by Denise Mina
‘Here ye are,’ said the wee man, handing her a crumpled tissue.
‘Thanks,’ said Maureen, wiping away selfish tears. The little man stuck his hands into his pockets and rocked on his feet, thinking about it, choosing his words carefully. ‘We did a post-mortem. We have to, if people die in hospital. She died of a heart-attack.’
‘Oh,’ she said, and sniffed. ‘You’re very nice to tell me that.’
‘Aye,’ said the man firmly. ‘I am very nice.’ Maureen looked at him and snorted a laugh, blowing her nose on her face by accident. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ she said, and holding the inadequate single hankie up to her face. ‘That’s disgusting.’
The man dug in his pockets for more tissues. ‘I work in a morgue, hen,’ he said kindly. ‘It takes more than snotters to get me sick.’
Maureen cleaned her face and the man stayed with her while she looked at Ella again. ‘Is he taking her home?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said the man. ‘She’s just going straight to the crematorium.’
Si had made his confirmation, he knew what he was doing. He was leaving Ella here among the dead, with no one to say the rosary for her, no friends or family to hold a wake and fend the devil from her soul until the blessing of the mass. Maureen didn’t suppose that Ella had been especially devout– the truly ardent are rarely secretive about it– but in death the old traditions are more than religious observances. The wake is a measure of attachment, when friends and family can prove themselves by reciting tedious prayers for love. And after the prayers the sum of a life and a character, the stories they generate, can be told over and over. Taking the body home meant that even in death someone would claim you for their own. Ella McGee might never have been here at all. Maureen tried to think her way through a decade of the rosary but she couldn’t even remember who Mary was blessed among. She blinked back a second wave of tears. ‘Can I put some makeup on her?’ she said.
The man looked at her for a moment. ‘It’s nothing daft, is it?’
‘I want to draw her eyebrows in, she always had eyebrows.’
‘Sure. Just make sure ye don’t push her about too much. Want me to leave ye alone?’
She shook her head. ‘I’d rather ye stayed.’
She used the comb from the poly-bag and back combed the front of Ella’s yellowed fringe into a little halo, smoothing it with the comb. She took out the unused eyeliner pencil and pulled off the packaging. It was black, not dark brown like Ella always wore, but she did her best and drew the arched eyebrows on her forehead. Because she was leaning over the body, the far-away eyebrow was a little higher than the other, making Ella look faintly indignant. Maureen thought suddenly that the morgue man would think this was a daft thing to do to a corpse, that she was making the body look ridiculous.
‘She did do that,’ she said, pointing to Ella’s forehead as she stood back. ‘I’m not just drawing all over her . . .’
She stepped close to Ella again, reaching out to correct the eyebrow, but realized that she would be smearing dead skin. It wasn’t disgust so much as not knowing how a dead person’s skin would react. If she pressed too hard it might just fall off. She was standing on tiptoe, looking at the body indecisively, and her eye fell on Ella’s right hand. It had a deep cut on it where the bandage had been, right through the skin; she could actually see a glint of silver through the hole. It was open like a wordless mouth. ‘Where did that come from?’
The man stood up and looked at the hand. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘that was funny. She had that when she came in. It was about a week before she died. She told the nurses she cut herself in the kitchen. We thought she did it herself, it looked kind of deliberate.’
‘Why would she do it herself?’ said Maureen.
He looked at Ella’s face uncertainly. ‘Well,’ he said,‘how could ye do that by accident?’ He held up his hand and used the other to mime a stab motion. He had to hold his splayed hand away from himself, his thumb pointing at his feet. ‘It’s awkward, isn’t it?’
‘Could someone else have done it to her?’ said Maureen, holding her splayed hand up in front of her face as if protecting herself.
‘Aye, but why wouldn’t she say?’ The man reached round to his back pocket and held out a battered tin hip flask, watching her face to see if it was all right. She smiled hopefully and he unscrewed the lid, letting out the sweet smell of good whisky into the disinfected room. He gave her the first slug and she took a drink, giving back the flask. ‘Are you sure it couldn’t have happened when they were resuscitating her?’
