by Denise Mina
Doyle seemed a little bewildered by her concern. ‘How?’ he said.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘get sleep and eat better.’ He scratched his head, covering his face and his embarrassment at being fussed over. ‘I eat fine,’ he said sulkily.
‘I only ever see you when there’s no one else here,’ she said, and smiled.
He didn’t smile back. She could tell she had offended him by talking about his diet. He thought she was blaming him for the eczema, as if fruit would have stopped his skin trying to fall away from him. His thick dark hair was always clotted with white lumps lifting from his scalp. Maureen saw Mary and Lara stealing sneaky glances. As if he could feel their eyes on him, he turned away and sat at a table, gesturing for Maureen to join him.
Mark Doyle had met Maureen at his sister’s cremation. Pauline’s funeral had been a grim, harrowing affair, as suicide endings always are. Pauline’s father stood next to his unknowing wife in the pew, squeezing her shoulder and keeping his eyes down. Her two brothers stood side by side and hurried outside as the coffin slid away, missing the line-up by the door in their eagerness to have a fag. When they followed the other mourners over the motorway bridge to a dark pub they spoke to no one but each other and even then said little. They were both tall and broad across the shoulders, drank fast and smoked without pleasure.
It was years later when she saw Doyle again. They were in a grimy pub, looking for a friend of Leslie’s, and he approached them, asking where he knew Maureen from. His skin had got a lot worse since the funeral. He had a brutalized aura about him, war-veteran eyes and scars on his knuckles. He drawled his words like a hard man and when he looked at Maureen, his gaze fell short, settling on her cheek, her nose, her chin but never meeting her eyes. As she looked at him in the pub she firmly believed he’d been the brother who’d raped Pauline, maybe even wanked on to her back as she lay dying. She’d wanted to hurt him for Pauline and run away from the scarred eyes and the raw skin.
It wasn’t until she was in London, being dragged down Brixton High Street by a man with fists like mallets, that she began to doubt it. Doyle came out of nowhere, knocked the guy down and picked her up, carrying her through the fruit market and taking her to safety in his attic bedsit. As they sat and talked in the bare room Doyle told her that his father and brother were dead. He wouldn’t talk about what had happened to them, wouldn’t openly admit that he had killed them, but Maureen knew. He said it brought him no peace.
She’d tried to be a friend to him but Doyle didn’t want a friend. He never wanted to talk about himself or what he did or how he lived. His sole purpose in seeing Maureen was to dissuade her from doing anything to Michael. It was all he ever talked about. He was adamant about it. Maureen tried to imagine how it must have been for him, growing up in a house with two men raping and assaulting his twelve-year-old wee sister, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t imagine the recrimination or the self-loathing but she knew he was trying to avert another disaster, trying to stop her killing Michael and becoming like him. Sheila said it was easier to save other people. Maureen looked at him, hunched over the far table, his back to the crowd, hiding himself and she felt for him. He was half dead already.
‘Three roll, two ’n’ sausage,’ said Lara, handing over the cans and a brown paper bag, one corner already clear with grease.
Maureen paid and walked over to the table, reaching into the bag for Doyle’s roll. ‘Here ye are.’
Doyle took the roll and bit it automatically, keeping his eye on the door as if he was watching for someone.
‘I’ll need to go,’ said Maureen, holding up the bag. ‘I’ve got my pal’s roll.’
Doyle looked at her as if remembering she was there. He nodded her closer to him. ‘What’s happening?’ he muttered. ‘About Michael?’
Doyle nodded. The oil from the bag was burning Maureen’s hand but she held on to it tightly. ‘Baby’s due any day,’ she said, and thought of Sheila.
Doyle picked up a plastic sauce bottle and squeezed watery red juice on to his roll, pressing the bottle too hard with his big hand, causing a little hiss from beneath the lid. ‘Promise,’ he said, ‘you’ll tell me before you do anything.’ He ate and watched her, waiting for her to nod assent. He reached into his overcoat pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. Awkwardly, he handed it to her. It had a long number written on it, pressed twice into the paper where the biro had dried out and been replaced. ‘Phone me before.’
