Exile

Chapter 35

Leslie had slept all night in the armchair. She was desperate to get out of the cold house for an hour or so but she couldn't handle the kids at all. They were hungry and there wasn't any food in the house, apart from white bread. She had decided to dress them and take them to a I but Alan had hidden their clothes so that no one could take them anywhere.

Six-year-old John was playing nicely with the babies, talking to them and trying to make them wear Leslie's crash helmet, but it was big and black and it scared them. He pulled it on himself to show them it wasn't scary and sat in front of them, stroking their little legs. Alan was still in his pajamas, sitting in his daddy's chair, his little hands spread over the sticky armrests, looking up at her like an evil child genius.

"Tell me where the clothes are, Alan," said Leslie, for the fourth time in fifteen minutes.

Alan smirked at her.

"Where are the fucking clothes?" shouted Leslie, pressing her face into his.

"Hey, they're weans, ye can't talk to them like that," said Cammy, pulling her back by the arm. "They've had a bad fright."

Leslie glared at him. "Don't you raise your hand to me."

"I'm not raising my hand to ye, Leslie. I'm just saying yell upset them if ye shout like that."

As if on cue Alan started to cry. "I want my daddy," he said. "Where's my daddy?"

John whimpered under the helmet. The babies picked up the panicked theme and began to howl.

"See?" said Cammy. "You've upset them."

Leslie poked him hard in the chest. "No, Cameron, you've upset them."

Just then the front door opened and Jimmy came in, flanked by the two police officers. In silence the children ran, staggered and crawled over to their dad, clinging to his legs and hands, holding on to one another when they ran out of limbs. John was the last to get there. Blinded by the oversize helmet, he banged into the door frame and bounced back, staying on his feet. He grabbed his daddy's jumper, pulling it down at the side, baring Jimmy's skinny yellow shoulder. Jimmy calmed them all down with a pet and a hush each, but the children hung on tightly, tethering him like a rogue zeppelin.

"Where's the ticket, Jimmy?" The fat guy looked very tired now. His hand was tucked under Jimmy's armpit and he looked as if he'd like to smash him off a wall. "Is it under the chair?"

"Aye." Jimmy looked exhausted.

The blond woman lifted the cushion and began to rummage through the papers.

"Jimmy," said Leslie, "why are ye back here? Are they letting ye go?"

"We're just here to pick up some evidence," said Williams. "Mr. Harris flew to London the week his wife was killed."

"Aw, get real," said Leslie. "Where would he get the money to fly to London?"

Williams raised an eyebrow and looked at Leslie's leather trousers. "There's always someone to lend a hand, isn't there?" His phone rang out the theme tune from The Simpsons in his pocket. He took it out with his free hand. "Hello?" he said formally, and paused to listen. "Speaking," he said, and nodded intently at the floor as the caller spoke. "Thanks. We know about that now. Yes. Heathrow." He glanced up at Jimmy and nodded at the floor again. He looked up at Leslie, caught his guard and motioned to Bunyan to get hold of Jimmy's arm. She did as she was told and Williams opened the front door, stepped out onto the balcony and pulled the door shut behind himself.

Bunyan looked at Leslie. "How did you manage with the boys last night? All right?"

Out on the balcony Williams leaned into the receiver. "Listen," he said to DI Inness, "can you check and see if you have any intelligence on a Leslie Findlay? She lives in Drumchapel-"

Inness sounded excited. "Has she got a motorbike?"

"Yeah."

"Why are you asking about her?"

"She seems to have been involved in this case. Do you know her?"

"We all know her. She came up in an investigation a while ago. An assault case. Her and another woman. She works at the women's shelters, doesn't she?"

"Yeah." Williams glanced at the door. "You said it was an assault? Is she violent?"

"Could be," said Inness. "They messed someone up really badly."

"Was she prosecuted?"

"Can't get any evidence on them, but I'll tell you what – if she's done it again you'll've made my DCI's day."

