by Denise Mina
‘Do you know him?’
‘Is there a photie . . .?’
He waited, leaning into her expectantly. The most paranoid man in Brixton had called a stranger to his fortress flat to see if he could be of any assistance. Maxine had warned her about this: she had told them to get rid of the picture.
‘I’m afraid I’ve lost it,’ she said innocently, ‘but how about if I describe him to you?’ Parlain didn’t like it.
‘Would you be able to identify him then?’ she asked. Parlain didn’t like it at all.
‘He’s quite distinctive,’ she said.
‘How did ye lose it?’ he snapped.
‘How did I lose what?’
‘The photo.’ He was nearly shouting at her.
‘I was in a bar today and I showed it to someone and they asked to keep it.’
‘In the Coach?’ His face was turning red and he was on his feet, pacing up to the barred window with his hands behind his back.
‘No.’ She tried to think of another pub. ‘It was the one down by the . . .’ She pointed and frowned as if she couldn’t quite remember. ‘By the . . . Opposite the railway station, across the road.’
He was next to her, leaning over her and frowning. ‘The Swan?’
‘Could be, I don’t know this area well.’ She really wanted to get out. She felt sorry for Parlain but she didn’t know what this level of paranoia would make him capable of.
He leaned in closer and she could feel his breath on her forehead. ‘Big bar, long bar, bald guy serving? Talks like a poof?’
‘I think so,’ she said, because she wanted out. ‘That’s right, there.’
‘What was the guy like?’
‘Which guy?’
‘The guy who took the picture?’
‘Wee, English accent, wore a dark coat—’
‘Fat?’
‘Yeah, he was quite fat.’
‘Right,’ he said, his arms hanging by his side, his fingers wriggling like a bushel of worms. He walked back to the window and looked out. ‘And he was there when ye left?’
‘Yeah, this was like fifteen minutes ago. Ye paged me when I was with him.’ Parlain was going to leave the house and go to the Swan. He was going to leave her in here. ‘I’ll take ye to him. He was a nice guy, I’m sure he’ll give me the photo if I ask him.’
He looked at her. ‘Aye.’ His neck twitched nod after nod. ‘You come with me.’ He stormed into another room and came back with a battered leather jacket.
Maureen wondered if he had taken the precaution of washing it with soapy water too. She stood up, smiling stupidly. ‘Let’s go then,’ she said happily. ‘I’ll buy ye a pint if ye like.’
But Parlain was beyond being touched by courtesy. He ignored her offer, unlocked the door and they stepped out in to the stairwell. Maureen felt the updraft of warm air and knew she was lucky to have got out of there. Parlain peered down the stairs as he locked up carefully. He led the way, turning back occasionally to make sure she was still with him. He led her down the stairs and out of the door to Argyle Street.
‘I’m not sure it’s called the Swan,’ said Maureen, thinking on her feet. ‘It’s past the Underground and over the road a bit.’
Parlain stopped. ‘That’s not the Swan.’
She pulled him by the elbow, trying to give the impression that she was keen to stay with him. ‘Come on anyway, and I’ll show you. Down here.’
They took the road straight down to the high street.
Parlain’s paranoia was not confined to the house, he kept his head down, looking straight forward, anxious not to be seen.
‘Straight down and across the road,’ she said.
She walked alongside him all the way down the hill, wittering shit about home and how cold it was and she liked it here and the people were really friendly. Parlain stopped responding after the first two hundred yards and Maureen gradually let her chatter peter out. When they got beyond the long social-security building she began to drop back, walking in the edge of Parlain’s line of vision for a little while, slipping back when they got to the mouth of a small lane. She let him get a couple of feet ahead of her and then she bolted, walking as fast as she could at first and then running, skipping around the corner, running and running to get the fuck away from him. She ran down Brighton Terrace and cut down a series of small streets before heading back to the high street and scurrying into McDonald’s. She sat at the far table with her back to the window. Kilty Goldfarb watched her come in. She looked around, giggled and stood up, tiptoeing over to the table like a panto villain. ‘Hiya,’ she said. ‘Are you avoiding me?’
