by Denise Mina
It occurred to Maureen as she stepped on to the industrial carpet at Heathrow that the information lady might be there, somewhere, waiting to tell her to fuck off herself. She kept her head down and walked quickly to the express shuttle. The spacy silver platform was quieter this time and the train was waiting. She climbed on and sat down, closing her eyes to relieve the stinging. She saw the Ruchill fever hospital tower belching sparks over Inness’s shoulder and smiled all the way to London, feeling like Kilty in the lawyer’s office.
The train pulled into Paddington and the sounds and smells of the city brought her back round. As she made her way to the tube station she was struck by the creepy conviction that the city had tricked her into coming back and she wasn’t getting away this time. But she hadn’t been tricked. She knew she was right. She was certain of it.
She took a taxi from Victoria. She shouldn’t be seen in Brixton, not now, and the ride gave her the chance to decide what she was going to say. She pulled her hair back and pinned it down so that she wouldn’t be as easy to recognize.
Dumbarton Court echoed to the sounds of children playing before their tea. A crowd of teenagers stood around at the entrance gate, kicking the ground and posing for each other. A couple of boys played football against a wall. Maureen walked straight past them and took the stairs for Moe’s flat, running up them two at a time, her tired heart pounding when she got to the door. She waited until she had caught her breath and knocked lightly, trying to sound like a casual caller. She turned away, looking down the stairs so that Moe would only see the back of her head through the spy-hole. The door creaked open just a little and Moe called out to her, ‘Hello?’
Maureen swung round and jammed her foot in the small space. ‘Let me in, Moe, I have to speak to you. Toner knows.’
She could see in Moe’s eyes that she wanted to slam the door shut, ram it against Maureen’s foot until the pain got too much to bear, but worry wouldn’t let her. ‘What are you talking about?’ said Moe. ‘She’s in danger.’
Moe looked out on to the landing. She let Maureen in, shut the door and looked out through the spy-hole again, checking that Maureen had been alone. She turned and pursed her lips, planting her hands on her hips. ‘What’s going on? I thought you were on Jimmy’s side?’
‘You fucking lying cow,’ she said. ‘He was going to prison for the rest of his fucking life and the kids were going into care. Don’t you give a shit about that?’ Moe’s eyes were damp and glassy.
‘Don’t give us the tears again. Ye had a choice!’ Maureen was shouting, as loud as her broken voice would go, and she saw Moe’s eyes flicker to the ceiling. Some kindly neighbour upstairs might hear and come to help poor Mrs Akitza. ‘You had a fucking choice,’ she repeated, more quietly.
Moe stepped back and looked Maureen over. ‘What the fuck has it got to do with you?’ she said. ‘Where is she?’
Moe folded her arms. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘West Country?’ Moe flinched.
‘For fucksake,’ said Maureen, ‘it’s the most obvious place for her to go– away from London and Glasgow– there’s a big trade down there. The West Country’s crawling.’
‘Where else is there?’
‘Somewhere else, anywhere else.’
It was dark in the hall, light from the living-room window hardly making a dent in the gloom.
‘They’ll kill the children if you tell,’ said Moe, eyeing Maureen up, weighing her in. ‘Whose idea was it?’
Moe shuffled her foot, watching it as she pointed to the centre of a big swirl in the carpet. She was thinking her way through it, seeing what she would give away if she told.
Maureen looked at her, poking her tongue into her cheek, feeling the ragged lines of the cut. ‘It was yours, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘And Tam agreed to go along with it. Did you pay him or are you fucking him?’
Moe looked coy. ‘I’m a married woman,’ she said. ‘You’re married to the invisible man,’ said Maureen. ‘Mr Akitza’s long gone, isn’t he?’ Moe shifted uncomfortably.
‘You gave my pager number to Tam, didn’t ye? And ye told him I had the Polaroid. Was he going to kill me too?’
‘She’s my wee sister,’ she muttered. ‘I couldn’t turn her away. She’s my sister.’
‘Who was she?’
‘The girl that died?’
‘Yeah. The junkie.’ Moe shrugged. ‘Someone.’