The bar was quiet. The few big town shoppers frittered the afternoon away, missing their connecting train, not quite making it home. Two men at a table laughed unhappily and sipped at brown drinks. Maureen thought about Parlain asking for the Polaroid. Frank Toner was something to him. Toner might have crossed him. Parlain might be looking for a photo to identify him, to show to people and ask about him. None of the scenarios she came up with sounded right: Parlain was paranoid, he was hardly going to carry out a revenge attack and who ever heard of gangsters showing one another photos? They all knew one another.

"There you are," said Kilty, putting the glass down in front of her. "Whiskey and lime. Now, relax."

"I just got a bit freaked, that's all." Maureen drank deeply.

"It was mad of you to go up there," said Kilty. "You don't know the area at all."

"Do you live there?"

"Yeah, well, in Clapham. I rent a room in a Victorian terrace near the common. High ceiling, gorgeous open fire from the fifties – it's lovely."

"Can't you afford a house on a social worker's salary?"

"I'm not that settled."

"Why don't you come home?"

"Why don't you stop barking questions at me?"

"I'm sorry," said Maureen. "I'm rattled, that's all."

"He gave you a fright, did he?"

"God, yeah, I don't even know why. He was just a paranoid wanker. He wanted a photo I've got and I could have given it to him but I didn't."

"Why didn't you?"

"I dunno."

"Let's have a cigarette," said Kilty, taking her second fag out and sitting it on the table.

"Fuck." Maureen breathed out heavily and rolled her head around her neck, trying to relax a little. "That was scary."

Kilty used Vik's lighter and began producing banks of smoke from her fag. Maureen watched her and was thinking that it would be criminal to correct her when it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn't cried once in four whole days. She had been shit scared this afternoon but she hadn't felt weepy or out of control. It had been months since she got through a day without her eyes transgressing. Maybe it wasn't infinite. She sat up, feeling odd and hopeful, and lit a cigarette. Kilty smiled at her. "Right, you," she said. "It's payback time. Tell me the story."

So Maureen told her about Ann in the mattress and about Jimmy and the kids, about Moe's unlikely missing-persons report, about the child-benefit book and about Hutton being shot up the arse. She went on as the drink warmed her and told her about the thin babies and Alan on the stairs and about the wee boys in their Mutant Ninja Turtle pajamas. When she looked up Kilty was staring into her drink and looking distraught. "Jesus Christ," she said, "the Turtles were ten years ago."

And they drank on. Kilty hated her job too. She'd been inspired by what Maureen had said and had been toying with chucking it all last night. "I'm not going to try and save the world anymore. From here on in"-Kilty stabbed the table with her finger for emphasis-"I'm tending my garden. And you tend yours."

"I think saving the world's easier in my case."

"Why?"

"My garden's full of drunk buffalo."

Kilty tipped her head and smiled wryly at the phrase. "Oh, right?" she said, as if she'd understood. "Well, what do you want, then?"

"I want beautiful things around me," said Maureen, "and I want a nice man to have a laugh with. And I want to feel content."

"And you think seeking justice on this earthly plain will do that for you?"

"Everyone wants things to come right in the end, don't they? It's a fundamental human desire." Maureen thought of Sarah rattling around her big house with the ghosts of naval syphilitics. "That's what attracts wronged people to religion and politics, isn't it?"

Kilty grinned. "I thought they just liked getting on and off minibuses."

"No, but, you know, the true religious are never happy campers, are they? I bet your social-work department is full of people with sorry histories."

"You're probably right," said Kilty, stubbing out her half-smoked fag. "They'd hardly tell me. I'm the luckiest girl in the world. My mother's a delight and my father's utterly charming. The only reason I'm in London is to dodge a good marriage to a big fat advocate."

"Really?"

"Christ, yeah. They're desperate for me to consolidate their social standing. It's a nouveau-riche immigrant thing."

"But you don't want that?"

"Fuck off," she sneered. "I've got better things to do with my life than choosing chintzy curtains at Jenner's."

Kilty sipped her drink and Maureen realized where she was from. She could hear the traces of the private school in her accent. Maureen was attracted to her calm acceptance of the world around her, as if no one had ever been a real threat to her and everyone was of interest. Maureen'd like that for herself. Everyone she knew was chippy. Kilty sat forward. "You see, down here coming from a posh background is considered a good thing."

