Exile

by Denise Mina

  He picked up a book and started arranging Rizlas on the back of it. He had brought a huge lump of black with him. The lamp on the floor shone on the Cellophane, turning it into a cube of water. She gestured to it. ‘Where did you get that, anyway? I thought there was a dry on?’

  ‘Got lucky.’ He smiled at his origami. ‘Is Leslie all that’s bothering ye?’

  Maureen slumped. Winnie came to see me. I miss her. I know I slag her but I miss her, and when I saw her she said George won’t talk to her. They won’t split up, will they? We’ll never see him again if they do.’

  ‘No, wee hen, they won’t split up. He’s just letting her know it’s not on, her having Michael over to the house.’

  ‘I miss George.’

  ‘He misses you as well.’ Liam smiled at her. They never discussed it but all four of the children loved their stepfather.

  George never spoke to them or gave them guidance. He wasn’t even in the house very much. He drank like Winnie, but instead of starting fights or trying to involve them in fictional dramas, George sang a lot and recited sentimental poetry. Winnie fought with him, as she had fought with Michael, vicious and loud and relentless. George listened to her until he couldn’t be bothered any more and then he went out to visit his pals. He was the closest thing the children had ever had to a benign parent.

  ‘She told me Michael’s staying in Glasgow.’ Maureen looked at Liam, but he was licking a cigarette down the seam and pulling the paper away. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘is he?’

  ‘He doesn’t have anyone to drink with,’ he said dismissively. ‘He won’t stay long.’

  Maureen sighed heavily into her chest. It had been a long day.

  ‘I walked out on my job. I hate it. Leslie got me that fucking job. She’ll never speak to me again if I don’t go.’

  ‘Ah, she would so.’

  Maureen watched Liam busily keeping himself replete with spliffs, rolling as he smoked, acting casual as if it didn’t really matter but working hard. She was like that with drink. It looked casual on the surface but underneath she was frantic about her intake, desperate not to slow down or lose the level.

  ‘Look at you and your wee spliff factory,’ she said unkindly.

  He looked up at her, resenting the intrusion. ‘Look at you and your wee vomit factory,’ he said, and went back to work.

  ‘I worry about drinking,’ said Maureen. ‘I worry about turning into Winnie.’

  ‘I worry about it too. Before Christmas there I was very worried. Alcoholism’s supposed to be genetic so I’ve decided to cheat fate and just take hundreds of drugs.’ He giggled, glancing at her feet. The cheer snowballed in his belly and he laughed loud, coughing when the laugh went deep into his lungs. He sat laughing and coughing like a jolly consumptive, and Maureen smiled sadly and watched him. Liam used to be angry all the time; he had mellowed so much since he retired– it was like watching him regress back to the hopeful wee guy he’d been as a kid. If she’d died she’d be missing this. A polite rap on the front door stopped Liam dead. Startled, Maureen sat up straight and they stared at each other, sitting still in case they were heard. Liam giggled silently. ‘Why are we ...?’ he whispered, holding his nose to abort a guffaw. ‘We’re not in trouble.’ The caller chapped again.

  ‘Go,’ mouthed Liam, waving her to the door as he shoved the lump of black under the sofa. ‘Go on, get it.’

  ‘Throw that out of the window if it’s the police,’ she whispered, pointing to where he had stuffed the hash as she tiptoed out to the hall. She peered out of the spy-hole.

  Vik was standing on the landing, holding a bottle of white wine and a small bunch of flowers, his handsome face shiny and hopeful, watching the crack of the door, waiting for her to appear. She felt instantly wicked and guilty and angry about Katia. She should open the door and tell him to go away, that was the honest thing to do. Maureen and Liam had always looked alike, they had the same square jaw, the same dark curly hair and pale blue eyes, but Vik might not notice the family resemblance. He’d think she had another man in and she wasn’t well enough to explain why she could let her brother in but not him She leaned her forehead on the door, less than a foot away from Vik’s shoulder, and listened as he knocked and shuffled his feet impatiently. The door pressed towards her, he was leaning on it, scratching lightly or something. She heard the chink of the bottle on stone and cringed as he walked away alone, his feet falling heavily on the stone steps. The close door slammed shut in the high wind and she listened to the stillness for a while, just to be sure. She opened the door. Vik had left the note under the bottle and the flowers. His writing was big and round and cheery. He said, Hi! He’d just popped up for a visit! Phone him soon! She was starting to hate him.

