Exile

by Denise Mina

  Alan wouldn’t look at her. He was holding on to his dad, afraid to let go. He wouldn’t even let Jimmy come to the door to see them off.

  ‘See ye later, Jimmy,’ said Maureen, looking back into the living room, but Jimmy had his hands full trying not to fall over his son.

  She shut the door quietly and followed Leslie to the lifts. It was windy on the veranda and televisions blared behind the neighbouring doors. The smell of urine had faded in the lift, leaving behind it an acute bitter undertone. A McC was still sucking cocks but had been joined in the endeavour by Rory T.

  ‘God,’ Leslie groaned, ‘my mum’ll be feeding them mince intravenously when she sees them. What was all that“Don’t go down the mine today, Daddy” stuff?’

  ‘There’s money-lenders up threatening him every night, the wee boy’s frightened for him,’ said Maureen, trying to think of something positive to say, to stop Jimmy being Mr Pathetic Universe. ‘They’re a very close family.’

  ‘They’re a very frightened family,’ corrected Leslie. ‘That boy knows what’s going to happen to his dad. He knows it better than his dad does.’

  ‘Are ye going to take the pictures to the police?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Leslie quietly, biting the inside of her bottom lip. She rubbed her eyes. ‘But the first sign that he did it and I’ll go to Peel Street myself and hand them over.’ Maureen grinned at her as the lift doors slid open into the empty foyer. Leslie stomped across to the door and Maureen followed her out into the dark and windy yard. She waited until Leslie had unchained the bike. ‘Auch,’ she said stagily, ‘I’ve left my lighter up there. I’ll just be a minute.’

  She knocked very quietly so that the boy wouldn’t hear her. Jimmy looked pleased when he saw her and even more pleased when he saw she was alone. ‘What are ye back for?’ he asked, opening the door wide.

  Maureen looked up the stairs and saw Alan’s ruffled hair above the solid banister on the landing. She called to him, ‘It’s just me again.’

  Alan stood up and looked at her. His eyes were puffy and tired.

  ‘Go back to bed, son,’ she called softly. ‘It’s all right. I just forgot something.’

  Jimmy looked up the stairs, apparently surprised that Alan was there. ‘Away you to bed,’ he said, raising his hand in a threat. ‘Go.’

  Alan got up and bolted back into his room, closing the door over-quietly, trying not to wake the other children. Jimmy led her into the living room, shutting the door to the hall so that Alan couldn’t hear them. Maureen bent down and picked up Vik’s lighter. ‘Jimmy, why did ye fly to London last week?’ Jimmy didn’t answer. She pointed to the space by the wall where the bag had been. ‘I saw your bag with the baggage sticker on it.’

  Jimmy breathed in unsteadily. ‘Do the police know?’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know.’

  Jimmy fell back into his seat, looking guilty and hunted. He smiled nervously up at her. ‘Thought my luck had changed.’

  ‘Why were ye there?’

  ‘Someone put a ticket through the door,’ he said. ‘It was late at night. In an envelope. With a letter. It said I had to go to this lawyer’s office in Brixton.’

  ‘Why did ye go?’

  He looked at her, not understanding. ‘It was a lawyer’s letter,’ he said simply, as if it had the force of a papal edict.

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘Some money.’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘From a will. Someb’dy’d died and left me money. If I didn’t go I wouldn’t get it.’

  ‘Like in the movies?’ asked Maureen sadly.

  ‘Aye,’ he nodded, ‘like that.’

  Maureen got her packet out and dished him a fag, lighting them with Vik’s lighter. ‘What happened when you went to the lawyer’s office?’ she asked.

  Jimmy pulled the saucer out from behind his chair. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke and paused. ‘I went to the address. It was a lawyer’s office but it was a different office, different name. They used to be called that name a while ago but they changed it. They’d not written to me. There wasn’t a will. It must have been a joke,’ he smiled nervously, ‘but I thought, Oh, well, at least I got to go on a plane, ye know?’

  ‘Have ye still got the letter?’

  ‘The one from the lawyer?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I think so.’ He rummaged through a pile of bills at the side of the chair. ‘I’ve it here somewhere.’

