Exile

by Denise Mina

  ‘Where’s Ann’s child-benefit book, Moe?’ Moe stood up straight, glared at her, opened the door and pulled Maureen in by the lapels. Her angina had cleared up a treat. She slammed the front door shut and turned to face her. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  The darkness was a comfort to Maureen and she rubbed her itchy eyes. ‘Have you got the child-benefit book, Moe?’ whispered Maureen. ‘Are you from the police?’

  ‘No,’ said Maureen. ‘I’m just a friend of Jimmy’s family. Look, Ann died a week and half ago and her book’s still being cashed. Have you got it?’

  ‘If you’re just a friend of Jimmy’s I don’t have to answer any questions, do I?’

  ‘No, Moe, you don’t, but I know about the book and I know about her trips to Glasgow with the big bag and I know why you want the Polaroid. What should I do with that information?’

  Moe’s chin crumpled and she began to cry, tugging at her wedding ring. Her face turned pink, like Ann’s. Maureen was glad of the dark hall and the cool walls but her knees were feeling shaky. ‘Come on, sit down,’ she said, and led the crying woman to the living room.

  Moe cried for a long time, hiding her face in her hands and each time the crying subsided the sight of Maureen made her sob afresh.

  ‘Moe,’ said Maureen quietly, ‘you’ve got an alcoholic sister who doesn’t live here. She comes to visit ye, goes away and two days later you report her missing. She could have gone home and not phoned, she could be lying drunk somewhere in the middle of a binge. It’s ridiculous for you to report her missing.’ Moe was looking at the carpet, dabbing her wet eyes. Maureen sighed. ‘Do you mind very much if I smoke?’

  Moe shook her head. Maureen took out her fags and lit one, leaning over and feeling under the chair for the ashtray. She found it and pulled it out, sat it on the arm of the chair. Moe watched her, sniffing quietly. ‘Would you like a cigarette?’ asked Maureen gently.

  Moe shook her head again and gestured to her heart, sobbing and turning away. Too hung over to fight with a woman about her heart condition, Maureen waited patiently until Moe had cried herself out. She gave her a hankie.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Moe, in a little-girl voice, glancing up at her. ‘Can I make a phone call?’

  ‘No. I want you to sit and talk to me for five minutes and then you can make a phone call.’

  Moe dabbed at her nose. ‘But I want to phone my husband.’

  ‘After.’

  Moe looked up to see if she meant it and saw Maureen’s red eyes and scratched knuckles. ‘’Kay.’ She shrugged.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Tell me about the book.’

  Moe picked at the chenille on the arm of her chair. ‘I’ve got it,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think it would matter, now she’s dead.’

  ‘It does matter. It means that the children are going without. Burn it.’

  ‘’Kay.’ Moe sniffed. ‘I’m sorry, I just didn’t think it mattered.’

  Maureen drew on her cigarette and looked at her. ‘Have you ever heard of a guy called Tam Parlain?’

  ‘Of course I have. Everyone knows about him. It’s men like him that make this estate hell to live on. They buy drugs from him and they come round here to use them.’

  Maureen took a drag. ‘I know Ann was a courier,’ she said softly. ‘What’s the story, Moe? Why did she really tell you about Leslie Findlay?’

  Moe began to cry again, covering her face and panting, making a passable impression of herself earlier. ‘No, come on, stop,’ said Maureen lethargically. ‘I know it’s not real this time, stop it.’

  Rumbled as rumbled could be, Moe sat up straight, sniffing and blushing and watching Maureen’s cigarette. ‘Can I have one?’ she said.

  ‘Course ye can.’ Maureen gave her one and lit it for her, moving the ashtray to the other arm of the chair to save Moe reaching over. ‘Now tell me. Who was Ann carrying for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Moe. ‘Someone bought her debt and they made her do it. She knew she was in danger, she told me about the photo and gave me the address of the shelter so that I’d be able to tell the police if anything happened. She was very concerned about the kids . . .’ she broke off for a genuine sob‘. . . she was worried about them, worried anything would happen to them.’

  ‘Didn’t she know the police would think Jimmy beat her?’

