The Less Dead

by Denise Mina

  ‘It’s when ye leave care,’ says the woman, ‘that it all falls apart.’

  Her voice is gorgeous, deep and velvety, and she tells Margo it got like that from smoking and singing too loud. She likes singing.

  Margo pulls in to Crimea Street. It’s an unloved part of the waterfront, a wasteland of demolished buildings and giant Victorian warehouses with bars on the windows and steel girdles holding them true. This is where the riches of the Empire were sorted and stored, straight off the cargo boats from Jamaica and Ceylon. Now the great storehouses’ highest ambition is to not melt into the street.

  She parks outside the City Mission. It doesn’t advertise itself. It’s a free-standing glass building, plain, with long windows onto the street. Inside Margo can see tired people in outdoor clothes, mostly men, eating from plastic plates at trestle tables. Security cameras are trained on the door.

  ‘At’s it there,’ she says. ‘They’ll be shutting up for the night soon.’ But she doesn’t move to get out. She pats the money in her pocket.

  ‘Will I sing ye a tune?’ She pats her chest. ‘For the money, like?’

  Margo says that would be nice.

  She sings for her: ‘Die In Your Arms’, a Justin Bieber song with lots of step-runs and scales. Her voice is strong and warm, filling the car. She raises her hands to conduct herself, doing a symbolic sidestep with her shoulders to keep time. Her voice makes Margo’s scalp prickle and her face split into a grin. And then it’s over.

  She turns to Margo. ‘What d’ye hink o’that?’

  ‘You gave me goosebumps.’

  She gives a loud ‘HA!’, claps her hands together with delight. ‘My first paying gig!’ Then she throws the door open and gets out grinning. She crosses in front of the car, doesn’t look back at Margo, but slaps the bonnet twice as a goodbye.

  Margo sits in the car, the sweet song and metallic slaps resonating long after the woman has disappeared through the door.

  Margo didn’t give her the cash because she’s a good person or because she pities her. She gave it to her because of Susan, to give her a night off.

  She draws the car out into the street and notices that she doesn’t feel sorry for her any more. She remembers the song and the woman’s gorgeous gusty voice, thinks about Susan sitting with a patronising policeman, batting his pity back to him by boasting that she made twice what he did, being so cheeky she was remembered for it thirty years later. Susan, who did what she wanted because she couldn’t feel any worse.

  Being Susan Brodie’s daughter, it might be a gift.

  38

  SHE’S HUNGRY. HER STOMACH is churning as she pulls in next to the hotel. The concert at the Hydro has started. The hotel has resident only parking but outside of that the cars are parked as far as the eye can see, lined up on pavements and abandoned in loading bays. The lights on the Hydro are bright and changing, a fluid bleed from pink to purple, and when she gets out of the car she can feel the thrum of the bass pulse through the soles of her shoes.

  Standing on the steps of the hotel she takes out her phone and calls Joe.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  ‘You’re pregnant?’ He’s stunned. ‘Where are you? Can I come over? I’m coming over.’

  ‘No, Joe, I’m not home. I’m starving, I’m just going to have something to eat and then I’ll come over to you.’

  She can hear another man’s voice mumbling in the background. ‘Who’s that? Who’s there with you?’

  ‘Thomas is here.’

  ‘Thomas?’

  ‘He’s here, he’s come home.’

  ‘Why’s Thomas home? Why didn’t he tell me he was coming?’

  ‘He’s…’ Joe speaks away from the phone–‘Why are you home?’

  Thomas mutters something.

  ‘He doesn’t trust me to clear the house, does he?’

  ‘No. He thinks you need a hand.’ Thomas has taken Joe’s phone. ‘I don’t trust you and I’ve been round there so don’t try to bullshit me. Why does it smell of Dettol? Are you going nuts?’

  ‘Are you worried about me, Tom?’

  ‘Fuck off.’ She can hear that he’s smiling. ‘I’m going to be an uncle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To a baby!’ He sounds very excited.

  ‘I don’t want to go into details at this stage but yes, it will be a baby at the beginning.’

  ‘OK.’

