Exile

Chapter 34

Williams had gone off for a piss and left the tape recorder running. They were in a small interview room. The pale gray walls were tinged with yellow smoke. The smell of a hundred frightened punters clung to the wall and Bunyan felt that she could smell their sweat, the desperate lies and nervous resignations. Jimmy Harris was smoking and looking at his hands. He had sat silently all the way to Carlisle and had gone meekly into the holding cell. When they went to get him in the morning all he asked about were his kids. Harris wasn't working to a game plan – that much was clear already. He was making it up as he went along, stumbling over his story, backing up when he got caught out and telling them the truth when the tears came. The lies weren't meant to get him off – he didn't give a shit what happened to him – but he cared about his kids.

He looked up at her now and crumbled his chin into a polite semblance of a smile.

"You all right?" asked Bunyan, able to be kind without contradicting Williams now that they were alone.

Harris sniffed and nodded.

"The kids'll be all right, you know."

Harris nodded again, nervously, and took another draw.

"You're lucky with your family," she said. "I don't know if I could find a family member ready to sit with my kid over a Friday night."

Harris exhaled. "You got kids?"

"Yeah. Little girl. She's three. Called Angie."

Harris softened. "Nice name. My wife"-he gestured to the past and took another drag-"she wanted a wee girl. Kept trying because she wanted a girl."

"I'd like a boy now."

"Boys are hard work. They're not obedient like girls."

Bunyan laughed softly and sat back. "You really haven't got a girl, have you? They're terrible. Whatever you tell them they do the opposite. Just like when they grow up."

Harris smiled and showed his horrible little teeth but Bunyan didn't notice. She was looking at his eyes. Alone with four kids and no money. Jesus. Harris's face fell suddenly somber and he glanced at the tape. "Will ye promise to keep the social work away from my boys?"

"I can't promise that, Mr. Harris, but I'll try."

Harris drew a deep, trembling breath, and propped his elbows on the table, resting his forehead in his hands. "I was in London," he muttered to the table top. "Someone put a ticket through my door and I went down on a plane for the day."

Startled by the vital piece of information, Bunyan forgot how she sounded. "Who would do that?" she breathed.

"I don't know. But I think I better tell ye because if I don't they will."

Kilty was right about the Argyle. It was a short, narrow road but the yellow-brick block of flats was dirty and less cared for than Dumbarton Court. Maureen looked through the small glass panel on the door to block six and knew she didn't want to go up there. The stairwell was littered with burned juice cans, fag butts and empty crisp packets. At the very foot of the flight sat what she hoped was a dog turd. She could hear someone walking slowly down the stairs, their footfalls uncertain and irregular. She backed away from the door and walked across the road, standing at the bus stop, watching. The door opened and a skinny woman emerged, walking uncertainly, her eyes glazed and troubled. She wore a sweatshirt with "Viva Las Vegas" written on it in a rubberized transfer, the kind that peels off in a hot wash. She made her way out to the hill, steadying herself against the bus-stop wall. She didn't look any more able to handle herself than Maureen. Tentatively, Maureen approached the entrance and walked up to the second floor, reminding herself that it was just the boring barman and she had nothing to fear but long pauses.

There was no welcome mat in front of flat 211. The door was coated in sheets of bolted metal, and a protective outer door, constructed from seventies hacienda-style wrought iron, stood half a foot out from the wall. A big three-dimensional spy hole, like a marble, stuck out from the door in a way that would allow the viewer to see downstairs and into every dark shadow on the landing. The doorbell at the side was drilled into the wall. She pressed and stepped back, waiting for the answer.

"Who're ye?" It was a man's voice, a Scottish man, and he sounded nervous.

Maureen had been expecting the barman.

"I got a message to come here."

"Who from?"

"On my pager."

Four or five metal locks of different types snapped, crunched and slid back. The door opened with the chain on. A man's eye looked out at her, checking her out, looking behind her. The door shut, the chain came off and he opened it, swinging the bars out, beckoning her indoors while he kept his eye on the stairs. He was white and in his forties, with a twisted stab scar on his left cheek. The contused skin had contracted as it healed, dragging the cheek down and in. An older, cleaner slash line ran from the soft skin on the outside of his left eye, across his cheek, ending in an artful twist on the tip of his nose. Face slashing is a Scottish gang custom, used to teach lessons and mark opponents. No wonder he was nervous. No wonder he'd left Glasgow. "Come," he whispered, flapping his hand urgently, calling her in.