‘Kilty,’ said Maureen, sweating and staring at the table, ‘do you like to drink?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Will you go out to the road and hail a cab to take us into town?’
‘You look terrified.’
‘I am terrified,’ whispered Maureen.
Kilty stood up and disappeared. Two minutes later she tapped Maureen on the shoulder. ‘Come,’ she said, watching the distance like a bodyguard. Maureen stood up and hurried outside to the waiting taxi. ‘Where are we going?’ asked Kilty, shutting the cab door and sitting down next to her.
‘Busy place with pubs,’ said Maureen.
‘Covent Garden,’ called Kilty to the driver.
The taxi sighed as the handbrake came off and they drove away along the high street.
35
Drunk
Leslie had slept all night in the armchair. She was desperate to get out of the cold house for an hour or so but she couldn’t handle the kids at all. They were hungry and there wasn’t any food in the house, apart from white bread. She had decided to dress them and take them to a café but Alan had hidden their clothes so that no-one could take them anywhere.
Six-year-old John was playing nicely with the babies, talking to them and trying to make them wear Leslie’s crash helmet, but it was big and black and it scared them. He pulled it on himself to show them it wasn’t scary and sat in front of them, stroking their little legs. Alan was still in his pyjamas, sitting in his daddy’s chair, his little hands spread over the sticky arm-rests, looking up at her like an evil child genius.
‘Tell me where the clothes are, Alan,’ said Leslie, for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. Alan smirked at her.
‘Where are the fucking clothes?’ shouted Leslie, pressing her face into his.
‘Hey, they’re weans, ye can’t talk to them like that,’ said Cammy, pulling her back by the arm. ‘They’ve had a bad fright.’
Leslie glared at him. ‘Don’t you raise your hand to me.’
‘I’m not raising my hand to ye, Leslie. I’m just saying ye’ll upset them if ye shout like that.’
As if on cue Alan started to cry. ‘I want my daddy,’ he said. ‘Where’s my daddy?’
John whimpered under the helmet. The babies picked up the panicked theme and began to howl. ‘See?’ said Cammy. ‘You’ve upset them.’ Leslie poked him hard in the chest. ‘No, Cameron, you’ve upset them.’
Just then the front door opened and Jimmy came in, flanked by the two police officers. In silence the children ran, staggered and crawled over to their dad, clinging on to his legs and hands, holding on to each other when they ran out of limbs. John was the last to get there. Blinded by the oversized helmet, he banged into the door-frame and bounced back, staying on his feet. He grabbed his daddy’s jumper, pulling it down at the side, baring Jimmy’s skinny yellow shoulder. Jimmy calmed them all down with a pet and a hush each, but the children hung on tightly, tethering him like a rogue Zeppelin.
‘Where’s the ticket, Jimmy?’ The fat guy looked very tired now. His hand was tucked under Jimmy’s armpit and he looked as if he’d like to smash him off a wall. ‘Is it under the chair?’
‘Aye.’ Jimmy looked exhausted.
The blonde woman lifted the cushion and began to rummage through the papers.
‘Jimmy,’ said Leslie, ‘why are ye back here? Are they letting ye go?’
‘We’re just here to pick up some evidence,’ said Williams. ‘Mr Harris flew to London the week his wife was killed.’
‘Aw, get real,’ said Leslie. ‘Where would he get the money to fly to London?’
Williams raised an eyebrow and looked at Leslie’s leather trousers. ‘There’s always someone to lend a hand, isn’t there?’ His phone rang out the theme tune from The
Simpsons in his pocket. He took it out with his free hand. ‘Hello?’ he said formally and paused to listen. ‘Speaking,’ he said and nodded intently at the floor as the caller spoke. ‘Thanks. We know about that now. Yes. Heathrow.’ He glanced up at Jimmy and nodded at the floor again. He looked up at Leslie, caught his guard and motioned to Bunyan to get hold of Jimmy’s arm. She did as she was told and Williams opened the front door, stepped out onto the balcony and pulled the door shut behind himself.
Bunyan looked at Leslie. ‘How did you manage with the boys last night? All right?’
