Exile (28 page)

“Just a chat.”

The boy seemed panicked. His eyes darted around the room. If Alan had been older Bunyan would have thought he was looking for a weapon.

“You’re not gonnae …” Alan caught his breath. “Ye won’t jail him, will ye?”

“We’re just going to talk to him, here, in the house.”

The little boy frowned. “What’ll happen to the babies if ye jail him?” he said, but Bunyan knew what he was asking.

“You’ll all be fine,” she said. “We’re just going to have a little chat, that’s all. We won’t be long.”

Williams and Harris came back through the door. Harris’s eyes were redder than before: the purple pressure under his eyes was building. Alan ran forward and grabbed Harris around the thigh. “I’ll stay,” he said. “I’ll stay with yees.”

“You can’t stay, darlin’,” said Bunyan.

Alan smiled up at Williams, frightened and hopeful. “Let me stay, I want to stay with yees, ye can talk to me, I’ll tell ye things, I’ll tell ye.” Harris tried to shake the boy off his leg but Alan clung on. “I’ll stay — Mrs. Lindsay only likes babies anyway. She doesn’t want me.”

Harris put his hand on the boy’s head and pushed him away. “Get upstairs and dress,” he said.

Alan stepped back and looked at him, muttering a random string of dirty words under his breath. He turned and scampered up the stairs noisily on all fours.

“You should have told the children about their mother,” said Williams. “This makes it very difficult for us.”

James Harris slumped against the wall, his mouth hanging open.

“Why didn’t you?”

But Harris was staring at his feet. “I just … I couldn’t,” he said.

They could hear the boy upstairs, singing loud mock opera in a kiddie baritone. A door slammed open, smashing off a wall, and Alan clattered down the stairs carrying the smallest child, holding the little man under his arms, walking with his legs open so he didn’t step on his feet and hurt him. He dropped the little boy onto his feet at the bottom of the stairs and the baby staggered into the living room, holding on to the wall.

“One more to go,” sang Alan, and ran back upstairs again.

Tearfully, Harris put the little hat on the boy and kissed his face as if he’d never see him again.

Bunyan took Williams aside, and pointed upstairs. “That child is going mental,” she said sternly.

“He’s just worried,” said Williams.

An upstairs door slammed open again and Alan shouted a strangled rendition of the climax to “Ness’un Dorma.” He arrived at the top of the stairs with his laces undone, tugging a gray V-neck over his vest with one hand, holding the older baby’s hand. He sang as the baby walked down the stairs one at a time, repeating his favorite bits when he got to the end. He was out of breath when he got to the hall and stood panting and looking at his dad. “I’ll stay,” he said.

“You can’t stay,” said Harris, bending down and picking up the smallest baby. He took the other boy’s hand. ” ‘Mon,” he said, herding Alan with his knees, out of the door and into the neighbor’s hallway.

Mrs. Lindsay stood by the door, holding it open as she smoked a Super King fag. She was an eighteen-year-old with two small babies of her own and a voice like Orson Welles. “When’ll ye be back for them?” she graveled.

They looked to Williams for an answer but he wasn’t in the business of comforting anyone.

“Not too long,” said Bunyan.

” ‘Cause I need tae go out later. I cannae watch them past five.”

“We should be finished by then,” said Bunyan.

“Thanks, hen,” muttered Harris, and the policemen took him next door.

Chapter 30

MOE

Brixton Hill was a broad, fast road. Blocks of high flats lined it, set far enough back across grass or gravel to lend them the looming presence of ugly castles. Farther up the hill the blocks were named after rough Scottish towns like Dumbarton, Renton and Steps. Dumbarton Court must have been the designer’s dream when it was built. It was a stranded Deco cruise liner with white balconies running the length of the block and metal railings accentuating the horizontal lines, rounded on the turn. Dead plants, bits of discarded furniture and strings of ragged washing shattered the straight lines of the verandas. Under attack from the sunshine and the exhaust fumes, the whitewash had turned a mottled gray and was peeling off in papery sheets.

Maureen took a turn at Dumbarton Road, as Mrs. Akitza had instructed her, and walked round to the back of the block, looking for the entrance. In the back court a gang of teenagers shouted to one another, their squeals amplified in the concrete circle. The entrance to flats one to twenty-nine was a narrow stairwell with an open doorway in whitewashed concrete and glass bricks.