  He stood up, lifted the chair cushion and found an envelope with a printed address on it and no stamp. The letterhead read ‘McCallum and Headie’ and was printed in a typeface available on the most rudimentary word processors. The text of the letter was in the same font as the heading and the paper was photocopy quality. They hadn’t even spell-checked it: Jimmy was instructed to attend the office at 2 p.m. on the Thursday or he would lose his clam to the inheritance. He replaced the cushion and sat down on his chair.

  ‘Jimmy,’ Maureen was appalled by his naïveté, ‘what possessed ye to go?’

  ‘Thought my luck had changed.’ He jerked his head at the letter. ‘You’d’ve known, would ye?’ He looked at her. She didn’t want to say but Jimmy knew anyway.

  ‘What day were you there?’

  ‘A week ago today.’

  ‘Last Thursday?’

  ‘Aye. The polis said she’d been in the river for about a week. That means I was there when it happened, doesn’t it?’

  ‘When did ye get the ticket?’

  ‘It came through the door the night before.’ Jimmy wasn’t fly enough to dodge a glacier. The kids might even be better off in care but Jimmy deserved one break in his entire fucking life. Just one break. She looked at the letter again. Liam had a lawyer. He used to lie about it if it came up in company, pretend he knew nothing about them if the firm was mentioned in the papers. He said you could tell the most intimate details of a person’s life from the name of their lawyer, how much they earned, whether they were straight or bent, who they hung about with, what they were into. She jotted down the name and the address on the letter and put the bit of paper in her pocket. ‘Did anyone see ye in London?’ said Maureen. ‘Would anyone remember you being there?’

  ‘No, I was only there for the day. I couldn’t have gone otherwise– the kids, ye know. I felt like a real jet-setter– flying down in the morning, coming back at night. The food was nice too. I saved my pudding for the wee ones.’

  She thought about the mattress. ‘Don’t you know anyone in London, Jimmy?’

  ‘No. I know Moe, but not well enough to go and see her. Should I just not tell the polis about it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Maureen. ‘Don’t volunteer the information, eh? Wait till they ask ye.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jimmy, nodding wide-eyed, as if it was any kind of help at all.

  Maureen suddenly, desperately, wanted a big drink of whisky. ‘You know that Ann’s sister lives in Streatham?’

  Jimmy didn’t understand the connection. ‘I told you that,’ he said.

  ‘Streatham’s right next to Brixton. Ann was seen in a pub down there.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jimmy, ‘I didn’t know that. I knew it was London. That would be right because her man’s a darkie.’

  ‘Black people live all over London, Jimmy, not just in Brixton.’

  Jimmy knew that she was correcting him and he knew he was in the wrong. His chin sank further into his chest. She felt like a sanctimonious prick.

  ‘Moe’s . . . a good-living woman,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure she is. It’s a coincidence, though, isn’t it? The lawyer and Ann being in the same area? Was Ann close to her sister? Would she go and stay with her?’

  ‘Oh, aye, they were close. Ye know how sisters are.’ Maureen didn’t know how sisters were; she had two herself but she didn’t know. She remembered that Lesl
ie was waiting outside and did her coat up.

  ‘I got money through the door the other night as well,’ said Jimmy quickly, ‘a lot of money. I don’t know what to make of it.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds. What do ye suppose it means?’

  ‘What did ye do with the money?’

  ‘I hid it.’

  She was embarrassed to admit to it. ‘Jimmy, I gave ye the money. Ye can spend it however ye want. Just don’t mention me to the police, okay?’ Jimmy frowned at his fag.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘Isa and Leslie are going to look out for ye, they’ll come around and get to know the boys in case, you know, ye have to go away. I’m going to London for a few days, see if I can find out what happened to her.’

  Jimmy looked at her vacantly. ‘Why are ye doing this for me?’

  But she wasn’t doing it for him.

  ‘And you put that money through my door,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  Maureen blushed. She was doing it because she pitied him, because he was the sorriest, saddest, most unsympathetic person she’d ever met, in or out of psychiatric hospital, because if life was any more cruel to Jimmy then Michael would live to a ripe old age surrounded by family and friends and she’d die soon. ‘I’ve been stuck myself,’ she said.

