Garnethill by Denise Mina (41 page)

Marie covered her face and began to sob.

"Look what you've done," said Una, standing up and putting an arm around Marie's heaving shoulders. She looked at Maureen reproachfully. "She's only home for a visit."

Maureen stood up and buttoned her overcoat. "Lets all of you off the hook if I'm bananas, doesn't it? There's nothing wrong with this family and it's just my problem. Well" — she leaned over and lifted the bottle of whisky from the table, screwing the lid on tightly—"I'm getting out of here and I'm not coming back." She took the bottle and walked out of the kitchen.

Winnie followed her out into the hall. "Where are you going?" she said, inadvertently staring at the bottle.

"That's it, isn't it, Mum? That's the history of our family. You've got one child walking out of your life and another crying her tits off in the kitchen and all you're interested in is where's the bottle of whisky gone."

Winnie folded her arms and looked deeply hurt. "I've always done my best by you, Maureen, and I'm sorry if that wasn't enough."

"Mum," said Maureen, "all we do is lie to each other."

"When have we ever lied to each other, Maureen?" Winnie smiled bitterly. "I'm only asking because I haven't lied to you and I'd like to know when you lied to me."

"You don't have flu, Winnie, you've got a cunting hangover. You gave the picture to the papers, didn't you? Did they pay you?"

"There's obviously no point in discussing this," Winnie said, shutting her eyes in a long cutoff blink. "I can see that you've already made up your mind about it."

"Yeah," shouted Maureen. "There's no fucking point in discussing anything you've ever done, is there?"

Winnie spoke quietly. "I have never deliberately done anything to hurt you, Maureen. I don't know why you think I—"

"Bollocks," said Maureen, shaking with fury as she opened the door and stepped outside. "You're a vindictive, self-serving cow."

Winnie gave the bottle a last grieving look and slammed the door shut in her daughter's face.

It was an hour before the pubs shut and Maureen was the only person at the bus stop with the right to vote.

A crowd of excitable teenagers were hanging about. They were guessing at how to behave, each of them a bundle of secret terrors and paranoias. Their voices were too loud, their gesticulations too pronounced, like bad actors in a theater with rotten acoustics. The blue Ford was parked a hundred yards down the road. Maureen looked up, pretending to look past it for the bus. One of the policemen was looking straight at her. He seemed to be trying to catch her eye.

The bus came after a couple of minutes and she clambered aboard, leaving the youngsters behind. She went upstairs to the top deck, sitting down two seats from the back. It was quiet: a couple of people sat singly near the front, a woman looking out of the window, a man reading a paper. She shut her eyes and thought about Douglas's lovely bollocks sitting in a bloody puddle in the dark hall cupboard. And she saw herself sitting in there, in the black dark, hiding from no one, not knowing whether she was ten or twenty. The two time frames seemed to blur together so that she was in one corner and Douglas's bollocks were in the other.

He wasn't a complete shit, after all, he was just a poor, bewildered bastard feeling his way, and knowing that made her feel closer to him. She thought about the last few weeks of his life, when he would have heard about Iona and started investigating rapes at the Northern. She was looking for some small clue she could have picked up on at the time. She could have tried to help. But she was part of the problem he was trying to solve. Douglas had been further away than she could ever have imagined.

She had a strong sense of coming to the end of a painful time in her life, a time riddled with betrayals and half-arsed apologies. She couldn't remember what she was like when she wasn't in a state.

She could hear Leslie moving carefully behind the door. "Yeah?" It s me.

Leslie opened the door a crack and peered out with one very frightened eye. She grinned unsteadily and let the door swing wide. She was holding an old wooden walking stick by the toe. It had a vicious duck's-head brass handle, the sharp beak pointing outward.

"What's happening?" said Maureen. "That looks scary."

"Yeah," said Leslie, double-locking the door behind Maureen and walking back into the living room. She was still holding the walking stick.

"Where's Siobhain?"

"In bed," whispered Leslie urgently, standing close to Maureen. "She's asleep. Someone was at the door. Half hour ago, trying the handle."

"What did you do?"

"I was standing, watching. I coughed and they let it go. I heard them belting off downstairs."

