Exile

Chapter 7

They were on the edge of the city center, in what used to be one of the busiest docks in Britain. The area had withered, the houses were run-down and the few shops were transient and dilapidated. Leslie parked the bike around the corner, out of sight of the I so that she could drink and drive without being reported. She kicked down the stand, bending down to chain the bike to a lamppost, leaving Maureen standing alone on the pavement.

Misty, unforgiving rain fluttered nervously around the head of the streetlights. Across the busy road stood a row of tenements with a twenty-four-hour grocer's on the corner. A huge gray concrete housing scheme loomed above the roof, the little square windows framed with cheap curtains. Designed as a series of reclining rectangles, the flats zigzagged along a straight line, joined end to end by lift shafts, like a futuristic city wall peopled by a plebiscite who could be spared in the event of an attack. The wall blocked the wild south wind from the street and squally vortexes had formed in the vacuum, sweeping the litter back and forth. On fine summer evenings plastic bags hovered twenty feet above the tenement for hours at a time, trapped in updrafts and crosswinds. Maureen flapped the skirt of her coat open and shut, trying to shake off the worst of the weather.

"Is that a new coat?" asked Leslie.

Maureen nodded.

"Nice," said Leslie. "Douglas's money?"

"Yeah." Maureen smiled. "From rags to bigger rags."

Leslie blanked her and put the helmets in the luggage box, clipped the padlock shut and led Maureen round the corner. They opened the door and stepped into the Driftwood restaurant, leaving the damp night behind them.

The Driftwood looked like a lifelong dream swallowing a redundancy check. It was a tiny room with big windows onto the dirty street, little tables covered in wax cloth and candles in Perrier bottles. It served tempting fusion food but charged next to nothing because it was in exactly the wrong place. Maureen and Leslie were the only paying customers. A chef in a T-shirt and checked trousers sat at a table near the bar, reading a tabloid and eating a bowl of soup. A pretty blond waitress fluttered across the floor, whipping the menus from behind the bar as she came towards them. "For two?"

"Yes, please," said Maureen.

She sat them at a table by the window. The convection heaters were blowing as hard as they could but Maureen and Leslie had to keep their coats on. The waitress apologized for the cold and promised them that the place would heat up soon. "We're not long opened," she explained, and took their drinks order.

Maureen looked around at the tasteful orange walls and the candlelit tables. Behind the bright bar the waitress danced their drinks ready in a series of bunny dips and graceful swoops. "How did ye find this place?" she asked.

"I come here with Cammy." Leslie looked at the menu. "The goat cheese salad's nice."

"I'll have that, then," said Maureen, shutting the menu without reading it. She didn't want to eat, couldn't be arsed fighting with Leslie about it, and a cheese salad seemed as good a thing to leave as anything else.

"I think I'll have a steak," said Leslie. "Keep my strength up."

She smiled at Maureen, a weak and guilty smile, and Maureen thought she'd save her the bother of working around to it. "Why are we really here?" she asked.

"Well"-Leslie looked hopefully at the waitress but the drinks weren't ready-"it's not just for steak. It's Ann. See, her man said he didn't hit her and he didn't write to her, says he never lifted a finger."

"Leslie," said Maureen wearily, "what's the fucking deal with Ann? Will you just tell me?"

"He said he didn't hit her," repeated Leslie firmly.

They sat in silence until the waitress came over with their drinks on a rubberized tray. "Whiskey and lime for you," she said, placing the glass in front of Maureen, "and a vodka and soda for yourself."

Leslie took the drink and ordered their food. Maureen watched her make eye contact with the waitress and smile, fresh and open-faced. She hadn't seen her look like that for a long time. The waitress finished writing their order and backed off, leaving them alone together with the miles between them.

"Okay, so her man says he didn't hit her," said Maureen, trying to kill the fractious pause. "Suppose he's telling the truth? Could someone else have hit her? Maybe a boyfriend?"

Leslie looked incredulous. "Fucking hell, Maureen. The men never admit to hitting these women, but that doesn't mean they don't do it."

"No," said Maureen, feeling slighted, "but she'd hardly tell us a story that complicated, would she? She'd just say it was her man. If she had a boyfriend she could be with him now. Why didn't she bring her weans when she left?"

"Well, I don't know," Leslie said sarcastically. "Maybe running away with four kids is more complicated than running away alone."

And that one snide comment was enough. Maureen could be home in twenty minutes if she walked. "What are you in a fucking nippy mood with me for?" she said.

Leslie didn't answer.

"You're always in a fucking bad mood these days," continued Maureen. "Ye never want to see me or talk to me or do anything."

Leslie lit a fag and looked out of the window, her mouth slackening as if she was going to speak. Maureen took a mouthful of whiskey and sat back. She waited, only half expecting an answer. Leslie scratched her nose and looked over her shoulder for the waitress.

"I think the least we can do is go and ask her man about it. He lives in the big scheme," said Leslie, magnanimously letting Maureen's difficult mood go. "I'd go myself but if he was hanging about the office he might have seen me."

He could just as easily have seen Maureen at the office, but that didn't seem to have occurred to Leslie.

"Where does he live?" asked Maureen.

Leslie pointed over Maureen's shoulder. "Over the road."

"And you want me to go?"

"We're here now. Just don't go into the house. If he looks like trouble just run like fuck."

"I don't like this," said Maureen.

Leslie misunderstood and thought Maureen was telling her she was scared. She hated it when Maureen admitted to being frightened: she was letting her down, leaving the door open and letting the fear in. "You'll be fine." She sniggered. "He's puny."

"He looks beefy enough in the photo," muttered Maureen.

Leslie looked at her. "What photo?"

"The picture."

Leslie was still puzzled.

"The Polaroid she left behind," said Maureen. "The one with the wee boy in the school playground."

Leslie thought about it. "Oh," she smiled, spontaneous and honest, "that's not him."

They looked at each other. Leslie knew what the guy looked like but she'd never met him. She had asked for Ann as a resident when she was on a tiny budget. She let Ann get pissed and smash around the house when she'd put others out for less and she wasn't about to tell Maureen why. Maureen finished her whiskey. "You're lying to me, Leslie," she said quietly, "and I know you're lying. If I get my face kicked in because of it I'll never forgive you."

Leslie could tell her the truth now but she didn't. "He's a skinny guy," she said, looking at the table. "Really skinny. I promise."

Maureen nodded. "Anything else you can be arsed telling me?"

Leslie shook her head at the table.

"Well, give us the fucking address, then."

"You don't need to go now, your food's coming."

"I don't want it, you have it."

Leslie pulled a scrap of paper out of her pocket with an address Biroed on it. Maureen snatched it away, stood up and pulled on her damp scarf.

"You'll want a proper drink when you get back." Leslie smiled hopefully. "I'll wait in the Grove. I'll have a drink ready for ye. I'll drive ye home."

"Do what ye like," said Maureen, and left.