Exile (35 page)

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for coming home in a state — I got a bit drunk—”

“A bit drunk?” screeched Sarah, and her voice felt like a needle in Maureen’s eye. “You’re an alcoholic!”

Maureen cupped her sore hand. “Fucking calm down,” she said. “God, I’ve got a hangover, have ye no pity?”

“I have pity, I have plenty of pity for people who don’t bring misfortune on themselves—”

“You’re just pissed off because I wouldn’t read your Jesus pamphlets.”

“Get out of my house.”

The bright sun attacked her and her eyes were bursting. She felt ashamed as she sloped through the quiet village to the station. She’d been completely pissed and she’d said the only curse word that was guaranteed to upset Sarah. She got herself to a newsagent’s in Blackheath village and bought a packet of fags. The guy behind the counter was tilling them up when she saw a rack of cheap sunglasses. She impulse-bought the cheapest-looking pair. They were reclaimed stock from the 1970s, with brown lenses and a soft, orange plastic frame. The man charged her a tenner for them, correctly guessing that she was too hungover to argue. She got outside and slid them on, lit a cigarette and silently thanked humanity for the miracle of tobacco.

She was groaning at the bumpy train when she checked her pager and found an old message sent the night before from Leslie: Jimmy had been arrested and she must come home immediately. Maureen tried to phone her from a call box in London Bridge but couldn’t get an answer at home. She looked away down the road. Cars and lorries passed in front of her, whipping the air into wind. She wanted to be cold again and to see familiar buildings, to have her home to go to, her bed to hide in, fresh clothes to wear, to see some noble fucking hills instead of this endless flatness. But she couldn’t go home; she couldn’t go back to Ruchill.

They were having a break. Leslie smoked yet another cigarette and looked around the grim room, at the yellowed walls and the rubber flooring. She had been smoking for hours without anything to wet it. A giant ulcer throbbed on the end of her tongue and she couldn’t stop biting it. Isa was looking after the kids and Jimmy was downstairs in a holding cell.

Leslie had knocked back the offer of a lawyer initially, thinking it would make her look suspicious, but she was beginning to wonder about the wisdom of that. She didn’t think she had anything to hide: all she had done was omit to tell Ann that she knew Jimmy, but she had done it because she knew whose side she was on. She knew how it would look if the police spoke to the committee members and heard that Leslie had requested Ann as a resident. She should have declared an interest when Ann was first mentioned. If the committee even suspected that she had told Jimmy that Ann was in the shelter she’d get the sack — at best they’d move her to the big smelly office. She’d be sitting across from that twat Jan, feeling as miserable as Maureen. She should have told the committee she was Jimmy’s cousin. She should have told them.

The police didn’t believe in the Polaroid and she couldn’t tell them where it was. She couldn’t mention Maureen or they’d want to know why she had taken it and why she was in London. When she told them it was of a guy called Frank Toner the fat guy laughed and the woman smiled up at her. “What has he got to do with this?”

“I think he was her boyfriend,” Leslie’d said.

The policeman had sniggered. “Well, I know what Frank Toner’s girlfriends look like and Ann just wasn’t his type.”

Leslie bit the tip of her ulcer again and blanched at the convulsive needle pains in the root of her tongue. If she could just speak to Maureen and find out what was happening she might be able to lie convincingly. The English woman came back in and sat down across from her. “Would you like something to eat?” she said.

“No,” said Leslie. “Listen, I didn’t know Ann was Jimmy’s wife until after she left.”

“I see. When did you realize?”

“After she left.”

“When after she left?”

But Leslie wasn’t used to lying and she didn’t have any of the basic equipment. She couldn’t visualize herself or build on existing facts to make a lie sustainable. She sat back, drawing the last of her cigarette and stubbing it out in the pie-tin ashtray. “What’s going to happen to me?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to charge me?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

“If you do, what will you charge me with?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“If we can prove you could foresee he was going to hurt her and you aided that in some way. Then … well, then it’s murder.”

