by Denise Mina
‘Aye,’ said Maureen. ‘He came to get it off me.’ Liam restarted the car after three tries and drove on, nodding sometimes, shedding the extra years as he took it all in.
49
Glass Storm
Maureen woke feeling happy but then remembered that she had no right to be. She had done unconscionable things that would change her life for ever. She made a coffee and sat in the kitchen by the window. It was grey and raining outside, small rain, getting into everything, making pedestrians grimace and hunch. No one knew she was up here feeling happy, no one could reproach her for it. She made another coffee and lit a cigarette, shut her eyes and imagined herself in St Petersburg, in a bland hotel drinking sour coffee and drying her face with scratchy towels. Walking along by the canal or river or whatever they had there, wearing a big coat. She saw herself going into the Hermitage, not seeing anything, just anticipating seeing things, and she opened her eyes. ‘Shit.’
She went out into the hall and dialled the number for the hospital, got transferred to Winnie’s ward and asked after her. She was stable, liver-damaged, but sitting up and talking to them all. Maureen could come in at half two if she wanted. The nurse had a Belfast lilt in her voice and Maureen could tell that Winnie was charming them all.
In the bedroom, she was dressing slowly and paused, looking around the floor at all the clothes. Taking three bin-bags from the kitchen drawer she bagged up all the clothes from the drawers and wardrobe that she hadn’t worn for a year. She put all the extra bed-linen in a separate bag and leaned it against the wall. She checked her pockets for keys and money and took the bin-bags downstairs.
She had meant to carry them the two blocks to a charity shop doorway but they were too heavy. She left them sitting in the rain at the foot of a lamp-post, pretending that she might take them round later, blaming the charity shop for not making it easier somehow to do the right thing.
Mr Padda Senior was working the shop today. He flashed her a smile and a ‘Hello, dear’ as she came in through the door. He had his gas fire on full and the damp shop was filled with a dry grain-store smell, making her wish for winter and the disinfecting cold.
Aggie Grey had been as good as her word. Billed under a headline as a major investigation, Si McGee was on the front cover of the paper, looking startled and guilty and sleazy, standing on the steps of the house in Bearsden. She could tell that his neck was shaking. There were action shots of the raids on the health club, the open door leading down the steps, men with their faces covered and a shot of a barred window. Even Mr Goldfarb couldn’t miss it. She bought two copies of the paper for no good reason, a small packet of butter, two rolls and an overpriced packet of bacon. While Mr Padda was tilling it up she asked for a quarter of midget gems as well.
Back upstairs she read the article. Aggie’s prose was emotionally flat and factual, as be fitted the paper’s style.
The health club had been raided and the women were being detained prior to deportation. The paper even had a picture of the job agency in Warsaw. Tonsa and Si had been granted bail on Friday for a tiny amount. There was nothing much the court could charge them with, and Aggie’s paper was calling for a change in the law. Maureen left the paper on the floor and went into the kitchen, turned the grill on and opened the packet of bacon. She felt fantastically happy.
She was buttering the roll when it occurred to her that she shouldn’t be feeling this good, that Angus’s trial was finishing tomorrow and he might even get out, but she couldn’t stop herself. It wasn’t today and no one knew how good she felt. Maureen grinned at the rolls, thinking over and over to herself that she had got away with it, she had fucking got away with it, and even if everything turned to shit now, even if she got done for Doyle, even if Michael had to come and live with her for the rest of her life, well, fuck it. She was going to enjoy today.
She ran a bath and went to put some music on, remembered she’d given all her records to Vik and had to settle for the radio. She lay back in the bath, washing her hair as she listened to back-to-back disco toons. When she got out and dried herself she used up the last of the handmade lavender body lotion that had cost twenty quid and brushed her wet hair back. Her forearms were healing nicely. She pulled on her favourite ever dress, a cream cotton shift with big roses printed on it, and a pale blue cardigan to cover her arms. She sat cross-legged on the living-room floor and put on makeup, looking into a normal mirror, smiling when she caught her own eye.
