally knew. ‘I’ve never told a soul that. You’re the only one who knows. Now you know why I’m trying to get away from the family all the time.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘I know.’ She raised her hands skyward. ‘I’ve spent half my life on my knees thinking it was rubbish.’
They smiled at each other. The wind blew Sean’s hair the wrong way and a train passed in the valley below. Paddy raised her shoulders and snuggled inside her coat. It felt different with Terry: she felt close to Sean but there was no fire.
‘One thing, though, and I know I don’t have any right to ask ye favours right now, but about the engagement: cannae not tell my mum?’
He looked at her for a moment and his eyes softened. ‘That’s no bother, wee pal.’
She reached up and touched his cheek with her chilly fingertips. ‘Look at ye. You’re so handsome, Sean. I’m not even good-looking enough to go out with you.’
Sean took a draw on his cigarette. ‘You know what, Paddy, I always let you say things like that ’cause I liked it that you’re modest. But you’re a good-looking girl. You’ve got a small waist and big lips. People say it all the time.’
It felt like a warm bubble bursting in her head. She searched her memory for corroborating evidence that she was attractive but couldn’t find any. The boys at school weren’t mad for her. Men didn’t approach her on the street. She didn’t ever remember being complimented before.
She laughed awkwardly and hit his arm. ‘Piss off.’
‘You are.’ He looked away, uncomfortable that she was making him elaborate. ‘You’re beautiful to me.’
‘Only to you, though?’
‘Eh?’
‘Am I only beautiful to you?’
Sean nudged her gently. ‘No. You’re beautiful, Paddy. Just beautiful.’
They sat together quietly, smoking cigarettes and looking out over the valley. Every time she thought about what he’d said, Paddy felt dizzy. It could change everything if it was true. She had always hated her face. She hated her looks so much she was embarrassed to leave the house some mornings. They sat and during a couple of quiet pauses she felt a burst of gratitude so overwhelming that she almost asked him to marry her.
32
Don’t Like Mondays
I
She woke up more aware of the day ahead than the weekend that had passed. Terry was going in early to get out all the Dempsie clippings and stop anyone else using them. He was going to phone around the police stations and then try to speak to McVie and Billy, who was probably a less self-interested source of information, to find out if anything had happened overnight to Naismith. Then he was going to approach Farquarson and ask if they could write the story themselves. She hoped Terry would be enough of a draw. She certainly wasn’t on her own.
The family didn’t notice a difference in her as they ate breakfast. Trisha boiled her three eggs as an act of reconciliation and Gerald passed her the milk for her coffee before she asked for it. She sat and ate among them, watching the toast rack pass from person to person and Trisha dishing out the porridge. She acted normally, her mind back in the weekend, thinking her way through Naismith’s van,
the riot and Terry Hewitt’s bed.
The frost gave everything in the world a sharp edge and the weak sun couldn’t burn the morning off the land. Even Paddy’s breath was a cloud of sharp crystals as she hurried carefully across slippery pavements to the station.
She found a seat on the train and sat down heavily, wincing at the tenderness of the flesh between her legs. It gave her more of a thrill than the sex itself had. She thought of herself sitting in Terry’s passenger seat, watching him walk back from Naismith’s van, of the cold, damp rock on the windy brae. Sean could go out with other girls now if he wanted. He could hold their hands and kiss them and promise them a cosy future. In time she would just be someone he used to know.
When she saw Terry Hewitt standing outside the door of the Daily News building with his hands in his pockets, one leg bent and resting on the wall behind him, she knew somehow that he was hoping he looked like James Dean. He looked like a plump guy leaning on a wall.
She was still a long way away and, abandoning his pose, he glanced down the road to look for her, knowing she would be coming from the train station. When he spotted her outline in the distance, a duffel coat and ankle boots, scurrying towards him, he did a double-take and selfconsciously resumed his stance. She was standing just feet away before he looked up again. He looked angry. ‘You’re wanted in the Beast Master’s office. Right away.’ Paddy glanced at her watch. ‘But the editorial meeting’s about to start.’
‘Right away.’
He turned away, ready to lead her upstairs, but she caught the tail of his leather.
‘Shit, Terry, what happened?’
He didn’t stop or even look back. He flapped his hand for her to follow, leading the way through the black marble lobby. The echo of Terry’s metal-capped shoes ricocheted off the cold ceiling and walls. The Two Alisons simultaneously turned their heads and watched them cross the floor. Paddy knew it was serious. Not only had Terry been sent to intercept her and take her straight to Farquarson, he was escorting her through the formal entrance, the entrance for strangers who didn’t belong to the paper.
He jogged up the stairs in front of her and Paddy hit his leg. ‘Stop,’ she pleaded, but he didn’t. He marched on, and she had no option but to follow him. ‘Terry, please?’ He sped up as if he was trying to get away from her.
She was losing her breath as they arrived on the newsroom floor. She was about to start a fresh plea but he crossed the landing in two steps and threw open the doors to the news room. Not a single face looked at them, not one head rose nor idle eye fell upon them as Terry led her across the hundred-foot stretch of carpet to Farquarson’s office. Even Keck kept his eyes lowered as she passed the bench, pretending not to hear her mumble a needy little ‘hiya’ as she passed him. Only Dub looked at her, a little sadly, and she had the distinct feeling that he was saying goodbye.
The black Venetian blinds were drawn, the door shut. Terry rapped twice, rattling the loose glass, and pushed it open, stepping back to let her in ahead of him. Paddy crossed the threshold.
Farquarson was alone, bent over his desk, alternately moving two cut-out lead paragraphs back and forth over a page proof. He sat back, glancing blankly at Hewitt, completely ignoring Paddy. She still had her coat on and was suddenly very warm. ‘Boss?’