It was the stairwell that gave it away. A soup spoon had been dropped when it was burning hot and was now stuck into the plastic flooring. Farther up a splurge of vomit had dried on the lower wall. It was too cold to sit on the stairs, and the junkies had left their debris behind them.

She rang the bell, heard steps in the hall beyond the door and felt herself being looked at through the spy hole. The door opened and a skinny woman in her late forties looked out at her. Moe’s short hair was thick and as yellow as Ann’s but the livid pink of her skin had been mitigated by face powder. She was a handsome woman with large green eyes and eyebrows drawn on with brown pencil. She was dressed in a modest A-line brown skirt and biscuit-colored silk blouse, tucked in at the waist to show off her slim figure.

“Hello, Mrs. Akitza?”

“Hah, yes — Maureen?”

Moe shuffled backwards into her hall, swinging her legs as if her hip bones were fused into her pelvis. She panted incessantly, turning shallow breaths into little “hahs,” as if perpetually making tiny, amazing discoveries. “Hah, thanks for phoning before you came up,” she said, her accent a fusion of open Glaswegian vowels and tiptoed English consonants. “You gave me a chance, hah, to clean up a little bit. I have to ask you not to smoke, hah, I’m afraid.” She pointed to her chest. “Bad heart.”

“No bother,” said Maureen, wondering if she could actually smell smoke or if she was remembering it. “It’s good of ye to see me.”

“Go into the front room,” said Moe, shivering at a pain in her arm, “and sit down, hah. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“That would be lovely, thanks,” said Maureen, stepping into the bright mouth of the front room. She waited until Moe had hobbled into the kitchen before looking at the living room. It was a long, low rectangle with a horizontally barred window running the full length of the outside wall. A large green chenille three-piece suite filled the room. A vase of dead and molting tulips sat on the windowsill, the black stamens spilled over the floor and sill like a cascade of spent matches. Sunlight shone into the room at an angle, lighting up the soupy dust swirling lazily in the atmosphere. Evidence of Moe’s disability sat around the room: a Zimmer frame stood in front of the sofa and a folded wheelchair leaned against the wall. Maureen went to sit down but found an Eazigrip stick standing upright in the chair. The claw looked sticky as if someone had been picking up food with it. Maureen stepped away from the chair and saw a badly hidden ashtray tucked under the fringe of the chair. It had a dead cigarette in it. She bent down, holding her hand over the stub. It was still warm. She stood up and smiled.

A concealed panel in the wall shot up and the top of Moe’s head appeared in the hatch. She shoved a tea tray onto the shelf. “I’ll, hah, give ye this through if ye don’t mind …”

Maureen took the tray, but couldn’t find anywhere to set it down. She had to wait for Moe to hurple into the living room and, bending over with considerable effort, pull over a leather-embossed pouf. Maureen sat the tray on it, listening to Moe panting hard. “D’ye not keep well, Mrs. Akitza?” she asked.

Moe patted a hand to her chest. “Hah, angina,” she said. “Terrible, hah, affliction.”

“It is,” said Maureen.

“Hah. You said you know Jimmy Harris’s family?”

‘Aye. I know his cousin and his auntie.”

Quite suddenly, Moe grabbed the back of the armchair and clutched her left shoulder, struggling for breath. Maureen watched her impassively. Moe thought she was from the social. If Moe was prepared to put on a disability display for a total stranger she must be screwing the brew for a bundle. Angina was worth eighty or ninety quid a week. Plus mobility if she claimed she couldn’t walk, hence the fused hips. Moe’s attack passed and she looked at Maureen for sympathy, patting her chest. Maureen wanted to slap her leg and challenge her to a hula-hoop competition. “You sit down, let me get the tea,” she said.

Moe dropped into the armchair, landing on top of the sticky Eazigrip.

“Milk and sugar?” asked Maureen.

“Uh-huh.” Moe watched the tea, looking worried.

Maureen guessed at two sugars, stirred and held the cup and saucer out for her. Moe grabbed hold of the chair arms and pulled herself forward to take the cup. Behind her the sticky Eazigrip toppled against the armrest, its tacky claw touching the arm. Moe took the cup and sat back again, pressing the dirt into the chair.

“I’m awful sorry about your sister, Mrs. Akitza.”

Moe nodded somberly. “Yes, hah, call me Moe,” she said. “Does Jimmy know you’re here?”

“Oh, aye. I wanted to ask ye about Ann.”

“Yes.” Moe sniffed with a dry nose and looked at her lap. “They took me down to Horseferry Road to identify her.”