The phone rang and through force of habit she let the answer-machine get it. Kilty asked her to pick up. ‘Did ye see it?’ asked Kilty.
‘Aye,’ said Maureen. ‘Good old Aggie, eh?’
‘My dad’s apoplectic,’ said Kilty.
‘Ye can tick off all the goals in your wee book now.’
‘I know,’ grinned Kilty. ‘Not much is going to happen to them, though, is it?’
‘Well, ye can’t have everything. Were you out with Josh?’
‘Aye, well, we went to the pictures. He likes Michael Douglas. I’ve gone off him. I’ve got a date with someone else, though.’
‘You’re a quick worker, who’s that?’
Kilty giggled with excitement. ‘Your pal Shan Ryan.’
‘Noo,’ cooed Maureen. ‘How did that happen?’
‘After the trial.’ She could hardly speak she was smiling so widely. ‘I asked him out.’
‘Oh, Kilty, what will your parents think of you going out with a black guy?’
Kilty laughed and arranged to pick her up at the house the next morning.
When she hung up, Maureen dialled Isa’s number and found Leslie delighted with, the article. ‘I love Aggie Grey,’ she said. ‘How’s Winnie?’
‘She’s okay now. She was unconscious when we got there. She had alcoholic poisoning from drinking a bottle of vodi in three minutes.’
‘Dear Roy, is this a record?’ said Leslie, and tittered nervously.
Maureen giggled back. ‘We’re bad, aren’t we?’ ‘Oh, God, aye,’ said Leslie. ‘We’re fucking terrible.’
She had an hour to kill before leaving for the hospital and the half-bottle of Glenfiddich Leslie had given her was sitting on the table, winking at her, the colour changing from gold to amber to a pale, mesmerizing yellow. She put it in a cupboard in the kitchen, on a high shelf, as if that would make it harder to get. She sat in the living room, her mind in the kitchen, looking at the cupboard door. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. When the noise in her head got too loud she got up and left the house.
She walked bareheaded across town, getting her face and legs wet with smirr. Her boots kept the rain out and, as she walked, she reflected on how great it was to be wet and have dry, comfortable feet, how good it was to be healthy.
Somehow she came to think of six-stone Pauline with her poor ragged arsehole and she looked up at the sky and smiled. Behind the clouds, in deep yellow sunshine, Giant Pauline Doyle sat cross-legged, wearing a pretty dress and holding a golden string on one finger, a glass box suspended from it, twisting slowly. She was laughing, a light, uncomplicated laugh, and watching Mark Doyle trapped inside, covering his face against a snowstorm of shattered glass, his own knife at his neck, his death always imminent. Maureen stopped in a café half-way over and bought an ice cream.
Si McGee opened the door and slid into the hall, pushing it shut after his sister. The police had smashed it open and he’d had it replaced with a heavy, plain wooden plank. The joiner hadn’t fitted the lock properly and he had to lift it up by the handle to get the door to shut properly. Si and Margaret turned and looked around the ruined hallway. It was quiet and dark: the only light came from the window above the front door. Cindy’s desk had been put against a wall and the phone was smashed on the floor. Si turned on the overhead light and led the way down the shallow stairs to the basement.
‘Why?’ whined Margaret.
Si stopped and looked up
at her. ‘Because’, he said, shutting his eyes with barely veiled impatience,‘if we find out which files they’ve taken we can work out what evidence they’ve got, can’t we?’ ‘But why have I tae be here?’
‘Because I’m here. I shouldn’t have to do every fucking thing.’
Si turned and walked down the last few steps, Margaret following him. She was driving him mad. He was glad it had happened in a way, glad that he had reason to get out. The lawyer was sure they’d only get a fine and Si had saved a good stake for a new business, stashed safely in Jersey where neither the Inland Revenue nor the police would be able to get at it. He was getting out, away from mad, bad Charlie Adams, away from all the smells and horror of the present job, away from whiny Margaret and her Swiss Army knife. The basement smelt of stale pee and sweat. The police had left the doors open to the basement rooms, and the cumulative stench was disgusting. Si pushed open the office door. It was chaotic. Files and papers were scattered over the desk, the box files of managerial newsletters he had subscribed to since university were crumpled on the floor.
