Resolution

Chapter 20

Maureen awoke to the insistent sound of someone banging loudly on her door, over and over. She covered her head with the thin sheet, as if that would make them go away. They continued to bang, stopping for short rests and starting again, rhythmically, like a nervous tic. Maureen got up and went to the spy hole, pulling on a T-shirt.

He was wearing a suit, his shirt a little crumpled. Behind him stood a photographer, ready and waiting with a large camera trained on the door. Maureen recognized the journalist. He had come to the Apollo Theatre when she worked there, just after Douglas's murder, and refused to leave. She was tempted to pull open the door and tell the men to piss off but she realized, just in time, that the incessant banging technique was designed to make her do exactly that. She made a coffee to the accompaniment of the journalist's knuckles getting shredded on the badly planed door.

After forty minutes it became clear that the man was not using his bare hand to knock. The banging stopped and started again, a few minutes between bursts but never less consistent or loud. Maureen pulled the phone into the kitchen, shut the door and phoned Leslie to tell her she was trapped.

"Just come when ye can," Leslie whispered back. "I'll set up the stall without ye. Listen, gonnae bring my money?"

"I will, I will."

After an hour the journalist gave up and by the time he and the photographer had left the close Maureen had gone through fury and indignation, annoyance and numb surprise to something like awe at the man's persistence.

She was sitting on the settee, sipping a coffee and pulling on her trainers when an image of Michael came into her mind. He was sliding behind her, just out of her line of vision, and he was close. She drew on her cigarette to make him go away but he was still there, just behind her ear. She ignored him, taking deep breaths and looking out over the city. He was still there. She had three strategies for dealing with flashbacks: Angus had told her to change the ending. She reached down to the side of her chair and pulled up a shotgun, firing blindly over her shoulder. It used to work sometimes but he was still there. He was smiling at her: he wasn't afraid at all. The skin on the back of her neck warmed with fright. The other two strategies were to wash it away with alcohol or live through it. She walked into the kitchen and looked at the bottle. Michael was still at her ear. She had made a deal with herself in the past few months: she could drink as much as she wanted at night and during the day as long as she didn't drink in the morning. The day started at eleven thirty and it was only ten forty-five. Forty-five minutes off target. Fuck it. She lifted the bottle and swallowed a mouthful, the cheap whiskey burning her gums and teeth, stinging her throat on the way down, making Michael dissolve. She lit a fag with a soggy hand and carried the bottle back into the living room. Fuck it.

As the whiskey did an inside job of warming her, she drew on her fag. The coffee in her hand tasted particularly sweet and dry. She felt good. She felt better than good, she felt great, and she sat back and wondered why she had worked so hard for so long to resist a morning drink.

With the benefit of a drink inside her she considered trying to stay off the whiskey for a while at some point in the future, just to prove to herself that she could. Perhaps she'd try brandy: it seemed medicinal and easier to justify than rum. She couldn't think of drinking vodka because Winnie used to drink vodka. If she started drinking vodka she'd definitely have a drink problem. It was five past twelve. She had meant to phone Liam and wish him good luck in his exam. She called his house and found him home. "How did the exam go?"

"Dunno. I stayed till ten minutes before the end, so that's a good sign. You sound a bit strange."

"I am strange," she said, feeling giggly because of the whiskey. sorry.

"Look, come over here and we'll talk about it."

"I can't. I've got to go to work; I've got Leslie's wages."

"Will ye come over tonight, then?"

"Aye. Have you ever heard of a guy called Si McGee?"

"Nut. Promise ye'll come over tonight?"

When she opened the door a white envelope dropped into her hall. It was the same size as the other one and the paper was warped at the back. She hesitated before opening it. It was another picture, of a small boy, eyes uncovered this time, taken from the waist up. He was lying down, the picture taken from above him, naked and laughing, oblivious to the meaning of the leather-studded shackles on his wrists with the chain between them. Maureen put it back into the envelope and sat it in the hall cupboard on the floor. She was going to tell the fucking police about this and get the bastard who was leaving these things at her door.

She was locking the flat when she heard a noise across the close. She turned and looked at Jim Maliano's door. He was watching her through the spy hole. She stomped across the close and banged on his door. He waited for a moment before opening it, pretending he'd been elsewhere in the house. "Oh, hi, Maureen."

"Stop fucking watching me," she said, pointing at him. "You fucking weirdo freak."

Jim mugged at her, his face a guilty giveaway. "I don't know-"

"Are you leaving weird shit on my doorstep?"

Jim looked insulted. "Am I leaving what?" he said, having misheard and thought she'd accused him of defecating.

"Are you leaving fucking envelopes on my doorstep?"

"No," he said, looking bemused.

Maureen walked away down the stairs.

"You're a rotten neighbor," called Jim, leaning over the banister to half shout, half whisper at her. "The police were never in this close once before you moved here."

Maureen stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him. "Stop fucking watching me, ya weird wee bastard."

Outside, the dreary sun was doing its thing and office workers in heavy shirts and skirts ambled along the road, reluctant to go back inside after their chores were done.