“That must have been terrible,” said Maureen, thinking of Douglas.

Moe leaned forward, reaching for a Garibaldi biscuit. Her outstretched fingers missed the plate by three feet. Maureen watched her for a moment, wondering about her, before reaching forward and holding up the plate of biscuits. Moe took one and thanked her, smiling reproachfully, resentful of the pause.

“Did Ann come and see ye when she came to London?”

Moe nodded. “Yes,” she said, taking a bite. “Always.”

“Did she come this last time?”

“Came to borrow money. I haven’t any money. I can’t work because of my condition.”

“When did Ann come?”

“New Year’s Eve, hah, the Friday.”

“And that was all she said, could she have money?”

“Yes, she was very scared, hah,” Moe said solemnly, talking slowly “Someone was after her. She was running for her life.”

Maureen nodded back.

“Well, she’s dead now,” said Moe, and frowned as if her sister had missed a bus. She sipped her tea.

“Jimmy said she was in some state,” said Maureen.

Moe shivered. “Oh, aye, terrible, hah.”

“He said she was shot.”

“No.” Moe sounded certain and pointed to the back of her head. “Fractured skull. Hah, her feet was all burned, her hands too.”

Maureen watched her, remembering the morning when she had found Douglas dead in her living room. It had been six months but Maureen still shuddered at the image. Moe had seen her sister less than a week ago. She was trying quite hard but she didn’t seem very upset.

“Oh, he told me she was shot in the head.”

“Hah, no. The river made a mess of her face but she wasn’t shot. I’ve never seen anything like it, hah. They’d cut her legs.” She drew little lines around the back of her knees. “Still had her bracelet on. Our mother gave that to her, as an heirloom. Ann was named for her, you see. Been through all that and, hah, still had it on … She was never without it. Wore it everywhere.”

She gestured around her wrist, running her fingers slowly over the flat bone. Maureen nodded again, but she had a pretty firm grasp of the whole bracelet concept already.

“Is this the gold one?”

“Hah.”

Outside the dirty window an ambulance me-mawed down the hill. Moe sipped her tea, looking at Maureen. She didn’t speak.

“Ye know Ann was in a shelter for battered women before she disappeared?”

“Hah.”

“The police are going to think Jimmy had something to do with her murder—”

“Nice, hah, man, Jimmy,” she interrupted.

“Aye,” said Maureen. “He is a nice man. Do ye think he hit Ann?”

Moe looked at her Garibaldi and shrugged. “Hah, I don’t know. Ann could be difficult, hah?”

“Because she drank.”

Moe swallowed hard and looked into the shadows. “It was the drink that killed Ann, really, hah?”

Maureen nodded.

“The company, hah, she kept.” Moe looked sad. “She was a good girl. She wouldn’t have been in that company otherwise.”

“The police phoned Glasgow to tell the home for battered women that Ann was dead and they asked for someone very specifically. Would you know how they got that name?”

“Leslie Findlay at the Place of Safety Shelters. Ann told me when she came here and I told them.”

“Why did she tell ye that name, do ye think?”

“Hah, in case anything happened, I suppose.”

“It was lucky that you remembered her name so well,” said Maureen carefully, “because otherwise the police might never have known Ann had been in a shelter.”

“Yes, it was. Lucky.”

Maureen pulled the Polaroid out of her pocket and handed it to Moe. “Do you recognize this man?”

Moe looked at the picture closely. “No.”

Maureen reached over to take the picture back but Moe was reluctant to give it to her. “Can I keep it?” she said.

“Why would you want to keep it if you don’t know the man?”

“It’s got my nephew in it. I might never see Ann’s children again. I can’t hardly go out of the house. I don’t keep well.”

“I’m afraid I’ll need to keep it.” Maureen had to tug the picture to get it back off her. “I’ll get Jimmy to send you a set of school pictures. Have you got her child-benefit book, Moe?”

Moe was so startled she nearly kicked the tray over. “No, I haven’t, hah, hah, hah,” she panted, her eyes darting around the floor.

Maureen leaned forward and patted her arm. “Hey, calm down, I’m sorry, I’m just asking.”

“But why are ye asking? I wouldn’t do that, it’s against the law.” The sunlight spilled over the edge of the windowsill and caught Moe’s forehead. Specks of sweat were soaking up the pink face powder.

“I’m upsetting you,” said Maureen. “I’m sorry. I can see you don’t keep well. I hope you’ve good friends and neighbors down here.”