The man shook his head. ‘They didn’t give her resus,’ he said quietly. ‘She was down in her notes as“Not For Resuscitation”.’ ‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ He looked at her slyly. ‘I thought you’d know that.’
‘Why would I?’
‘’Cause it says on the notes that the doctor discussed it with the family.’ He looked at her, knowing that she wasn’t family and had no business being there.
Maureen shrugged at him and he gave a little shrug back. They sat down on the bench and the man took a tiny nip of whisky and exhaled appreciatively, raising the flask to the corpse in front of them.
‘Poor Ella,’ said Maureen, feeling awkward.
‘Aye,’ he said, handing the flask to her.
Maureen swallowed. ‘She did do her eyebrows like that, honest.’
‘Aye, well.’ He took the flask back from her and upended it, swallowing three mouthfuls and exhaling appreciatively. ‘I think she looks lovely.’
16
Hugh
The hot night had a frantic atmosphere: too many people out, too much effort made, like a teenage party that would end in tears. A drunk couple walked past, huddled together, eating from the same bag of chips, leaving a vapour trail of hot vinegar. Maureen leaned against a shuttered shop front and watched two women on the other side of the street laughing and pulling each other around by their handbags. She didn’t know why Hugh had insisted on meeting her but she was nervous. She’d had a bit of a drink in the house before she came out to steady herself. He’d be coming down the hill, coming from his work at Stewart Street police station.
She lit a cigarette as she waited, thinking about the wee girl in the photograph and Ella McGee. She felt a familiar anaesthetizing despair at a world full of unchecked bullies, like Michael and the crying girl’s photographer and creepy Si. The thought of Si made Maureen feel angry again.
Maybe she’d go to the small claims case instead of Ella– she’d signed the papers, after all. If he started any of his shit with Maureen she’d be ready for him. Mentally rehearsing punching him in the face, over and over like a stuck computer game, she felt a rush of adrenaline and the muscles on her back tighten. The punched face began to toggle between Si and Michael, getting faster and faster. She realized that Hugh’s arrival was imminent and she had to calm down. She took a deep drag on her cigarette and leaned forward, thinking of Vik driving the car and how normal and happy they must have looked.
Hugh McAskill was walking down the hill towards her. He waved when he saw her and she walked towards him, glad she had her shades to hide behind, taking deep breaths to make the anger subside. She greeted him with a coy elbow nudge.
‘How are ye?’ he said, frowning uncomfortably, as if she had tricked him into coming.
‘Aye,’ she said, hoping it wasn’t going to be a heavy night, ‘fine. Nice night. How are ye yourself?’
‘Fine.’ Hugh glanced around, nodding her into step with him. ‘Let’s get some grub.’
They took the arcing pedestrian bridge over the motorway and went in search of a great Glasgow curry.
Hugh suggested the Indian Trip restaurant: he said he’d been a number of times with his wife and the food was good. He still wasn’t letting on about the purpose of the meeting but Maureen had a feeling she wasn’t going to like it. ‘It’s alway
s busy,’ said Hugh, filling the ponderous conversational space. ‘We’ll be lucky to get a table.’
But she didn’t want to eat: she just wanted to hear what he had to say and go somewhere and get pissed alone.
The area they were walking through was too near to the town to be residential. Not yet the coveted West End, it was a transient area of cheap hotels peopled by disappointed businessmen and twenty-four-hour shops. Great sweeping Georgian terraces were deserted or chopped up into mean little offices. One block away was Kelvingrove Park, midnight home to homosexual encounter groups and muggers. Si McGee’s business was around here. Maureen imagined the ghost of Home Gran across the road somewhere, mopping up in a gym or hoovering at reception. Maybe that’s where she’d got the inspiration to wear tracksuits all the time.
When they got to the restaurant Hugh asked the waiter for a table upstairs. It was a strangely shaped room, an angular rhomboid with dark walls and windows on two sides looking down the length of Sauchiehall Street. Yellow and red car lights traced the line of the long road. A soft breeze whispered through the open window, whipped up by passing lorries and buses.
