Resolution

Chapter 12

Her head was aching at the back, a dull hangover pain reminding her that there were good things in life, like drink and more drink. While washing her face, she found a painful inch-long bruise under her chin and a parallel bruise on her forehead, just above her eyebrows. She was trying to remember the night before and work out where on earth the bruises could possibly have come from when the postie's tired feet tramped up the stairs. She heard him stop, flick through some letters, and watched one slip through and drop onto the mat. Maureen picked it up and opened it.

It was a cheap brown envelope containing a small printed sheet telling her when and where to turn up for the small-claims case. It was due to be heard the following Friday at two thirty in the afternoon. Ella McGee's name wasn't even on the letter. Maureen tutted. She knew she'd filled in the bloody form properly. If she met creepy Si McGee again he'd think she was suing him, implying a relationship between them, suggesting the necessity of contact. She decided to go to the hospital that afternoon and tell Ella when the case was, then have nothing more to do with either of them.

She looked around the tiny hall. She wanted to get out of the flat. She was pulling the front door open before she had finished her first fag of the day. A small white envelope that had been sitting against the door flopped onto the toe of her trainer. She picked it up. There was no address on it. It was sealed at the back, the paper warped in a wide rim around the seal, as if it had been wetted with a brush or a cloth. She shut the door and stood in the hall looking at it. She ripped it open.

Inside was a laser-printed image in smudgy black and white on photocopy paper. It was a picture of a child of about eight, standing in a hallway. The girl's eyes had been blanked out with a thick black line. She was crying, mouth open, lips and cheeks wet with tears, crying and looking up at the person taking the photograph of her. She was naked and cupping her little fanny protectively, her arms taut, her chest hunched nervously. Maureen shuddered and dropped the picture to the floor, stepping back to get away from it. The picture landed face up and the eyeless child was in her hallway, crying up at her.

Maureen looked into the envelope again but it was empty and it occurred to her that DNA could be taken from saliva. She crouched down and turned the picture over but there was nothing written on the back. The child was almost the same age she had been when she was abused. Angus Farrell would know that. It had been hand-delivered but she knew it had come from him: he was the only person who sent her threatening letters. Angus probably knew a whole network of freaks and weirdos in the city, people he would have met through his work, through his patients and through his own personal interests, any one of whom could have sent it. He was trying to upset her and he was succeeding.

She looked down at the picture again. The child's pain seemed so immanent, the threat to her so urgent, that Maureen felt a rush in her stomach and flush on her cheeks. She wanted to do something, run into the street and punch someone or something, take action and save the wee girl, but the picture could be decades old. And all she could tell the police if she phoned them was that she had been sent a cheap photocopy of a picture of a girl who seemed upset. She crouched down by the picture and put her fingertip on the child's hand.

Weeping, she picked up the picture by its edge and put it in the hall cupboard, facing the wall. She shut the door, resting her head on the frame, and decided to get out of the house.

As she pulled the front door open, her eye caught the wicker laundry basket sitting under the basin in the bathroom at the far end of the hall. Suddenly irritated by the innocuous item, she left the front door open, walked down the hall, emptied the basket onto the bathroom floor and carried it down the stairs. She threw it out of the back door, into the midden.

She bought a can of Coke in Mr. Padda's and put her shades on, sitting on the low wall outside her door between the jagged metal stumps, remnants of railings sawed off in the war. She smoked a cigarette and drank, watching for the van. She would go and see Ella McGee this afternoon, tell her about the date of the small-claims case and then wash her hands of it. Since she couldn't talk about it in front of Si McGee she decided to dress up smartly and sneak in before the visiting hours started. She wasn't going to think about the photograph or talk about last night's citation until she'd spoken to Hugh McAskill. He'd tell her what it meant and what she should do about it.

Leslie arrived and, to Maureen's astonishment, was upset about Cammy. They had spent the previous evening trying to settle who owned what in the flat but he kept crying and Leslie had had to restrain herself from comforting him in case he took it the wrong way. Maureen suspected that Cammy knew exactly what he was doing. Leslie chucking him out meant he'd have to go back and stay with his mum, pay digs money out of his giro and at least pretend to try to get a job.

