G03 - Resolution (45 page)

“I’m gonnae kill the three of you,” muttered Liam, not looking up from the bed.

They fell quiet for a while, and Liam whispered to Una that Winnie’s leg had twitched when they were out getting cans of juice. “Good,” said Una encouragingly. “That must be a good sign.”

Her hairdo was really awful. It was brown and blond streaks, cut in jagged stringy bits at the back and short on top, like a Rod Stewart wig. Whoever had done it must have hated her. They watched Winnie again, hoping for a twitch, listening to George snore contentedly, when suddenly Marie spoke. “You must be pleased about Michael,” she said softly. She was looking at Una, meaning to garner support, but it looked as if she was talking to her. Everyone was confused. Marie leaned forward and pointed a flaccid finger at Maureen. “I was talking to you,” she said weakly.

Maureen shrugged and looked at Liam. “She doesn’t know about that, yet,” he said.

“Know about what?” said Maureen.

Liam sighed. “I’ll tell ye later.”

“Tell me now.”

“I’ll tell ye later.”

“Tell me now.”

Liam sighed over Winnie’s hand, holding it to his face, feeling the soft paper skin drag on his cheek, and felt a ragged nail poke him. The hand was moving, the fingers wiggling, giving up with exhaustion and trying to move again. Winnie opened a sticky eye and looked around the room, at George asleep in the chair, at Maureen at the end of the bed and at Una and Marie.

“Mum?” Liam poked George’s arm and woke him up.

They watched as Winnie struggled to lift her hand, straining hard, letting out exasperated sighs. Finally she managed to get the oxygen mask off, pulling it to the side so that it cupped her chin. “You’ve …” She stopped to breathe, shutting her eyes to concentrate. She opened them again. “You’ve … you’ve been a lovely audience.”

And Winnie coughed a laugh and fell back on the bed.

In a typical Winnie-esque fuckup, despite having used her final words and written her epitaph, the doctors assured them that she would recover. They wouldn’t be able to assess the extent of her liver damage until later or vouch for her future health if she carried on drinking. They could come in tomorrow to visit if they wanted but now they should go home and rest.

Una insisted that she drive George home in her big car and they all set off for the car park together. It was three in the morning and a yellow dawn was threatening on the horizon. It was very cold.

“Is anyone ever going to tell me about Michael?” said Maureen.

George put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “We didn’t want you to worry,” he said, and squeezed again. “Your dad killed a man in the hospital. He’s never coming out.”

“George O’Donnell, you re my dad,” she said, responding to the wrong bit of information. Liam turned and looked back at her. George squeezed her shoulder hard and let his hand fall.

Liam started the engine and pulled out of the car park. “Who did Michael kill?” asked Maureen. Liam clucked his tongue. “A guy. Just a guy.” She lit cigarettes for them and handed Liam his, watching the city slide past the window, enjoying the orange lights and huge navy blue sky. When she looked back Liam was watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“It wasn’t just a guy, Mauri. It was Pauline Doyle’s brother.”

She let it go.

“He was twice Michael’s size,” said Liam, “and he was young as well. He had a video camera with him but no tape in it.”

She wanted to tell him about the rush of blinding fury when she had seen the camera and knew, suddenly and completely, that Doyle was the other brother all along. She wanted to tell him about throwing herself through the window, her shoulder hitting Doyle as he hurried to stand. How, wrong-footed, he had toppled over into the bush and how she had used the knife without hesitating. She stood over him, watching the fountain of blood jet from his jugular like an early death in a slasher movie, heard him gurgle and, behind her, Michael trying to say something. She pressed his hand to Doyle’s knife, took the tape from the video and left through the window. Doyle must have met Angus when he went to visit Pauline in the Northern and Angus would have given him the address for the pictures and the video. It was all so pat and clear she could hardly believe it hadn’t occurred to her before. She wanted to tell Liam everything but she knew it wouldn’t be fair.

“See Tuesday night?” Liam spoke again. “When I phoned and Leslie answered?”

“Yeah.”

He took a draw on his cigarette and exhaled, the stream of smoke rolling across the inside of the windscreen. “Were you asleep?”

“Yeah.” She wasn’t lying very well, she knew she wasn’t. Liam scratched his forehead, sucking his teeth and nodding.