  She sloped back into the room with the bottle of guilt and the wreath.

  ‘Not the police, then?’ said Liam.

  She fell into the settee. The flowers were pale pink roses, already open, tinged brown on the petal tips.

  ‘They’re nice,’ said Liam.

  ‘I’ve been kind of seeing someone.’

  ‘It must be going well if ye won’t even open the door to him.’

  ‘He’s nice.’ They didn’t usually talk about certain things but she didn’t have anyone else to tell. ‘The sex is great.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s tricky.’ Liam didn’t seem to mind. ‘Maggie and I had great sex but that was it for me. You can stay in a relationship like that for years waiting till after the next shag.’ He glanced at her. ‘Ye did the right thing.’

  But Maureen knew she hadn’t. She pulled her legs up to her chest as a sudden burst of rain smattered against the window. They fell silent and she looked up to find Liam red-eyed and watching her. He was smiling, as smug as Yoda, and nodded towards the hall. ‘Phone Leslie,’ he said.

  Maureen’s stomach tightened at the mention of her name. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t want me to phone her. She lies to me about things. It’s like she doesn’t trust me.’

  ‘Phone and ask her why she’s lying.’

  ‘I’ve already asked her and she won’t tell me.’

  ‘Mauri, Leslie doesn’t owe you every thought in her head. Phone her anyway.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, goon.’

  ‘Nah, fuck off, Liam, ye don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘But she’s been such a good pal to ye. She won’t mind if you leave the job. Just tell her. She’s very loyal to you.’

  Liam was right. Leslie had stood by her in hospital; it was Leslie who’d helped her after Douglas died, Leslie who’d come after Angus with her, even though she was terrified and wanted to run away. She’d compensated for Maureen a hundred times and, now it came to it, Maureen wasn’t reciprocating. She was a graceless shit.

  ‘Fuck, no.’ She tucked her head between her knees. ‘I’m wrong again.’

  She looked up, wanting reassurance, but Liam was nodding at her. She rolled off the settee and tramped out to the hall, putting on the light and dialling Leslie’s number. Liam followed her, bringing the ashtray to smoke his spliff over. The phone rang out at the other end. It rang eight times. Maureen knew Leslie’s small flat intimately. No corner of the flat was eight rings away. Deflated, she was hanging up when Leslie picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’ Maureen whipped the receiver back to her ear. ‘Leslie?’

  ‘Yes?’ She sounded very serious.

  Maureen didn’t know what to say. ‘Leslie? Are ye okay?’

  Leslie sighed a long slow crackle into the receiver. ‘I’m sorry for phoning,’ said Maureen, bracing herself for a knock-back. She felt like Vik on the stairs. She looked helplessly at Liam, who winked and gave her a happy thumbs-up. He was off his tits, he wasn’t picking up on anything.

  ‘Mauri, listen,’ began Leslie. ‘Tonight was . . . Ann’s dead.’

  Maureen faltered. ‘Ann’s w
hat?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ said Leslie, choking on the words, and Maureen suddenly realized that Leslie sounded strange because she had been crying. ‘She was found in London, in the river.’

  Maureen thought of Jimmy’s BA sticker. Not Jimmy, it couldn’t be Jimmy. ‘Do they suspect foul play?’ she said. Liam giggled and fell against the wall.

  ‘Who’s that laughing in the background?’ said Leslie suspiciously.

  ‘It’s Liam,’ said Maureen, kicking him gently in the shin and turning away. ‘He’s been smoking. And I’m a bit pissed. Leslie, I’m sorry for what I said. I’m a bad friend.’

  ‘Yeah. Never mind . . . Go to sleep, Mauri—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mauri.

  ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ Leslie sniffed.

  ‘What happened to Ann? Did she kill herself?’

  ‘Lots of things happened to her. She was tortured and killed, put in a mattress and flung in the river.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Maureen.

  They paused. Maureen tried to clear her mind and think of something appropriate to say. ‘Was it the loan sharks from Finneston?’ she asked. ‘I really don’t think so.’ They paused again.

