by Denise Mina
Maureen looked at him and smiled. He smiled back, slightly confused, panting lightly in the unbearable heat. He rolled his head back a little and gathered himself together slowly, reminding himself that the bag was on the floor.‘Maureen,’ he said, sliding towards her over a mile of carpet,‘I like you.’He reached for her wrist but she whipped it away from him.
His skin was burning, the heat was trying to escape from his body any way it could, he could feel blood spots bursting on his back, the size of two-pence pieces, bright, red and burning. A lava rush of sweat ran into his left eye. He pulled off his glasses and jerked his arm up to wipe it from his eyelid but something was moving on his shirtsleeve. He looked at it. He was on fire. Tiny jagged flames leaped on his arm, cartoon flames with red eyes and wicked sharp toothed smiles. He looked more closely. They were real flames, orange at the base with blue tips, like a gas pipe. He tried to breathe in. The hot air dried his throat and mouth, burning his windpipe. His shirt was melting, sticking to his skin. He tried to lie down and roll the fire off but couldn’t move properly and fell onto his knees, leaning his head and shoulder heavily against the red wall.
She was pulling his flaming hair, pulling him by his hair, dragging him away somewhere. She clicked a metal bracelet on to his wrist. He was attached to the bed now and pulled as hard as he could but the bed followed him, biting his wrist, making it bleed heat around the bangle. ‘I'm on fire,’ he said tearfully.
She took his jacket and hat and glasses from the floor and put them on a chair. She undid his shoelaces and slipped them off, unzipped his trousers and let them fall down, pulling them out from under his stockinged feet. Riffling through the pockets she found his wallet. She left the money untouched and took anything that could help to identify him, library cards, cash-point receipts, credit cards. She slipped the Basildon Bond note to McEwan into the wallet and put it in Angus’s trouser pocket, folding the trousers and laying them neatly over the chair.
‘You know...’he said into his chest,‘you’ve know. Vyouv.’ She carried the portable television in from the living room and put it on the floor, plugged it in and switched it on.
‘Where’s Siobhain? Why can’t I see her?’ Tears drizzled down his face.‘Let me go?’ he said.
‘You were Benny’s therapist, weren’t ye? You blackmailed him about the credit-card thefts. Ye threatened to shop him and ruin his law career.’ ‘Yes. Please stop this.’
‘Did you get him to plant the knife back in the flat?’
‘Yes. Please . . . make it stop.’
‘Did he tell you about my cupboard?’
‘Yea...’Angus was murmuring nonsense, his head lolling heavily on his chest.
‘I want you to know,’ Maureen said slowly, so that he would remember,‘this is for Siobhain and Yvonne and Iona and the others. And this is for Douglas and this is for Martin.’
‘I don't know who Martin is,’ he said innocently. She stood still and looked at him. A little bent man sweating in his underwear. A string of thick saliva fell from the side of his open mouth, landing softly on the front of his shirt.
‘Martin is the guy you killed at the Northern.’
‘The porter.’
‘Yes, the porter.’
Angus raised his head. His eyes were open wide, too too wide.‘You know it,’ he shouted, suddenly coherent. His face was red and his voice tight, strangled, as if he was shitting.‘That’s why the dreams. You said his nail ripped you but he fucked you. You know it. He fuckt you.’
She ran two steps forward and head butted him. She felt more than heard the crack. She stepped back. Blood was running into his open mouth, his nose was swelling rapidly. He drawled, spluttering through the blood,‘Fuckt.’
She butted him again. He shut his eyes and was suddenly calm.‘Are you going to kill me?’ ‘Yes.’
‘Am I on fire?’
‘Yes, Angus, you’re on fire.’
Angus gathered his breath and let out a screeching wail.
Maureen turned the TV up full and waited for a pause in the screaming. She opened the door and walked downstairs.
Siobhain and Leslie were sitting at the table by the window, eating Ricicles in milk. Behind them the bright sun shone over the bay like a picture postcard and blue and red wooden boats bobbed on the water.
