by Denise Mina
The picture is from Robertson’s widely available book so Tracey has gone to a lot of trouble for no purpose, but Margo doesn’t want to let her down. ‘Look, thanks so much for doing that.’
‘Aye, no trouble at all. So, there it is… well, I’m here if you need a wee counselling session.’ Tracey sounds a bit hurt. ‘I can come to you as well.’
‘By the way, Tracey, were you at the High Court yesterday?’
‘Oh, you did go? I never seen you there.’
‘So I did spot you on the balcony? Why were you there?’’
‘Well, yeah. Auch well, it’s just down the road from the office and I was on my lunch anyways, like… I was a wee bit worried about you. I felt bad that you’d got only ten minutes with your auntie and then the next day, like, when we spoke… I just popped in to see you were OK…’
‘Oh.’ It seems a bit intrusive. ‘I’d have asked you to come if I wanted you there.’
‘Aye, well, it was no problem at all. Did you get to –’
‘Look, I have to clear my mum’s house out, I’m sorry.’
‘Am I catching you at a bad time?’
‘Yeah, sorry, Tracey, I really need to go. Thanks very much for going to all the trouble, though.’
‘Sure, Margo, you know –’ she’s super-keen to stay on the phone–‘I’s going to say –’
Margo hangs up. She doesn’t want to talk to Tracey. She feels guilty about it, Tracey’s been nothing but nice to her, a bit annoying but not malicious, but there’s something about her Margo finds annoying, she can’t quite put her finger on it.
She goes upstairs and stands in the doorway of the big bathroom, paralysed. A brown spider plant droops from the macramé hanger, all its tiny babies brown and wilted, like a sad memory of fireworks.
There’s so much stuff in here, all of it dusty and maybe someone would want it. Bath mat and matching toilet surround, a plastic non-slip mat in the bath itself, a green glass jar full of soap jelly, a slimy substance Janette used for laundry, made from all the little bits of old soap bars left in water. A toothbrush in a glass, unused talcum puffs in a fancy red plastic container. A Mabel Lucie Atwell wall hanging with a mildewed corner: Please remember, don’t forget. So much stuff. She abandons that room and goes into the bedroom.
She looks at the dresser. It is crammed. Half a dozen little Derby shepherdess figurines, all slightly chipped.
Margo takes one in her hand. The little figure smiles softly and has rosy cheeks, a cobalt skirt and a lamb at her feet. Ridiculously romantic view of a hard job: Marie Antoinette at a masked ball. Margo wipes the gritty dust away and runs her finger over a yellowed-glue garrotte on the lamb’s neck. Janette liked broken things. She liked to mend.
Despairing, Margo slips it into her pocket, leans forward and looks under the bed. A slipper, an old newspaper folded to the crossword and a thick layer of grey dust over all of it. Her mood is lower than ever.
She gets up and shuts her eyes and visualises herself opening bin bags and sweeping things into them with her arm. She rehearses it over and over and then gets up, goes to the kitchen, finds the bin bags and comes back. She flaps a bag open and empties the top of the dresser into it. It feels great. She opens the top drawer, pulls it out and empties it into the bag. Thermals and long johns. No one wants them but they’re in the bag and that’s, as Lilah says, a triumph. She takes out the next drawer, underpants, and does the same. Next drawer, thermal vests. Next drawer underskirts and long-sleeved thermals. Next drawer is empty because it was too low down for Janette to reach. The bottom drawer is empty too.
Feeling like a conquering hero, she ties a knot in the bag and takes it out to the hall, lining it up against the wall, leaving room for the many others.
Back in the bedroom she puts the radio on to stop herself from thinking and empties the other set of drawers. She’s on such a roll that she doesn’t even take that bag out to the hall, she just leaves it by the door and moves on to the wardrobe.
She manages not to press her face to the jackets or smell the scarves or take the pretty brooches off the lapels of jackets. She just shoves them into bags and dumps them by the door.
