Garnethill by Denise Mina (44 page)

"I had it made. It was to replace an old one."

The ferry bus passed them and she held out her gloved hand to Angus. "Can I see it?" she said.

"My bag?"

"Yeah."

Angus tightened his grip on the leather-bound handle. "It's got my notes and everything in it."

Maureen smiled innocently. "Oh, come on, Angus, I'm hardly going to steal it, am I?"

"No," he said stupidly. "But I have a professional obligation."

He turned and crossed the road. She watched him walk away. His tweed jacket was ripped at the back, the seam under the arm was coming apart, ruining the line of it. His shoes were handmade.

She trotted after him. "Listen, can you hang on for a minute? I need to get something."

She meant for him to wait outside but he followed her into the newsagent's. Not wanting to be seen with him, she moved over to the magazine rack, leaving Angus standing on his own by the books. She might be able to get out of the shop without talking to him. She picked up a chocolate bar and took a pint of milk out of the fridge, wasting time by checking the sell-by date. Angus was at the far side of the shop — he didn't want to be seen with her either: he had pulled his hat down and was facing some posters. Next to him a tidy queue of pensioners waited patiently under a red sign. Suddenly the sign came into focus and she realized that they were in the post office. She moved over to the counter quickly, paid for the chocolate and the milk, shoving the money at the bearded man behind the till, and walked out.

Angus followed her onto the pavement and took hold of her elbow, pulling her round to face him. "They do have a fax machine," he said, looking at her with his eyes half-closed.

"Yeah, and I told you it's broken."

"It didn't have a sign on it or anything."

She thought about the day she went back to the Rainbow, how he had called her Helen and pretended not to know her. He'd recognized her the moment she'd opened the door and handed him the coffee; she could tell he had, but she'd suppressed her discomfort, mistaking it for embarrassment at being forgotten. He'd pretended not to know her when only a few days before he had been creeping around her house in a blood-soaked cagoul, planting footprints and cutting off Douglas's soft bollocks. "Do you need to send a fax?" she said, seeming confused.

"No."

They stood and looked at each other.

"So . . . what?" said Maureen.

Angus jerked his head away and looked over the bay. "Nothing," he said. "I just ... I don't know."

She checked her watch. She had better get him off the street before it kicked in. "I'm sorry, Angus, I don't know what you mean. D'you need to contact someone? There's a phone upstairs if you need an ambulance for Siobhain."

"Okay," he said uncertainly. "That'll be all right, then."

"We're at number six," she said, and walked on. She led him up the steep stairs, not daring to look at the front door on the first landing in case he saw her. She blinked hard, willing Siobhain and Leslie to stay inside. Angus followed her up to the top flat.

She waited until he was standing on the top landing with her before she took the keys out. She positioned herself at an angle to the door, with her back to the wall, as she slid the key in, turned it and waved him into the flat in front of her. Angus stepped back gallantly and gestured for Maureen to go in first. She couldn't insist without arousing his suspicion. She stepped into the pink flowery hallway. Angus followed her in and shut the door carefully, quietly. She heard him slip the button on the lock, sealing them into the flat together. Maureen stepped forward toward the living-room door. Angus was moving behind her, standing too close. She shoved the living-room door open, banging it against the wall in her hurry to get away from him, and a burning wave of heat billowed out into the hall. "Jesus," said Angus, blanching. "What's going on in here?"

"It's very hot," said Maureen.

She walked into the living room as though she were looking for someone.

"Yeah, but
why
is it so hot?"

"It's the heating. Hello?" she called softly.

"Where's Siobhain?"

"She doesn't seem to be here."

Angus dropped his bag and hat onto the floor and took off his jacket, resting it over his arm. Two dark rings were forming under his arms, he wiped his glistening forehead with his hand.

Maureen looked at him and smiled. He smiled back, slightly confused, panting lightly in the unbearable heat. He rolled his head back a little and gathered himself together slowly, reminding himself that the bag was on the floor. "Maureen," he said, sliding toward her over a mile of carpet, "I like you." He reached for her wrist but she whipped it away from him.