‘I don’t know anything about this,’ said Margaret, picking up an overturned chair and sitting down.
‘What did you do with your money?’ He said it calmly, as if he was just asking an idle question.
‘Fuck off,’ said Margaret casually, lifting a copy of Managers’ Monthly off the desk and pretending to read it. Her left hand fell to her shoulder-bag, the index finger sliding open the zip. He knew she had a knife in there.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Si. ‘I was just asking. Mine’s in the Bank of Pakistan. They can’t get it there.’
Margaret’s hand moved smoothly, doing up the zip again. ‘I don’t know why I had to come.’ She looked around the small grey room. ‘I hate it here.’
‘Look,’ said Si, handing her a sheet of paper,‘they’ve left this.’
The door to the office opened slowly and Margaret stood up, her hand in her bag in a flash. Si could see the knife, the blade bared, and he was relieved that she was nearer to the door than him.
‘Hiya. What’s happening?’ It was Kevin, still wearing his surgical collar and grinning as if he was welcoming them back from holiday.
Margaret tutted and dropped the knife. ‘Fucksake,’ she said, and fell back into the seat. ‘What are you doing here?’
Kevin took a step towards her and shot Margaret Frampton through the back of the head.
Si watched his sister’s face explode, her nose, her eyes, her forehead splash outward, red and black, like a carnivorous tropical plant bursting suddenly into flower. The force of the blast shoved her slim body forward slightly, making her nod before coming true and settling back into the chair. Si blinked and looked. It was nonsensical. There had been no noise. He blinked and looked again, forgetting to breathe. Useless dim-witted Kevin raised his hand again and shot Si three times in the chest. Si McGee slid to his knees, leaving a red trail on the wall behind him, tipping over a box file of Managerial News.
Moving stiffly so as not to jerk his sore neck, Kevin stepped across the office, feeling in Si’s pocket. He found his mobile and lifted it out, flipping it open and pressing in a long number. At the other end the phone rang only once before being answered.
‘Done,’ said Kevin, watching Margaret’s body slide down off the chair and land under the desk. He nodded. ‘Yeah, everyone’ll know it was for Doyle, no one’ll fuck yees about up here.’ He nodded again. ‘Okay. Tell Charlie I’ll be there.’ Kevin hung up, wiped the mobile and slid it back into Si McGee’s pocket. He stepped across McGee’s legs to the fire exit and opened the door, slipping out to the lane, leaving the door open just enough for some nosy bastard to find them.
50
Taunt the Sick
Winnie was in an open ward with the blinds drawn on the window behind her and the curtains pulled around her bed. She had the covers over her head. Maureen peeked under the blankets. Winnie’s eyes were bloody and her face waxy white. She looked through tiny slit eyes and mouthed, ‘Hello’. Maureen mouthed it back and withdrew.
A peculiarly gnarled-looking man and woman were standing nearby, chatting to each other. George explained that they were Winnie’s friends from AA and had come to visit her at his request. Winnie was being sent to a drying out clinic in Peebles as soon as she could stand, and her friends had offered to escort her there in their car. Maureen threw her arms around George and hugged him without his consent. He stood stiffly, bashful at showing emotion in front of strangers. He raised a hand to her head and patted it a couple of times. ‘You’re a good girl,’ he said, but she heard him ask her to let him go, for Godsake, there were people watching.
Una arrived as if she was moving into the ward. She had the baby with her in a harness, a big soft bag of things, her handbag and a poly-bag of pills and food and magazines for Winnie. George was chatting to the gnarled couple so Maureen had to help her with the bags, tucking them under the bed. Una wanted to go round the bed and see Winnie’s head and, with overplayed reluctance, let Maureen hold the baby. She stormed round the bed and lifted the covers abruptly, in a way only someone who didn’t drink or understand hangovers could. She talked Winnie through the vitamins and magazines she had brought, speaking loud, making every muscle on Winnie’s back and head contract. The baby was tiny. Her fingers flexed in her sleep and tightened at the sound of her mother’s voice. Her fist was the size of a thumbnail, perfect in every detail. Her pink lips pouted, her tongue rolled out and she opened her eyes. They were blue, pale, pale blue, just like Maureen’s and Liam’s eyes.
