by Denise Mina
The phone rang. She dropped the slices of bread and galloped over to it. It was Winnie. She was trying to disguise her drunkenness with a posher accent. Some journalists had been telephoning her.
‘Don’t say anything, Mum, please, and for God’s sake don’t give them any photos.’
‘I did not say anything,’ said Winnie ‘And don’t you talk to them either.’
‘I’m hardly going to, am I?’
‘Well, sometimes people do things, things they wouldn’t usually do, when things get . . . a wee bit . . .’ She forgot what she was talking about.
‘You’re pissed, then?’ said Maureen.
Winnie couldn’t summon the energy for a fight.‘How dare you,’ she said, and dropped the receiver. She mumbled something about Mickey. Maureen could hear footsteps and then George asking a question in the background. He picked up the phone.‘Hello?’
‘Hello, George, it’s me.’
‘Oh, did you phone her?’
‘No, she phoned me.’
‘Oh. She’s a bit . . . a bit tired. She was trying to phone you at work this afternoon but couldn’t get an answer.’
‘Oh, there’s something wrong with the switchboard. She’d have been put through to the back office,’ said Maureen. It was a good lie, made up on the spur of the moment but her voice was too high, she was talking too fast.
‘All right, then,’ said George irrelevantly, and hung up.
She ate some dry bread dipped in milk, the best cure for an acid stomach, and sat in front of the television, flicking from station to station, trying to find something engrossing. The programmes were so asinine that not one of them could hold her attention for longer than thirty seconds.
If Benny would come home they could watch telly together. She could phone Leslie but she would have to talk about everything; she couldn’t face that right now.
Maureen jumped when she heard the door. It was a polite rat-rat-rat, not a familiar knock. She walked apprehensively into the hallway, hoping to fuck it wasn’t the police, and peered out of the spy-hole.
She had never seen him before. He was in his mid twenties, dressed in a green bomber jacket and jeans with his hair greased back off his face. He was standing casually at the door, contrapposto, looking directly at the spy-hole, as if he knew she was there looking out at him.
Her hand was on the latch when the letterbox opened slowly.‘Maureen,’ he whispered, his voice a smug, nasal drawl.‘I know you’re there, Maureen, I can hear you moving.’
Suddenly terrified, she flattened herself against the wall and slid away from the door.
‘I can still hear you moving,’ he said.‘Are you going to open the door?’
‘Who are you?’ breathed Maureen, a thin film of sweat forming on her upper lip.
‘Open the door and I’ll tell you.’ He tried the handle.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Go on.’
She heard him stand back and snort. He must be able to hear every move she made: the door was very thin. He tiptoed down the stairs and out of the close. Maureen tried to breathe in properly. She heard steps in the close and he tiptoed back up the stairs.
He leaned into the letterbox again.‘Still there?’ he whispered.
She looked around the bare hall for a weapon and lifted a framed photograph off the wall. She could smash it and shove a bit of glass through the letterbox, into his face, into his eye maybe, and then she could phone the police.
‘Are you still there?’ He tittered and let the letterbox snap shut. Maureen dropped the picture. It landed corner down on the carpet and the glass fell out of the frame intact. It was Perspex.‘Carol Brady sent me here.’ The name took a minute to register. ‘She wants to meet you tomorrow.’
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere you like. Why not make it over lunch? That’s nice and civilized.’
Maureen thought for a moment.
‘The DiPrano,’ she said. It was an expensive seafood restaurant in town. She’d look like an idiot if she suggested somewhere small time.
The letterbox opened again.‘What time?’
Maureen didn’t know what time it opened. She didn’t want to be in the middle of lunch-time rush. ‘Two o’clock.’
The letterbox slid shut.
Maureen could hear him walking lightly down the stairs. She waited in the hall in case he came back. She waited for a long time.
Moving very slowly, she made up the settee bed and climbed in, closing her eyes and pretending to be asleep. It was only after Benny had come home, made himself something to eat and gone to bed that Maureen moved. The right side of her body was numb.