‘And ye cut her legs and burnt her hands and feet to hide the marks because everyone knew Ann was a drinker.’
‘Not me,’ said Moe, shaking her head indignantly. ‘I never touched her.’
‘Who cut her face up before the others got there?’
‘Not me,’ said Moe.
‘Nothing’s you, is it, Moe? She was someone’s daughter, for fucksake. She must have been a mother too or they’d have known it wasn’t Ann when they did the post-mortem.’ Moe hissed at her and stepped across the hall to the living room. She had been sitting in the dark. The blue dusk hovered in the long window and a fag was burning in the ashtray. Moe bent down and picked it up, taking a draw.
‘They were gonnae kill the children,’ said Moe, blinking in the gloom. ‘They’d have killed them one by one. What else could we do?’
‘What about the woman who died? D’ye even know her name?’
‘What else could we do?’
‘That was some poor soul you killed. You’re fucking animals.’
‘She was killing herself, anyway.’
‘You’re animals. Did ye even stop and think what it would do to Ann’s children? They think their mum’s dead. They think she was killed and thrown in the river. They’ve been told their dad could have done it and they’ll always wonder, that’ll always be at the back of their minds. Did neither of ye stop to think about that?’
Moe bit her lip. ‘What else could we do?’ she whispered. Maureen didn’t know. She didn’t know what they could do. ‘You lied to me,’ said Maureen. ‘You lied to me twice.’ Suddenly infuriated, Moe turned and slapped Maureen’s arm. ‘And who the fuck do you think you are?’ she spluttered. ‘An interested party? My sister was going to get killed, they were going to kill her fucking kids and how dare I lie to you? You fucking silly twat.’
Maureen leaned back against the wall to get away from her. Moe was trembling as she took another draw. ‘What’ll happen now?’ she asked.
‘Jimmy’ll probably go free,’ said Maureen. ‘You know they’ve charged Tam and other people. They might mention your Ann, he might tell.’
‘Tam won’t tell. Frank Toner’d kill him if he knew,’ she said, and added, ‘I’m glad Jimmy’s going to be okay.’
‘Fuck off, you don’t care about him,’ said Maureen spitefully.
‘Listen you to me.’ Moe narrowed her eyes. ‘I like Jimmy. I like him more than I like my sister. Before their wedding I took him aside and said to him,“Jimmy,” I said,“she’s a drinker. You watch yourself.”I did. That’s how much I think of him. I warned him about her.’
‘Well, that must have kicked the nuptials off on a happy note. Did Ann know Leslie Findlay was Jimmy’s cousin?’
‘No, she didn’t,’ Moe said. ‘She’d have left her out of it, if she’d known. All she wanted Findlay to do was tell the police she’d been there, he’d hit her and give them the compensation pictures. She said she was a right feminist. She’d make sure they chased him . . .’
They stood in the dark living room, unable to resolve anything.
‘But she didn’t because he was her cousin,’ nodded Maureen. ‘The woman you killed—’
‘Not me,’ insisted Moe. ‘Not me.’
‘She was someone’s family too.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Moe defiantly, ‘but not mine.’ Maureen shoved her hands in her pocket. Moe didn’t know. She didn’t know what he’d done to her. ‘You t
hink Tam killed that girl for you, don’t you? To protect your sister.’
Moe folded her arms, looking at the floor.
‘Moe,’ said Maureen quietly, ‘did ye know that the guy who battered the shit out of Ann and took her bag was called Neil Hutton?’
Moe looked nervous. She knew something was coming but she couldn’t work out what it was. ‘No,’ she said finally, shifting on her feet. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Hutton was shot up the arse for dealing on his own, did ye know that?’
Moe frowned hard. ‘No,’ she said more quietly, ‘I didn’t know that either.’
‘Tam didn’t tell ye that?’ Moe looked frightened.
‘Well,’ said Maureen, moving out to the hall and over to the front door, ‘that was very remiss of Tam because he knew about it. He should have told ye, really, shouldn’t he?’
Moe followed her out into the hall, confused and wanting to know more.
‘How d’ye think Hutton knew Ann would be in Knutsford that night? Will I tell ye? Hutton’s bidie-in was a sourfaced cow called Maxine Parlain.’