Maureen folded her arms and looked at him reproachfully. ‘Mark,’ he almost flinched at her use of his name, as if he couldn’t bear to hear it, ‘we’ve talked about this. If I’m gonnae do it, I’m gonnae do it.’
Doyle finished his roll and slipped his hands into the pocket of his overcoat. ‘Just phone me, okay?’
‘Once I make my mind up, you’re not going to convince me otherwise,’ she said quietly.
Doyle rubbed his forehead with his open hand. It sounded like sandpaper over parchment. He looked terribly sad for her. ‘Please phone.’ He stood up and ducked through the low doorway without looking back at her.
She watched him go, the hot oil nibbling her skin. The baby seemed suddenly very real and imminent. The hairs on the back of her neck shimmered awake. She shut her eyes, lifting her face to the sagging silver ceiling and, rolling her head from side to side, bullied the hairs back into place. The baby wasn’t born yet, not just yet. She turned round to face the tunnel and put it out of her mind.
Back at the stall Leslie was still slumped on her stool, blinking hard to stay awake. Peter’s eyes lit up when he spied the greasy parcel Maureen was carrying. ‘Is that rolls and sausage?’
Leslie took the bag from Maureen and held it away from Peter as if he might pounce at it. ‘Away and eat a pear, sick boy,’ she said. ‘You want to be careful.’
‘I’ve ruined myself already,’ said Peter, watching Leslie take out the roll and bite into it. A trickle of salty oil escaped from the side of her mouth and she grinned at him as she licked it back. ‘It’s you who should be careful,’ he said. ‘Hear about the A-level results? The girls getting better results than the boys?’
Peter had discovered through no particular intellectual effort that Leslie was a feminist and he liked to wind her up. Maureen could tell that he liked Leslie and meant to flirt and tease her. Leslie could not.
‘It’s not right, is it?’ he said, smiling to himself. ‘What’s the point in letting them do exams? They’re just going to sit at home eating Milk Tray and watching the telly.’
‘You know, Peter,’ Leslie raised her voice and her tired eyes flushed red at the rims: Maureen could tell she was getting disproportionately angry, ‘I doubt whether you’ve ever satisfied a full grown woman.’
Peter frowned. ‘I’ve never had any complaints,’ he muttered.
‘But do ye have an effective complaints procedure?’ said Maureen, trying to lighten the tone.
‘Do ye hate women?’ said Leslie aggressively.
‘No,’ said Peter, disconcerted. ‘No, I love women.’
‘Is that right?’ said Leslie. ‘D’ye love everything about us, or d’ye just like us when we’re sitting about in our knickers waiting for a shag?’
Peter smiled nervously at Maureen. Leslie stood up and sidled over to him, looking around as if she was about to confide in him. ‘Peter,’ she said slowly, her mouth a couple of inches from his ear, ‘I’m menstruating. Heavily.’
Peter shut his eyes and shuddered with disgust as Leslie swaggered back to her seat. He looked at her as if she’d hit him and turned his back, pretending to have an interesting and engaging conversation with Lenny, as if such a thing were possible.
Leslie lowered herself on to her stool. ‘What d’ye do that for?’ said Maureen.
‘I like scaring them with our big leaky bodies.’ Leslie grinned. ‘That’s cheered me right up.’
‘Yeah, well, good
one,’ said Maureen. ‘Let’s attack all the men with chronic angina. That’ll learn ’em.’
Leslie liked to put up an aggressive front but she was a bit cowardly, really. When they had lured Angus to Miliport she had crapped it and stayed downstairs with Siobhain while Maureen went to meet him. It was a sore point. They’d argued about it but never talked about it and Maureen had noticed that knowing she was impotent had made Leslie even more aggressive.
‘So,’ said Maureen as she sat down, ‘ye’d a bad night?’
‘Aye,’ Leslie hung her head and rubbed the back of her neck, ‘it was fucking terrible. He wouldn’t go away.’
‘Ye know, ye could do the deed and move in with me for a couple of weeks. Let him cool off a bit.’ Maureen hoped she wouldn’t need to. Leslie was hard work at the best of times and this wasn’t the best of times.