‘Hello,’ said Siobhain.‘Where have you been?’
‘We have to get out of here right now,’ said Maureen, and went into the kitchen. She picked up the dishcloth from under the sink and used it to wipe anything in the kitchen that could conceivably have touched the sheet of acid.
Leslie ran into the bedroom and dressed. Siobhain shuffled into the kitchen doorway.
‘Why are we in a hurry?’
‘Siobhain, do you trust me?’
‘Yes,Ido.’
‘Then please, move, get dressed. We need to be out of here in ten minutes.’
‘You have blood on your forehead,’ she said, and shuffled away.
Leslie appeared at the kitchen door, panting and zipping up her trousers. She looked terrified.‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Pack everything,’said Maureen.‘Leave the place spotless so there aren’t any complaints. And leave a tenner on the table for a tip.’ ‘A tip?’
‘Goodwill gesture.’
‘You’ve got blood on your forehead.’
35
Home
The train was waiting in Largs station. Maureen helped Siobhain and Leslie into the first carriage and ran up to the conductor, who was smoking a fag on the platform.‘What time does the train go?’ she asked.
‘Twelve-thirty,’ he said lethargically.‘You’ve got ten minutes.’
Her heart was beating loudly. She ran over to the phone box and called Liam at home.‘Hello, Liam?’
‘Maureen, I know you’re in Millport, I booked the fucking house.’
‘Did Benny tell you, then?’
‘Yeah, the fucker phoned here last night as pally as anything, asking for the address we stayed at the last time. He said he wanted to send you flowers. I was going to drive down and see you.’
‘Well, don’t, I’m coming home. I just phoned to tell you that I’ve finished using Benny, you can do what you like with him.’
‘Fucking . . . right.’ Liam slammed the phone down.
Siobhain grinned at Maureen as she came along the carriage and sat down next to her. She took Maureen’s hand and squeezed it.‘Where are we going now?’ she asked.
‘We’re going home, Siobhain.’
‘Is it safe now?’
‘Aye.’
‘Why is it safe?’
‘It just is.’
‘How did it get to be safe?’
‘I’m awful tired, Siobhain, do you mind if we don’t speak?’
‘Yes, I want to speak.’
‘But I’m dead tired.’
Siobhain’s cheeks blushed pink.‘Fine then,’ she said, throwing Maureen’s hand away and turning her face resolutely to the window.
Maureen opened the door and walked into her house. She dropped her coat onto Douglas’s blue kitchen chair in the cluttered hall, went into the kitchen and turned the boiler on. She wandered into the living room. The floorboards were stained with brown blood but they could be painted over. She had a feeling that she wanted to live with the marks for a while, to walk past them in the morning and get used to them.
She opened the hall cupboard and looked at the bloody stain. Crouching down on her hunkers, she put her hand on it. It was stiff and crunchy. She stood up a little and shuffled her feet forward, moving into the cupboard, and pulled the door shut, closing herself in. She sat in the corner for a while, her fingertips resting on the dried bloody splatter, thinking about love hearts. Finally, she kicked open the door, clambered out and went into the living room, leaving the cupboard door to swing
open into the hall. She binned the empty whisky bottle and the half-empty box of chocolates, went into the bedroom, stripped the bed sheets and binned them too.
She walked to the bathroom, shedding her dirty clothes as she went, dropping the jumper in the hall and losing her jeans at the bathroom doorway. She put the plug in the bath, turned on the hot tap and went for a naked walk through her little house, smoking a fag as she did. Her scalp felt rank from wearing the woolly hat against the incessant damp rain; she scratched at it, letting the air through.
It was the best bath she’d ever had. The water was deep and hot, she lay back and felt it run through her hair, warming her scalp and running into her ears. She got out and towel-dried her hair, covered herself in scented body oil and took the blue chair into the living room, sitting on it like a giant sherbet pomander, enjoying her house.
The phone rang out, disrupting her serenity. She didn’t answer and the machine wasn’t plugged back in yet. It rang for a long time. When it stopped she got up and dialled 1471. It was Liam, phoning from his house. She’d call him later.
