Garnethill

Chapter 8

She made her way back along the short road to the close mouth, reading the front page of the paper as she walked. Both doors of a shiny red hatchback opened simultaneously and two men stepped toward her. They wore dark suits and raincoats. One was tall, balding, chubby-faced, and looked seedy. The shorter of the two stepped toward her and flipped some ID. "Miss O'Donnell?"

"No," said Maureen, folding the paper the wrong way and wondering where the camera was. "My name's McQuigan. Katrine McQuigan."

The men looked at each other. If she bolted now they'd know for sure she was O'Donnell.

"Miss O'Donnell, I know it's you," the short man said. "I've met you before. I was at the locus."

"Where's 'The Locus'?"

"I was at your house when you were taken to the police station."

"I beg your pardon," said Maureen. "I've never been taken to a police station in my life."

The men looked at each other, puzzled at her lie. The tall man stepped forward and wrapped his fat hand around her upper arm. "Joe McEwan wants to see you," he said, and squeezed hard, letting her know that he wasn't going to be fucked about.

"Oh, you're policemen," said Maureen. "I thought you were journalists. I didn't see your badge properly."

They didn't believe her. The seedy fat man capped his hand over the top of her head, pushed her down roughly, shoved her into the back of the car and got in beside her. The other officer got into the driver's seat and caught her eye in the rearview mirror. They definitely didn't believe her.

"I did think you were journalists," she said, addressing no one in particular.

They parked on the curb outside the Stewart Street station. The seedy man held her arm as they led her up to the front door. She noticed that the other man was walking on the outside, boxing her in from the main road in case she tried to leg it. Inness, the mustachioed policeman she'd vomited on, was standing by the desk.

"Hello," he said. He had a triumphant gleam in his eye and she guessed that this interview was not going to be an easy one. The raincoat men led her through the now-familiar series of staircases and corridors to the interview room on the second floor.

Joe McEwan was not pleased to see her. The seedy officer sat her down at the table and whispered something into his ear. Without looking at her McEwan sat down, turned on the tape recorder and told it who was there. He looked at her with overt disgust. "Right, Miss O'Donnell. On Thursday you told me that you had never been to the Rainbow Clinic for any kind of treatment, is that correct?"

"Yes, I did say that."

"You 'did say that.' Was it true?"

"How do you mean?" she said, fishing for clues.

"I think the meaning's quite clear. Did you tell me the truth when you said you hadn't been to the Rainbow for treatment?"

Maureen tried to look sad. If she didn't look sorry they'd know she was trying to be clever. She thought about the dream. "No," she said, picking it over for the painful element. "It wasn't true. I lied to you."

"Why did you lie, Miss O'Donnell?"

"Because I was ashamed."

"You were ashamed of having an affair with your psychiatrist?"

It was being stuck on her back, it was the feeling of being so small and being trapped. She remembered the sensation and her eyes filled up. "I was ashamed because of the reason I went there."

"We don't care about that, Miss O'Donnell, it's not important."

"But it's important to me," she whispered.

"Look," said McEwan, "we know about your father. I'm not interested in that. You lied to me." This clearly upset him. "Do you lie all the time, Maureen? Do you know when you're lying? I spoke to your psychiatrist today, Louisa Wishart, remember her? The woman you see every Wednesday at six o'clock. Remember?"

"Louisa? How did you find out about her?"

"It was in your notes at the Rainbow."

"How did you find out about the Rainbow?"

"You were seen, in the paper."

"How could they see me in the paper?"

McEwan's face flushed very red very suddenly. He bent forward, his voice was staggeringly loud. "STOP ASKING ME QUESTIONS."

The seedy officer cringed. The color drained from McEwan's face as suddenly as it had risen. He flipped over a couple of pages in his notebook. "Let's see," he said, completely composed, "you were referred to her in February from the Rainbow Clinic and have attended the Albert ever since. Is that a bit closer to the truth?"

"Yes," said Maureen.

McEwan paused and looked at her. "I want to know why you lied to me," he said.

Maureen took out the packet of cigarettes she had bought at the shop and held it up. "May I?" she said.

McEwan nodded.

"Want one?"

He shook his head firmly but watched the cigarette as she lit it and inhaled. Her throat closed against the rough cigarette smoke, choking her momentarily, feeling like the strangling nightie in the dream.

"I lied because of the cupboard."

McEwan was intrigued. "Did you go into the cupboard?" he said softly.

Maureen got smoke in her eye. She rubbed it hard with her fingertips. "No, when I had my breakdown I was found in that cupboard."

He looked disappointed. "So?"

"Well, I didn't know what was in there, you kept asking about it, I thought it might be something that tied in with my notes, something that made it look like I did it."

"What do you think was in the cupboard?"

"I dunno. A note or something?"

"Guess again."

"Something of mine?"

He smiled enigmatically. "And that's why you lied?"

"I didn't want you to see my psychiatric notes because I thought it might make it look like me."

She watched McEwan's face. He was giving nothing away.

"Don't lie to me again," he said, gesturing for her to leave. "It makes my job much harder."

Maureen stood up. McEwan told the recorder that he was ending the interview and turned it off. He pointed at her. "And don't give my officers a false name if they come for you again."

"Yeah," said Maureen, and walked out, taking the newspaper with her.