Out on the balcony Williams leaned into the receiver. ‘Listen,’ he said to DI Inness, ‘can you check and see if you have any intelligence on a Leslie Findlay? She lives in Drumchapel—’
Inness sounded excited. ‘Has she got a motorbike?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why are you asking about her?’
‘She seems to have been involved in this case. Do you know her?’
‘We all know her. She came up in an investigation a while ago. An assault case. Her and another woman. She works at the women’s shelters, doesn’t she?’
‘Yeah.’ Williams glanced at the door. ‘You said it was an assault? Is she violent?’
‘Could be,’ said Inness. ‘They messed someone up really badly.’
‘Was she prosecuted?’
‘Can’t get any evidence on them, but I’ll tell you what, if she’s done it again you’ll’ve made my DCI’s day.’
The bar was quiet. The few big town shoppers frittered the afternoon away, missing their connecting train, not quite making it home. Two men at a table laughed unhappily and sipped at brown drinks. Maureen thought about Parlain asking for the Polaroid. Frank Toner was something to him. Toner might have crossed him. Parlain might be looking for a photo to identify him, to show to people and ask about him. None of the scenarios she came up with sounded right: Parlain was paranoid, he was hardly going to carry out a revenge attack and who ever heard of gangsters showing each other photos? They all knew each other.
‘There you are,’ said Kilty, putting the glass down in front of her. ‘Whisky and lime. Now, relax.’
‘I just got a bit freaked, that’s all.’ Maureen drank deep.
‘It was mad of you to go up there,’ said Kilty. ‘You don’t know the area at all.’
‘Do you live there?’
‘Yeah, well, in Clapham. I rent a room in a Victorian terrace near the common. High ceiling, gorgeous open fire from the fifties, it’s lovely.’
‘Can’t you afford a house on a social worker’s salary?’
‘I’m not that settled.’
‘Why don’t you come home?’
‘Why don’t you stop barking questions at me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Maureen. ‘I’m rattled, that’s all.’
‘He gave you a fright, did he?’
‘God, yeah, I don’t even know why. He was just a paranoid wanker. He wanted a photo I’ve got and I could have given it to him but I didn’t.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Let’s have a cigarette,’ said Kilty, taking her second fag out and sitting it on the table.
‘Fuck.’ Maureen breathed out heavily and rolled her head around her neck, trying to relax a little. ‘That was scary.’
Kilty used Vik’s lighter and began producing banks of smoke from her fag. Maureen watched her and was thinking that it would be criminal to correct her when it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t cried once in four whole days. She had been shit scared this afternoon but she hadn’t felt weepy or out of control. It had been months since she got through a day without her eyes transgressing. Maybe it wasn’t infinite. She sat up, feeling odd and hopeful, and lit a cigarette. Kilty smiled at her. ‘Right, you,’ she said. ‘It’s payback time. Tell me the story.’
So Maureen told her about Ann in the mattress and about Jimmy and the kids, about Moe’s unlikely missing persons report, about the child-benefit book and about Hutton being shot up the arse. She went on as the drink warmed her and told her about the thin babies and Alan on the stairs and about the wee boys in their Mutant Ninja Turtle pyjamas. When she looked up Kilty was staring into her drink and looking distraught. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she said, ‘the Turtles were ten years ago.’
And they drank on. Kilty hated her job too. She’d been inspired by what Maureen said and had been toying with chucking it all last night. ‘I’m not going to try and save the world any more. From here on in,’ Kilty stabbed the table with her finger for emphasis, ‘I’m tending my garden. And you tend yours.’
‘I think saving the world’s easier in my case.’
‘Why?’
‘My garden’s full of drunk buffalo.’
Kilty tipped her head and smiled wryly at the phrase. ‘Oh, right?’ she said, as if she’d understood. ‘Well, what do you want, then?’
‘I want beautiful things around me,’ said Maureen, ‘and I want a nice man to have a laugh with. And I want to feel content.’
‘And you think seeking justice on this earthly plain will do that for you?’
‘Everyone wants things to come right in the end, don’t they? It’s a fundamental human desire.’ Maureen thought of Sarah rattling around her big house with the ghosts of naval syphilitics. ‘That’s what attracts wronged people to religion and politics, isn’t it?’