"But back home?"

"Nice people won't talk to you. They think, quite rightly, that you've had a bigger slice of the pie."

"And social work is your penance for that?"

"Catholicism hangs over you like a shroud, Maureen O'Donnell."

They got round after round in, drinking slowly and enjoying the company, watching television sometimes, sitting quietly with each other. They moved on to another bar when some ridiculously young men tried to chat them up, packing Kilty's bag of shopping into Maureen's cycle bag. By the time they hit bar three Kilty was taking a lemonade every second round so that she didn't pass out and was slurring heavily. They made crazy, drunken plans together. Kilty would come home and live at Maureen's for a while. She couldn't go home to her folks – they'd want her to spend all day horse riding and attending ghastly parties. She'd come home and try being an artist, and she said Maureen should let the buffalo out of the garden. She sang "Don't Fence Me In" in a precariously high octave all the way to Brixton. The taxi driver was glad to see the back of them. He was dropping them outside the Coach and Horses before they had fully considered the other options.

"It'll be fine," said Maureen, taking half an hour to find the right change in her hand and pay the taxi. "Come on."

"It will be many things," slurred Kilty somberly, "but it won't be fine."

The Coach and Horses was eerily quiet. There was no pretense at socializing, no crowds of chatting acquaintances, little effort made to disguise the business of drinking. The barman who had dubbed her up to Parlain wasn't working. Maureen was feeling slightly sick. She took a deep breath and led Kilty into the serious-drinking room on the left. They stepped up to the bar and Maureen ordered a triple whiskey with lime and ice.

"I'll try that as well," said Kilty.

The barman poured the drinks without asking if they were sure they wanted triples and Maureen knew that she was drinking in a pub that suited her. The customers were nearly all men and, strangely for the area, predominantly white. They heard accents from home, east and west coast, some broad, some mild. The few women had a sad, junkie look about them, wearing clothes they had happened upon, standing vacantly, glancing round as if they were waiting for someone to come and get them. Ann belonged here among these lost people.

"Jesus," muttered Kilty, "it's a fucking hole."

Maureen saw a man and a woman sitting at a table across the room. She recognized them and the man was watching her. He was nursing a pint. The table kept disappearing behind a smog of drinkers and appearing again. She was trying to remember where she knew them from when the door to the ladies' toilet opened. A woman paused there, swaying gently and wiping her hands on her stonewashed jeans. It was the woman who had come out of Tarn Parlain's close; she still had her Vegas sweatshirt on. Moving slowly, she made her way across the floor towards Maureen and Kilty and sat on a stool, concentrating hard on the tricky business of sagging over the bar, her head hanging limp on her skinny neck. Keeping her eyes shut, she lifted her leg to her hand and roughly tugged the leg of her jeans up over one calf, scratching at a spot behind her knee, running her broken fingernails over a deep open sore. It was a baby ulcer, a septic track mark.

"Fuck me," muttered Kilty into Maureen's hair. "I'm sorry. I can't stand it here. Come on."

"No," said Maureen, "I wanna see some'dy."

"Just come. Crash at mine."

"No."

Kilty ceremonially handed over the packet of fags she had bought for herself. "Give that back to me tomorrow." She patted Maureen on the tit by accident and swerved her little froggy body away from the bar and out of the door. Two minutes later she came back with her phone number written on a bit of paper and put it in Maureen's coat pocket. "Tomorrow," she said, and left again.

It was later and busier and warmer. Maureen rolled limy whiskey around her mouth. She felt superior to the other people in the bar and wondered how they could stand it. She was from a shitty background, she'd had a crap life, but standing here in the Coach and Horses she felt like Lisa Marie Fucking Presley. She went to the loo and found the source of the sharp lemon smell. A broken mirror was bolted to the stained wall, its shattered guts missing. She left the first cubicle because menstrual blood had been smeared on the wall spelling out a T. The seat was broken in the second loo and there was no paper.

