Exile

by Denise Mina

  Leslie asked the questions, leaving Maureen alone, haunted with thoughts of Vik. She wanted a nice boyfriend, she wanted kindness and respect and decency. She didn’t want to spend her life with people she was suited to, she wanted to be with people like him. A spark of honour told her she should let him go if she genuinely cared about his happiness, but she didn’t want to. Senga was nodding again but even that response seemed to be fading away. But she did talk to Ann, didn’t she? Nod. Did Ann talk about her kids a lot? Shrug. Any kid in particular? Shrug. Maureen excused herself and Senga managed to direct her to the loo without saying more than two words. ‘Right,’ she murmured, gesturing with her hands. ‘Left.’

  The bathroom was furnished in burgundy plastic with indelible toothpaste stains on the bowl and bleach burns inside the loo. Maureen washed her hands and dried them on a crunchy grey hand towel. When she got back to the living room Leslie and Senga were on their feet. Leslie pulled her in for a hug and Senga stood awkward and rigid, letting Leslie be affectionate on her. ‘We’re off, then,’ said Leslie, letting go. ‘Thanks, wee hen.’

  Senga smiled shyly at the floor and saw them to the door. The garden steps were so crumbly that they had to walk down them sideways.

  ‘She never shuts up,’ said Maureen, when they reached the pavement. ‘Did ye get anything out of her?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Leslie. ‘She’s quite talkative on a one to one.’ Maureen looked sceptical. ‘Really?’ She glanced back up the steep path to the grey house. Senga was standing half behind the curtain, peeking out of the shadows, looking like a skull in a wig. She lifted her hand. Maureen waved back.

  ‘Yeah. She says they were close,’ said Leslie, ‘but Ann fell out with her and left a few days later. She said they didn’t have an argument, they were just looking at the paper one day and Ann recognized a picture of a guy, said she knew him. Senga said she knew the woman with him, she’d been at school with her, and Ann went funny with her after that. I asked her about the card and she said anyone could have sent it. She says everyone knows where the shelter houses are.’

  Maureen pulled on her helmet. ‘That’s shite.’

  ‘I know,’ said Leslie, looking back up to the house and waving. ‘I don’t know why she’d say that.’

  ‘Who were the couple in the paper?’

  ‘Neil Hutton and his girlfriend. She says he was up for dealing,’ said Leslie, doing up the strap on her helmet, ‘and she was with him at the court.’

  ‘How would Ann get to know a drug-dealer? She didn’t get into drugs, did she?’

  Leslie looked out of her helmet, a strip of eyes blinking slowly like Maureen’s memory of Douglas. ‘Naw, she was a drinker. She might know him from the scheme in Finneston. Anyway, Senga says the woman works at Fraser’s in the makeup department.’

  ‘We could go and ask Liam about it,’ said Maureen. ‘He’ll know the guy if he’s a dealer.’

  ‘Can we go and see the woman first?’

  ‘Are you asking me to visit a two-hundred-square-foot makeup counter?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I accept that invitation.’

  The entire lower floor of the Victorian galleria was given over to the business of makeup and perfume. Fraudulent women in white coats stood sentry by their counters, chatting to each other and picking their nails, ignoring the ugly, rain-sodden customers who wandered by cooing at the price tags. The shop was five storeys high, with the different departments spread around a series of wooden balconies. A glass ceiling opened up the floors to natural sunlight, a benefit ignored by subsequent store designers who had inserted dazzling track lighting everywhere. The makeup was on the ground floor, a vast bazaar a-glitter with tatty perfume promotions and giant photographs of airbrushed teenagers.

  They had asked for her at several counters and Maureen noticed the counter women tipping Maxine off, catching her eye and pointing them out. They weren’t hard to spot: Maureen’s coat looked expensive but she was wearing her battered boots and her curly hair could never be tidied anyway. Leslie’s leathers and dirty hair would be chic in a biker bar but in the glittery galleria she looked as seemly as a dead toenail in a pair of strappy sandals.