His skin was burning, the heat was trying to escape from his body any way it could, he could feel blood spots bursting on his back, the size of two-pence pieces, bright, red and burning. A lava rush of sweat ran into his left eye. He pulled off his glasses and jerked his arm up to wipe it from his eyelid but something was moving on his shirtsleeve. He looked at it. He was on fire. Tiny jagged flames leaped on his arm, cartoon flames with red eyes and wicked sharp-toothed smiles. He looked more closely. They were real flames, orange at the base with blue tips, like a gas pipe. He tried to breathe in. The hot air dried his throat and mouth, burning his windpipe. His shirt was melting, sticking to his skin. He tried to lie down and roll the fire off but couldn't move properly and fell onto his knees, leaning his head and shoulder heavily against the red wall.

She was pulling his flaming hair, pulling him by his hair, dragging him away somewhere. She clicked a metal bracelet onto his wrist. He was attached to the bed now and pulled as hard as he could but the bed followed him, biting his wrist, making it bleed heat around the bangle.

"I'm on fire," he said tearfully.

She took his jacket and hat and glasses from the floor and put them on a chair. She undid his shoelaces and slipped his shoes off, unzipped his trousers and let them fall down, pulling them out from under his stockinged feet. Riffling through the pockets she found his wallet. She left the money untouched and took anything that could help to identify him — library cards, cashpoint receipts, credit cards. She slipped the Basildon Bond note to McEwan into the wallet and put it in Angus's trouser pocket, folding the trousers and laying them neatly over the chair.

"You know . . . ," he said into his chest, "you've know. "

She carried the portable television in from the living room and put it on the floor, plugged it in and switched it on.

"Where's Siobhain? Why can't I see her?" Tears drizzled down his face. "Let me go?" he said.

"You were Benny's therapist, weren't ye? You blackmailed him about the credit-card thefts. Ye threatened to shop him and ruin his law career."

"Yes. Please stop this."

"Did you get him to plant the knife back in the flat?"

"Yes. Please . . . make it stop."

"Did he tell you about my cupboard?"

"Yea . . ." Angus was murmuring nonsense, his head lolling heavily on his chest.

"I want you to know," Maureen said slowly, so that he would remember, "this is for Siobhain and Yvonne and Iona and the others. And this is for Douglas and this is for Martin."

"I don't know who Martin is," he said innocently.

She stood still and looked at him. A little bent man sweating in his underwear. A string of thick saliva fell from the side of his open mouth, landing softly on the front of his shirt.

"Martin is the guy you killed at the Northern."

"The porter."

"Yes, the porter."

Angus raised his head. His eyes were open wide, too, too wide. "You know it!" he shouted, suddenly coherent. His face was red and his voice tight, strangled, as if he was shitting. "That's why the dreams. You said his nail ripped you but he fucked you. You know it.
He fuckt you
."

She ran two steps forward and head-butted him. She felt more than heard the crack. She stepped back. Blood was running into his open mouth, his nose was swelling rapidly. He drawled, spluttering through the blood, "
Fuckt
."

She butted him again. He shut his eyes and was suddenly calm. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Yes."

"Am I on fire?"

"Yes, Angus, you're on fire."

Angus gathered his breath and let out a screeching wail. Maureen turned the TV up full and waited for a pause in the screaming. She opened the door and walked downstairs.

Siobhain and Leslie were sitting at the table by the window, eating Ricicles in milk. Behind them the bright sun shone over the bay like a picture postcard and blue and red wooden boats bobbed on the water.

"Hello," said Siobhain. "Where have you been?"

"We have to get out of here
right now
" said Maureen, and went into the kitchen. She picked up the dishcloth from under the sink and used it to wipe anything in the kitchen that could conceivably have touched the sheet of acid.

Leslie ran into the bedroom and dressed. Siobhain shuffled into the kitchen doorway.

"Why are we in a hurry?"

"Siobhain, do you trust me?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then please, move, get dressed. We need to be out of here in ten minutes."

"You have blood on your forehead," she said, and shuffled away.

