Exile

by Denise Mina

  Her boots squelched noisily. She jack-knifed as she climbed the steep hill, staring at her feet, watching the rain bubble up through the lace-holes. The close smelt damp and crumbling. Heat from the lower flats crept under front doors, warming the upper flights, making her numb ears tingle.

  The answerphone had tales to tell: it blinked nervously, full of Winnie’s venom. Maureen took her boots off in the kitchen and emptied them carefully into the sink, peeled the stolen envelope of CCB photos from her damp belly and left them on the table. She dried her wrinkled white feet with a towel, rubbing hard to get the feeling back. The whisky bottle was sitting in the plastic bag. She lifted it out, enjoying the clak-clak-clak as the lid came off, and filled a half-pint tumbler. The brimming glass sat on the table, distilling the grey light from the window, turning it amber. She watched the drink out of the corner of her eye, flirting with it. Whatever happened in the next few hours she had all of that whisky to deaden it, a Scottish petit wort. If only she could feel this way all the time, the anticipation of comfort excluding other thoughts. She drank, gulping three big mouthfuls before stopping for breath. She lit a fag and inhaled, sucking the smoke deep into her lungs and then drank again, more slowly this time.

  The answerphone was winking at her. She wandered out to the hall, pressed ‘play’ and closed her eyes, feeling the alcohol seep through her, lining her head, softening everything. Winnie cried pitifully and reminded Maureen that she had given her life. ‘I am thinking of you and missing you ...I love you.’ She hung up slowly. Past the bleep she’d called again, drunk and angry, to tell Maureen that she was a wee shite. The machine beep-beeped and rewound. The thought of Jimmy’s carnivorous teeth floated into her mind. She took another drink and watched the machine, until the memory of the big bottle in the kitchen brought her round.

  Far below the kitchen window the traffic was moving slowly on the motorway, wriggling out of the brutal hole of the city. She looked across to the north side and saw the jagged tower of the Ruchill fever hospital stabbing at the sky. It was watching her, looking into her house. She hugged the bottle like a new best friend and picked up the glass and her fags. As she passed the answerphone in the hall she swung her free fist, punching the machine hard, knocking it noisily to the floor. The blow tingled deliciously on her knuckles.

  It was dark in the living room, dark enough for the bloodstains on the wooden floor to melt into greasy shadows. Maureen sat still on the settee and thought about her dream the night before. The flat had seen a lot of blood. Douglas’s stains were still on the floorboards, dark discolorations like patches of itchy varnish. She couldn’t bring herself to paint over them. It would be like saying he’d never been there. Douglas’s death had hit her hard. The aftermath of a violent death is different from normal grief. There is none of the usual tidying up, pumping the veins full of glue, dressing the corpse for a dinner dance, pretending that it all makes perfect sense and God will care for them now. There’s blood and shit and matter everywhere, faces ripped off, limbs missing and the realization that life is brutal and meaningless, that everyone is only a split skin from spilling into death.

  She lit another cigarette, finished her drink, and watched the rain slow outside the window. It had almost stopped. She refilled her glass and walked across the room, opened the window wide to the wall and sat down on the windy sill. The rain fell softly on to her face, and the wind whipped her hair. The few people in the street below were oblivious to her.

  She swung her leg over the ledge into the void, smoking hard and listening to the purr of the city below. She couldn’t see Ruchill from here and no-one in Ruchill could see her. Ash fell from her fag into the air, disintegrating in the high wind. She swung her bare foot through the air, banging it against the outside of the building. A small shard of sandstone crumbled off the wall and tumbled through the air, spinning slowly as it fell the five storeys to the pavement below. It shattered with a light clack and the noise bounced away down the narrow street, echoing off the facing block of flats. The phone rang out in the hall and the battered answerphone intercepted it. Winnie sobbed and told her some fucking thing or other, I love you / you’re a shit, come and see me / I’ll never see you.

  The rain came on again, splattering against her leg, pattering against the floorboards in the living room. She’d known a lot of people and didn’t remember liking any of them. She looked down. It was just a short drop. But Jimmy had nothing, and she had thousands of Douglas’s pounds left. She could leave a note in the living room, tell them to give Jimmy everything, but Winnie would rip it up. The banks were still open: she could take it all out and drop it through his door. But she might not come back to this point, this part of the windowsill. She dropped the rest of her cigarette out of the window and watched it spiral slowly as it fell. The whisky was making her warm.