She was very drunk now, leaning on the bar, reckless of her good coat on the sticky surface. A tinny tune began behind her and played and played until it played itself out. She saw the man and woman sitting at the far table again and was trying to concentrate hard enough to work it out when she turned and saw Frank Toner coming in from the street. The crowd parted for him. He was shorter and stockier than he had seemed in the Polaroid and moved like a retired boxer. Behind him was the staggering Vegas woman who had been leaning over the bar earlier. Maureen hadn't seen her leave. She seemed much brighter now, happier and lighter, ready to laugh and give and receive. The couple came to the bar and Maureen moved nearer, nodding to the woman. The woman recognized Maureen from somewhere and nodded back.

"How are you now?" said Maureen. "Feeling a bit better?"

"Oh, yeah," she said, pretending she remembered. "Much better now. Nice now."

She was well spoken. She might have been a beauty once. Her face was as slender as a Modigliani; her thick brown hair had a natural sheen of auburn through it. She moved with grace, stepping from one foot to the other, letting her hips lead the sway. She might have been young – the deep wrinkles in her forehead and under her eyes looked premature; the rest of her skin was soft and fresh. Frank Toner looked at Maureen and Maureen nodded at him. "Good," she smiled, "let me get you both a drink."

"What would I want to take a fucking drink off you for?" he said, speaking with a harsh south London accent.

It suddenly occurred to Maureen that she was far too drunk to deal with this. She backed off. "Forget it." She turned to the bar. "Doesn't matter," as if ending the conversation were her choice.

Toner announced to the gathered crowd that the day he took a drink from a bit of Scottish cunt was the day he'd fucking retire. He ordered his round and told the barman to give Maureen one as well, adding a wee joke, that he didn't mean fuck her. He guffawed like a bitter child and the moat of sycophants around him laughed too.

"Don't want your drink," said Maureen quietly, feeling like a defiant cowpoke. Everyone ignored her. The barman put the drink down by her hand. "I don't want it," she said.

He gave her a manic look and pushed the glass towards her. "Just fuckin' take it," he said. "Save us all the trouble."

Maureen wasn't going to drink it but in the end she did because it was there and she couldn't get served quickly enough. She was playing with Vik's lighter and wanted to turn suddenly and set fire to the back of Toner's coat.

The skinny woman sidled up to her. "Are you all right?" she said, smiling, mellow now, like a different woman again. Maureen had been insulted, and this woman was trying to mend the damage with the tenderness of a woman who had known humiliation herself and wanted to soften the pain for other people.

"I'm Maureen."

"I'm Elizabeth."

A rattle of laughter emanated from a table in the corner. Maureen nodded to Frank. " 'S that your boyfriend?"

Elizabeth glanced round to see who Maureen was looking at. "Oh… no… I haven't seen you in here before."

"I'm looking for my pal. Did you know Ann who used to drink in here?"

Elizabeth smiled hard at her. "Ann. She didn't really drink in here."

"No?"

"No." Elizabeth stood casually on one leg, looking at her puffy hands. The thick skin was hopelessly scarred, red and shiny on the knuckles, on the joints, around the slippery forked vein on the back of her hand. "Ann drank in different places, mostly."

"Do you drink in here all the time?"

"Yeah." Elizabeth relaxed a little, now that they were off the subject of Ann. "Yeah, it's nice in here."

"Is it?" asked Maureen, testing to see if she had a sense of humor.

Elizabeth smiled, getting the joke. "It looks really grotty," she said, "but they're a good crowd in here." She nodded around the room at the drunks and the bums. "These are good people. We all look after each other, you know?"

Elizabeth wasn't lying. She honestly believed that staggering about in the Coach and Horses was a lifestyle choice.

"How do you look after each other?" asked Maureen, curious about the way her justifications operated and wanting her to elaborate.

"Oh," said Elizabeth, getting stuck, "lots of things…" She couldn't think of any. "Lots of little things."

Maureen guessed that Elizabeth probably did lots of little things and got fuck-all back.

"Yeah," said Elizabeth vaguely, losing her way a little. "You're Scottish." She smiled suddenly. "I like Scotland."