The market was bustling with the Saturday crowd. They were different from the weekday punters, less purposeful and more likely to browse, but the takings could be good. Some of the stalls in their tunnel were only used on Saturdays. Punters wandered around in groups of two or three, silting up the market's arteries. Foreign tourists came to the market on Saturdays because the tour guides wanted to fit in the Barras weekend market on the same day. It was a healthier crowd than during the week, when the underfed and underprivileged gathered together to trade reusable rubbish. They were unpacking the van and setting up the stall when Leslie started peering above Maureen's eyes.

"Mauri, you've got a wee mark there." She tried to rub off the tender bruise on Maureen's forehead.

"Stop it," said Maureen, slapping her hand away. "It's a bruise."

"What is it?" asked Leslie.

"I dunno," said Maureen, and tipped up her chin. "Look. There's another under here."

"How did ye do that?"

"I dunno. I must have done it when I was asleep."

"D'ye put your head in a vice when you're sleeping?"

Maureen smiled and rubbed her forehead. "Aye, mibi."

Engaging with a person who wasn't Cammy for thirty seconds had taken it out of Leslie. She looked down the tunnel to the bright lane. "Cammy bruised his big toenail at football. It's still black. He did it months ago, as well."

It was half eight in the morning and Maureen was already furious with everyone. She was angry with Leslie for not listening, angry with whoever had delivered the picture, angry at the thought of seeing Angus again and with that fucking laundry basket for taking up so much fucking space for so long. She thought of it sitting out in the dusty back court and hoped it would rain.

Leslie was red-eyed but standing firm. Maureen listened to her talk about Cammy, trying to care. She was angry; she could feel it gnawing at the pit of her stomach. She tried breathing in deeply to dilute it, trying to bring her mind back to Cammy and the disputed ownership of an Orb album.

The market died off in the early afternoon. Leslie went to get the lunch and came back with bacon and egg rolls.

"Getting sick of rolls every day," said Maureen, throwing hers, half eaten, to Elsie Tanner.

"Yeah," said Leslie, licking runny yolk from the back of her hand, looking at her roll as if Maureen had taken the good out of it.

"I got a letter this morning," Maureen said reticently. "Hand-delivered. I'm sure it's from Farrell."

"How could he deliver it by hand?" asked Leslie. "Isn't he still in hospital?"

"Aye, but I figure he probably knows someone. Gave them my address."

"What was the picture of?"

"A wee girl, naked and crying."

"Fuck, Mauri, that's creepy."

"It's supposed to be," said Maureen, scratching her head.

Maureen and Leslie took turns going for walks up and down the lane. After one walk Leslie came back looking shifty and carrying a Marks & Spencer food-hall bag. When she set it down the bag's contents slid to the side, the top gaped open and Maureen saw two portions of chicken tikka and a double portion of rice. Leslie pushed the bag into her holdall and sat down on her stool.

Maureen lit a cigarette as she walked down the lane to the river. The market ended at a disused iron bridge over the river. Greenery sprouted from between red riveted girders like the hairs on an old man's ears. On a sofa in the shade of the bridge sat two drunk men with sunbaked faces, looking out at the rusting underbelly. One man watched her pass, smiling genially. His pal was either asleep or dead, slumped sideways at an improbable angle over the arm of the sofa.

She went into the Sutherland Vaults, a dingy pub painted black throughout. The Saturday drinkers were there, propped along the bar, looking as sober as the settee men. Around a blind corner a sad old song was being played on a fiddle, accompanied by the exhausted heartbeat of a bodhran.

She used the pay phone and called Hugh McAskill at work. He said hello and that he would meet her for a curry the next night. He talked as if they'd already made the arrangement and were finalizing details. They had never so much as been for coffee together before. When she agreed to meet him at Charing Cross at seven thirty he said, "Yes," and hung up on her. She stood for a moment, wondering if it had been Hugh she'd spoken to. It had sounded like him.

She hadn't intended to do it, but the bar was there and she was pissed off and worried so she ordered a triple whiskey, without a mixer, and drank it down like medicine. When she left the glass on the bar and stepped out into the road the day was warmer, the sunshine less corrosive, and the colors of the cars against the deep green of the river were vibrant and thrilling.

The market was all but deserted by half one. It was too hot and everyone was staying in their gardens or hanging about the park. Maureen suggested that they shut up early but Leslie didn't want to. They argued about it apathetically for half an hour and Leslie was proved right when one of the regulars came jogging down the aisle breathlessly at two o'clock and bought a whole box of Regal and a packet of tobacco. "For the weans," he said, and wheezed a laugh.