  Maxine was hard-faced, with thin lips and a determined chin. She was dressed in a powder pink two-piece suit and stood behind a counter piled high with black and gold boxes. Between her and the shelves at the back was a white leatherette chair with an arm attachment bearing a selection of samples. She wore far too much makeup which, although skilfully applied, made her look like a burns victim who was covering up very well. Her short blonde hair had been tortured into a big puff at the back and smeared into a parting at the fringe, held firm on either side of her face with diamanté clips like ornamental staples. She was well practised at not letting on. She slid across the floor to them, apparently innocent of their interest in her. ‘Good afternoon. Can I help you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Leslie, leaning through the access gap in the counter. ‘We’re here to ask you some questions. I think you know a friend of ours?’

  Maxine looked wary. ‘Look,’ she said, under her breath, her accent dropping two social strata, her eyes watching behind them, ‘I’m at my work here, leave us alone, will ye?’

  ‘In a minute.’ Leslie smiled, certain she had the upper hand. ‘Our friend was called Ann Harris. Maybe ye’d know her from this.’ She produced the photocopy from her jacket and showed it to her.

  Maxine kept her eyes on the horizon, watching for someone. She took the time to glance at the picture but something about it caught her eye and she looked back. ‘God,’ she said, staring at the photo.

  ‘D’ye know her?’ asked Maureen, muscling in through the narrow gap, standing in front of Leslie.

  ‘What’s that on her lip?’ Maxine pointed at the picture and cringed. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘How do ye know her?’ said Leslie.

  Maxine roused herself and looked at Leslie angrily. ‘I never said I did know her, did I?’

  But Maxine did know her. She looked at them, challenging them to contradict her. Maureen took out the Polaroid of wee John and the big man in the camel-hair coat. ‘What about this guy, d’ye know him?’

  But Maxine was looking over Maureen’s shoulder into the body of the shop. ‘The manager’s in,’ she said, out of the side of her mouth, ‘I cannae just chat, one of yees’ll need tae sit down.’

  Leslie pushed Maureen into the white chair and she found herself staring straight into a halogen spotlight embedded on the underside of a shelf. Maxine tipped back the seat with a foot pedal and followed the manager out of the corner of her eye, watching him float around the shop floor. She tucked a couple of tissues into Maureen’s collar to protect her coat and began to move her hands over Maureen’s face. ‘The manager in here’s a right prick,’ she said, tracing lines over Maureen’s eyes and lips, drawing circles on her cheeks. ‘That lassie you’re looking for, I don’t know her.’

  Maureen decided not to push it. ‘D’ye know the guy in the Polaroid?’ she asked, trying to sit up.

  Maxine’s thin lips atrophied with annoyance. ‘Sit back,’ she said.

  Maureen did as she was told and Maxine pulled out a white bottle from under the counter. She began rubbing oily cream on Maureen’s forehead and cheeks, wiping it off with tissues as she leaned over Maureen and muttered aggressively, ‘Get me in tae trouble here and I’ll lose the place, right?’

  Maureen was afraid to have Maxine near her eyes. A pockmarked young man in a dark suit leaned across the counter. He was about twenty, the same age as Maxine. ‘Hello, ladies,’ he said, his accent a twanging Edinburgh slur. ‘Are you having a makeover?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Leslie.

  ‘Are you enjoying that experience?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Maureen. ‘Very much.’

  ‘Good girl, Maxine, good girl.’

  He straightened up and s
auntered off, watching left and right, playing with the fist of keys at his belt. ‘What an arsehole,’ said Leslie.

  Maxine sighed. ‘I could have him killed, ye know.’ She said it casually as she wiped the cream from Maureen’s neck. Maureen and Leslie were too frightened to ask her what she meant.

  ‘Where do ye learn to do this?’ asked Maureen, her eyes straining against the bright light above her. ‘You’re very good.’

  ‘They send ye on a course for a week and ye learn all the secrets.’

  ‘Is it a good job?’

  ‘It’s a good job for me,’ said Maxine, ‘I’m expecting again and I can come and go. There’s always these jobs if you’re reliable.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Leslie. ‘Are ye expecting? Congratulations.’ For some reason Maxine had taken very much against Leslie. She was offended by Leslie’s good wishes and stopped cleansing Maureen to plant her tongue in her cheek and stare Leslie out. Maureen was being slowly blinded by the track lighting and the sight of Maxine’s flared nostrils was interspersed with dazzling white blotches.