  ‘No,’ said Moe. ‘She thought the truth would come out.’

  ‘She should have told the shelter people the truth.’

  ‘But if she’d told them the truth they wouldn’t have let her stay, would they? They’d have sent her to the police and she couldn’t go to them.’

  Moe was right, Ann couldn’t have told them that. They’d have turned her away immediately.

  ‘Why did they beat her up at all?’ asked Maureen.

  ‘She lost a whole bag of their drugs.’

  ‘She lost them?’

  ‘She was mugged.’

  ‘What’s the story with the Polaroid?’

  ‘He was her boyfriend,’ said Moe. ‘He was going to protect her. She said I should contact him if anything went wrong.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I don’t know. She said she’d left a photo and I’d be able to find him through that.’

  ‘And that’s why you wanted to keep it?’

  ‘I just want to know what she was doing,’ said Moe desperately, ‘why she was working for drugs . . . people. Our family have never been involved in anything like that. We’re from a decent family. Can I have the picture?’

  ‘No,’ said Maureen. ‘I haven’t got it any more but the guy’s name is Frank Toner and he drinks around here.’

  ‘In Streatham?’

  ‘No, in Brixton. Coach and Horses.’

  ‘I thought he lived in Scotland. What happened to the picture?’

  ‘I gave it to a guy I met in a pub.’

  Moe was very offended. ‘Why did you give it to him when I asked for it?’

  ‘I had the feeling you were lying to me, Moe, and I didn’t want to give it to you.’

  Maureen stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and as she did Moe lurched across in the chair and grabbed her hand, squeezing too hard, crushing the scratched fingers together. ‘I’m sorry I lied,’ she said, pointedly making eye contact. ‘I just don’t know who to trust. Thank you for being kind to me, I’ll never forget it.’

  Maureen disentangled her hand and stood up. ‘Look, take care of yourself. And burn that book.’

  ‘I will,’ sighed Moe unsteadily. ‘I will.’

  ‘You can make your phone call now.’ Moe shut the door behind her and double-locked it from the inside.

  The sunlight and the mild weather heightened the smell from the bins and Maureen held her breath as she hurried out of the enclosed courtyard. Another message was coming through on her pager. She dug it out and found that Leslie had left a mobile number and asked her to phone urgently. She took a side-street to the station and soon found herself in a pretty road of low, terraced houses with climbing plants around the doors and shallow gardens. She lit a cigarette and walked slowly. A car crawled past her, lilting over the speed bumps, speeding up in the pauses. If Moe had the book then Ann must have signed all the cheques for her in advance. She must have known, thought Maureen suddenly. She must have known she was going to die.

  The receiver in the phone-box in the high street had been smashed and she had no choice but to move nearer to the tube station. The Hebrew Israelites were shouting through a megaphone at a small crowd of bewildered listeners standing five feet away. They had constructed a small platform for themselves and were dressed in what appeared to be old costumes from an amateur play about Hannibal, studded belts and trousers tucked into knee-length leather boots. Two stood on either side of the speaker, their arms crossed, looking over the heads of an imagin
ary vast crowd. The speaker had been shouting about the evils of homosexuality and handed the megaphone to his pal. ‘And they shall be put to death!’ he shouted. ‘And they shall be put to death!’ She tried the mobile number recorded on her pager but found it engaged. ‘Liam?’

  ‘Mauri?’ he shouted. ‘When are ye coming home?’

  ‘I’m a bit rough, Liam. Don’t shout again, okay?’

  A bus passed the phone-box, sending a gust of air under the door.

  ‘Are ye hung over again?’ he said, sounding a bit worried.

  ‘No, I’ve got flu or something.’ She felt like Winnie, telling a hopeless lie to cover up her drinking. ‘I think I got it from someone on the bus,’ she said, digging herself in deeper and deeper, wondering why the fuck she was lying.

  ‘Hutton was trying to move out on his own,’ said Liam. ‘That’s why he was hit.’

  It took her a couple of minutes to remember why she cared about any of it. ‘Oh. That’s good, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Means Ann had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Probably. No-one knows where he got his stash from. She might have been carrying up to him.’