She dreamed of breakfast served after Sunday mass. It always felt like a treat because they were hungry: they couldn’t eat before taking communion. Hot, sweet tea, back in the days when everyone took sugar, bacon-egg rolls and the short-worded papers the children could read, the ones with the sex scandals in them. The family were sitting around the front room the way they used to, half dressed for mass with the fragile and uncomfortable bits of clothing taken off and put in their rooms: velvet jackets that would stain with the bacon fat, itchy tights and stiff shoes. They were all adults now, except for her father who was just as she remembered him, thirty-four years old and twice as big as any of them, sitting in the best armchair next to the window.
Maureen was lying on her back by the side of his chair. Only Michael knew she was there and he didn’t look at her. She was wearing a prim flannelette nightie with a high neck, buttoned right up, tight around her throat. It had been rolled up carefully from the hem, leaving her naked from the waist down. She couldn’t get up because her back was stuck to the floor. Without taking his eyes off the paper he reached down to touch her. She tried to get up, flailing her arms and legs wildly like a dying spider, but then her gut split open and a pain seared through her abdomen making her lie still and shut her eyes.
She woke up at eleven-thirty feeling more tired than when she had fallen asleep, threw on her jeans and the Anti Dynamos T-shirt and went to the newsagent’s to buy some cigarettes. A blurry photograph of Liz was on the front page of a dirty Sunday. She was looking straight into the camera and pulling a face. Maureen’s name was underneath the picture. She could see herself, from the neck down, in the background, reaching over to pull down the blind.
8
McEwan
She made her way back along the short road to the close mouth, reading the front page of the paper as she walked. Both doors of a shiny red hatchback opened simultaneously and two men stepped towards her. They wore dark suits and raincoats. One was tall, balding, chubby-faced and looked seedy. The shorter of the two stepped towards her and flipped some ID.‘Miss O’Donnell?’
‘No,’ said Maureen, folding the paper the wrong way and wondering where the camera was.‘My name’s McQuigan. Katrine McQuigan.’
The men looked at each other. If she bolted now they’d know for sure she was O’Donnell.
‘Miss O’Donnell, I know it’s you,’ the short man said.
‘I’ve met you before. I was at the locus.’
‘Where’s“The Locus”?’
‘I was at your house when you were taken to the police station.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Maureen.‘I’ve never been taken to a police station in my life.’
The men looked at each other, puzzled at her lie. The tall man stepped forward and wrapped his fat hand around her upper arm.‘Joe McEwan wants to see you,’ he said, and squeezed hard, letting her know that he wasn’t going to be fucked about.
‘Oh, you’re policemen,’ said Maureen.‘I thought you were journalists. I didn’t see your badge properly.’
They didn’t believe her. The seedy fat man capped his hand over the top of her head, pushed her down roughly, shoved her into the back of the car and got in beside her. The other of
ficer got into the driver’s seat and caught her eye in the rear-view mirror. They definitely didn’t believe her.
‘I did think you were journalists,’ she said, addressing no one in particular.
They parked on the kerb outside the Stewart Street station. The seedy man held her arm as they led her up to the front door. She noticed that the other man was walking on the outside, boxing her in from the main road in case she tried to leg it. Inness, the moustachioed policeman she’d vomited on, was standing by the desk.
‘Hello,’ he said. He had a triumphant gleam in his eye and she guessed that this interview was not going to be an easy one. The raincoat men led her through the now familiar series of staircases and corridors to the interview room on the first floor.
Joe McEwan was not pleased to see her. The seedy officer sat her down at the table and whispered something into his ear. Without looking at her McEwan sat down, turned on the tape-recorder and told it who was there. He looked at her with overt disgust.‘Right, Miss O’Donnell. On Thursday you told me that you had never been to the Rainbow Clinic for any kind of treatment, is that correct?’ ‘Yes, I did say that.’
‘You“did say that”. Was it true?’
‘How do you mean?’ she said,fishing for clues.
‘I think the meaning’s quite clear. Did you tell me the truth when you said you hadn’t been to the Rainbow for treatment?’
Maureen tried to look sad. If she didn’t look sorry they’d know she was trying to be clever. She thought about the dream.‘No,’she said, picking it over for the painful element.