"Does Benny have your address?"

"No."

"Well, if it is Benny he couldn't have followed me, I just got here. Could have been kids."

Leslie looked relieved. "Yeah," she said, and handed Maureen the stick. "They usually work their way around a close. I'm going across the hall to ask Mrs. Gallagher if they tried her door. You stay here."

Maureen stood behind the door, listening, as Leslie knocked for Mrs. Gallagher across the landing. After a pause she heard voices. Leslie was still talking when she scratched at the door to be let back in. Maureen opened it. Mrs. Gallagher was standing at her open door in a pink nylon dressing gown and matching fluffy slippers.

' 'S all right," said Leslie, grinning widely. "They tried her door. It was just some wee robbers."

Leslie came back into the house, said good night to Mrs. Gallagher and shut the door, locking it behind her. "Thank fuck for that." She took the stick off Maureen and set it down by the door. They went into the living room. Maureen took off her coat and threw it over the back of a chair.

"How did it go with your family?"

"Well, I said everything I meant to but that's all. They didn't exactly see my point of view. They seemed confused when I said about accusing me of killing Douglas. I dunno why they'd deny that, they were definitely up to something."

"Right," said Leslie, standing formally in front of her with her hands clasped behind her back, swaying on the balls of her feet. "So we're off tomorrow, then?"

"Yes."

"Right."

"Well, I brought drink again," said Maureen, pulling the opened bottle of whisky out of her rucksack.

"Fucking ace." Leslie went into the kitchen and brought out some glasses. "We're drinking too much," she said as she held out her glass for Maureen to fill it.

"I thought alcohol abuse was a good way to cope," said Maureen.

"I'm getting too old for it," said Leslie. "I'm starting to feel it during the day."

"This is a difficult time. It won't always be like this."

Maureen poured a whisky for herself and drank it like ginger. She shouldn't be able to drink it like that. She was drinking far, far too much. She wasn't even getting the rolling glow anymore. They sat down next to each other on the settee but Maureen noticed that Leslie settled at the far end, as far away as she could get. She was pale and stared at the opposite wall.

"See, about tomorrow?" she said timidly. "I . . . um . . . I've been thinking about it and, um . . . I just don't know if it's a good idea."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Listen to me. The police know about the hospital and the list. They might catch up with him any minute."

"He'll come for us."

"But it seems to be dying down now," she said uncertainly.

"He'll come if the police aren't holding him." Maureen put her whisky down. "And I don't think they've got enough evidence to hold him. He doesn't need to hurry, he can come for any of us any time. He's killed two people to cover up the rapes in the Northern. If anything, we're more of a threat than Douglas was because we've got Siobhain. He needs to kill us."

"I'm a bit scared, Mauri, that's all," said Leslie. "I'm sorry."

"I'm doing it," said Maureen, and picked up her whisky again.

They drank in silence until Leslie suddenly blurted out, "Wonder why he hasn't come for you yet."

"I'd be harder to get at," said Maureen calmly. "I've been moving around the whole time. And, besides, there's a police car on my tail."

"They're following you?"

"Yeah, McEwan knows every step I've taken in the past week and I just spotted them. They'll be outside now in that blue Ford McEwan was in this morning."

Leslie's face contorted into a parody of a smile. "Then we can't do it, can we? The police'll see us and we'll get charged."

"No, Leslie, they won't see us. If they're still with us at Largs then we'll leave it and come straight home. You're really scared, aren't you?"

Leslie looked up at Maureen and her furtive expression collapsed. "Yeah, I'm fucking scared." She slammed her whisky down on a side table and turned to Maureen, shouting under her breath in case she woke Siobhain: "I've spent all day with Siobhain and I don't know what he did to her but I don't want him to do it to me. I've never been this scared. Even Charlotte wasn't as cowed as Siobhain. At least she had a shred of fucking personality left and her man'd done all sorts of surgery on her."

"But Siobhain was sick before it happened. This probably compounded it. We don't know what she's like when she's well."

"I feel like packing up my bike and getting the fuck out of here."

Maureen sighed. "You can do that if you want. I'd understand."