  Maureen tried to think of something intelligent to say but blanked. ‘My head’s bursting,’ she said. Liam paused. ‘Why are you outside, then?’

  ‘Sarah chucked me out for getting drunk and bad mouthing Jesus.’

  ‘So, you got drunk while you had the flu or you’ve got a flu with exactly the same symptoms as a hangover.’

  She laughed softly, trying not to shake her head or breathe out too much. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered, ‘I feel so bad. I’ve hurt my hand.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t drink so much,’ said Liam. ‘I heard they arrested that Jimmy guy.’

  ‘Yeah. Look, Liam, your druggie pals down here, are they nice people?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re nice enough.’

  ‘Can I go and see them? I want to ask them about something.’

  ‘I can’t give you their address, Mauri. It’s a confidential relationship, you know.’

  ‘Come on, Liam, you’re not a priest.’

  ‘They won’t be chuffed if I send you there. They’re a bit, you know, careful.’

  ‘Can’t you phone them first and ask?’

  ‘They might not be in.’

  ‘Well, ye can tell me whether they’re in when I phone back in a minute, can’t ye?’

  ‘They won’t like it.’

  ‘I’ll phone ye back in twenty minutes, Liam.’ Liam tutted and muttered ‘fucksake’ before hanging up. Maureen looked around at the soft porn in the phone-box, wondering what the children who came in here thought of it. A lorry passed by outside and the cards on the cheaper paper fluttered, whipping up like curling fingers. The Hebrew Israelites were chanting threats through a megaphone. She would have given anything to be at home, before Mark Doyle had grabbed her elbow, before Sarah had called her an alkie.

  37

  Martha

  Martha’s voice was a drawling syrupy balm and her soft eyes were a solace. She wore a colourful wrap-around skirt, a short red T-shirt and big trainers. ‘Alex is away for a couple of days,’ she said, blinking slowly, as if she’d just had a smoke or was about to have a smoke. ‘Anyway, babe, Liam said you had a really bad hangover and I had to look after you.’

  Maureen lay back on the settee and looked at the ceiling. Martha lived just across the road from the Oval underground station. It was a poky flat, gracelessly shaved from a more illustrious whole. The odd-shaped rooms were too high, the cornicing stopped abruptly at walls like a discontinued stanza and the galley kitchen was shaped like a streamlined map of Italy, splaying out at the end to avoid cutting the big window in half.

  Martha and Alex had not spent a lot of money on decoration but their entire flat seemed specifically designed to appease a hangover. The front room was dark and the heavy curtains were drawn, even though it was four in the afternoon. Damp patches on the ceiling were covered with Paisley shawls and a dim deflected light shone out from underneath a floating umbrella in a high corner. A collection of 3D postcards of dogs wearing hats was displayed on the fireplace. Compared to Sarah’s house it was the most cosy, welcoming place she had ever been, and Maureen never wanted to move from here. Martha sat down next to her on the sagging sofa.

  ‘Do you own this flat?’ asked Maureen.

  ‘No,’ said Martha, in her breathy English accent. ‘We rent it from a bloke who lives in Ireland. He owns the building. He’s cool when it comes to rent and dates and stuff.’

  ‘It’s nice. Very calming.’

  ‘Would you like something to eat? What about a cup of tea and a chocolate mini roll?’ said Martha, well versed in the chemistry of comfort. ‘Oh, that would be perfect.’

  ‘I’ve got some Valium too, babe,’ said Martha, heaving herself up. ‘You could have one or two.’

  Maureen declined. She desperately wanted to stay on the sofa but she thought it might be rude to sit while her host attended to her so she wrenched herself out of her seat and put her shades on again as she followed Martha into the bright kitchen. She wanted to use the phone but thought it might be cheeky to call a mobile in Scotland. The kitchen was homely and comfortable: the cupboards had been painted pink and yellow with matt emulsion, and the fridge had a big picture of Lionel Ritchie, sans beard, varnished on to the door, looking as if his mouth and jaw had been manipulated in a special computer program. It hadn’t. Martha filled the kettle from the tap.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to look after me like this,’ said Maureen, suddenly aware of the sorry spectacle she must present.