  ‘Leslie, what is Ann to you?’

  Leslie sniffed again. ‘Jimmy’s ...’ she began to cry‘...he’s my cousin,’ she said, and Maureen suddenly understood. Leslie had asked for Ann in her shelter because she felt responsible. She must have known it would be safe for Maureen to go and talk to Jimmy, and after years of picking through the rubble of other men’s transgressions, she would be far too ashamed to admit that he was family. ‘Leslie, I don’t think he hit her.’

  Leslie was sobbing into the receiver. ‘I was gonnae tell ye,’ she said, gasping for breath. ‘I don’t want to fight ye, Mauri—’

  Maureen interrupted her. ‘Leslie, don’t be alone,’ she said. ‘Come over here. We’ve got loads of whisky and Liam’s got a lump of black the size of his foot.’

  Leslie sniffed a long hard rumble. ‘I’ll ...I’ll be there in half an hour,’ she said, and hung up.

  14

  Tower

  Leslie sat cross-legged on the floor, holding a bundle of Katia’s stolen Hello Kitty tissues in one hand and a whisky in the other. She wiped her nose. ‘Did ye see the CCB photos?’

  Maureen shook her head.

  ‘God,’ whispered Leslie, ‘her fanny was kicked in.’

  ‘Listen, listen.’ Excited by something, Liam waved them quiet and looked from one to the other, blinking slowly like a red-eyed idiot, ‘Listen. Brilliant idea. Who’s up for a curry?’

  ‘God,’ said Leslie. ‘Can ye shut him up?’ They put on the television to distract him and Liam watched Newsnight, tilting his head left and right, trying to make something interesting out of powerful men haranguing each other.

  ‘When I deal with this every day,’ continued Leslie, ‘I’m always looking for someone to blame, just to make sense of it, so it could be avoided, so it didn’t need to happen, and I always come back to the families. Their families could have done some fucking thing. And then it’s my own family and we weren’t even in touch with the guy. Isa would die if she knew she’d been murdered.’

  ‘You two know someone else who was killed?’ smiled Liam, spliffed and swinging randomly in and out of the conversation. They looked at him. ‘I’m staying away from you two. You’re jinxed.’

  Leslie sniffed hard and frowned at him. Maureen touched her arm. ‘How can you be sure it wasn’t the hard men from the scheme?’

  ‘Come on, Mauri, London’s full of Glaswegians running away from trouble here. She owed a bit of money, that’s all.’

  ‘Maybe she owed more than we think.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe. Maybe.’ Leslie took a long drink of whisky and sighed at its harsh comfort. ‘The police’ll be so hard on Jimmy. God, I’ll be surprised if he gets out of an interview alive.’

  ‘Why?’ said Maureen.

  ‘You haven’t seen the photos. She was battered shitless.’ She slumped against the settee.

  Maureen sat quietly, ashamed of herself, unsure whether to tell. ‘I’ve got them,’ she said suddenly. ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘I’ve got the photos.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Stole them,’ she muttered.

  Leslie sat upright. ‘To protect Jimmy? Maureen, if he did beat her up he needs to be put away.’

  ‘But he didn’t hit her. Are they sure she was killed yesterday?’

  ‘They said she’d been in the water for a week.’ Maureen didn’t want to tell her about the week-old BA sticker. They were sitting cosy in the nice warm flat, drinking and smoking together, and she didn’t want to tell her. ‘He didn’t do it,’ she said, damning herself. ‘I promise he didn’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just know,’ she said. ‘I know it wasn’t him.’

  ‘You knew she wasn’t dead as well. Hoping isn’t the same as knowing, Mauri.’ Leslie cradled her head in her hands. ‘God, if he goes to prison Isa’ll try and take the kids. She’s not fit, it’ll kill her.’

  ‘Can’t you just tell her not to?’

  Leslie tutted and rolled her bloodshot eyes. ‘Can you tell your mum to do anything? Anyway, Isa’s got this thing about Jimmy. She won’t let him down this time.’

  ‘Leslie, I walked out of the Place of Safety today. I don’t want to go back.’ She saw the dismay on Leslie’s face and added, ‘For a while. Are ye angry?’