She strips the bed and puts all of the bedding into another bag, unplugs Janette’s beloved electric blanket–the best present they ever bought her–and shoves that in too. She’s struggling a little now with thoughts of how wasteful it is to throw all of these things out and how some people don’t have lovely coats or electric blankets and would be glad of them. It’s Janette’s voice in her head and she enjoys it while she can still remember the throaty sound of her.
In the wardrobe there’s a shoebox at the back of the top shelf. She pulls over a pouffe to reach it. The lid is dustier than the rest of the house, as if it’s been there a very long time. She opens it and finds tiny button-over baby shoes and two black drawstring velvet bags with milk teeth inside.
She takes them down to the kitchen, opens her laptop and Skypes Thomas at work.
‘What?’ He’s eating lunch at his desk.
She shows him what she found.
‘What is that?’
‘Milk teeth. Tiny shoes. They’re ours.’
‘Throw them out.’
‘Seriously? These have no sentimental value to you whatsoever?’
‘I don’t remember being a baby, do you?’
He has a point.
‘You’re the least romantic human being I’ve ever known.’
Thomas grins as if it’s a compliment. ‘How’s it going?’
He means the house clearing.
‘I find it hard. You’d just get a wheelbarrow and tip it into a river, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yup.’ He takes a slurp of energy drink.
‘Shall I send you a carefully curated box of sentimental shite?’
‘Thank you but no,’ says Thomas, giving a small burp. ‘I’m looking forward to amassing random crap of my own now.’
They look at each other, for just a moment forgoing the hypnotic draw of their own image.
‘This is tough for you, Margo.’
Margo thinks it’s nice of him to acknowledge that but it would be nicer if he helped. She can’t admit she needs his help though. He’s looking carefully at the background now, at the kitchen, and he looks worried.
‘Margie?’
‘What?’ She looks over her shoulder at what he’s seeing: it’s a mess. Stacks of plates cover the table, and bin bags full of out-of-date dry goods are slumped on the dresser. ‘This is all… ah…’ she tries to excuse herself, ‘you know. Joe and stuff.’
But Thomas has seen the mess and he’s worried. ‘Margo, have you done any clearing out?’
‘Excuse me, this is practically the last room, thank you very much.’
Frowning, he sits back from his desk. ‘Are you going mental? Should I come home?’
‘Tom, shut up. Just, Lilah’s doing my head in. Why can’t she just stay away from bloody Richard?’
That seems to relax him a little. He takes another slug from the can. ‘Richard says she’s nicked money from him.’
‘Yeah,’ says Margo, ‘he’s hardly going to admit he’s hunting her down, is he? He’s going to have some complaint against her that justifies what he’s doing.’
‘True. They don’t want it to be over, that’s why they won’t go to the police.’ Thomas won’t engage. ‘You heard from that aunt woman again?’
‘Nah,’ she says, avoiding his eye. ‘Sort of done with that now. I saved you one of Janette’s little statues. The shepherd one you liked as a boy.’
‘Call a clearance company, Margo. I need to get on.’ He hangs up without saying goodbye.
16
NIKKI MUST HAVE GOT here early because she’s standing at the bar, waiting for Margo. She’s dressed as herself this time: a pink satin bomber jacket over sky-blue leggings and a big pink T-shirt. She doesn’t go for an abortive hug, just nods too much and says hiya too often, but she doesn’t seem as nervous or jittery. Ma
rgo is wary but not afraid of Nikki. Even if she did send the letter, they’re in a public place.
The pub off George Square is a tourist trap. Inside it’s all tartan upholstery and claymores on the walls. Soft rock music is playing slightly too loud from tiny white speakers screwed into the ceiling. Giant blackboards show the menu of steak and chips, haggis and whisky-flavoured ice cream. It seems very expensive to Margo but that’s probably because it serves visitors to the city who don’t know that better food is available two streets away for half the price.
It’s quiet. The five o’clock rush is over but the evening hasn’t begun. There are only two other customers: men sitting away from each other in the far corners of the L-shaped room, pretending to read newspapers but really just killing themselves with drink. Three members of staff in black slacks and white shirts loiter around the till behind the bar, pointedly keeping their backs to the new arrivals as they chat among themselves. Margo tries to get their attention, leaning this way and that, but they slip her eye expertly.