They ordered and the waiter jotted in his notebook as he backed away from them. Maureen and Hugh both felt uneasy at the intimate surroundings: it felt like the start of a reluctant love affair between desperately unhappy people. Hugh kept his eyes on the road, sitting back in the shadows, out of view of the street. The food came quickly. Maureen looked out of the window as the sun set low over the road and ate a mouthful of bindi bhaji. The aromatic flavour and slow-heat aftertaste were lost on her. She didn’t want to eat. ‘How’s the bindi?’ asked Hugh, gnawing his way through tandoori chicken, getting the red food colouring over his mouth and chin.
She sipped her lager to clear her mouth. ‘Nice. A man came to my door the other night,’ she said,‘and gave me a citation.’
‘For Farrell’s trial?’
‘I don’t want to go but he said I have to.’ Hugh picked up his shandy. ‘He’s right,’ he said, sipping and swallowing. ‘You do have to.’
The restaurant was busy, and around them tables of men and women chatted and laughed together, oblivious to the crying girl in Maureen’s cupboard.
‘Are they going to ask me about the letters?’
‘No,’ said Hugh. The letters aren’t relevant any more.’
He chewed between the parallel bones on a wing. A small yellow lump of fat, tinged red at the edge, fell on to the table. Maureen frowned. The whole point of Angus Farrell sending the letters to her had been to help prove his insanity. ‘I thought he’d use them to prove he’s insane?’
‘No,’ said Hugh certainly. ‘They had a hearing six months ago and found him insane but he’s better now. The drugs have worn off.’
Maureen didn’t understand. She was sure that was why Angus had sent the letters. ‘Is he saying he’s guilty, then?’ she asked.
Hugh put down the pared bone, cleaned his chin with his napkin and leaned across to her. ‘No.’ He didn’t seem to want to add anything to it.
Maureen wondered why he had asked her here and wished he’d get on with it. She abandoned her dinner and took out a cigarette under the table so that Hugh wouldn’t see the duty-free packet. She used Vik’s disposable lighter and inhaled deeply. ‘The citation guy, he said I’d go to jail if I don’t turn up.’ ‘He’s right,’ said Hugh.
‘That’s not very fair,’ she said. ‘You can’t jail people for being frightened.’
Hugh held up his hand. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said slowly, ‘it’s not the police who do that. Anyway, if no one had to give evidence no one would ever go to jail. There’d be a lot more frightened people around.’
Maureen drew on her fag and pushed strands of bindi around her plate, glancing up at Hugh, who had gone back to eating his chicken.
‘This is nice,’ he said. ‘D’you want to try a bit?’
‘What if I go but refuse to answer certain questions?’
‘They’ll put you in jail to consider your position,’ said Hugh, looking up at her through his red eyebrows, warning her not to disappear.
‘Is there nothing I can do about it?’ Hugh picked a lump of clear gristle out of his mouth and laid it on the side of his plate. ‘Just go and tell the truth, Maureen. That’s the smart thing to do.’ Maureen laughed bitterly. ‘The smart thing?’ ‘Maureen, the legal system has been coercing reluctant witnesses for over a thousand years. You’re not going to think up anything they haven’t come across before.’
Maureen drew on her cigarette again and reminded herself that none of it had happened yet. It was all in the future. She kicked him gently under the table. ‘How are you, anyway? Why weren’t you at the survivors’ meeting on Thursday?’
‘Work. How was it?’
‘Aw, ye fairly missed yourself.’ She flicked her ash on to the floor. ‘Colin was very sad, Alex was very angry, and I was very confused.’
Hugh smiled sadly. ‘That sounds . . . uplifting. Sheila told me you went back to her house for a cup of tea.’ He was building up to ask her about Michael.
‘So, how’s your head this week?’ she asked, heading him off at the pass.
‘Fine. D’you not want to talk about it with me, Maureen?’ She thought of Vik lying on her bed, his burnished skin, and the sheet slipping off the dip on his hip. ‘Not just now, no.’
Hugh looked out of the window. The eggshell skin beneath his eyes flushed blue to match his watery eyes. ‘Well, what do you want to talk about?’ He sounded annoyed, as if she was cutting him out, as if she’d invited him here on false pretences. A table behind them was getting out of hand, overexcited and noisy.