“I got into a situation, Liam,” she said softly. “I just got into a situation.”

He pulled the car over to the pavement abruptly. “How did ye get Doyle to go up there with ye?”

If she told him Doyle was helping, if she told him she’d found out at the last minute and killed Doyle instead, he’d know what she’d been planning for Michael. “Told him I had the tape and I could see his hands in it.”

Liam smiled. He liked that. “And he came to get the tape off ye?”

“Aye,” said Maureen. “He came to get it off me.”

Liam restarted the car after three tries and drove on, nodding sometimes, shedding the extra years as he took it all in.

Maureen woke feeling happy but then remembered that she had no right to be. She had done unconscionable things that would change her life forever. She made a coffee and sat in the kitchen by the window. It was gray and raining outside, small rain, getting into everything, making pedestrians grimace and hunch. No one knew she was up here feeling happy, no one could reproach her for it. She made another coffee and lit a cigarette, shut her eyes and imagined herself in St. Petersburg, in a bland hotel drinking sour coffee and drying her face with scratchy towels. Walking along by the canal or river or whatever they had there, wearing a big coat. She saw herself going into the Hermitage, not seeing anything, just anticipating seeing things, and she opened her eyes. “Shit.”

She went out into the hall and dialed the number for the hospital, got transferred to Winnie’s ward and asked after her. She was stable, liver damaged, but sitting up and talking to them all. Maureen could come in at half two if she wanted. The nurse had a Belfast lilt in her voice and Maureen could tell that Winnie was charming them all. In the bedroom, she was dressing slowly and paused, looking around the floor at all the clothes. Taking three bin bags from the kitchen drawer she bagged up all the clothes from the drawers and wardrobe that she hadn’t worn for a year. She put all the extra bed linen in a separate bag and leaned it against the wall. She checked her pockets for keys and money and took the bin bags downstairs.

She had meant to carry them the two blocks to a charity-shop doorway but they were too heavy. She left them sitting in the rain at the foot of a lamppost, pretending that she might take them round later, blaming the charity shop for not making it easier somehow to do the right thing.

Mr. Padda Senior was working the shop today. He flashed her a smile and a “Hello, dear” as she came in through the door. He had his gas fire on full and the damp shop was filled with a dry grain-store smell, making her wish for winter and the disinfecting cold.

Aggie Grey had been as good as her word. Billed under a headline as a major investigation, Si McGee was on the front cover of the paper, looking startled and guilty and sleazy, standing on the steps of the house in Bearsden. She could tell that his neck was shaking. There were action shots of the raids on the health club, the open door leading down the steps, men with their faces covered and a shot of a barred window. Even Mr. Goldfarb couldn’t miss it. She bought two copies of the paper for no good reason, a small packet of butter, two rolls and an overpriced packet of bacon. While Mr. Padda was tilling it up she asked for a quarter of midget gems as well.

Back upstairs she read the article. Aggie’s prose was emotionally flat and factual, as befitted the paper’s style. The health club had been raided and the women were being detained prior to deportation. The paper even had a picture of the job agency in Warsaw. Tonsa and Si had been granted bail on Friday for a tiny amount. There was nothing much the court could charge them with, and Aggie’s paper was calling for a change in the law. Maureen left the paper on the floor and went into the kitchen, turned the grill on and opened the packet of bacon. She felt fantastically happy. She was buttering the roll when it occurred to her that she shouldn’t be feeling this good, that Angus’s trial was finishing tomorrow and he might even get out, but she couldn’t stop herself. It wasn’t today and no one knew how good she felt. Maureen grinned at the rolls, thinking over and over to herself that she had got away with it, she had fucking got away with it, and even if everything turned to shit now, even if she got done for Doyle, even if Michael had to come and live with her for the rest of her life, well, fuck it. She was going to enjoy today.

She ran a bath and went to put some music on, remembered she’d given all her records to Vik and had to settle for the radio. She lay back in the bath, washing her hair as she listened to back-to-back disco tunes. When she got out and dried herself she used up the last of the handmade lavender body lotion that had cost twenty quid and brushed her wet hair back. Her forearms were healing nicely. She pulled on her favorite-ever dress, a cream cotton shift with big roses printed on it, and a pale blue cardigan to cover her arms. She sat cross-legged on the living-room floor and put on makeup, looking into a normal mirror, smiling when she caught her own eye.