Leslie had nothing to do but go home and cry so she agreed to drive Maureen to her flat, wait for her to change into some fresh clothes and take her to the Albert. Maureen wanted her to wait outside and give her a lift home again afterwards but Leslie thought she was pushing it. "I'm not just being lazy," said Maureen, "but her creepy son tried to drive me home yesterday and I want to leave with someone."

"Well, okay," said Leslie, adding quickly, "but I'm not going to see her. I don't even know her."

"I don't want ye to come up and see her," said Maureen, "just run me about the town for an hour or so."

"What else am I doing?"

Maureen had dressed in smart office clothes – a clean white shirt and black skirt – hoping to sneak in to see Ella before visiting time and Si's arrival. She walked quickly down the corridor, keeping her head down and slipping past the big metal lunch trolley, inconspicuous in her nice clothes. The triple whiskey she had had at lunch-time had worn off a long time ago and she was aching for another. It occurred to her that three small whiskeys made her feel the way everyone else did normally. If she could keep a bottle in her bag and top herself up she'd probably feel all right most of the time.

Maureen opened the door to Ella's room a little, checking before she entered. It was empty but the sound of running water came from a tiny closet room at the far side of the bed. She flinched at the sound of a flush, worried she might have walked in on Ella doing the toilet, and fell back to the doorway.

A stick appeared at the door first, followed by a shuffling Ella, bent heavily, swinging a leg in full plaster behind her. A female nurse with short auburn hair walked behind her, one hand on Ella's waist as she flattened her paper nightie down at the back. Ella looked up at Maureen and staggered to the side in surprise. The nurse caught her and helped her over to the bed. Ella's eyes were healing a little, the red breaking up into spots of orange, like poached blood on white linen.

"Who are you?" the nurse asked Maureen sharply as she turned to help Ella onto the bed, her sagging little bottom visible between the sides of the gaping paper robe.

Maureen didn't know what to say.

"Are you here to visit Mrs. McGee?" said the nurse. "Visiting doesn't start for another half hour. You'll need to wait downstairs."

Ella was sitting on the blankets. The nurse struggled to lift her up with one hand and push the sheets back. Maureen stepped forward and pulled the covers out of the way. The nurse looked at her, disapproving, as if she'd tried to curry favor. "You'll still have to wait downstairs," she said, lifting Ella's plastered leg onto the bed. Ella groaned under her breath and shut her eyes.

Maureen felt disproportionately guilty.

"Come back," said Ella awkwardly, and Maureen realized why she hadn't spoken the day before. Her top set of dentures was broken, snapped in half between the two front teeth.

Maureen shook herself. It was ridiculous to feel so guilty. She hadn't started a food fight in the middle of an operation, she was just interrupting the nurse's toileting round. "The date came through for the small-claims case," she said, clumsily, pressing the letter into Ella's hand. "It's next Friday."

Ella hunched over suddenly and grimaced, letting out a low, desperate yowl of regret, crumpling the letter in her bony fist. The nurse bent down suddenly, trying to look her in the eye, thinking she was having an attack of some kind. Ella pushed the woman away, shaking her head over and over, and Maureen knew she shouldn't have brought the letter here, not while Ella was in hospital and so afraid already. It would hardly kill her to be kind. She crouched down in front of Ella, chucking her chin to make her stop shaking her head. "D'ye need nighties?" she asked.

Ella's eyes moistened and she nodded. "I need…" She started to cry. "… a comb."

Maureen petted her hand a couple of times, stood up and left. She heard the nurse asking Ella if Maureen was her daughter. She took a back door out to the street so that she wouldn't pass Leslie on her way to the shops.

The department store was thick with Saturday shoppers, wandering around in family units, holding up lamps and running their hands over carpets and curtains while restless children ran in the aisles and played with information leaflets about zero-interest credit. It was cool in the windowless store; it might have been winter outside.

Maureen took the escalator up a level and found the nighties next to the sportswear. Given her financial state she should have gone for the cheap nylon mix but she thought of loveless Ella sitting on the bed without a comb and chose two brushed-cotton full-length nightdresses with pansies printed on them, one in pink, one in blue. Ignoring the nagging worry about money, she picked up a comb, a bar of soap in a fancy box, a matching tub of talc and a lavender wash bag from the same set. They had a small makeup display and she chose a blister-packed eyeliner pencil for Ella to draw her eyebrows on with. She tried not to look when the assistant tallied it up, and paid for it with a card.