Leslie still wasn’t home. Maureen nearly phoned Vik again but lost her bottle halfway through the area code. Outside the glass of the telephone box the car exhaust was forming a gritty haze above Brixton Hill, the fumes and the dirt suspended in the sunlight like salt in solution. It was early afternoon and the day was turning out to be another warm one. She put on her sunglasses and stepped out of the box, heading up the hill to Moe’s. Her bag was heavy and pressed on her shoulder, making her feel worse. She stopped and rested the bag on a low wall, ripped the Velcroed flap open and looked inside. She still had Kilty’s shopping. She picked out the heavy stuff and left two cans of beans and a tin of corned beef on a wall. She kept the things that couldn’t be replaced from a corner shop: two giant bars of Milka chocolate, a packet of rice cakes and a box of fire lighters. She’d explain to her later. She cringed as she remembered the night before. The Las Vegas woman, Elizabeth, had said she didn’t know anything about that. She wouldn’t have said that unless there was something to know.

Someone had tipped a wheelie bin over around the back of Dumbarton Court, disseminating the putrid smell of week-old ready meals and shitty nappies. Maureen took the stairs slowly, stopping to catch her breath on each of the landings. By the time she got to the door she was half hoping Moe wouldn’t be in, but she was.

“What do you want?” asked Moe, adding a “hah” as an afterthought.

“I’m not from the brew,” said Maureen, softly, more concerned with nursing her hangover than setting a kindly tone. “Ye can stop all that puffing and panting.”

“Hah, I don’t know what you mean, hah.”

“Where’s Ann’s child-benefit book, Moe?”

Moe stood up straight, glared at her, opened the door and pulled Maureen in by the lapels. Her angina had cleared up a treat. She slammed the front door shut and turned to face her. “Who the fuck are you?”

The darkness was a comfort to Maureen and she rubbed her itchy eyes. “Have you got the child-benefit book, Moe?” whispered Maureen.

“Are you from the police?”

“No,” said Maureen. “I’m just a friend of Jimmy’s family. Look, Ann died a week and half ago and her book’s still being cashed. Have you got it?”

“If you’re just a friend of Jimmy’s I don’t have to answer any questions, do I?”

“No, Moe, you don’t, but I know about the book and I know about her trips to Glasgow with the big bag and I know why you want the Polaroid. What should I do with that information?”

Moe’s chin crumpled and she began to cry, tugging at her wedding ring. Her face turned pink, like Ann’s. Maureen was glad of the dark hall and the cool walls but her knees were feeling shaky. “Come on, sit down,” she said, and led the crying woman to the living room.

Moe cried for a long time, hiding her face in her hands, and each time the crying subsided the sight of Maureen made her sob afresh.

“Moe,” said Maureen quietly, “you’ve got an alcoholic sister who doesn’t live here. She comes to visit ye, goes away, and two days later you report her missing. She could have gone home and not phoned, she could be lying drunk somewhere in the middle of a binge. It’s ridiculous for you to report her missing.” Moe was looking at the carpet, dabbing her wet eyes. Maureen sighed. “Do you mind very much if I smoke?”

Moe shook her head. Maureen took out her fags and lit one, leaning over and feeling under the chair for the ashtray. She found it and pulled it out, sat it on the arm of the chair. Moe watched her, sniffing quietly. “Would you like a cigarette?” asked Maureen gently.

Moe shook her head again and gestured to her heart, sobbing and turning away. Too hungover to fight with a woman about her heart condition, Maureen waited patiently until Moe had cried herself out. She gave her a hankie.

“Thank you,” said Moe, in a little-girl voice, glancing up at her. “Can I make a phone call?”

“No. I want you to sit and talk to me for five minutes and then you can make a phone call.”

Moe dabbed at her nose. “But I want to phone my husband.”

“After.”

Moe looked up to see if she meant it and saw Maureen’s red eyes and scratched knuckles. ” ‘Kay” She shrugged. “What do you want?”

“Tell me about the book.”

Moe picked at the chenille on the arm of her chair. “I’ve got it,” she said. “I didn’t think it would matter, now she’s dead.”

“It does matter. It means that the children are going without. Burn it.”

” ‘Kay.” Moe sniffed. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t think it mattered.”

Maureen drew on her cigarette and looked at her. “Have you ever heard of a guy called Tarn Parlain?”

“Of course I have. Everyone knows about him. It’s men like him that make this estate hell to live on. They buy drugs from him and they come round here to use them.”