The expression on Moe’s face didn’t change but, rather, slid a fraction to the side, making her look old and vulnerable.
‘Maxine’s Tam’s wee sister,’ Maureen paused. ‘What d’ye think Toner would have made of that? If he’d managed to speak to Ann he’d have found out, wouldn’t he? She could’ve described Hutton to him. She knew what he looked like and Toner would’ve worked it out. He’d know Tam had told Hutton where Ann would be on the bus. He’d know Tam had planned it all.’
Moe had a shocked red flush around her eyes and Maureen imagined she saw blood on her lips. ‘If Ann ever comes near Jimmy or those kids, I’ll kill her myself. You tell her that. And for fucksake tell her to stop cashing the fucking child-benefit book.’ Maureen unclipped the Yale and swung open the door. ‘Fucked ye both ways, didn’t he, hen?’
Maureen headed further up Brixton Hill. She turned, walking backwards and looking down to the lights of the high street. It was dark and the orange street-lights throbbed awake. She was leaving, she was going home, and the ugly streets and vile buildings and the men in pubs and the hungry beggars couldn’t keep her here. She hailed a cab. ‘Heathrow,’ she said. ‘Can ye get me there for seven o’clock?’
‘I can get you there for half six.’
47
Jimmy, Jimmy
She didn’t know. She’d been thinking about it for days. She thought she’d already decided back at the house. She was going to tell Jimmy that Ann was alive because it wasn’t right for her to know and not tell him. But now, in the stippled, pissy lift, she’d changed her mind again. She remembered what Angus had said about the blood and how that one scrap of information had haunted her for months. Jimmy and the kids were just reaching some sort of equilibrium. If she told him, Jimmy might go looking for her, and Ann could end up on a murder charge with the rest of them. But at least the kids would have a mum, and a mum in jail is still a mum. She didn’t know.
Alan opened the door to her, but he wasn’t playing the helpless child any more. He held the door tight to his face and looked out at her. ‘Whit d’ye want?’ he said, eventually.
She wanted to say something unpleasant to him, pull him up about his manners or something, but she couldn’t find it in her heart.
‘Why have ye got that on your neck?’ he said, staring at her neck brace.
‘I fell. Is your father in?’ she said.
‘Aye.’ He didn’t budge.
‘Alan, son, there’s nothing clever about being ignorant. Go and get your da.’
Alan’s eyes slid to the side, listening to the living room, and he pressed the door tighter against his face. ‘Da’s busy,’ he said quietly.
‘Hey,’ Jimmy was shouting at him from the living room, ‘is that someone at the door?’
Alan sighed and looked at Maureen’s feet for a huffy moment before opening the door and slipping back into the house. Maureen heard him whisper something as the door fell open.
Jimmy was sitting in the big chair, changing the babies into their pyjamas. ‘Oh,’ he smiled, ‘it’s you. Hello.’
‘Hello, you, yourself,’ she said, and they grinned at each other as if it was Christmas and Santa was real.
He dropped the sweatshirts and climbed over the little people standing around his chair, coming towards her with a big smile. As he got closer she saw his uncertainty. He didn’t know whether to hug her or kiss her or what. He squeezed her shoulders, stood on tiptoe to reach across the plastic frame of the brace and planted a chaste little peck on her cheek. She stepped into the hall and the first thing that struck her was the damp warmth. ‘God,’ she said, taking her hat off, ‘it’s warm in here.’
Jimmy pointed to a Calor-gas fire standing in the middle of the room. It was on full and the babies were watching the little orange blanket of flames, mesmerized as if by television. ‘Eh?’ said Jimmy, smiling.
‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘Where did you get that?’ Jimmy nodded out to the hall. ‘Eh, out of the door money,’ he said, a little embarrassed.
‘Ye charging to get in here now?’ she said, watching Alan standing in the kitchen doorway eating a margarine sandwich. She nodded to him. ‘All right, wee man?’
Alan looked irritated. He stormed past her out to the hall and up the stairs, leaving Jimmy shaking his head in exasperation. ‘That wee cunt,’ he muttered. He looked at her. I’ve telt him and telt him, we owe everything to you and Isa and wee Leslie, and he still won’t mind his manners.’