‘It wasn’t true. I lied to you.’
‘Why did you lie, Miss O’Donnell?’
‘Because I was ashamed.’
‘You were ashamed of having an affair with your psychiatrist?’
It was being stuck on her back, it was the feeling of being so small and being trapped. She remembered the sensation and her eyes filled up.‘I was ashamed because of the reason I went there.’
‘We don’t care about that, Miss O’Donnell, it’s not important.’
‘But it’s important to me,’ she whispered.
‘Look,’ said McEwan,‘we know about your father. I’m not interested in that. You lied to me.’ This clearly upset him.‘Do you lie all the time, Maureen? Do you know when you’re lying? I spoke to your psychiatrist today, Louisa Wishart, remember her? The woman you see every Wednesday at six o’clock. Remember?’
‘Louisa? How did you find out about her?’
‘It was in your notes at the Rainbow.’
‘How did you find out about the Rainbow?’
‘You were seen, in the paper.’
‘How could they see me in the paper?’ McEwan’s face flushed very red very suddenly. He bent forward, his voice was staggeringly loud.‘STOP ASKING ME QUESTIONS.’
The seedy officer cringed. The colour drained from McEwan’s face as suddenly as it had risen. He flipped over a couple of pages in his notebook.‘Let’s see,’ he said, completely composed,‘you were referred to her in February from the Rainbow Clinic and have attended the Albert ever since. Is that a bit closer to the truth?’
‘Yes,’ said Maureen.
McEwan paused and looked at her.‘I want to know why you lied to me,’ he said.
Maureen took out the packet of cigarettes she had bought at the shop and held it up.‘May I?’ she said. McEwan nodded. ‘Want one?’
He shook his head firmly but watched the cigarette as she lit it and inhaled. Her throat closed against the rough cigarette smoke, choking her momentarily, feeling like the strangling nightie in the dream. ‘I lied because of the cupboard.’
McEwan was intrigued.‘Did you go into the cupboard?’ he said softly.
Maureen got smoke in her eye. She rubbed it hard with her finger-tips.‘No, when I had my breakdown I was found in that cupboard.’
He looked disappointed.‘So?’
‘Well, I didn’t know what was in there, you kept asking about it, I thought it might be something that tied in with my notes, something that made it look like I did it.’
‘What do you think was in the cupboard?’
‘I dunno. A note or something?’
‘Guess again.’
‘Something of mine?’
He smiled enigmatically.‘And that’s why you lied?’ ‘I didn’t want you to see my psychiatric notes because I thought it might make it look like me.’
She watched McEwan’s face. He was giving nothing away.
‘Don’t lie to me again,’ he said, gesturing for her to leave.
‘It makes my job much harder.’
Maureen stood up. McEwan told the recorder that he was ending the interview and turned it off. He pointed at her.‘And don't give my officers a false name if they come for you again.’
‘Yeah,’ said Maureen, and walked out, taking the newspaper with her.
9
Carol Brady
Maureen had never been happier to see a bottle of whisky. She ordered a large Glenfiddich with ice and lime cordial. The barman asked her if she was joking. She had to give him step by step directions.‘Put a large Glenfiddich in it, that’s it, now fill it up with ice, now put the lime cordial in it.’
‘How much lime?’
‘Same again.’
The barman looked at the drink as he put it on the bar. ‘If the bar manager came in and saw me serving a malt whisky with lime juice I just– I don't know what he'd say.’ ‘Aye, right enough,’ said Maureen, drinking it in three gulps and wishing Leslie was with her.
The whisky slid down her oesophagus, kissed her stomach lining and sent a radiant wave rolling up her spine. The warm glow nestled in the nape of her neck. She put a tenner on the bar.‘And again, please.’
The barman made the simple drink with elaborate gestures. He put it down and asked what the drink was called. ‘Whisky with lime in it,’ said Maureen and moved to a table.
The interior of the DiPrano was original art nouveau, the décor was organic and slightly haphazard, the way art nouveau is supposed to be. The lighting was warm and the space snaked through the concave chrome-lipped bar, around a convex walnut reception desk and into a restaurant decorated with muted peach sea-shell frescoes.