  It was nice out here with the wind and the rain, and Maureen closed her eyes. She saw Pauline Doyle sitting in a big chair, arms outstretched, inviting her to a break in the tedium of coping and Maureen slid softly to her. She was falling forward, slipping into space, her limp body yielding to the air but then Pauline turned into Ann Harris, reaching out to her, grabbing her by the hair, her grin splitting the scab on her swollen lip, the flesh red and raw beneath it. Maureen sat up suddenly, grabbing hold of the window frame, and shoved herself back into the living room.

  She landed on the base of her spine and stood up unsteadily, rubbing her bruised coccyx, grunting and panting with the pain. She stopped and looked around the living room, sniggering nervously, feeling as if everyone she’d ever known had been watching her. Blushing and ashamed, she shut the window tight and went into the hall to phone Liam.

  12

  Not Best Pleased

  Arthur Williams liked her. He didn’t like her like her, he knew she was married, knew she had a kid. He just thought she was a nice person. Even-tempered. Didn’t make jokes about him being Scottish all the time, which was a miracle for a Met copper, and he was glad they were working together on the mattress thing.

  ‘This is a great opportunity for you, Bunyan. You’ll be working with one of the greats. Best interview technique I’ve ever seen.’ Detective Superintendent Dakar couldn’t just compliment his work, he had to work in a codicil. ‘Even if he is of the Scottish persuasion.’

  Williams smiled like a good guy would, and sipped his tea. He looked at Dakar, watched him wittering on about caseloads and the Home Office report about the clear-up rates. Dakar was uncomfortable with Bunyan because she was a woman. Couldn’t look her in the eye. Kept thinking about her tits, Williams could tell. Just shut up now, Dakar, shut up and go. Go away. Go, go, go, Williams sang inside his head, until Dakar stood up.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. Should be straightforward; we’ve got an ID, a sister in Streatham and a family up north. We’ve put a request for background information in to the Serious Crime Squad in Scotland and the local police are looking into it as well. You’ll want to chase that up.’ He walked away, holding his belly in until he got behind Runyan.

  Bunyan looked at Williams and raised her eyebrows. ‘Brixton first, then?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, we should phone her sister and check she’s in.’

  ‘Already done it, sir,’ she said. ‘Mrs Akitza’s in and she’ll be staying in for the next two hours. She’s expecting us.’

  Williams tipped his head appreciatively and nodded at her. ‘Very good,’ he said, picking up his jacket. ‘You keep doing that sort of thing and I’m going to enjoy this.’

  It took them half an hour to drive the eight miles to Brixton, and Bunyan directed him down several short-cuts. Her family had lived here, she said, until they moved out to Kent when she was ten. He noticed how small she actually was when he saw her sitting in the passenger seat. He was used to seeing Hellian sitting there, his big legs smashed up against the dash. She could have fitted in three times she was so wee. Tiny, she was.

&nbs
p; ‘How tall are you?’ he asked, as he drew into the circle of Dumbarton Court.

  ‘Tall enough,’ she said, sounding pissed off and throwing her fag butt out of the car window.

  Williams laughed. ‘Get a lot of stick for being wee, do ye?’

  ‘Yeah, I get stick for“bein’ wee”.’ She mimicked his accent as badly as a London girl could. ‘And for the rest.’

  Williams parked. ‘Can’t be easy,’ he said, cranking the handbrake on without depressing the button. He saw her out of the corner of his eye, cringing at the ratchet noise.

  ‘You’ll ruin the car doing that, you know. Wear down the sprocket and lose grip on it.’ She saw him looking at her. ‘I come from a family of mechanics.’

  Williams leaned into the back seat for his jacket. ‘That’s handy,’ he said, ‘because my handbrake keeps going.’

  Bunyan smiled and he was pleased. He wanted her to do well, wanted to get on well with her.