Leslie was pleased to see the carrier bag full of money and pushed it under the stall where she could keep an eye on it. She looked at Maureen with big insecure eyes and wanted to know all about the night before with Kilty and whether they had had a good time. Maureen didn't tell her about the trip to Benny Lynch Court. She said they had had a good laugh but it would have been better if Leslie had been there and left it at that.

"I'm stuck, Mauri," said Leslie quietly. "He's like shite on my shoe – I just can't get rid of him."

"What can I say?" asked Maureen, feeling cocky. "Every fucking time ye say stuff like this you're pissed off with me later for hearing it."

"I want shot of him. I want nights with you and Kilty. I hate going home." Leslie hung her head. "I'm thinking about asking for a transfer."

"You can't move out of Drumchapel, that's your bit. All your family are there."

"But I can't keep living there if this goes on. He can see my veranda from his mum's house."

"The Drum's your bit. Fuck him." Maureen punched her arm. "Look, give him his stuff, change the locks and come and stay with me for a couple of weeks."

Leslie thought about it for a moment. "You sure you wouldn't mind?"

"Naw," she lied. "And if I do your head in," she said, hoping she would, "Kilty'll put you up for a bit. And if she does your head in, Liam'll take ye in. Everything'll be great."

Leslie sat up straight for the first time in ages. "I'm going to do it," she said.

"Brilliant," said Maureen, punching the air and laughing.

"I'll tell ye what's really scary." Leslie gestured to her to come close. They leaned in until their faces were inches apart, Maureen excited, expecting a big, juicy, derisory secret about Cammy. "It's half twelve in the morning," said Leslie gravely, "and, hen, you're fucking pissed."

They sat on their little stools, staring at each other's feet and smoking. Maureen had sobered up during the day and her stomach was clawing for a drink. She stayed on her stool, afraid to go outside in case she ended up in the pub.

It was getting late and they were thinking about shutting when, looking over Leslie's shoulder, Maureen thought she saw a familiar face out in the lane. She had never seen him in the sunlight before, and because he was unusually thin, she thought she might have been mistaken. He was looking at cards on Gordon Go-a-Bike's stall, leaning over the table with his hands crammed into the pockets of his dirty jeans. Gordon looked down at him, said something short. Paulsa looked up at Gordon and smiled slowly, giving him a one-word answer. Gordon didn't look pleased. Still smiling, Paulsa wandered away from the table, looking happily around the lane and turning his face up to meet the sun. He squinted into the dark tunnel and stepped in.

Paulsa was a user. The last time Maureen had met him he was jaundiced yellow and down on his luck. Having bought a job lot of bad acid he had lost all his money and was desperately looking for friends to bail him out. When Liam needed an alibi for Douglas's death Paulsa came forward and admitted that he had been with Liam that afternoon, at Tonsa's house. Paulsa tiptoed everywhere, as if afraid that making proper contact with the ground might mitigate his delighted, drug-induced stupor. He passed Ella's empty stall, still smiling, and looked over at Lenny's TVs. He tiptoed sideways, cupping his groin to get past Elsie Tanner's friendly nose, and turned and looked at Maureen. They stared into each other's eyes for longer than a passing glance. Shoulders up around his ears, Paulsa turned back to the tunnel mouth, as if hoping hard would make him invisible, and tiptoed away.

Maureen loped after him, grabbing his elbow. Paulsa had his eyes shut and was cringing so much that he could have held a half-pint in each of the deep dips on his collarbone. "Paulsa," she said, "how are ye?"

Paulsa opened one eye. "Hi."

"Where were ye going?"

Paulsa looked around dumbly. "Too cold in here," he said.

"Are you avoiding me, Paulsa?"

Paulsa exhaled a pale imitation of a laugh. "God. No. God, why?"

She let go of his elbow and he rubbed at it as if she'd been holding it tightly. "You're keen not to see me," she said. "Have ye seen Tonsa recently?"

He shook his head, shuffling almost imperceptibly around to the door. "Naw, not Tonsa, definitely havenae seen her." Near to tears, Paulsa looked to the back of the tunnel. "Is Tonsa here?"

"Naw, Paulsa," said Maureen kindly. "I'm just asking after mutual friends."

"Oh." It took Paulsa a moment to sift through the information, determine that there was no threat to him in it and wheeze a laugh. He looked longingly out to the lane and freedom. They stared at each other for another minute.

"Paulsa, have you heard anything about this case that's coming up?"

Paulsa looked afraid again and shook his head. "Nut."

"Aren't ye going to ask me which case I'm talking about?"

Paulsa shook his head again.

"Is Liam in trouble, Paulsa?"

Paulsa tried to get past her by ramming himself into the space between her and the wall. He stayed there, pushing slightly, his head hanging over her shoulder. She stepped away and Paulsa fled past her, tiptoeing with long strides down the lane, leaping balleti-cally to avoid bodies and stalls.

"What was that about?" asked Leslie, when Maureen came back.

"I don't know." She sat down, leaning forward so that only Leslie could hear her. "That's the guy I bought the acid off, the stuff I gave to Angus. I think he'd read about the case in the paper and was frightened that I'd finger him or something."

Leslie took a long draw on her cigarette. "Didn't look like a big reader to me, to be honest."