Leslie appeared at the kitchen door, panting and zipping up her trousers. She looked terrified. "What do you want me to do?"

"Pack everything," said Maureen. "Leave the place spotless so there aren't any complaints. And leave a tenner on the table for a tip."

"A tip?"

"Goodwill gesture."

"You've got blood on your forehead."

Chapter 35

HOME

The train was waiting in Largs Station. Maureen helped Siobhain and Leslie into the first carriage and ran up to the conductor, who was smoking a fag on the platform. "What time does the train go?" she asked.

"Twelve-thirty," he said lethargically. "You've got ten minutes."

Her heart was beating loudly. She ran over to the phone box and called Liam at home. "Hello, Liam?"

"Maureen, I know you're in Millport, I booked the fucking house."

"Did Benny tell you, then?"

"Yeah, the fucker phoned here last night as pally as anything, asking for the address we stayed at the last time. He said he wanted to send you flowers. I was going to drive down and see you."

"Well, don't, I'm coming home. I just phoned to tell you that I've finished using Benny, you can do what you like with him."

"Fucking . . . right." Liam slammed the phone down.

SIOBHAIN GRINNED AT Maureen as she came along the carriage and sat down next to her. She took Maureen's hand and squeezed it. "Where are we going now?" she asked.

"We're going home, Siobhain."

"Is it safe now?"

"Aye."

"Why is it safe?"

"It just is."

"How did it get to be safe?"

"I'm awful tired, Siobhain, do you mind if we don't speak?"

"Yes, I want to speak."

"But I'm dead tired."

Siobhain's cheeks blushed pink. "Fine, then," she said, throwing Maureen's hand away and turning her face resolutely to the window.

Maureen opened the door and walked into her house. She dropped her coat onto Douglas's blue kitchen chair in the cluttered hall, went into the kitchen and turned the boiler on. She wandered into the living room. The floorboards were stained with brown blood but they could be painted over. She had a feeling that she wanted to live with the marks for a while, to walk past them in the morning and get used to them.

She opened the hall cupboard and looked at the bloody stain. Crouching down on her hunkers, she put her hand on it. It was stiff and crunchy. She stood up a little and shuffled her feet forward, moving into the cupboard, and pulled the door shut, closing herself in. She sat in the corner for a while, her fingertips resting on the dried bloody splatter, thinking about love hearts. Finally, she kicked open the door, clambered out and went into the living room, leaving the cupboard door to swing open into the hall. She binned the empty whisky bottle and the half-empty box of chocolates, went into the bedroom, stripped the bedsheets and binned them too.

She walked to the bathroom, shedding her dirty clothes as she went, dropping the jumper in the hall and losing her jeans at the bathroom doorway. She put the plug in the bath, turned on the hot tap and went for a naked walk through her little house, smoking a fag as she did. Her scalp felt rank from wearing the woolly hat against the incessant damp rain; she scratched at it, letting the air through.

It was the best bath she'd ever had. The water was deep and hot, she lay back and felt it run through her hair, warming her scalp and running into her ears. She got out and towel-dried her hair, covered herself in scented body oil and took the blue chair into the living room, sitting on it like a giant sherbet pomander, enjoying her house.

The phone rang out, disrupting her serenity. She didn't answer and the machine wasn't plugged back in yet. It rang for a long time. When it stopped she got up and dialed 1471. It was Liam, phoning from his house. She'd call him later.

She lifted the chair into the bedroom and sat there for a while, thinking about all the times the room had seen her through. Then she took the chair into the kitchen and reclaimed that room too.

She was just beginning to tire of the ritual when someone banged on the door impatiently. It seemed strange because they hadn't knocked a first time. She scampered into the bedroom and looked for something to put on. She was covered in body oil—whatever she put on would be ruined. They banged on the door again and she threw on an old summer dress with a red-wine stain down the back.

She looked out of the spy hole. It was Jim Maliano with his jumper tucked into his jeans and his spooky hairdo. He seemed annoyed.

Maureen opened the door. "Hello—"

"I've come to get my top back." His voice was high and aggressive and grated on her sweet mood.

"I beg your pardon?"