‘HOI!’ Nikki shouts over the music. All three turn and look at her. ‘Pint o’ Coke and whatever my niece here wants.’ She thumbs to Margo and repeats it. ‘Niece,’ she says and smiles.
One barman breaks away and saunters over. He has a ponderous belly and rosacea. His breathing is nasally restricted. Margo tries not to prognosticate. She orders a tonic.
When the barman delivers their drinks and asks for money, Nikki stands as still as a startled doe. Margo gets her purse out, pays and only then Nikki comes alive again and acts as if nothing happened.
They move over to a table in the elbow crease of the room, as far from the alcoholics as they can get. Nikki takes the seat against the wall and Margo sits across from her.
‘I was so glad when I saw you at court. I’ve been dead upset about what happened. Talked to my pals and they set me right. I’ve got no business asking you to look up his files. I didn’t know it could get you in trouble too. I’m sorry.’
‘Well, how could you know? During the lockdown a senior nurse got the sack for looking at his wife’s file. He was only checking her medication levels. They take that kind of data breach incredibly seriously.’
‘Hmm,’ nods Nikki. ‘Well, I was at court and thought it would be easy for you to see. We’ve always thought it was McPhail. Didn’t think a wee peek would be–I was having a shit day. I shouldn’t have come in and started demanding stuff.’
‘Don’t worry.’ But Margo is pleased she said that. ‘I met Jack Robertson yesterday.’
‘Loves himself, doesn’t he?’
‘Yeah.’
Nikki slaps a hand on the table like a judge delivering final judgement. ‘Arsehole.’
They laugh together at that.
‘Always been famous for it,’ says Nikki. ‘He doesn’t care. Like there’s a bit of wiring missing in his head.’
‘Well, he told me Susan was clean when she died.’
‘Ah, OK, that is true. I lied, I’m sorry, I wanted you to like her, to think she had to give you up… I don’t know. We’d just met. You didn’t seem very… You know.’
‘Nice?’
‘Happy.’
‘Gallagher said Susan got clean because she was pregnant with me.’
‘Yeah.’ Nikki smiles. ‘She chucked it for you. Didn’t do meetings or methadone or anything so she was fucking mental all the time but she did it. She was getting out of the life as well, just saving up a wee dunt before she did. She was amazing, Susan. She did love you, pet, but she couldn’t keep you. She could only give you what we had and that wasn’t enough. She was really ambitious. People hated that about her.’
‘Did she contact the social work department or did they ask her to give me up?’ This is important to Margo, to know if Susan had an active desire to walk away from her.
Nikki says Susan didn’t contact them. ‘Social work’re always around, aren’t they?’
‘Are they?’
‘Well, they were always around us. We grew up in care.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, no.’ Nikki flaps a hand in front of her face as if Margo’s pity is a cloud of midges. ‘No, no, we weren’t in care until later. We got to twelve and ten before we got taken in, it wasn’t like we were in since we were babies. There’s, you know, grades. Those baby ones, the ones in care from before they can talk, they don’t get much of a chance.’
‘Everyone needs someone to look down on?’ As soon as it leaves her mouth Margo knows she shouldn’t have said that, but Nikki takes it well.
‘I suppose. There’s a comfort in that, isn’t there? Feeling better off than other people. I don’t know if it’s wrong but you look around and think: yeah, OK…’
She’s nice. Margo is surprised. They smile at each other for the first time, two women who like each other without obligation.
‘Before that, where did you two grow up?’
‘Oh, we were in the country, all fields and trees and that.’ She names a mining town where Margo once did a maternity cover stint. It is in the country but only technically. It was heavily industrialised until the smelter shut down and all the ancillary industries collapsed. Then the shops shut and it became a ghetto. They were treating asbestosis and cancers at the same rate as an inner-city surgery.
Margo says she knows the town quite well so Nikki qualifies her claim: well, it used to be nicer. Their mother, Patsy, moved them to Glasgow when they were wee anyway, to Whiteinch. It’s a dockers’ area near the river.