The nurse smiled at her as she came up the corridor for the second time. "Your brother's already here," she said, and smiled wider when she saw the expensive department-store bag.

Si was sitting exactly where he had been the day before, at the foot of the bed, watching Ella lying still, as if he was guarding her, waiting for her to try something so he could jump up and stop her. He turned and greeted Maureen with a glance that took in skirt and blouse. She saw a smile flicker in his eyes. Si had either left before the post arrived this morning or hadn't realized that she was the Maureen O'Donnell named on the small-claims letter. He thought she had dressed up to please him. He turned back to Ella, who was looking at her feet again.

"Hi again," said Maureen, keeping it breezy, "I got ye some nighties. And a wee wash bag." She sat down next to Ella on the bed, facing Si, and pulled out the soap, comb and talc. "Nice to have nice smells," she said, smiling at him, presenting no threat.

Ella reached into the bag and pulled out the cellophane bag with one of the nighties in it. Slowly she peeled open the glued-down strip at the back and worked her hand into the bag, feeling the soft material.

Maureen nodded and smiled patronizingly. "D'ye like that, Ella?"

Ella nodded.

"Will we get ye out of that paper thing now?"

Ella nodded again, slowly. They both looked at Si. He stood up reluctantly, pushing the chair away noisily with the backs of his knees, and left the room, purposefully leaving the door an inch ajar. Maureen stepped forward and shut the door properly. "Can ye sit up, pet?" said Maureen, loud enough for Si to hear.

Ella managed to push herself forward from the pillows and Maureen undid the string ties at the back of her gown. Beneath her gold chain, her bruised back was emerald green tinged with blue, like badly spoiled meat. "What the fuck's going on here?" she whispered.

Ella let her broken teeth fall into her hand. Her cheeks collapsed and she looked up at Maureen, crying, as afraid as the child with no eyes in Maureen's hall cupboard. "Get me the fuff out of here," she whimpered, cursing through flaccid lips.

Maureen crackled the cellophane noisily. "Here ye are. This'll be nicer for ye. That's nice and soft, isn't it?" she said loudly, and lowered her voice. "What happened to you?"

"Please, God, get me out of here."

Maureen faced her. "Ella, listen to me: you'll be safe in here, there's nurses all over the place. What happened to you?"

"I fell."

"Did ye fuck."

"I fell. Don't tell anyone."

Maureen lowered the neck of the nightdress over the old woman's head. "If ye fell over why are ye worried I'll tell anyone?"

"I fell."

Maureen had to take the drip-bag off the metal hook and thread it through the arm of the nightie carefully, guiding Ella's hand and arm after it. "Ella," she said, slipping the second arm in, "are you dropping the small-claims case, then?"

Ella looked at the door. "He doesn't even know about that yet." Her face contorted in a panicked sob. "He'll fucking kill me."

A knock at the door stopped them dead. "Won't be a moment," called Maureen, in a stupid singsong voice. She pulled the sheet up, too embarrassed to smooth the nightie under Ella's bare backside, and sat on the bed.

The women composed themselves, Ella carefully slipping her broken teeth back in, fitting the snapped edges together and catching her breath. "Please," she whispered, watching the door, "get me out of here."

"Look, you're safe in here," said Maureen. "There's nothing-"

The door opened and Si came back in. "Ooh," he said, looking at the nightie pooled around his mother's waist, "that's a nice one."

The nurse with the auburn hair was chatting to a porter in the corridor but she broke off when she saw Maureen lingering there, waiting to catch her.

"Do you know what happened to her?" said Maureen, playing the concerned daughter. "She won't talk about it. The nurse last night said she'd fallen over but it's both sides of her face."

The nurse folded her arms. "Don't you know?"

"I know she didn't fall." Maureen folded her arms too.

"Didn't your brother tell you?"

Maureen looked at the floor. "My brother and I don't talk, I'm afraid."

The nurse nodded. "I see, I see. Your mum was mugged, in her house."

Maureen was skeptical. "Shouldn't the police be told, then?" The nurse didn't like her. "The police have been up twice for a statement," she said coldly. "She couldn't tell them much. Luckily your brother was here to hold her hand."