  Moe Akitza opened the door and looked out at them. Her eyes were very swollen and her blonde hair was very dirty. The house behind her was dark, and as she let them in they noticed that she hobbled when she walked and was badly short of breath. Bunyan lent her an arm and helped her into a chair in the living room. She sat down opposite Moe, leaning across the arm, looking sympathetic and concerned. ‘Are you ill, Mrs Akitza?’

  ‘Yes.’ Moe Akitza looked up at them and clutched her chest, opening her eyes wide, choking slightly.

  Bunyan was on her feet. ‘Can I get you something?’ she said. ‘Is there some medicine somewhere?’

  Moe shook her head and caught her breath, patting at her chest and sitting back in the chair. Bunyan looked at him and Williams nodded to her to sit again. He waited by the door, taking in the house and watching her. ‘We won’t be long.’ Bunyan spoke slow and loud, as if Mrs Akitza was deaf. ‘I know this must be distressing for you but we wanted to ask you a few short questions about your sister. Okay?’ Moe was panting and shutting her eyes.

  Bunyan took out her notebook and unsheathed her pencil. ‘Now, first of all, before we ask our questions, is there anything you’d like to ask us?’

  Moe sat forward, wincing at her chest. ‘Bracelet,’ she murmured, ‘was my mother’s.’ And she fell back into the chair.

  ‘Once the case is cleared up.’ Bunyan nodded at her to see if she understood. Moe nodded back. ‘You’ll get it back then.’

  Pleased by this news Moe smiled a little to herself. ‘Hah,’ she said. ‘Her husband. Battered her.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Bunyan. ‘We know that. You told us that in the missing-person report. She was hiding from him in a shelter, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Leslie,’ said Moe, with great effort, ‘hah, Fin-hah?’

  ‘Leslie Findlay at the Place of Safety Shelters in Glasgow.’ Bunyan nodded. ‘That’s right, we’ve been in touch with them.’

  ‘Hah, photographs, hah, of Ann?’

  Bunyan didn’t understand. ‘Do you have photographs you’d like to show us?’

  Moe Akitza raised her hand off the arm-rest to point into her lap.

  ‘Shelter?’ she said finally.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Bunyan, looking at her notes. ‘The shelter photographs?’ Moe nodded. ‘Unfortunately, they seem to have been misplaced. You must be quite anxious for a case to be brought against your brother-in-law for that assault?’ Moe shut her eyes and nodded again.

  ‘Well,’ Bunyan continued, ‘I’m afraid that’s not our jurisdiction. The assault case happened in Scotland and would be dealt with by the legal authorities up there.’

  Moe Akitza stopped dying and opened her eyes wide with annoyance. Williams stepped forward. ‘It’s a separate legal system up there, Mrs Akitza,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry. Because Ann has passed on the assault case will probably be dropped. Unless there were other witnesses?’

  Moe Akitza shook her head. ‘No case?’ she said. ‘He’s ... not charged? At all?’

  ‘Well,’ said Williams, ‘if the assault is relevant to the murder case it may be mentioned tangentially but I’m afraid it won’t be dealt with by an English court.’

  Moe Akitza was not best pleased. She was not pleased at all.

  13

  Ten-Gallon Hat

  Liam hadn’t seen her this drunk since the experimental drinking days of teenage parties. She was sitting on the floor, slumped against the settee with her eyes half shut, ash all down her front and what appeared to be cheese on her sleeve. Despite being well supported by the settee she was still managing to sway. She had sounded progressively more and more tipsy on his answer-machine but he hadn’t been ready for this.

  Maureen had everything she needed here, fags, whisky, water, ashtray, but she felt so sick. She had half the bottle of whisky inside her and it was a big bottle. At some point she’d realized that she’d be sick if she didn’t eat, so she had something she found in the fridge, cheese probably, but it wasn’t sitting well at all. And there was Liam in front of her, dear Liam, who’d come an entire mile from Hillhead to see her. He was so kind. She started to cry.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell,’ said Liam, taking his jacket off. ‘What brought this on?’

  She nodded – at least, she meant to nod. She threw her head around in uneven circles and Liam watched her for a while, mesmerized and enchanted by her lack of coordination. ‘Mauri,’ he said, in awe, ‘you’re utterly fucking bloothered.’