  ‘Naw, I understand. It’s just an office job for you. At least I’m on the ground.’ She cupped Maureen’s elbow in her hand and squeezed, just a little, before letting go. ‘Listen, I’m not working for a couple of days, do ye want to kick about together and ask about Ann? See what we can come up with?’

  ‘Okay,’ smiled Maureen.

  ‘And you can have a think about your job,’ said Leslie, ‘and decide what you want to do.’

  Maureen bit her lip and played with the edge of the cushion.

  Michael was scratching at the bedroom window again. She sat up to see him, to know what he looked like, so she could be ready for him, but he opened his mouth and breathed, splattering specks of blood and liver on to the glass.

  Leslie was giggling in her sleep. Maureen turned her head on the pillow and looked at her, Her cheek was folded under her eye, her long dark lashes lying on the pillow. Maureen had been mistaken when she thought herself sober the night before. Her throat felt like a raw scab and the back of her head throbbed viciously. She tried to get out of bed but her head was bursting and her stomach hurt so much she couldn’t sit up. The hangover was threatening to wash over the top of her skull and attack her eyes. She lay down again and rolled sideways out of the bed, holding the duvet down to keep the warm in for Leslie, and stood up very slowly. She needed some nicotine but didn’t think her throat would tolerate a cigarette.

  The postie had left some bills but that was all. She went into the kitchen, put the kettle on and sat down at the table. It was dry and crisp outside. Grey frost mingled with the black dirt on the window, framing the view of the motorway like an ill-conceived Christmas card. She saw the Ruchill tower and scratched her head with both hands, digging the nails deep into her scalp. Her hair felt lank and heavy. She got up, averting her eyes from the window, and tripped down the hall to the bathroom.

  The sill was crammed with expensive bottles of cosmetics, sachets and applicators and miracle creams. She thought of Jimmy, a man too poor to buy toilet paper who’d flown to London on BA. It didn’t make any sense. There were lots of budget carriers he could have gone on for less than half the price of a BA flight. If Leslie knew, she would be convinced he was guilty, and she’d insist that they give the police the photos of Ann. They’d crucify him.

  She washed her face and wondered if she could be right.

  Jimmy
just wasn’t the sort of man who would kill a defiant wife. He wasn’t in control of anything when she saw him and he didn’t even try to defend himself when he thought she was lying to him. The only thing he vigorously denied was hitting his wife. She played with the possibility that he had been to London and killed Ann, but the mattress troubled her. It suggested a house and a bed and privacy and a van to get her to the river. He’d have to know people in London. She scratched her heavy hair again and looked over to the bath. A small blue glass bottle lay on its side with the lid off and a final portion of lavender-scented hydrolyzed collagen trickled on to the ceramic ledge. Liam had washed her hair in industrial-strength conditioner.

  Back in the kitchen she made herself a coffee, sensing the eyes of the fever hospital tower on her body. She sat down, ignoring it, and lit a cigarette, breathing in deeply. It felt like breathing in sand, and the pain brought her back to the present. She heard the thud of feet on the floor in the bedroom. Leslie padded to the kitchen door dressed in a T-shirt and knickers. Her black pubic hair extended an inch below the elastic on either side. ‘Fuck, it’s parky. Get us a coffee, will ye, Mauri?’ She turned and trotted down the hall to the loo, picking the gathered underpants out of the crack of her arse.

  Maureen got up and made two cups. She wouldn’t tell Leslie about the London ticket, she’d ask Jimmy about it first. She was sure it wasn’t him, deep in her gut she was sure.

  The toilet flushed at the far end of the hall and Leslie came back down. ‘God,’ she said, ‘you’ve got some amount of stuff in there.’ She nipped into the bedroom, pulled on some jumpers and her leather trousers before coming back to the table for her coffee. She noticed Maureen glancing out of the window and saw her looking away quickly, smoking anxiously. Leslie looked out, across to the three high-rise blocks at George’s Cross and the snow-capped hills beyond. Thick custard clouds skimmed by, letting the sun wink through at them.

  ‘What are you looking at out there?’ she said, and pointed to the grey sky.

  ‘I hate that tower,’ said Maureen, embarrassed that Leslie had seen her. ‘It does my head in.’