"Oh?" said Maureen. "Have you been there?"

"Yeah, I go sometimes," said Elizabeth, remembering neither sad nor happy times. "Not now, but I used to."

"On the train?"

"Sometimes." She was getting vaguer, zoning out.

"Ann was killed," said Maureen.

"I know." She came to. "I know."

"Did you know her well?"

"Not well." Elizabeth smiled nervously. "I don't know anything about that…"

She backed off into the crowd. Maureen had lost her fags. She looked up again and saw the man and the woman at the table. Maureen looked at him. He was a big man, beefy next to the scrawny drinkers. She felt angry with him but she couldn't remember why. She couldn't place either of them but the woman was especially familiar. She thought about it. She definitely knew them from somewhere and then it hit her: the woman was Tonsa.

Tons a was an elegant middle-aged woman with blond-streaked hair. She always dressed beautifully in suburban designer clothes. Liam knew her because she was a professional mule, carrying backwards and forwards to Glasgow once a month. He'd introduced her to Maureen once in Glasgow. Tonsa's eyes were the only real giveaway: they were blank. Liam said you could run at her with a spear in each hand and she wouldn't blink, which was why she was so good at her job. Tonsa had almost managed to get Liam arrested a few months before: for no reason at all she'd told the police he'd beaten her up, retracting her statement at the last minute. Maureen fell across the floor towards them. "Hiya," she said, sitting clumsily at the table. "D'ye 'member me?" She slapped Tonsa on the arm. "Tonsa, Tonsa, d'ye not remember me? My brother, Liam? He introduced me to ye."

Tonsa ignored Maureen and pulled at the cuff of her Burberry overcoat absentmindedly.

Maureen looked at the man. He sat back. "What you doing here?" he said. He was Scottish and she knew she knew him from home.

"Just, ye know, kicking about." She wanted to hit him and she couldn't remember why. Frank Toner was still holding court at the bar. "See that baldy guy?"

He stared at her. "What about him?"

She shook her head, thinking maybe she had known once but had forgotten. "What is it with that guy?"

"Never you mind about him."

Without acknowledging Maureen, Tonsa stood up and left the table. Maureen looked at the man and remembered why she hated him so much, why she was so angry with him, why he was Michael. It was Mark Doyle.

"You," she said loudly, slumping over the table. "Who killed Pauline?"

Mark Doyle leaned in, his blistered red face suddenly vivid and alive. "You're gonnae get yourself a sore face. Get the fuck out of here."

Maureen was too drunk. She blinked at him. Mark Doyle jutted out his jaw, looking as if he could take a punch and not flinch.

"I'm not looking for trouble," she said, with a dawning consternation at her own drunkenness. "I'm just drinking."

"You here 'cause I telt ye Ann was in?"

"No," she said. "I'm here to see her sister and have a drink."

Doyle looked around the bar, sniffing the air. "Does her sister drink in here too?"

"No." Maureen reached into her pocket and pulled out the Polaroid, cupping it in her hand to hide it. "I'm here because of this."

Doyle was on his feet, wrapping his fingers around Maureen's elbow, digging in deeply to the soft skin between the bones, making her feel faint and breathless. He stood her up. "Get the fuck out of here," he growled, lifting her from the seat and directing her towards the door. "Get the fuck out of here."

They were all watching him lift her with an apparently gentle touch to her elbow, seeing her almost crying with the pain. Mark Doyle opened the pub door and threw her out into the street. Maureen didn't fall over – she staggered forward, scratching her knuckles on the pavement, bumping into a black couple who were walking past, nearly pushing them into the busy road. "Aye," said Doyle, "an' fucking stay out."

Sarah was not pleased to see her. She was dressed for bed and told Maureen over and over that it was half one and she had to get up in the morning. Maureen sat on the bed while Sarah shouted at her that she couldn't stay anymore, no more, not anymore. She lay down on the bed fully dressed, promising herself never to drink like that again, never again. She held her bloodied hand to her chest, and Sarah's voice receded into the background as the Grecian leaves spun a dance above her and Michael hovered in the black bathroom.