Kilty grinned. ‘I thought they just liked getting on and off minibuses.’
‘No, but, you know, the true religious are never happy campers, are they? I bet your social-work department is full of people with sorry histories.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Kilty, stubbing out her half smoked fag. ‘They’d hardly tell me. I’m the luckiest girl in the world. My mother’s a delight and my father’s utterly charming. The only reason I’m in London is to dodge a good marriage to a big fat advocate.’
‘Really?’
‘Christ, yeah. They’re desperate for me to consolidate their social standing. It’s a nouveau riche immigrant thing.’
‘But you don’t want that?’
‘Fuck off,’ she sneered. ‘I’ve got better things to do with my life than choosing chintzy curtains at Jenner’s.’
Kilty sipped her drink and Maureen realized where she was from. She could hear the traces of the private school in her accent. She was attracted to her calm acceptance of the world around her, as if no-one had ever been a real threat to her and everyone was of interest. She’d like that for herself. Everyone she knew was chippy. Kilty sat forward. ‘You see, down here coming from a posh background is considered a good thing.’
‘But back home?’
‘Nice people won’t talk to you. They think, quite rightly, that you’ve had a bigger slice of the pie.’
‘And social work is your penance for that?’
‘Catholicism hangs over you like a shroud, Maureen O’Donnell.’
They got round after round in, drinking slowly and enjoying the company, watching television sometimes, sitting quietly with each other. They moved on to another bar when some ridiculously young men tried to chat them up, packing Kitty’s bag of shopping into Maureen’s cycle bag. By the time they hit bar three Kilty was taking a lemonade every second round so that s
he didn’t pass out and was slurring heavily. They made crazy, drunken plans together. Kilty would come home and live at Maureen’s for a while. She couldn’t go home to her folks– they’d want her to spend all day horse-riding and attending ghastly parties. She’d come home and try being an artist, and she said Maureen should let the buffalo out of the garden. She sang ‘Don’t Fence Me In’ in a precariously high octave all the way to Brixton. The taxi-driver was glad to see the back of them. He was dropping them outside the Coach and Horses before they had fully considered the other options.
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Maureen, taking half an hour to find the right change in her hand and pay the taxi. ‘Come on.’
‘It will be many things,’ slurred Kilty sombrely, ‘but it won’t be fine.’
The Coach and Horses was eerily quiet. There was no pretence at socializing, no crowds of chatting acquaintances, little effort made to disguise the business of drinking. The barman who had dubbed her up to Parlain wasn’t working. Maureen was feeling slightly sick. She took a deep breath and led Kilty into the serious-drinking room on the left. They stepped up to the bar and Maureen ordered a triple whisky with lime and ice. ‘I’ll try that as well,’ said Kilty.
The barman poured the drinks without asking if they were sure they wanted triples and Maureen knew that she was drinking in a pub that suited her. The customers were nearly all men and, strangely for the area, predominantly white. They heard accents from home, east and west coast, some broad, some mild. The few women had a sad, junkie look about them, wearing clothes they had happened upon, standing vacantly, glancing round as if they were waiting for someone to come and get them. Ann belonged here among these lost people.
‘Jesus,’ muttered Kilty, ‘it’s a fucking hole.’ Maureen saw a man and a woman sitting at a table across the room. She recognized them and the man was watching her. He was nursing a pint. The table kept disappearing behind a smog of drinkers and appearing again. She was trying to remember where she knew them from when the door to the ladies’ toilet opened. A woman paused there, swaying gently and wiping her hands on her stone-washed jeans. It was the woman who had come out of Tam Parlain’s close; she still had her Vegas sweatshirt on. Moving slowly, she made her way across the floor towards Maureen and Kitty and sat on a stool, concentrating hard on the tricky business of sagging over the bar, her head hanging limp on her skinny neck. Keeping her eyes shut, she lifted her leg to her hand and roughly tugged the leg of her jeans up over one calf, scratching at a spot behind her knee, running her broken fingernails over a deep open sore. It was a baby ulcer, a septic track mark.