  She’s delighted and only now realises that she thought Thomas was tired of her, that he found her boring and worthy and dull. Joe takes the phone back and he’s so excited she can’t get him off the phone, but her stomach feels as if it’s folding in on itself.

  ‘I have got to get something to eat.’

  ‘Have you told Lilah?’ asks Joe. ‘Please tell me you told me first.’

  ‘I haven’t said anything but I can’t actually find Lilah. She’s not picking up.’

  ‘I don’t know where she is but Richard’s gone all quiet as well,’ says Joe. ‘I hope they’re not back together.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Look, let’s just have a night off.’ She can hear his grin. ‘Let’s just forget them tonight and be happy.’

  ‘OK.’ She can’t stop smiling. The wind coming off the river is drying her lips. ‘I’m very happy.’

  ‘I am too.’

  They listen to each other breathing for a moment and she knows it won’t be perfect but she’s willing to take a chance. ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’

  ‘OK.’

  As she walks to the entrance, a cigarette falls from a nearby balcony, the red tip helicoptering to its death. She stands and watches it fall, elation fluttering in her chest, and vows to find out who sent those letters to her, to Nikki, to find out who killed her mum. Inside she catches the eye of the receptionist. He calls her over and gives her a message in an envelope. It’s a handwritten message from Lilah: ‘Yoohoo. Popped in to see you. Call tomorrow.’ Typical obscure Lilah. She can’t be reached and it isn’t clear whether she will call or Margo should. But Margo is too happy to be annoyed. Thomas is home and she’s told Joe she’s pregnant. She hums the Justin Bieber song to herself as she walks across the lobby to the restaurant entrance, waiting by the service desk inside the restaurant. She smells faint hints of vinegar and grilling meat and starts to salivate.

  Across the room a waitress raises a finger in acknowledgement. She plucks a menu from a waiting station as she makes her way between the tables, smiling politely. Margo smiles back but, as the waitress approaches, she sees a man at the far end of the room standing up to greet her. He’s wearing jeans, a white shirt and a suit jacket. He’s looking at her expectantly, as if they had arranged this. It’s Richard. His black eye is yellowing at the edges, the swelling is down on his chin. He looks dishevelled.

  He nods over to Margo as if he’s been waiting for her.

  ‘Table for one?’ asks the waitress.

  ‘I’ve, um, just seen a friend,’ says Margo, stepping awkwardly around her and walking over to the table.

  Richard dabs his mouth with the napkin in his hand and steps out from behind the table to greet her. Even fifty yards away she can see that he is agitated.

  ‘Hello Richard. What are you doing here? Joe is looking for you.’

  ‘Oh yeah, hi.’ He kisses her on each cheek, though they don’t really know each other well enough for that.

  He doesn’t seem able to focus. She finds herself checking his pupils. ‘Are you staying here? In the hotel?’

  ‘Is Lilah?’ He looks at Margo, startles a little, as if he’s surprised it’s her there again. ‘I thought she was here. Is she?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know.’

  ‘Is she staying here? Burgers.’ He laughs abruptly and sits down. ‘It’s amazing! Taste.’ He holds the plate up to her. ‘Honestly, taste it. So good.’

  Margo shakes her head. He looks at her expectantly.

  There’s something really wrong with Richard.

>   ‘Yeah.’ He looks behind her. ‘Is she with you?’

  ‘No, she’s not with me. Why did you think she’d be here?’

  His breathing is shallow. He smells unkempt and doesn’t look mentally well. His eyes are wide and red, his face is pale and taut. ‘Is she here?’

  ‘Richard,’ she says carefully, touching his arm, ‘did you track Lilah here?’

  ‘No.’ He knows he shouldn’t be here. He knows it’s a giveaway.

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘I think she is here. I do think that she is and I think you’re lying for her because she won’t see me.’

  ‘She was here.’ She hands him the message left behind the desk. ‘But she’s gone now. Her phone is turned off. I think you’re tracking her phone and scaring her a bit.’

  ‘D’you know she stole money from me?’

  The waitress with the megawatt smile is coming over with a menu held high in the air. ‘So what are we doing then?’ she sing-songs. ‘Eating together? Eating apart? Eating at all?’