She dabbed her forehead with her sleeve. She felt every eye in the news room watching her back, seeing the sweat pop on her neck, noting how fat she was.
‘Thomas Dempsie.’ Farquarson left it hanging in the air as if it was an order.
She was almost afraid to move. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You were right. There was a tie-in with Brian Wilcox after all.’
Paddy looked back at Terry, grinning behind her. A news editor sitting at a typewriter looked her straight in the eye. Keck was sitting on the bench, his back to them, listening, and she could tell by the angle of his head that he was depressed.
‘So, here’s the plan,’ continued Farquarson. ‘You’ll write up the Dempsie case as a history, straightforward, shouldn’t be too hard. If it isn’t complete shite we’ll use it as an insert next week.’
‘Next week? Won’t we have to wait until the trial?’ Terry smiled triumphantly and kicked her gently on the ankle. ‘That’s the good news: there isn’t going to be a trial. Naismith confessed.’
‘To what?’
‘Everything. He confessed to murdering Thomas Dempsie, to taking Brian Wilcox and forcing the boys to kill him, to kidnapping Heather Allen and killing her– everything.’
She frowned. ‘Why would he confess to everything?’ ‘Well,’ said Farquarson,‘they found evidence in his van linking him to Heather and blood that matches Brian Wilcox’s.’
Paddy looked around at Terry, still grinning by the door. ‘But why suddenly confess, and why admit to Thomas Dempsie all these years later? He’d be clearing the name of the guy who stole his wife.’
Farquarson shrugged. ‘Maybe he felt bad?’
Terry nodded encouragingly. ‘He had Jesus stickers all over his van. Maybe he wanted to come clean.’
‘The Jesus stickers should make him stop killing people, not come clean after he was caught.’ She wanted to believe it but she just didn’t. ‘He was going to kill me because I knew the other day but suddenly he feels the need to unburden himself?’
Farquarson had little time for rumination on the dark interior of men’s souls. ‘Balls to that. The charges against the boys have been reduced to conspiracy to commit murder. They’ll fare much better, so it’s good news.’
She nodded, trying to convince herself that he was right: it was good news.
‘We’ve arranged it with the relatives when we can finally get access to them, after Naismith’s convicted.’
‘How does he know the boys?’
‘They didn’t say.’ Farquarson looked at Terry. ‘I think they live in the same area as him.’
Terry nodded. ‘They used to hang around the van, the neighbours told the police. James O’Connor, that’s the other boy, both his parents are absent. He lives with his grandparents.’
‘Absent?’
‘Drunks.’
‘Yeah, great,’ said Farquarson, drawing them back to the moment. ‘So JT will interview the boys. Meehan, you can liaise with him, give him any tips about the background, that kind of thing.’
‘I want Callum,’ she said loudly. ‘I want the Ogilvy interview myself.’
Farquarson looked stunned. ‘No way. It’s too big.’
‘If JT interviews him he’ll be brutal. He’ll make Callum look like an evil wee shite and he isn’t. I can get to meet the boy before anyone else and Terry’ll help me write it up.’
They argued back and forth for twenty minutes. Farquarson wouldn’t be able to edit the piece for ever, she’d have to submit something worth publishing. The real problem was getting the interview while anyone still cared about it. Paddy lied and said she’d already arranged to get in and see him this week. If Sean went in a huff she’d be stuffed.
Finally, Farquarson asked her to submit eight hundred words on Dempsie before Friday and give him the interview material as and when. ‘On a personal note,’ he added, sitting back in his chair, let me say I hate precocious little bastards like you two and I hope you burn out in your twenties. Get out.’
When the door was shut behind them Terry punched her arm and told her well done in full view of everyone in the news room. Embarrassed but grateful, Paddy glanced around and a features sub caught her eye, a little accepting smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he had never noticed her before but was now interested in things she might have to say. Kat Beesley raised a congratulatory eyebrow. Paddy looked for Dr Pete, hoping he would have heard about her good work, but couldn’t see him.
She felt silly taking her seat on the bench again. Dub said he was pleased but moved away from her, catching any calls that ca
me up and avoiding her eye. Keck smiled at her, but they could both feel that she didn’t belong there any more. She traced the give of the wood with her thumbnail and found it hard to believe that all this good was coming to her after the many small betrayals she had committed in the past week.
II
Paddy could feel it: she was halfway off the bench already. Editors were looking straight at her when they asked for teas, journalists were talking to her, passing comments, acknowledging her existence. Keck was acting suckie. It felt like a repeat of the time in school when she gave a rousing talk about the Paddy Meehan case to her English class, implying that Meehan had been victimized because he was Catholic. The suggestion had had a particular attraction for the students at Trinity and the talk had shifted her status from a fat nothing to a someone regarded as a profound thinker and defender of their future freedoms. As she matured she thought the reason they had set him up was because he was a committed socialist, later still she realized that they chose him because he had a record and no alibi. However false the premise for her social success at school, she had still enjoyed it, and she did so now. Neither thoughts of Heather Allen nor Sean’s new freedom could dampen the warming shiver of ambition. She could see herself walking past the bench at night, looking at the grooves from her nails, on her way to somewhere amazing. She saw herself in the morning, spotting them as she– came into work from her own flat in the city, from a lover’s bed, from an important story.
At lunchtime, instead of skulking around the town she made straight for the canteen and found Terry Hewitt sitting at a busy table by the window. He waved her over.
‘I saved you a place,’ he said, excited to see her.
‘How did you know I’d be going on lunch now?’
‘Keck said you’d be going about one.’
Asking Keck when she was going on lunch seemed a bit clingy and subservient, but Paddy tried not to frown or say anything snide. It was the culture of the place to use any advantage to bully one another but she’d promised herself she wouldn’t be like that. ‘Can I get ye a tea?’ she said.