Maureen didn't want to go in. She didn't like the bars on the door or the dirty stairs or the locks. "Who are you?" she said, crossing her arms and shifting her weight onto one foot, letting him know she wasn't moving.

"Tarn Parlain," he said, and pointed at her. "You're from Glasgow, eh?"

"Yeah."

"You'll have heard of my family."

"No," said Maureen. "I'm sorry, I haven't."

Tarn Parlain was still watching the stairs. "Ah, come on," he said, "you've heard of the Parlains. From Paisley."

"No, I haven't, I'm sorry. Why would I have?"

He looked at her and seemed disappointed. "Well," he said, acting modest, "we're in the news a lot." He smiled and the stab scar on his cheek puckered, dragging the skin into a pointed nipple. He remembered what he looked like and let his face fall. Maureen guessed that the Parlains didn't grow prize marrows.

"Come in," he said. "I can't keep the door open."

"Why?"

"There's guys after me."

"D'you know anything about Ann?"

"Ann? The poor girl who was found? Aye, come in."

She was wary and unsure, but Maureen thought of Kilty and squeezed the stabbing comb in her pocket. She sidled past him, turning through the half foot he left for her. Parlain shut the door and Maureen watched as he did up the locks again. She tried to remember the order and method of each but by the time she had walked through the hall to the living room she'd forgotten the second and third locks.

The living room was a long rectangle with a fitted kitchen at the back and a breakfast bar marking out the territories. The flat-pack kitchen cupboards had been badly put together and several of the doors were missing. The cupboards were empty. A fussy dark green leather sofa with loose cushion attachments sat against the wall and next to it a coffee table, recently washed and still wet. The room was ridiculously clean. The walls had been painted with glaring white emulsion. There was no carpet on the floor, just big squares of immaculate bare hardboard, painted black. The picture window was barred from the inside. "Sit down." He motioned to the tattered leather sofa.

Maureen took a seat, resting her hands beside her on the leather sofa, and looked up at him. Tarn Parlain twitched like a heavy smoker and his eyes were hollow and insincere.

"Tarn," said Maureen, "did you page me?"

"Yeah."

He sat down next to her on the settee, turning to face her, his arm outstretched behind her, like a gauche teenager angling for a snog. He half smiled and pointed at her. "Sorry," he said. "What's your name again?"

She didn't want the creepy fuck to know her name. The barman had probably told him already. "Marian," she said. If they crosschecked the name each would think the other had misheard.

"Marian." He took time to think about it and she knew the barman had told him it was Maureen.

"Whereabouts in Glasgow are ye from, Marian?" he said, trying to place her in the city and work out whether she was connected.

"Just Glasgow," she said, sitting forward, taking her fags out of her pocket. She didn't want to offer them in case Parlain touched her. "The barman at the Coach and Horses gave you my pager number, didn't he?"

"Oh, aye."

"Do you know something about Ann?"

"Aye, Ann. Poor Ann." He hung his head. "That was terrible."

Maureen lifted the fag to her mouth, and as she lit it she noticed that her hands were damp and giving off an odd smell, like a detergent. They felt gritty. He had been washing his leather sofa with watery detergent. He had washed the floor too and the coffee table, and the kitchen cupboards were empty. He had washed every surface in the house. He was exactly the sort of paranoid lulu Liam would have turned into if he hadn't stopped dealing. She turned back to him, pitying him his life, nodding along with him. "Yes," she said, "it was terrible. And how did you know Ann?"

"We drank in the same pubs around here." He let the conversation falter.

"Do you know her sister?" asked Maureen.

Parlain shook his head and again they found themselves staring blankly at each other.

"She lives a few streets up," she said.

"Naw, I don't know her." He stared at Maureen as if he was waiting for her to do something.

"What is it you want to tell me, Tarn?"

"Oh." His eyes slid to the floor and he looked very serious. "You were asking about a guy. Thought I might know him."

"Do you know him?"

"Is there a photie…?"