Leslie picked her glass up and looked into it for the answer. "But if Siobhain isn't seen getting onto the Millport ferry he won't come, will he? And you can't manage her and see to him, can you? I have to go if you go." She looked at Maureen, leaving it open for her to say she wouldn't go either.

"These women can't give evidence, Leslie, they've got no one to stand up for them but us. I can't stop now." She told Leslie what Shan had told her, about Iona, about the rapes, about Douglas crying in the toilet.

"Are you sure about this, Mauri?"

"I dunno," she said. "I heard it all from one person and I don't know how reliable he is."

Leslie huffed. "That doesn't sound very likely to me," she said. "Didn't good, kind Douglas see a hint of irony in his relationship with you?"

"I think he may have seen a shocking irony in it," murmured Maureen. "He didn't touch me once after Iona killed herself and I think that's why he paid the money into my account."

"So he fucked you and paid you off?"

"I didn't say what he did was good or right."

"It's a big change of heart to credit to such a prick."

"I think he was trying, though."

"That guy was a skank of the first order. Just 'cause he knows he's a skank doesn't stop him being a skank."

Maureen smiled up at her pal. That's how it was with Leslie. Bad people did the bad things and good people did the good things', there were no roads to Damascus, no moments of realization, no twelfth-hour conversions, just white hats and black hats. Leslie was a hanging judge.

"Well, whoever it is, I'm not stopping," said Maureen, "I'm going to get him."

"How do you know you're getting the right guy?"

"I'll know. If he comes after us it's definitely him."

Leslie sighed. "I don't want to go to prison, Maureen. I like my wee life."

"You won't go to prison. You won't even be there when it happens, I promise."

"I don't know what you're going to do to him."

"I know, I think that's for the best. If you don't know what's going to happen and the police get involved you can't be done for conspiracy to anything, can you?"

"Maybe I should know."

"No," said Maureen. "I don't think you should."

They sat silent for a minute. Leslie raised her glass. "Fuck it, then."

"Make thick my blood," said Maureen, and threw back the last of her whisky, sloshing it through her teeth until it burned her gums before she swallowed.

"I need to go to bed," said Leslie, pulling the sleeping bags out from behind the settee and unrolling them. "What time d'you want up?"

"Any time before three in the afternoon."

Chapter 33

MILLPORT

Maureen woke up with more aches and pains than she'd had the morning before. Her hip bone had been digging into the hard floor and was numb. She got up quickly, glad to be off the stern floor. Outside the picture window Leslie was sitting in a deck chair on the veranda, drinking coffee and eating toast. Siobhain was standing next to her, leaning on the railing, looking down at the ground.

It was half-twelve. Maureen phoned Lynn at the surgery. "Hello," she said. "It's the Secret Squirrel here. Any word?"

"Yes," said Lynn. "For Friday? That seems to be fine."

"Can't you talk now? Shall I phone later?"

"If I could just take your name," said Lynn, and paused. "Can you spell that for me?" And then she spelled out a familiar name as though she were repeating what she was hearing over the phone. Fine. "Do you understand the arrangement, then?"

"That's the name of Benny's doctor, is it?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Lynn, I owe you a big one."

"Yes, that's right," said Lynn. "I'll see you, then. Bye-bye now."

"Bye, Lynn."

Maureen hung up and pulled on her clothes. The mustard jumper was beginning to get smelly and the crispness in her jeans was a distant memory, but she told herself that she'd be home soon and would be able to do a washing, and if she didn't get home in the next two days it wouldn't really matter whether her clothes were clean or not. "Leslie," she said, calling to her on the veranda, "have you got a wee bag or a box I could put some things in?"

Leslie looked into the living room. "What did you say?"

"I've some things I want to keep separate from the luggage. Have you a wee bag or something?"

"Have a look under the sink."

Maureen rummaged through the bags, looking for a thick one. On the floor at the back she found a navy blue hexagonal cardboard presentation box with "Boothy and Co." written on it. She pulled off the lid. Jagged bits of dusty toffee had gathered in one corner. She picked out a small, thick plastic bag, shoved the rest back into the cupboard and wandered out onto the veranda. "Can I have this box?"