‘Yeah. He’s convinced I’m seeing someone else so he wants us to have a kid.’
‘How do those two things fit together?’
‘He doesn’t want kids at all, he just wants to tie me down and control me. It’s a twenty-year commitment for me and he’s a guy so he can piss off and come back when it suits him.’
‘I think you’re right.’
‘What a situation to bring a wee life into. He’s not working, I’m here and God knows how long that’ll last for.’ They nodded to each other. ‘And he wants a family. I said to him, I said, “Cammy, fuck off.”’
Maureen chuckled to herself. ‘You’re a great negotiator, Leslie.’
‘Yeah, well, he can fuck off. Tell ye what else: it sharpens the mind when ye think about someone else listening to the “Fields of fucking Athenrye”five times a week.’ She smiled at Maureen. ‘I’ll think about moving in, if that’s all right?’ ‘Any time,’ said Maureen, and lit a cigarette to mask her reluctance.
9
Mobile
Angus Farrell sipped his cold tea, closing his eyes tight, trying to shake the sore head that had plagued him since breakfast. He had taken a painkiller bought from the trustee the night before because he wanted a sleep but there had been something wrong with it – maybe it clashed with his other medication. A shrill, hot pain had been flaring up behind his eyes since morning. Drug-taking was the central recreation of the ward but he couldn’t give himself to it. He pushed aside the sandwich.
A clatter against the metal door made him jump, and as the door swung open into the bright, sunny corridor Angus sat upright, straightening his face, getting ready to be seen by the warden. ‘Solicitor’s here,’ said the officer. ‘You’re going through to Alpha block.’
Angus picked up his cup of tea and the food tray with the uneaten sandwich on it and stood, looking at the guard.
‘Is that you ready?’ said the guard.
‘Aye,’ said Angus.
‘Ye not eating your lunch?’
‘Not hungry.’
The guard hesitated. ‘Well, look, leave it down,’ he said, gesturing to the bed, ‘and I’ll give it in to Hungry George down the row.’
Angus turned and placed the tray on the bed. They would be in here when he was away, searching. He was glad he’d taken the pill the night before. They wouldn’t find anything in his room. He stood up again and the guard stepped away from the door, let him pass. They walked the length of the corridor, passing door after door, hearing men strain to shit or talking to themselves. The warmth in the corridor heightened the acrid smells of unwashed men, of faeces and piss, and the flashing pain behind Angus’s eyes made him flinch again. Davie, the trustee, looked at his feet as he rolled the trolley by and banged on the next door, calling for the trays back.
The strip-lights and high whirr of the cameras burrowed behind his eyes and he leaned forward to make it worse so that when he sat up it would feel like a relief. The pain started to recede, to feel like a flashback to pain from another time, pain from Maureen O’Donnell. In his mind, Angus looked around the little room in Millport: twin beds with matching covers, a sink in the corner and the terrible heat, his hand cuffed to the bed and his legs bare, trousers somewhere else, Maureen O’Donnell standing in front of him, her outline watery through the hot air. He told her she’d been having the dreams because her father had raped her and she’d head-butted him, breaking his nose. He liked making her do that to him. He smiled to himself and sat up slowly, folding his hands in his lap as he looked around the waiting room. Maureen’s pale blue eyes, livid and angry, panic at the edges, hoping to God that he was wrong about her father.
He imagined a court room. A witness box with Maureen in it, dressed in cheap clothes – she always wore cheap clothes. Hair tidied, some makeup on. If he was near to her he would smell cigarettes from her clothes, smell her shampoo, see her never-quite-clean finger nails. No, he rewound, he’d be across the room. They’d put the witness box far from the dock. A witness box with Maureen in it, dressed in cheap clothes, she always wore cheap clothes. He’d look at her, let his eyes fall to her tits and she’d get that look again, panic at the edges of her pale blue eyes.