  ‘No trouble.’ Martha turned off the tap and plugged the kettle in. ‘How’s Liam?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Maureen.

  ‘Yeah, is he still with Maggie?’

  ‘No, they split up at New Year.’

  Martha stopped still and blinked at the worktop. ‘When?’ she said, the breathy freshness gone from her voice.

  Liam had a knack of inspiring obsessive interest in certain types of crazy women. Maureen put it down to his constant low-level aggression. ‘Not long ago.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Martha tried to smile. ‘Well, he told me on the phone that they were still together.’

  Liam, it seemed, did not reciprocate the interest. ‘Oh,’ muttered Maureen, ‘maybe they got back together, then.’

  Martha turned back to the kettle. ‘Yeah,’ she repeated. ‘Back together.’

  ‘He doesn’t tell me everything,’ said Maureen, afraid that Martha would turn against both O’Donnells and refuse to let her back on to the settee. ‘I wouldn’t know if they were.’

  ‘If they were what?’ challenged Martha. ‘If they were together? Or if they were apart?’

  ‘Well, if they’d got back together, I wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. I don’t get on with Maggie all that well. I don’t see them together much.’

  Martha lifted two clean mugs from the busy draining board. ‘Don’t you like her?’ she asked, in a snide undertone. Maureen could understand Martha not liking Maggie. Maggie’s father was an actuary and the family lived on the south side of Glasgow in a big new house with a garden. She probably wouldn’t sit down in Martha’s house. Plus Martha wanted to fuck her boyfriend.

  ‘I do like her,’ lied Maureen. ‘I just don’t have a lot in common with her. Does Liam come here a lot?’

  ‘Not any more. Not since he retired.’

  Maureen thanked fuck that the conversation was over.

  Martha pulled a packet of chocolate mini rolls out of the cupboard and peeled back the crunchy Cellophane, exposing the row of soft cakes. ‘Have a couple, there, babe,’ she said. ‘Worst thing you can do for a hangover is starve it. Your body needs sugar.’

  Maureen unwrapped the foil and sank her teeth into the spongy roll. It melted in her mouth, she hardly had to c
hew.

  ‘Liam said a friend of yours is missing, is that right?’

  ‘Yeah, I wanted to ask, do you know most of the dealers in Brixton?’

  ‘Some,’ shrugged Martha.

  ‘Tam Parlain?’ asked Maureen. ‘Argyle Street?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s not a very nice man. How did you hear about him?’

  ‘Well, I was asking about a solicitor called Headie and his name came up.’

  Martha smiled. ‘Coldharbour Lane?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Poor old thing.’ Martha frowned and petted her lip with mock concern. ‘Mr Headie drank,’ she said, as if that explained everything. It probably did.

  Maureen took the photocopy of Ann out of her pocket. ‘Have you ever seen this woman?’

  Martha unfolded the photocopy and looked at it closely. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Was she a user?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  Martha looked closer. She was the only person so far who’d looked at the picture of Ann without flinching. She held the photocopy at arm’s length. ‘Yuch,’ she said disdainfully. ‘What a mess to get yourself into.’ She smiled as she handed it back to Maureen.

  ‘I don’t think she did it to herself,’ said Maureen quietly, taking the Polaroid out of her pocket. ‘What about this guy?’

  The kettle had begun to boil and Martha turned it off before taking the picture from Maureen. She looked at it and her face fell. ‘Where the fuck did you get this?’

  ‘It was among the woman’s belongings after she disappeared.’

  Martha threw the picture on the work-top. She didn’t even want to hold it. She held up her hands, wiggling her fingers in panic. ‘Have you showed this to people?’

  ‘One or two,’ said Maureen.

  Martha forgot about the lovely tea she had promised Maureen, forgot that Maureen had just had a chocolate sponge on an empty, rebellious stomach. ‘Get rid of it,’ said Martha, poking it away with her finger like a dead rat. ‘Fucking bin it, get rid of it. Do you have any idea what this picture is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a threat. Whose kid is it?’