She lifted the chair into the bedroom and sat there for a while, thinking about all the times the room had seen her through. Then she took the chair into the kitchen and reclaimed that room too.
She was just beginning to tire of the ritual when someone banged on the door impatiently. It seemed strange because they hadn’t knocked a first time. She scampered into the bedroom and looked for something to put on. She was covered in body oil– whatever she put on would be ruined. They banged on the door again and she threw on an old summer dress with a red-wine stain down the back.
She looked out of the spy-hole. It was Jim Maliano with his jumper tucked into his jeans and his spooky hairdo. He seemed annoyed.
Maureen opened the door.‘Hello—’
‘I’ve come to get my top back.’ His voice was high and aggressive and grated on her sweet mood. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Give me back my Celtic top.’
She couldn’t be bothered with this.‘Jim,’ she said apathetically,‘I’ve lost it, I’m sorry.’
Jim’s eyes widened, the bouffant over his crown started to shake.‘You’re sorry?’ he shouted.‘Do you have any idea how much that cost me?’
‘Jim, I’ll give you the money, I just—’ Jim pointed a stubby finger in her face, jabbing it an inch from the end of her nose.‘Is this how you repay me? I took you into my house, I gave you and your brother coffee and treated you to my hospitality—’
‘Auch, piss off,’ she said unreasonably.‘I’ll give ye the money.’
‘Piss off? Piss off?’
‘Yeah, and stop spying on me through your door as well.’
‘How dare you? I went to the police about your friend—’ Maureen felt a bit giggly.‘Jim,’ she said, trying not to smile,‘get the fuck away from my door.’
And she shut it in his face. She crouched behind it, shaking with laughter, holding her hands over her mouth so that he wouldn’t hear her. She stood up and peered out of the spy-hole. He stomped across the landing and slammed his own door shut.
36
Dad
Maureen let the phone ring itself out and went back to sleep. Minutes later someone was banging on the door. She pulled on her dressing gown and staggered into the hall. Her eyes were so puffy she could barely negotiate the spyhole. Liam was standing in the close, holding bits of shopping. She opened the door.
‘Have you just woken up, Mauri? It’s one in the afternoon.’ He stepped into the hall and held out a bag of fresh croissants and a carton of orange juice.‘I’ve been phoning you loads.’
When she came back from the toilet Liam had put the croissants in the oven to warm, made a pot of tasteless instant coffee and set the table for a formal breakfast, with cups and cutlery and everything. He had tiny bloody cuts on his knuckles and a long black bruise on the side of his neck. It started as an inch-wide mark under his ear, spreading into a broad triangle as it descended to his shoulder; the edges of the bruise were yellowing. He handed her a cold glass of orange juice.
It was sunny outside. Maureen leaned against the window-frame and looked out at her favourite view.‘I got sacked,’ she said.
‘Auch, well, you’ll find another job soon enough,’ said Liam.‘I expect you’ll miss the cut and thrust of ticket selling, though, eh?’
‘Yeah, I’ll miss sitting behind that draughty wee window like a Dutch whore day after day. What’s happening with you, then, Liam?’
‘Well,’ he said,‘I went to Glasgow Uni the other day. They said I could start a course this year if I wanted, as long as I can guarantee the fees.’
She smiled at him.‘God, that’s brilliant, but will you have to pay for it yourself?’
‘The first grand, yeah. I phoned the SED and they’ll pay the rest but it might take a while to come through.’
‘What’s the course?’
‘Film and Media.’
‘Not law?’
‘Nah,’ he said,‘I’m tired of chasing money.’
‘I didn’t even know you were interested in filmmaking.’
‘Neither did I.’
The croissants were hot. She cut them in half and spread butter and jam on them, watching the butter liquefy into warm yellow puddles in the pastry. They ate a calm, quiet breakfast.
‘What’s the state of play between you and the women?’ she asked.