  Margo orders what Richard is having. The waitress confiscates the menu and leaves them alone. ‘Richard?’

  He takes a big bite of burger and widens his eyes, chewing and gesturing that his mouth is full. He laughs–haha–and a shred of mayo-heavy lettuce drops from his mouth, landing on the table with a small splat. She waits for him to swallow.

  ‘Richard? Are you feeling well?’

  He shakes his head as if he hasn’t heard her. ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t look well.’

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘As if you’ve been under a lot of strain.’

  He laughs bitterly, takes another bite and then something strange happens. Richard’s shoulders rise, his gaze hardens and all the giggly confusion that hangs around his eyes drops away. He is a different person. Margo suddenly can’t quite draw a deep breath. She notices a scar on his knuckles, the broadness of his shoulders, the cold fury of his demeanour.

  ‘You know Lilah stole money from me.’ His eyes narrow with malice.

  ‘You should call the police.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  She’ll be round at Pitstop and Muttley’s taking them for their final amble of the day. If he has been tracking her movements for the past week he’ll have noticed the pattern. It’s a matter of time before he accepts that she isn’t upstairs.

  ‘It’s a yes/no question, just nod. Is Lilah upstairs?’

  Margo nods.

  ‘Are you in the same room?’

  ‘She’s in the room next to mine.’ She reaches into her bag for her phone and shows it to him. ‘Shall I call her?’

  ‘No, don’t call her. Is she there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They lock eyes. Richard smiles. ‘No, she’s not.’

  ‘She is, she is upstairs just now.’ The phone is on her lap. Without looking down at it she stabs in the security code but can see it refuse her. ‘I’ll call her down for you.’

  ‘Don’t call her down.’

  ‘I’ll ask her to come down and see you right now.’

  She tries the security code again and gets it right this time. She goes to recent calls and presses the last number.

  Richard sees the phone in her hand. ‘She’s not upstairs. She’s walking those dogs.’

  ‘No, she’s not, she’s upstairs.’ She brings the phone up to the table but fumbles it and Richard sees that she has called Joe.

  ‘HANG UP.’ He lashes out at her, grabbing her left wrist, twisting the skin. He’s halfway across the table, spilling plates. ‘HANG THE FUCKING THING UP.’ He’s screaming at her, his free hand is scrabbling for her phone but it falls into her lap.

  ‘Hello?’ Joe’s voice sounds small and distant, a thousand miles away. ‘Margo? Where are you? Is that Richard?’

  Richard has her by the wrists and twists her to her feet, bringing her close until his nose is inches from hers. Margo grabs her phone as it slithers down her thigh and holds it high and shouts: ‘Joe, Richard’s here and he’s hurting me.’

  ‘Margie? I can’t hear you.’

  Richard holds her wrist high, burning the skin and using his other hand to peel her fingers open and take the phone.

  ‘Margo? Are you there? Are you OK?’

  Richard looms over her, he’s not going to let go and she understands Lilah for the first time, the desire to pacify and normalise and dodge, because he’s really scary.

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Richard raises his hand up high as Margo shouts into the phone ‘CALL THE POLICE.’

  He brings down the closed fist, smacking her hard across the temple with the phone.

  A loud chorus of dismay rises in the restaurant as the phone drops and shatters, glass skittering across the floor. Margo is knocked back into her chair, dazed and half blinded.

  Richard stands over her, the stomach of his white shirt smeared with ketchup and mustard and lettuce. Margo cowers, arms over her head, giving him her back to hit, leaning into the table to protect her belly and the baby.

  ‘Margo? Margo!’ Joe calls to her from the floor. The smashed phone is still working, as Richard slides from his seat.

  ‘Bastard!’ shouts a woman from across the room.

  ‘Ho!’ shouts a man and runs towards Margo. She thinks he’s coming to protect her, but this is Glasgow, and he runs past her, going after Richard to start a fight.