  ‘That cream I’ve just put on ye,’ Maxine said, when she turned back to Maureen, ‘has a special ingredient which opens the pores and lets them breathe,’ she illustrated the effect, rolling her hands outwards, ‘and then contracts the skin,’ hands rolling inward, ‘to protect against pollution.’

  ‘Feels smashing,’ said Maureen, wanting to be nice to any woman who could get her boss killed for being a squeaky annoyance.

  ‘It is quite expensive,’ warned Maxine, holding bottles of foundation up to Maureen’s face to get a colour match.

  ‘Much is it?’ said Maureen, who had a weakness for cosmetic products promising voodoo benefits. ‘Thirty-two pounds.’

  ‘Well, I’m sold, leave us out a bottle.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Maxine, excitedly, letting on that the job was commission. She turned to take a bottle off the shelf and Leslie made a frightened face behind her back. Maxine put the bottle into a bag and left it on the counter to embarrass Maureen into buying it even if she did change her mind. She had decided that Maureen was a mug with money and she wouldn’t stop talking about the products.

  ‘It’s creamy, creamy, creamy, and will last from first thing in the morning to last thing at night without another application. That’s the amazing thing about this foundation.’ She smeared thick tinted cream over Maureen’s face with a sponge, patting it under her chin. ‘It’s the most common mistake women make when applying foundation. They don’t blend it in at the neck, giving the face a mask-like appearance.’ She smirked. ‘We’ve all seen those women.’

  Maxine accompanied her drug-dealer boyfriend to court and could have her boss killed, but everyone has standards and she would not tolerate the crime of badly applied slap. Maureen squinted hard, trying to look up at her. ‘D’you know Senga, Maxine?’

  ‘Aye, I know a Senga. Flat nose?’ Maureen nodded.

  ‘Aye,’ said Maxine. ‘Poor wee Senga, she used to be no’ bad-looking as well. She was in my sister’s class at school. Comes in here sometimes. Shameful what he done to her face.’

  Leslie shifted to the other foot. ‘Who’s the guy in the Polaroid?’ she said. ‘Is he Ann’s boyfriend?’

  Maxine turned her attention to Maureen’s eyes, checking her eyelids for makeup. ‘Anyone’ll tell ye, his name’s Frank Toner. He’s a hard man. Lives in London. Have you got mascara on already?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll take it off and let you try ours. It actually curls the lashes. Ye’ve got lovely blue eyes, so I’m going to use this,’ she held up a loud, glittery blue eye-shadow, ‘to pick out the colour and highlight it. Your eyes really are your best feature. You should make more of them.’

  Leslie leaned in, pretending to look at Maureen’s face. ‘Was Toner Ann’s boyfriend?’ she repeated.

  Maxine began to brush on the chewy black mascara and Maureen’s eyelashes felt as if they were being pulled over the top of her head. She let out a little squeal and blinked in panic.

  ‘Takes a wee bit of getting used to,’ counselled Maxine.

  ‘I don’t think he is her boyfriend, no. But then,’ she paused and looked at her eye-shadow box, ‘maybe he is. Can’t see it, really.’

  ‘Does he come up to Glasgow often?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Does he, though?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  Maxine pencilled in Maureen’s eyebrows and applied the eye-shadow, smudging it onto the skin with a brush.

  They were huddled over Maureen’s face in a makeup scrum, drawing on her as she went blind. She felt she had been patient enough. ‘Who does he run with?’

  Maxine didn’t like the question at all. She went away to the counter and fiddled with her brushes. When she came back she seemed very annoyed.

  ‘Maxine,’ said Maureen, ‘Ann’s dead.’

  ‘Aye, and you’re the polis,’ said Maxine.

  ‘No.’ Maureen tried to sit up but Maxine pushed her back with a firm hand on her chin. ‘We work at the Place of Safety Shelters. Ann was in there after she had the picture taken. She said she’d been beaten up by her man.’

  Maxine harrumphed. ‘You work for them, do ye? The women’s shelters?’

  ‘Aye.’ Maureen tried to nod but Maxine held tightly on to her chin as if she was taking her head hostage.