‘Uh, Maggie left home and came to stay with me. I dunno. She keeps making me dinner and that.’ He looked dismal.
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Dunno,’ he said, shaking his head pensively, his chin shiny with greasy melted butter. ‘Don’t you want her to stay with you?’
He chewed and thought about it.‘No,’ he said.‘I want Lynn.’
‘Why not finish it with Maggie and ask Lynn out again, then?’
‘I asked Lynn, she won’t have me.’
‘Oh dear.’ She sipped her coffee and looked up at him.
He was watching her, wondering. Did you see Lynn?’ ‘No,’ she said.‘Why?’
‘Nothing. She said something about your hair.’ He drank some orange juice and looked out into the hallway.‘What are you going to do with this flat, then?’
‘I’d like to stay for a while. I like it here.’
‘I can pay the mortgage for a while, if you like.’
‘No need. Douglas left me some money.’
Benny was being treated in the Albert. Liam drove her through the busy town, along Cathedral Street and up to the main door.‘Aren’t you coming up for a nice wee visit?’ she said.
‘I don't ever want to see that prick again,’ muttered Liam, picking at one of the scabs on the back of his hand He was in a serious mood, and Maureen didn’t think it was just to do with the cuts and bruises on his hands, but she couldn’t be arsed holding more than one thought in her head today and her one thought at the moment was Benny.
‘I’ll see you in a minute, then,’ she said, and got out of the car.
She had only ever been through the small entrance for Louisa's office at the side of the building. This was the main entrance. It was two storeys high, and more like a small airport than a hospital. A balcony with open-plan offices ran three-quarters of the way around it, a busy newsagent’s-cum-florist’s was open just inside the door and a Bank of Scotland cash machine was set into the wall next to it. Beyond the security desk were six lifts with stainless-steel doors, three on each side of the lobby, leading up to the wards. She read the display board hanging overhead. Ward 4b was on the fourth floor.
Maureen looked in through the double doors. It was an old-fashioned ward with sixteen beds, eight on each side of the room. Tall meshed windows lined the walls. At the end of the enormous room stood a TV surrounded by low plastic armchairs. It was a crisis ward for accident victims. The first three
beds on the left had support poles with traction ropes hanging from them like cat’s cradles. The other patients had casts and dressings covering varying degrees of their body surface. She couldn’t see Benny.
Three nurses were sitting in a side office eating cocktailsized sausage rolls and drinking lemonade out of paper cups. The youngest nurse was holding an open greetings card. They were watching Maureen standing aimlessly by the doors.
‘Oh, hello, I’m looking for Brendan Gardner.’ The sister stood up. She was slim and glamorous, and had a bigger hat than the others.‘Are you a relative?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, I’m his cousin.’ The sister pointed her down the ward to the last bed on the left.
Maureen wouldn’t have known him His eyes were swollen shut like two sets of purple lips, his lumpy swollen face was covered in blue and yellow bruises and his right arm was in a plaster cast.‘Hello, Benny.’
He tried instinctively to sit up when he heard her voice but fell back on the bed, lying tense and panicked, and defenceless.
‘You look terrible,’ she said. He nodded a fraction. ‘Can’t you talk?’
His lips were trembling as he pulled them back. He tried and failed, and then tried again. She could just see the thin wires holding his shattered jaw in place. ‘Broke your jaw?’
He moved his good hand slightly to the left, unfolding his fist slowly and pointing a finger. A pencil and pad were sitting on top of the bedside cabinet. She sat the pad by his left hand and gave him the pencil, working it between his stiff fingers.
‘So sorry,’ he wrote. His writing was a nervous, childish scrawl. He couldn’t see the pad and was writing with his unaccustomed hand. He turned the page.‘So so sorry.’
She had meant to shout at him and say mean things, tell him that she’d do him a bad turn if she ever got the chance, but she sat and looked at him and knew she couldn’t censor all he had been to her. Her eyes brimmed over with stinging, reluctant tears. She felt as if she were watching him die. ‘Why, though?’ she whispered.