Maureen took a drag. “I know Ann was a courier,” she said softly. “What’s the story Moe? Why did she really tell you about Leslie Findlay?”

Moe began to cry again, covering her face and panting, making a passable impression of herself earlier. “No, come on, stop,” said Maureen lethargically. “I know it’s not real this time, stop it.”

Rumbled as rumbled could be, Moe sat up straight, sniffing and blushing and watching Maureen’s cigarette. “Can I have one?” she said.

“Course ye can.” Maureen gave her one and lit it for her, moving the ashtray to the other arm of the chair to save Moe reaching over. “Now tell me. Who was Ann carrying for?”

“I don’t know,” said Moe. “Someone bought her debt and they made her do it. She knew she was in danger — she told me about the photo and gave me the address of the shelter so that I’d be able to tell the police if anything happened. She was very concerned about the kids …” She broke off for a genuine sob. “She was worried about them, worried anything would happen to them.”

“Didn’t she know the police would think Jimmy beat her?”

“No,” said Moe. “She thought the truth would come out.”

“She should have told the shelter people the truth.”

“But if she’d told them the truth they wouldn’t have let her stay, would they? They’d have sent her to the police and she couldn’t go to them.”

Moe was right, Ann couldn’t have told them that. They’d have turned her away immediately.

“Why did they beat her up at all?” asked Maureen.

“She lost a whole bag of their drugs.”

“She lost them?”

“She was mugged.”

“What’s the story with the Polaroid?”

“He was her boyfriend,” said Moe. “He was going to protect her. She said I should contact him if anything went wrong.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. She said she’d left a photo and I’d be able to find him through that.”

“And that’s why you wanted to keep it?”

“I just want to know what she was doing,” said Moe desperately, “why she was working for drugs … people. Our family have never been involved in anything like that. We’re from a decent family. Can I have the picture?”

“No,” said Maureen. “I haven’t got it anymore but the guy’s name is Frank Toner and he drinks around here.”

“In Streatham?”

“No, in Brixton. Coach and Horses.”

“I thought he lived in Scotland. What happened to the picture?”

“I gave it to a guy I met in a pub.”

Moe was very offended. “Why did you give it to him when I asked for it?”

“I had the feeling you were lying to me, Moe, and I didn’t want to give it to you.”

Maureen stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and as she did Moe lurched across in the chair and grabbed her hand, squeezing too hard, crushing the scratched fingers together. “I’m sorry I lied,” she said, pointedly making eye contact. “I just don’t know who to trust. Thank you for being kind to me, I’ll never forget it.”

Maureen disentangled her hand and stood up. “Look, take care of yourself. And burn that book.”

“I will,” sighed Moe unsteadily. “I will.”

“You can make your phone call now.”

Moe shut the door behind her and double-locked it from the inside.

The sunlight and the mild weather heightened the smell from the bins and Maureen held her breath as she hurried out of the enclosed courtyard. Another message was coming through on her pager. She dug it out and found that Leslie had left a mobile number and asked her to phone urgently. She took a side street to the station and soon found herself in a pretty road of low, terraced houses with climbing plants around the doors and shallow gardens. She lit a cigarette and walked slowly. A car crawled past her, lilting over the speed bumps, speeding up in the pauses. If Moe had the book then Ann must have signed all the checks for her in advance. She must have known, thought Maureen suddenly. She must have known she was going to die.

The receiver in the phone box in the high street had been smashed and she had no choice but to move nearer to the tube station. The Hebrew Israelites were shouting through a megaphone at a small crowd of bewildered listeners standing five feet away. They had constructed a small platform for themselves and were dressed in what appeared to be old costumes from an amateur play about Hannibal — studded belts and trousers tucked into knee-high leather boots. Two stood on either side of the speaker, their arms crossed, looking over the heads of an imaginary vast crowd. The speaker had been shouting about the evils of homosexuality and handed the megaphone to his pal. ‘And they shall be put to death!” he shouted. ‘And they shall be put to death!”

She tried the mobile number recorded on her pager but found it engaged.

“Liam?”

“Mauri?” he shouted. “When are ye coming home?”

“I’m a bit rough, Liam. Don’t shout again, okay?”