  ‘Both of yees?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Leslie.

  ‘Aye,’ said Maureen, wishing to fuck she’d let go.

  ‘Good,’ Maxine said, freeing Maureen’s chin. ‘Good work. Need them. The shelters.’ She stopped and put her brush down, picked up a pencil. ‘Her man never beat her up.’

  ‘Was it Toner?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ She stopped and ground her jaw. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t Toner but it wasnae her man either.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Leslie.

  ‘Hear things around, ye know.’

  ‘Thing is,’ said Maureen, ‘the police’ll arrest her man. He’s bringing up four weans himself and they’ll have to go into care if he gets done.’

  Maxine started drawing lips on Maureen with a dry pencil. ‘There’s worse things than growing up in care,’ she said quietly, being rough, poking Maureen hard. She put down the pencil and recomposed herself, picked up a lipstick and held it in front of Maureen’s face. ‘I’m using“Peach Party” because of your colouring.’ She said it like a threat. ‘It will match the blue of your eyes and still accentuate the mouth.’

  ‘We’re not trying to do ye any harm,’ said Leslie. ‘It’s just a shame if he goes to prison . . .’

  Maxine slid her eyes to Leslie, glaring at her and shutting her up. Maureen had never seen anyone do that. She finished painting Maureen’s lips with the Peach Party and stepped back without offering her a mirror. ‘Still want the maximizing cleanser?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Maureen timidly. ‘Ye said ye hear things, do folk know where the shelter houses are?’ Maxine thought about it. ‘Some people, yeah.’

  ‘Do you know?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  It was so obvious that she might have heard the address from Senga that neither Leslie nor Maureen bothered to contradict her. Maxine frowned at the bar code on the cream, looking guilty and pissed off. She tilled up and took Maureen’s credit card. ‘That Polaroid,’ she said, staring at the screen on the till, waiting for credit clearance. ‘Burn it or something. Don’t show it around.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Maureen.

  ‘Just don’t.’

  A Big Issue seller shot Maureen a pitying look as they came out of the doors.

  ‘How do I look?’ asked Maureen.

  ‘Like an angry monkey going to a disco,’ said Leslie. ‘No, don’t wipe it off, keep it on, give Liam a laugh.’

  23

>   Perfectly

  Liam looked down from the upstairs window as cold rain ran off their shoulders and dripped through their hair. He made a pretence of not quite recognizing them and turned back into the room to laugh at his stupid joke with someone else before disappearing. They saw him through the glass door, trotting down the stairs and padding towards them. He opened it and took the cigarette out of his mouth. ‘My God,’ he said, staring at Maureen’s face. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘She fell into a makeup counter,’ said Leslie.

  Liam hung their wet coats on hooks, leaving them to drip on to the floor. It was cold in the hall; he couldn’t afford to have central heating installed, and removing the partition from the bottom of the stairs had created a shaft of draughty breezes cutting through the heart of the house. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Upstairs for towels and jerseys. There’s tea made already. Mauri, you get a couple of cups from the kitchen.’

  ‘Will I bring biscuits?’ she said, hopefully. Liam rolled his eyes. ‘Okay.’

  Maureen trotted off to the kitchen as Leslie followed Liam up the stairs. Liam was the only man Maureen had ever met who kept nice biscuits in his house. They were lovely sugar-coated ginger sponges with jam in the middle, made under a German name in Lowestoft. And he was the only human she had ever met who could have such lovely biscuits in his house until they went stale. Concerned by this potential wastefulness she made it her business to finish the packet whenever she was in his house.

  The kitchen was small and bare with a rattly window looking out on to a long, thin, scrubby garden. Liam had done nothing to the kitchen apart from washing it down with sugar soap. The fridge was very old and the motor so emphatic that it made the floor vibrate. Anything left on the worktop or the table overnight would intermittently jig its way to the edge and throw itself on to the floor. Maureen washed her face in the sink, watching the orange milky water swirl and retreat in the chipped Belfast sink. She wished she was going home to Vik this evening, that things were all right between them and that he hadn’t made her face her future. She dabbed her face dry, picked up two cups and took the biscuits from the cupboard before making her way upstairs.