The phone rang and through force of habit she let the answering machine get it. Kilty asked her to pick up.

“Did ye see it?” asked Kilty.

“Aye,” said Maureen. “Good old Aggie, eh?”

“My dad’s apoplectic,” said Kilty.

“Ye can tick off all the goals in your wee book now.”

“I know,” grinned Kilty. “Not much is going to happen to them, though, is it?”

“Well, ye can’t have everything. Were you out with Josh?”

“Aye, well, we went to the pictures. He likes Michael Douglas. I’ve gone off him. I’ve got a date with someone else, though.”

“You’re a quick worker — who’s that?”

Kilty giggled with excitement. “Your pal Shan Ryan.”

“Noo,” cooed Maureen. “How did that happen?”

“After the trial.” She could hardly speak she was smiling so widely. “I asked him out.”

“Oh, Kilty, what will your parents think of you going out with a black guy?”

Kilty laughed and arranged to pick her up at the house the next morning.

When she hung up, Maureen dialed Isa’s number and found Leslie delighted with the article. “I love Aggie Grey,” she said. “How’s Winnie?”

“She’s okay now. She was unconscious when we got there. She had alcohol poisoning from drinking a bottle of vodi in three minutes.”

“Dear Roy, is this a record?” said Leslie, and tittered nervously.

Maureen giggled back. “We’re bad, aren’t we?”

“Oh, God, aye,” said Leslie. “We’re fucking terrible.”

She had an hour to kill before leaving for the hospital and the half bottle of Glenfiddich Leslie had given her was sitting on the table, winking at her, the color changing from gold to amber to a pale, mesmerizing yellow. She put it in a cupboard in the kitchen, on a high shelf, as if that would make it harder to get. She sat in the living room, her mind in the kitchen, looking at the cupboard door. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. When the noise in her head got too loud she got up and left the house.

She walked bareheaded across town, getting her face and legs wet with smirr. Her boots kept the rain out and, as she walked, she reflected on how great it was to be wet and have dry, comfortable feet, how good it was to be healthy. Somehow she came to think of six-stone Pauline with her poor ragged arsehole and she looked up at the sky and smiled. Behind the clouds, in deep yellow sunshine, Giant Pauline Doyle sat cross-legged, wearing a pretty dress and holding a golden string on one finger, a glass box suspended from it, twisting slowly. She was laughing, a light, uncomplicated laugh, and watching Mark Doyle trapped inside, covering his face against a snowstorm of shattered glass, his own knife at his neck, his death always imminent. Maureen stopped in a cafe halfway over and bought an ice cream.

Si McGee opened the door and slid into the hall, pushing it shut after his sister. The police had smashed it open and he’d had it replaced with a heavy, plain wooden plank. The joiner hadn’t fitted the lock properly and he had to lift it up by the handle to get the door to shut properly. Si and Margaret turned and looked around the ruined hallway. It was quiet and dark: the only light came from the window above the front door. Cindy’s desk had been put against a wall and the phone was smashed on the floor. Si turned on the overhead light and led the way down the shallow stairs to the basement.

“Why?” whined Margaret.

Si stopped and looked up at her. “Because,” he said, shutting his eyes with barely veiled impatience, “if we find out which files they’ve taken we can work out what evidence they’ve got, can’t we?”

“But why have I tae be here?”

“Because I’m here. I shouldn’t have to do every fucking thing.”

Si turned and walked down the last few steps, Margaret following him. She was driving him mad. He was glad it had happened in a way, glad that he had reason to get out. The lawyer was sure they’d only get a fine and Si had saved a good stake for a new business, stashed safely in Jersey where neither the Inland Revenue nor the police would be able to get at it. He was getting out, away from mad, bad Charlie Adams, away from all the smells and horror of the present job, away from whiny Margaret and her Swiss army knife. The basement smelled of stale pee and sweat. The police had left the doors open to the basement rooms, and the cumulative stench was disgusting. Si pushed open the office door. It was chaotic. Files and papers were scattered over the desk, the box files of managerial newsletters he had subscribed to since university were crumpled on the floor.