Maureen looked out of the window with Hugh, trying to make it the two of them together again. ‘Where’s the gym around here?’
‘There’s no gym around here,’ he snapped.
She blinked long and hard. ‘I’m entitled not to talk about this.’
‘I know, I know,’ he nodded,‘I’m just tired, I’m worried.’
‘Sheila shouldn’t have repeated what I said to her, you know.’
‘And I shouldn’t be here with you,’ said Hugh, under his breath, watching the road in case he was seen. ‘I shouldn’t be here with a witness in an upcoming trial but I’m worried. Don’t do anything to your dad, Maureen. You’ve got to keep your nose clean.’ He looked up at her. ‘Please, don’t do anything. I can contact the Social Work for you. I’ll pick your dad up, me and the guys’ll give him a kicking in the back of a van and warn him, but please, don’t do anything.’ The image of Hugh kicking Michael in the back of a van pleased her. Hugh, holding the crescent moon aloft, lifting his leg sadly but justly, and a withered, vanquished Michael on the floor at his feet. ‘Why do I have to keep my nose clean?’
‘Look, Joe McEwan thinks Farrell’s getting off because of you. He fucking hates you, he’s hell-bent on getting you for something.’
She sat back. ‘Joe thinks he’ll get off?’
‘There is a chance. Because of the acid and other stuff. There isn’t that much evidence, really. We’ll be lucky to get a conviction on Douglas Brady. It really depends on Martin Donegan’s case being proved successfully.’ ‘Fuck,’ said Maureen simply.
Hugh furrowed his eyebrows. ‘Fuck’s an understatement.’
‘And I’m getting the blame?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
The colour had drained from Hugh’s face and she noticed for the first time that the whites of his eyes looked dry and yellow. ‘Are you well, Hugh?’
Leaning his elbow on the table, Hugh rubbed his face. ‘No,’ he said quietly,‘I’m not. I’m tired and this heat makes me feel sick.’
‘I think you should go home and get some rest,’ she said, signalling to the waiter for the bill, hoping they’d never be this intimate again.
Outside the night was humid and rank. Da
rk currents flowed down the road as night swirled into the city. A drunk man was staggering across the road towards them, shouting at the sky, shaking his fist at ghosts. A crowd passed him and a heavily made-up woman bent double, bawling at the man that he was fucked in the head, her voice cracking, her boyfriend dragging her away by the arm.
‘The city’s crazy when it’s hot,’ said Hugh, pulling on his jacket. ‘Some poor bastard’s gonnae get it tonight.’
He said he’d walk her home to Garnethill but she wanted to get away from him and said she’d planned to visit Kilty who lived in the opposite direction. She wanted to tell Kilty about Vik and have a girlie squeal and feel normal. Hugh insisted she get a taxi but she didn’t have the money and knew he’d try to give it to her if she said so. She hailed a cab and climbed in, waving to Hugh, trying to look cheery and untroubled as the taxi drove away, calling out of the open window that she’d see him on Thursday. The cab drove a block and turned the corner. ‘Can ye let me out here, driver?’
Watching her resentfully in the rear-view mirror, the driver went further down the road than he needed to, adding twenty pence to the meter before pulling over.
Maureen took off her jacket, tied it around her waist and walked. The ragged blue remnant of the day lingered on the horizon. Following the tree-lined avenue that led through the centre of the park, she passed a small clearing set around a high statue of a forgotten military hero being brave on a horse. Three young men stood talking to each other in the shadows, smoking. They watched her pass, angry eyes sliding to the side, watching her because she was watching them. Slow cars glided up and down the avenue and guilty-looking men walked quickly by, staring at the pavement in front of them.
Joe McEwan would never let her go. If she did anything to Michael, Joe would make sure that she paid for it. She didn’t want to spend the next ten years in jail, she didn’t want to sit in an ugly cell, smoking wee fags and being told what to do, least of all for Michael. She took a deep breath and looked up. She hadn’t done anything yet, not yet. She took a right and headed for Kilty’s house at the Botanic Gardens.