He had written to Maureen from hospital, when he first came out of the acid haze. A volley of letters, nonsensical notes that only she would understand about her father and the bleeding. He liked to imagine her getting each letter and opening it, reading it and her first reaction, avoiding the letter during the day and rereading it at night, reviving the revulsion. He had sent the letters through the official post. They couldn’t stop him writing to her because she wasn’t part of his case and she wouldn’t complain: he’d mentioned Millport often enough to make it tricky for her. He’d known all along that the hospital censor read the mail and would have notified the police. They’d have traced the letters to Maureen, and her reluctance to hand them over would only serve to convince them that he was sincere.
He looked around the waiting room. The guard next to him was yawning repeatedly because the room was airless. Angus closed his eyes. A witness box with Maureen in it, dressed in cheap clothes, she always wore cheap clothes. Hair tidied, some makeup on. She’d have to point him out, have to look at him. He imagined her being calm and denying giving him the acid-laced coffee. She was a bad witness, had a history of mental illness, a problem with authority, but she could be quite together sometimes. She had a university degree and a pleasant manner. He remembered her coming into his office, smiling for him, asking after him in her heavy, smoky voice, her dark ringlet hair falling over her face. Angus opened his eyes. She couldn’t be like that at the trial. She couldn’t be credible at his trial. None of it would work if she was.
Grace sat at the table and talked through the details he had gleaned from the police statements. Times and places, Maureen’s known movements and when she came to the clinic. ‘She’s got to be a rotten witness,’ said Angus. ‘She’s got a history of hospitalization, and I’m a trained psychologist.’
Grace looked up at him, the fringe of hair fell back over his ears. ‘We want to avoid bringing evidence about her personal reputation if we can.’ ‘Why?’
‘Because if we do that,’ said Grace quietly, ‘then they can bring evidence about your reputation.’ Angus shrugged nonchalantly. ‘So?’
‘They’ll bring evidence about the rape allegations at the Northern Psychiatric Hospital,’ said Grace. Just for a moment Angus saw a shiver in his eyes, saw what he really thought about him. ‘You realize, Mr Farrell, that if this case fails they’ll be bringing a rape case against you?’
Angus frowned, as if he hadn’t known that, as if he hadn’t orchestrated the whole play himself. ‘That’s a ludicrous allegation,’ he said nervously. ‘The Northern Hospital rapes were nearly a decade ago now. Certainly I worked there but that doesn’t make me guilty. They can’t have any witnesses.’ ‘They do have one witness,’ said Grace softly. Angus drummed his nails on the table. He looked at Grace and laughed abruptly. ‘Do you know what I’m really worried about?’
Grace sh
ook his head.
‘I’m worried about what I’m going to wear.’ He snorted.
‘My mum’s got my suit in the dry-cleaner’s. I haven’t got any phone calls left to tell her to get it out and bring it.’
‘Well,’ said Grace, reaching into his inside pocket, ‘that’s one problem I can alleviate.’ He pulled out a mobile phone and flicked it open. Angus watched him hand it over the table and he smiled. He knew the number by heart, tapped it in and grinned up at Grace as he listened to it ring, pressing it tight to his ear so that Grace couldn’t hear it. It rang twice. ‘Mum, it’s me, you know my suit and shirt and things?’ he said to the ringing, pausing for breath as the operator picked up and asked him for his message. ‘Send them now.’
‘Is that all, sir?’ asked the operator.
Angus hung up. ‘Left a message on her pager,’ he said, knowing Grace might get an itemized bill and check the call. He handed back the phone. ‘Thanks for that, you’ve really helped me.’
10
Si
The Albert Hospital was a blackened Victorian monstrosity. It stood alone at the head of the town, dwarfing the squat medieval cathedral. Eight storeys high, the sheer facade had suffered attempts at ornamentation but the pilasters and banding on the brick were as effective as false eyelashes on an elephant. Maureen had been here many times, first on her regular visits to see Louisa, the psychiatrist to whom Angus had referred her, then one last time to see her school friend Benny after Liam broke his jaw.
Ducking across the busy slip-road from the motorway, Maureen waited at the lights. The warm sun and the exhaust fumes formed a gritty haze over the road, catching on her chest. Above her, overlooking the road, wards ended in long balconies furnished with seats for the smokers who were too sick to get downstairs to a designated area.