Maureen was underdressed for the restaurant. The other customers in the Oyster Bar were in wools and linens. She had on the Anti Dynamos T-shirt and her black jeans. She picked up her drink and moved nearer to the ubiquitous German tourists, unabashed in their Dayglo casual wear. Carol Brady was two large whiskies late. She swept straight through the bar and walked into the restaurant. The greasy-haired man trotted at her heels. Brady walked up to an empty table, waited for her assistant to pull out the chair for her and sat down facing the bar. The maitre d’ smiled at her from behind his desk and bowed slightly.
Brady’s sniggery messenger was much shorter than Maureen had supposed. He was dressed in a cheap blue suit and slip-on brown shoes with white socks. He looked out at the bar and saw Maureen watching them expectantly. He motioned for her to join them.
‘Hello,’ said Maureen, standing uncertainly at the edge of the table clutching what was left of her whisky.
Brady gazed up at her.‘Yes,’ she said.‘Hello.’ She looked Maureen over. Her displeased eye settled on Maureen’s chest. She read the T-shirt.‘Won’t you sit down?’ she said. Maureen did.
Carol Brady didn’t have an attractive face. She was very wrinkled but didn’t look like she’d got that way having fun. Her eyelids were drooping, resting on her stubby eyelashes and pushing them down. Behind the little curtains of skin her eyes were raw with the shocked despair of a recent death in the family. Her brown hair was thinning and meshed together with hair-spray like a lacy crash helmet.
The waiter brought them leather-bound menus and Mrs Brady ordered a large bottle of mineral water. When he had gone, Brady
said that Douglas had never spoken about Maureen.‘How did you come to know him?’ she asked.
‘We met in a pub,’ said Maureen weakly, feeling that her presence here was enough of a blight on Douglas’s character. Brady pretended to read her menu.‘Not through his work, then.’ She said it as if it were a statement of fact but waited, wanting Maureen to say no.
Maureen looked uncomfortably at her menu. Joe McEwan might tell her if Maureen didn’t.‘He wasn't my therapist,’ she said.
‘He wasn’t your therapist then? Or ever?’
‘Never.’
‘I see,’ said Brady quickly, turning a page.
Maureen closed her menu and put it on the table.‘Mrs Brady,’ she said,‘I’m so sorry about your son.’
Carol Brady ground her teeth as her eyes turned a sudden shocking pink and filled up. She blinked quickly, trying not to cry. For a tense moment Maureen thought Brady was going to start sobbing uncontrollably.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Maureen again.‘I shouldn’t have said I’d meet you here. You could have come to the house.’
Brady inhaled unsteadily and her grief subsided.‘I’m glad we met here,’ she said, dabbing her nose with a linen handkerchief. Maureen waited for her to say why she was glad or why this was better than an alternative venue but she didn’t.
‘Let’s order some food,’ said Brady finally.‘Why don’t you have the langoustine? It’s very good here.’
‘Okay,’ said Maureen, eager to please. She ordered langoustine and Brady chose the Finnan haddie, and the mussels for her silent PA.
‘I heard that you were in Brazil,’ said Maureen. Brady made a nippy face and launched into a speech about the bad flight. Both the climate and the food were too hot for her. The conference was a waste of time. She talked about her trip, detailing dull events and characters all the way through the arrival of the food and most of the way through the meal. She didn’t tell the stories very well and judging by the PA’s glazed expression she had told them several times before. But the purpose of the speech was not to enthral her audience, it was to calm Carol Brady. As she talked she managed to pull herself back from a chasm of grief and got lost in a series of petty annoyances. Maureen wasn’t required to speak: all she had to do was eat and listen, but her mind kept wandering back to the bottle of Glenfiddich at the far end of the gantry. She could see it in her mind’s eye, lit up from behind like a holy vision. They were finishing the meal when Brady moved on to the press. They had hassled her mercilessly at the airport and had called her office repeatedly.‘Jackals,’ she said angrily. ‘Bloody jackals, most of them.’