  She drank her coffee in the living room and made up a small list of the things she’d need in London. Angus’s letters were scattered all over the coffee table. She had been reading through them again, trying to work out the reasoning behind them, but she had sickened herself and now couldn’t bring herself to touch them and put them away. She sat the cup on top of them and went into the hall cupboard to get her bag. It was a big rubberized cycle bag, black with a red stripe down the middle. She bought it for the little fish logo picked out in silver thread. The bag had a broad shoulder strap that fitted across her chest. It was designed for a man, not a large-chested woman, and the strap sat across her breastbone, squeezing one tit up and the other down but it looked more casual than a rucksack and it could carry more. She pulled it out and crouched down, looking at the bloody stain on the floor, where the tender memory of Douglas and times behind her lingered. She stood up and looked through to the kitchen, out of the window, past the drizzling rain and the dark clouds to the grey shadow on Ruchill. She wasn’t coming back to this, whatever happened. She wouldn’t come back to a house where she was afraid to look out of the window.

  She took the bag into the bedroom and began to pack. She was lying to herself, estimating a stay of three days to a week, packing pants and socks and spare jeans and a change of jumpers. In the bathroom she packed her toothbrush and Maxine’s pricey cream and eye-makeup remover pads. She dropped the bag on to the tiled floor, sat down on the edge of the bath and cried. She felt the pull to London, the draw of the anonymous city without Ruchill and her family and the hospital and her history. She felt she’d never get back.

  She ran a deep bath and undressed slowly, climbed into the scalding water and lit a cigarette, breathing in the moist nicotine. The damp atmosphere seeped into the paper and killed the light. She laid it on the side of the bath, looking down at her scorched red body and cried again, curling small with misery and grief, longing to be anyone but herself.

  The phone rang out in the hall and Winnie spoke into the answerphone, sounding sober and sombre. ‘Maureen,’ she said, ‘this is your mother.’ Her voice had none of the melodrama Maureen was used to, none of the premature crescendos or the wavering high emotion. It was nine o’clock on a Wednesday night: she should be very drunk. ‘I’m sorry for all the phoning before but I love you and want you to contact me. Please phone. Urgently.’

  Maureen waited for a while, glad that something had happened and she had a task. She washed her face, scooping the vehement water on to her skin again and again until she was breathless. She wrapped the chain around her big toe and pulled the plug out, sat up and hauled herself out of the water.

  She was sweating into the towel as Liam answered the phone.

  ‘No, Mauri, she’s fine.’

  ‘I hardly knew her voice.’

  Liam chuckled. ‘She’s sober, that’s why.’ Maureen could hear Lynn calling, ‘Hiya, Mauri,’ in the background. ‘She’s been sober for three days.’

  ‘Three days? What about the nights?’

  ‘I mean sober continuously for three days.’

  ‘Fucking hell. How is she?’

  ‘Well,’ said Liam, ‘she’s just as mad as she was when she was drunk but she sleeps less and she’s more articulate.’

  Maureen was suddenly very glad that she had a good reason not to be in touch with Winnie. Winnie had tried abstinence several times before and they had been some of the family’s saddest times. Maureen remembered playing cards with Winnie after school, keeping her busy until dinner-time, helping her shave another half-hour from the hellish day. Winnie trembled like a foal as the alcohol left her. Her eyes kept flicking to the clock and she cried as the stinging minutes scratched by, thinking perpetual discomfort was the alternative. She never lasted longer than a day because they had to leave her alone sometime.

  ‘How’s she managing to stay sober?’

  ‘She’s gone to AA.’

  ‘With that bastard Benny?’

  ‘No,’ said Liam. ‘Not with him. She said it’s huge in Glasgow, she might never meet him.’