He waited, leaning into her expectantly. The most paranoid man in Brixton had called a stranger to his fortress flat to see if he could be of any assistance. Maxine had warned her about this: she had told them to get rid of the picture. "I'm afraid I've lost it," she said innocently, "but how about if I describe him to you?"

Parlain didn't like it.

"Would you be able to identify him then?" she asked.

Parlain didn't like it at all.

"He's quite distinctive," she said.

"How did ye lose it?" he snapped.

"How did I lose what?"

"The photo." He was nearly shouting at her.

"I was in a bar today and I showed it to someone and they asked to keep it."

"In the Coach?" His face was turning red and he was on his feet, pacing up to the barred window with his hands behind his back.

"No." She tried to think of another pub. "It was the one down by the…" She pointed and frowned as if she couldn't quite remember. "By the… Opposite the railway station, across the road."

He was next to her, leaning over her and frowning. "The Swan?"

"Could be. I don't know this area well."

She really wanted to get out. She felt sorry for Parlain but she didn't know what this level of paranoia would make him capable of.

He leaned in closer and she could feel his breath on her forehead. "Big bar, long bar, bald guy serving? Talks like a poof?"

"I think so," she said, because she wanted out. "That's right, there."

"What was the guy like?"

"Which guy?"

"The guy who took the picture?"

"Wee, English accent, wore a dark coat-"

"Fat?"

"Yeah, he was quite fat."

"Right," he said, his arms hanging by his side, his fingers wriggling like a bushel of worms. He walked back to the window and looked out. "And he was there when ye left?"

"Yeah, this was like fifteen minutes ago. Ye paged me when I was with him." Parlain was going to leave the house and go to the Swan. He was going to leave her in here. "I'll take ye to him. He was a nice guy, I'm sure he'll give me the photo if I ask him."

He looked at her. "Aye." His neck twitched nod after nod. "You come with me." He stormed into another room and came back with a battered leather jacket.

Maureen wondered if he had taken the precaution of washing it with soapy water too. She stood up, smiling stupidly. "Let's go, then," she said happily. "I'll buy ye a pint if ye like."

But Parlain was beyond being touched by courtesy. He ignored her offer, unlocked the door, and they stepped out into the stairwell. Maureen felt the updraft of warm air and knew she was lucky to have gotten out of there. Parlain peered down the stairs as he locked up carefully. He led the way, turning back occasionally to make sure she was still with him. He led her down the stairs and out of the door to Argyle Street.

"I'm not sure it's called the Swan," said Maureen, thinking on her feet. "It's past the Underground and over the road a bit."

Parlain stopped. "That's not the Swan."

She pulled him by the elbow, trying to give the impression that she was keen to stay with him. "Come on anyway, and I'll show you. Down here."

They took the road straight down to the high street. Parlain's paranoia was not confined to the house. He kept his head down, looking straight forward, anxious not to be seen.

"Straight down and across the road," she said.

She walked alongside him all the way down the hill, wittering shit about home and how cold it was and she liked it here and the people were really friendly. Parlain stopped responding after the first two hundred yards and Maureen gradually let her chatter peter out. When they got beyond the long social-security building she began to drop back, walking in the edge of Parlain's line of vision for a little while, slipping back when they got to the mouth of a small lane. She let him get a couple of feet ahead of her and then she bolted, walking as fast as she could at first and then running, skipping around the corner, running and running to get the fuck away from him. She ran down Brighton Terrace and cut down a series of small streets before heading back to the high street and scurrying into McDonald's. She sat at the far table with her back to the window. Kilty Goldfarb watched her come in. She looked around, giggled and stood up, tiptoeing over to the table like a panto villain. "Hiya," she said. "Are you avoiding me?"

"Kilty," said Maureen, sweating and staring at the table, "do you like to drink?"

"Yeah."

"Will you go out to the road and hail a cab to take us into town?"

"You look terrified."

"I am terrified," whispered Maureen.

Kilty stood up and disappeared. Two minutes later she tapped Maureen on the shoulder. "Come," she said, watching the distance like a bodyguard. Maureen stood up and hurried outside to the waiting taxi. "Where are we going?" asked Kilty, shutting the cab door and sitting down next to her.

"Busy place with pubs," said Maureen.

"Covent Garden," called Kilty to the driver.

The taxi sighed as the hand brake came off and they drove away along the high street.