‘But ye don’t owe us, Jimmy, ye don’t. You’re the one that does the hard work.’
Without seeming to have moved, the babies had somehow got closer to the fire. It was obvious that they had been told not to go near it; they were watching Jimmy’s legs out of the corner of their little eyes, their backs stiff with naughty apprehension. Maureen pointed to them and Jimmy swung round. ‘Get away,’ he said, slow and threatening, raising his hand over his head.
The babies scuttled backwards, grinning and keeping their eyes on the gorgeous flames as they held on to the armchair. Maureen told Jimmy to finish dressing them, and would he mind if she went up to see Alan? Jimmy cringed. ‘It’s no’ very tidy.’
She climbed the narrow staircase to the cold landing. The bathroom door was lying open. The noise of an anxiously dripping tap and the sickly-sweet smell of mildew filled the air. The bedroom door had a Radio One sticker on it and a slit of light below. She knocked. Alan shouted that she couldn’t come in but she opened the door and called into the crack that she’d travelled all the way up the stairs to see his room. He didn’t answer her. The smell of baby pee and mildew mingled in the doorway. She opened the door a little more and looked in. Two sets of unmade bunk beds on either side of the room left a narrow three-foot strip of floor between them. The aisle was full of little shoes and clothes, broken second-hand toys and the tails of rough blankets. Alan sat cross-legged on the far lower bunk, watching the door like an angry convict. She should have decided before she came. ‘Are ye all right, son?’
‘Don’t you“son” me,’ he said, furious but keeping his voice down so that Jimmy wouldn’t hear him. ‘I’m not your son. My mum’s dead.’
She looked bored. ‘Doesn’t mean that, anyway,’ she said, staying in the doorway and checking out the comics on his bed. ‘It’s just a thing ye say. What do your pals call ye?’
‘Mental Harris,’ he said, his eyes flashing in the shadow. He was lying. Maureen had known kids like him at school.
They probably called him Smelly. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’ll call ye . . . Alan.’ He almost smiled at that. ‘D’ye like comics?’ she asked.
He touched them with his fingertips and said aye, he did, and she stood there for a bit. She wanted to say that she’d been a sad and angry wee girl and she knew how he felt but she didn’t know how. E
ven when Michael was hitting Winnie they’d always known that she could handle herself and provide for them. ‘Ye know, Isa and Leslie don’t mean ye any harm.’
‘I don’t want anything from them,’ he hissed. She looked around the room. ‘Where’s John?’
‘He’s at Granny Isa’s,’ he said quietly.
John was sweet and handsome and loving, he was the nice one, the wee boy they’d want to care for. John wouldn’t understand until he grew up, he wouldn’t know what had happened, but Alan knew. Angry, ignorant Alan knew. She nodded at him ‘You could come to mine one day,’ she said, trying to sound casual. ‘I’ve got cakes and we could watch the telly and have tea and then I’ll bring ye back.’
He slapped his hand flat on the open comic in front of him, ripping the page, crumpling it in his fist. He threw it on the floor. ‘Don’t play with girls.’
He turned to the wall, digging his finger into a crumbling hole in the plaster. It was quite a big hole, it looked as if he’d been worrying it for a while.
‘I’ve got a big brother,’ said Maureen. ‘He could come as well.’
Alan stuck his finger into the wall, twisting on the bed to get the better look at it, turning his back on her. She waited. He dug deep, twisting his elbow wide to get a good hold, grunting. He was so unsympathetic she could have cried for him, for all the crews at school that would reject him, for all the exams he’d fail, for all the lassies that wouldn’t go with him, for Billy Harris chasing the girls from the dancing and Monica Beatty’s eye.
‘Does your brother work?’ asked Alan.
‘He’s at university,’ she said. ‘He makes movies.’
Alan stopped digging and swung around on the bed. ‘Does he make cartoons?’ he said quickly, breathless at the possibility.
‘No,’ she said, wishing he did. ‘Just films.’ Alan looked disappointed and turned back to the wall. He dug and grunted again. ‘When?’