‘Patsy?’ asks Margo.
‘That’s who Susan named you for. Your granny.’
‘Is Patsy still alive?’
‘No. Patsy died visiting Betty. That’s why we got taken into care. She was in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the night, fell off a broken set of stairs and smashed her head open and died.’
‘Why was she in a warehouse building in the middle of the night?’
‘Trying to tap money off her sister, Betty. Betty lived at the top of a big deserted warehouse full of rats.’ She says it with a certain amount of relish and Margo doesn’t know why.
‘What was Betty doing there?’
‘She had to live far away from other people because she heard the voices of dead people sending messages. That’s why the family had to stay away from her.’
‘Was she schizophrenic?’
‘No, psychic. She did shows and that, travelled with her psychic work. She couldn’t look after two weans. Betty was good as well, let me tell you. I know you don’t believe but she was eerie. I was terrified of being sent to live with her when Patsy died, but I was only twelve.’
Margo remembers being twelve herself. That was when her dad left them. She remembers it in vivid snapshots: the taste of weak orange squash, white and purple crocuses on the front lawn, listening to Janette having strained arguments on the phone while their dad screamed at the other end.
‘Were you ever fostered?’
Nikki wriggles from buttock to buttock. ‘Meh, for bits. Back and forth. Always together though. They wanted to split us up once, send her off and not me, and we both says no.’
‘I wondered if she had any other children?’
‘No. Had an abortion but no other kids. She was young though. About thirteen.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Grim. A pregnant child. A history of sexual abuse. Predators. No wonder social work were involved. ‘Thirteen is terribly young. The pelvis isn’t fused yet. The damage can be terrible. Who got her pregnant at thirteen?’
‘Barney Keith.’
Margo winces at the mention of his name. ‘I found a Barney Keith. He’s on Facebook.’
‘He’s not dead? Jeesh, he was a million years old back then! She was desperate for someone. She met Barney at the four points in town. Know the corner of Union Street and Argyle Street? Had two all-night cafes and that’s where the runaways used to hang out. They’d pull a social work van up at two in the morning, load us all in, drive us back to all our houses.’ Nikki
can see how sad Margo is about it. ‘We had nowhere else to go, pet. Barney had a house. Not everyone gets to be young. There was guys in that group home, you know…?’
Margo doesn’t, she’s afraid to know what Nikki means by that.
‘I mean,’ Nikki says, ‘you think to yourself: well, why shouldn’t I be charging for this? It’s happening anyway. Patsy did it. We knew where to go and everything.’
Margo notices that she’s finding it hard to even listen to vague hints about everything Nikki’s lived through. ‘Nikki, I’m sorry if I’m…’ She doesn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t know what I’m talking about,’ says Nikki cheerfully.
‘I don’t,’ admits Margo.
‘That’s what Susan wanted. She wanted that for you. She didn’t want you to be involved in any of this and I don’t either. It’s fine.’
But Margo is involved. Nikki doesn’t know it but she is.
‘Can you tell me about it though?’
‘OK, well.’ Nikki sits forward, clears her throat and looks at the table in front of her. ‘Patsy made a good living at it. Me and Hairy would be at school wearing all the best, new shoes all the time, new clothes.’ She strokes her jacket and smiles to herself. ‘Got a taste for good gear. She was actually too drunk to do a washing most of the time so she just bought new stuff–but we got our hair done in hairdressers and that was unheard of for weans in Whiteinch back then.’ Nikki’s expression softens as she remembers and she gives a long blink. ‘We were like wee queens and Patsy was a grafter. She couldn’t read or write, couldn’t get another job, but when we moved to Glasgow she worked out where to go and what to do. She was out every night, rain or shine.’
‘Who looked after you?’
Nikki’s eyes roam the room. ‘Me and Hairy?’
‘If Patsy was out every night?’
‘We were in bed.’
‘Oh.’
‘It was a different time. She’d moved to the city to get away from her man. He was kicking seven colours of shit out of her every night and she just got, like, you know, “fuck this”.’
‘Your dad?’