  He’s small and tubby and he’s catching up with Richard who is calmly leaving the restaurant. Margo drops her arms and watches as the short man leaps high onto Richard’s back, wrapping his arms around his throat. But Richard is huge. He shucks him to the ground as if he was a heavy scarf without even looking at him. Then, as if nothing at all has happened, Richard turns and walks out of the hotel.

  Margo drops to her knees and shouts into her phone, ‘Joe, call Lilah! Warn her! She’s with the dogs. Richard knows. He’s coming!’

  But the screen is black and Joe is gone. Blood runs in a sudden warm sheet into her eye. She’s cut. She needs to save Lilah.

  39

  MARGO RUNS TO HER car and gets in. She is bleeding profusely from the temple, keeps having to wipe the blood from her eyes and forehead, smearing it away with her sleeve. The cut isn’t deep, it hasn’t hit anything, but head wounds bleed heavily. She’s reversing out of the parking space when she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She’s wild-eyed, her hair matted with blood.

  She gets outside the hotel car park barrier and finds the road flooded with people. They’re leaving the concert, trying to get back to their cars and they’re excited and happy, sweeping down to the river from the bright mouth of the Hydro. They don’t care that Margo has to go and save her friend, they’re reliving their night, dancing and weaving through the parked cars, spilling from pavement to roads, blocking taxis and buses and cars who honk their horns and try to weave around them. They surround the car, someone bangs on the roof. A woman in a tight dress falls against Margo’s window, laughing when she catches herself.

  Margo inches forward in a fug of horns, wiping blood from her head, ignoring the shocked looks of concert goers who see her bloodied face through the windows as she pulls carefully through the crowd. Suddenly she’s free and clear. The lights of the night city flash past as she speeds through the West End to Pitstop and Muttley’s flat. She knows she’s too late when she sees the close. The door is open, a street bin has been smashed through the glass window. Richard is upstairs. Margo stops her car in the middle of the street and gets out, leaves her hazards on, pulls off her jacket to wipe the blood from her face as she bolts upstairs.

  The front door lies open to the dark hall.

  As Margo steps into the dark she hears something fall deep inside the flat.

  A woman’s voice. Lilah is crying somewhere in the back hall.

  ‘Lilah?’

  Lilah is keening softly, repetitively, like a shocked animal.

  F
or a moment Margo looks for a weapon, a vase or a statue or a plate, but that’s too complicated and she still has blood in her eyes so she just stumbles on towards the voice.

  ‘Lilah?’

  Margo steps into the low corridor and is swallowed by the dark. She hears a sound behind her, nails pattering on a wooden floor and spins to see Muttley in the hall, panting, ears erect, watching.

  ‘Help me.’

  Lilah’s voice is closer, coming from the bedroom on the left.

  ‘I’m here, Lilah, it’s OK.’

  She rounds the door frame looking into an even darker room. It takes her eyes a moment to adjust. A foot in a black leather brogue is lying just inside the door on a threadbare rug. Margo flattens herself to the wall and slides along to the open door, her field of vision widening to show a second foot. They are not moving. A man’s feet on the floor. Richard’s feet.

  ‘Lilah?’

  ‘Margo?’ Her muffled voice comes from behind the door.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In here.’

  ‘With Richard?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Can I put a light on?’

  ‘NO! NO! DON’T DO THAT!’

  ‘OK, Lilah, OK, it’s OK.’

  ‘I CAN’T LOOK. I CAN’T STAND TO SEE IT.’

  ‘OK, it’s OK.’

  Margo takes a step into the room. Richard is on his back. His face is pale but freckled red, scarlet speckles are scattered across his forehead and his mustard-smeared shirt. Then she sees the dark, black pool on the floor.

  She falls to her knees beside him, feels for a pulse but his neck is slick with blood. She feels through all the cold wet. There is nothing. Like a diver going down again, she takes a deep breath and feels again, trying to concentrate this time, as if she can conjure him up from the dead if she tries hard enough, but her knees are slipping on the wet floor, her fingers are numb and she knows it’s hopeless. She tries the wrist. He’s gone. Richard is dead.

  She sits back on her haunches and looks at him. His carotid artery has been severed. It would have taken just a few minutes for him to bleed to death.