‘Her eyes,’ said Maureen, breathlessly,‘they’re blue.’ Una looked up and her sour expression softened. ‘All babies have blue eyes at first,’ she said,‘but I think they’ll stay blue.’
‘She’s not ugly at all,’ said Maureen quietly.
Liam came, looking happier and calm. They all moved their chairs around the bed to Winnie’s face and sat in a circle. George poked Winnie in the cheek and she groaned and tried to roll away from him but she was too sore and groaned again, then rolled back, a reluctant smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. George said see, she can move, look, she can move when she wants to. They taunted her, playing the hilarious passive-aggressive games that only truly dysfunctional families understand, laughing louder and louder because Winnie had the mother of all hangovers, asking Winnie what the food was like in here and did she have a trumpet the baby could play with. Even the AA people joined in, adding quips of their own. The AA man pretended to run out to the shops for some kippers and Stilton but came back, escorted by a staff nurse, who told them all to shut up and keep the noise down, there were sick people in here. And all the while Maureen kept hold of the baby, cradling it against her chest, cherishing it, hoping she would get to hold wee Maureen again and again.
*
She didn’t even believe her own excuses any more. She wasn’t drinking because she wanted to, it wasn’t because she’d achieved anything or even because she was sad. It was compulsive and she couldn’t stop herself. She unscrewed the cap from Leslie’s half-bottle and drank it straight, greedily, as if someone might try to stop her, pausing for breath and refusing to think about what she was doing. And then the familiar blanket came down.
It was later and she was worried, falling down the close steps one at a time, holding on to the wall, clinging to her purse. It was light outside and she couldn’t quite remember whether it was morning or evening. Outside now and evening, definitely evening. The charity bags that she had left under the lamp-post had been split open and three small boys had pulled her old dresses over their clothes and were laughing excitedly, pushing each other into a thick hedge.
Inside the shop and Padda Junior looking at her, making a joke, a man behind her laughing and Junior looking away. They were laughing at her because she was pissed.
It smarted for as long as she could remember it. A young boy and a stranger
laughing at her because she was steaming and alone, as if she was Winnie, as if her being pissed wasn’t completely different. She set the thoughts aside and realized that she was at last alone with a bottle with no one to ask her what she was doing. She toasted her reflection in the living-room window, a defiant fuck-them, and drank. The nagging realization wouldn’t go away. Even Padda Junior had noticed she had a problem.
The walls of Maureen’s mouth began to tingle, sending messages of alarm to her brain, telling her to run for it.
Before she had time to think, she was on her knees in the bathroom, pushing the seat and lid up against the cistern, dropping her mouth to the water. Her chin smashed off the porcelain bowl and her head ricocheted back just in time to catch the rim of the seat as it fell on her forehead.
When she had finished being sick she stood up unsteadily and looked at herself in the mirror. She had an inch-long bruise on her forehead, one under her chin and a stripe of vomit on her cheek.
51
End Game
It didn’t feel like the last day of her life. She had the immediate problem of a searing hangover to deal with. It was never usually this bad when she’d thrown up the night before. As she washed her face in the sink of cold water she began to remember Mr Padda’s shop and hung her head in shame.
She took painkillers and watched the phone as she drank her coffee. She watched it and knew she’d have to do it some time, if she didn’t want to end up in a hospital bed with everyone taking the piss out of her. She stood up and dialled Benny’s mobile number. He wasn’t answering and she was pleased. She left a message asking him to contact her, please. She thought she’d better do something about her drinking.
She got dressed with her shades on. Kilty would think it was strange that she was wearing shades in the house, so she put on her coat as well, hoping that she’d just look as if she was ready to go.
When she opened the door Kilty looked her up and down. ‘Are you hung-over again?’