  Benny had been at school with Maureen and Liam. He’d slept on her floor for three months when he was getting sober and he’d betrayed her so badly over Douglas that Liam broke his jaw. The last time either of them had seen him he was sitting in hospital with his arm in a stookie and a face like a waterlogged plum. Sober Winnie and the possible return of a traitorous childhood friend were two events too many. Maureen shut her eyes and made a conscious decision not to dwell or deal with either. Not for a while anyway. ‘I bought a pager,’ she said, pleased with herself for sounding light-hearted. ‘Do you want the number?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, and jotted it down. ‘Are you off to London, then?’

  ‘I’m going in an hour, on the night bus.’

  ‘Fucking hell, I wouldn’t get the fucking night bus for anyone,’ said Liam, talking over the receiver and projecting his voice, talking for Lynn’s benefit. ‘Be careful down there. Don’t mention Hutton to anyone.’

  She was dressed and about to leave when her hand picked up the receiver again and dialled Vik’s number. She got his answerphone. ‘Pick up, Vik,’ she said. ‘Please pick up.’

  She waited for a breath and he didn’t so she told him she was getting the night bus down to London tonight and she’d phone later and she was sorry, again, really sorry. Please pick up? She had his lighter. Please? She felt ridiculous and dirty and ugly, as if everything Katia thought about her was true. As she hung up she saw a slit of blackness in the bedroom window. Michael was out there. He raised his razor finger, ready to make the first incision. Maureen caught her breath and waited until the horror subsided.

  Jimmy was sitting in the chair, worrying about what to tell the police the next day and drinking the last of the MadMan when he heard the noise in the hall. ‘Ya wee besom.’ He stood up and stepped across to the door. Will ye get to your bed?’

  Alan wasn’t in the hall. Jimmy looked up the stairs. He wasn’t on the stairs either. He looked up at the door to the boys’ room and it was shut just as firmly as it had been when he’d let Maureen O’Donnell out. He looked down. A brown envelope was lying on the floor, dropped through the letterbox. Jimmy picked it up and ripped open the flap. He pulled the photographs out and looked at them. She had been badly beaten right enough but the injuries were healing. He could see that the bruises were yellow and green now, not black as they would have been. She was wearing a paper hat from a Christmas cracker, sitting at a table with a big dinner in front of her and four or five other women, smiling for the camera. She
was sitting on a settee with a lassie with bad teeth and a flat nose. Ann was standing by a tree with a whole lot of other women and on the wall behind them hung a big sign showing where the fire exits were. It was Ann’s last Christmas, Christmas Day in the shelter. Jimmy ran his finger over her dear face and wept, thanking Maureen O’Donnell once again for all her kindness.

  26

  Night Bus

  Leslie slipped her arm through Maureen’s and they made their way back to the bus station. It was cold and misty as they walked down the hill. Maureen’s bag banged off her back as they hurried across the busy street.

  The night-bus passengers were gathered together in the freezing concourse, smoking hard, trying to get enough nicotine into their systems to last the seven-hour journey. Apart from a couple of well-fed, healthy students, who were roughing it, most of the travellers were going to London to look for work, to fulfil errands or visit family who had moved away. The shoal of waiting passengers started at some invisible stimulus, grabbing their bags, shuffling quickly towards the glass wall, itching to get on. Maureen looked around but the bus doors weren’t open and the lights weren’t on. The crowd put their bags down again, lighting another last fag, bidding another last goodbye.

  The night bus to London is a Glaswegian rite of passage.

  Most people try it once, attracted by the twenty-quid ticket, the comfortable seating and the promise of arriving in London as fresh as a daisy early in the morning. Only the poor or desperate do it twice. Maureen had done it many times. She always forgot how bad the journey was until she got to the station but her experience had given her a number of tips. The upstairs deck was the most comfortable because it was far from the smell of the chemical toilet and was usually warmer, which made it possible to sleep. It tended to attract the crazies but it filled up more slowly, making it easier to get and keep a double seat to herself. The double seat was the big prize: it meant she could stretch out and leave the bus without aching everywhere.

  She took off her overcoat and put it into a poly-bag, pulled on a big jumper and took out a newspaper, a bottle of Coke and the bag of chocolate éclairs Leslie had brought for her. Leslie pulled the neck of Maureen’s jumper straight and looked angry. ‘Phone me. Take care when you’re down there, okay?’