  She wiped her face on her sleeve, rubbing ready-grated Cheddar into her hair. ‘I’m unhappy,’ she said indignantly. ‘Well,’ said Liam, serenely, ‘that makes you very special.’

  He sat back in the horsehair armchair and watched her trying to pick up a cigarette from the floor with rubber fingers. ‘Why are you so drunk?’

  Maureen gave up on the fags and shrugged at him for an age. ‘Life’s shite,’ she havered, drunk and guileless. ‘Leslie’s . . . spit on my eyes.’

  Liam stood up. ‘Oh, God, Mauri, I’m sorry, I can’t stand this.’

  He left the room and Maureen waited, forgetting that he was in the house and then remembering and then forgetting. When he came back into the living room it was a delightful surprise and she started crying again Liam made her drink the coffee and the coffee made her very sick.

  He stroked warm water through her hair, holding the showerhead too far back on her neck, letting the water run over her jaw and up her nose. She was bent over the bath, trying to stay up, but her legs weren’t working very well and she kept tottering forward. ‘Oh. Fuck. I’m sick.’ Her bleary voice echoed around the white ceramic valley.

  ‘You’ve spewed up everywhere.’

  ‘That’s enough.’ She tried to stand up but Liam was holding her shoulder down and she staggered back and forth.

  ‘Mauri, there’s vomited cheese in your hair. Stay still for fucksake.’

  He rubbed the shampoo into the nape of her neck and washed it out slowly, wrapped a fresh towel around her neck and gathered her hair into it. Maureen stood up and staggered into the wall, leaning on it, testing her head. Through the curious alchemy of alcohol, her wet hair made her feel close to sober. ‘Oh, fucking hell,’ she said.

  Liam perched on the side of the bath, feeling responsible because he’d given her the coffee. ‘D’ye feel any better?’

  She patted her towel turban. ‘Aye.’

  Liam didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Honest,’ she said. ‘You throw up and I’ll do it to you.’ They went back into the living room and Maureen arranged herself in a small bundle on the settee. The debris of a drunken afternoon was all over the floor. Her packet of cigarettes had spilled everywhere and more than half of the contents of the bottle of whisky had evaporated. A photograph of Winnie was propped up against the leg of the easy chair, facing her encampment. She looked at the window and thought back to the cold wind wrapped around her and her bare foot swinging ove
r the void. Liam would be so horrified if he knew.

  ‘God,’ she said, feeling guilty and trying to change the subject in her head, ‘that was very good of you.’

  ‘Greater love hath no man,’ said Liam, lighting a spliff.

  ‘I’m not even tired.’

  ‘It’s only seven thirty. Why were you so drunk?’ She frowned and sipped a glass of water, trying it to see if she would be sick again. Her extremities felt shaky but her stomach felt fine.

  ‘You always get drunk with Leslie,’ said Liam. ‘Where is she?’

  Maureen owned up. ‘We’ve fallen out. It’s since that Cammy guy. She’s dropped me like a sack of hot shit and I’m sick of being nice about it.’

  ‘But she’s fallen in love for the first time. She’s going to disappear for three months.’ Maureen watching him, puzzled.

  ‘You wouldn’t know about it,’ said Liam, ‘because Douglas was married. When ye first fall in love ye spend all your time together for three months and then you come out the other side wondering what that was all about, looking for your old pals. That’s what’s happening with Leslie. I bet she’s never been in love before, has she?’

  ‘It’s more than that, Liam, she’s changed. You’ve seen the way she dresses now.’

  He smiled indulgently. ‘She’s trying to please him,’ he said. ‘He’ll be doing the same for her too.’

  ‘You mean, she wants him to dress like that?’ Liam frowned as he thought back to the straight-leg jeans and Celtic top Cammy had worn to the Hogmanay party. ‘We don’t know what he was wearing before he met her,’ he said. ‘Could’ve been a flying-suit with zips everywhere.’

  ‘And platforms,’ Maureen said weakly.

  ‘With spurs.’

  ‘And a ten-gallon hat.’

  ‘Could have been,’ said Liam. ‘Don’t fall out with her now– you’ll spoil it for her.’