Garnethill

Chapter 24

Before she even opened her eyes the next morning she knew that it was time to move home to Garnethill.

She was going to make Liam breakfast but when she looked in on him he was still asleep. There was a large hole in the floor next to his bed: the floorboards had been lifted and left next to the empty space. Nails were sticking up vertically out of the planks, like the ragged teeth on a latent predator. The contents of his clothes cupboard had been thrown onto the floor and the black-and-white checkered linoleum in the en suite bathroom had been ripped up. Maureen shut the door quietly and crept downstairs. No wonder he was fucked off.

She picked a twenty-four-hour locksmith out of the Yellow Pages and dialed the number. They said that there would be a twenty-quid bonus charge because it was Sunday but she didn't care. The man on the phone took her address in Garnethill and said he'd send someone over at twelve with a new bolt and Yale.

She was drinking a coffee and packing her answer phone into a plastic bag when the phone rang out. "Hello," said Una. "I phoned Benny's but he said you were at Liam's."

"Well," said Maureen, "here I am."

She was intent on meeting Maureen to tell her some good news.

"I can't see you, Una," Maureen said, mindful of Liam's warning. "I'm moving back home today."

But Una was determined. She'd come over to Liam's, she said, and drive Maureen and her answerphone home. Una had driven since she was seventeen and refused to believe that anyone would rather walk anywhere.

"Well, okay, but I'm leaving now and Liam's still asleep. He's exhausted, so just knock, okay? Don't ring the bell."

When the knock came on Liam's front door Maureen threw on her coat and scarf and picked up the bag. She opened the door and stepped outside, pecked Una briskly on the cheek and turned away to lock the front door behind her.

"Aren't we going to have a cup of tea?" asked Una, sensing a strained atmosphere and preparing to be offended on the slightest pretext.

"Well, I need to get on, really," said Maureen.

Una looked aggrieved. "All right, then," she said magnanimously. "If you're in such a big hurry."

They walked down the front steps to Una's company car. It was a big green Rover with a walnut dashboard and electric windows and everything. It was Una's pride and joy. She started the engine and told Maureen the good news: Marie was coming up for a visit the day after next and the girls were all meeting up at Winnie's for a lovely lunch on Thursday.

Maureen thought about the three of them together, sitting around the kitchen table, waiting for her to arrive. Why were they having a lunch and not a dinner, like they usually did when Marie came home, and why wasn't Liam invited? He would stand up for her if he was there. They must be planning something: they were going to confront her, tell her everything she remembered was a lie and she was mental.

As they drove down the Maryhill Road Maureen noticed Una's eyes flicking to the side when she dared, checking on her wee sister, making sure she wasn't doing anything crazy. Maureen couldn't think of anything to say. They'd call Louisa Wishart if she got upset, that would be the first thing they'd do.

She was hot with worry by the time they got halfway down the Maryhill Road. Una asked why she was so quiet and she pretended she hadn't slept well. "Mum's angry with me for taking my photos away."

"I know," said Una, drawing her lips tight together and clenching her jaw.

"But they were mine and she was selling them to the newspapers."

"No, Maureen," said Una, holding her hand up. "Mum didn't sell them."

"Well, she gave them away, then."

"Yes, which is different," said Una.

They fell into an uneasy silence. The car's engine hummed quietly as they drew up to the traffic lights and stopped.

"Did Liam tell you about Mum at the police station?" said Maureen.

"Oh, dear me, yes," said Una, wrinkling her nose. "She was a bit excited."

"He told me she was screaming her fucking face off," said Maureen loudly, her voice quivering with misplaced indignation. Una didn't like swearing or screeching or untoward emotional reactions of any kind. Maureen could tell she was freaking her out.

Una pulled the car into the curb and stopped the engine. "Are you sure you're okay?" she said carefully. "D'you think you should be going home today?"

Maureen thought about confronting Una now, weighing up the pros and cons. Not yet. Not just now. She didn't want to go ballistic. "I'm fine," she said. "I'm a bit frightened about going home again, that's all."

Una leaned across and pulled her over, hugging her and pressing the gear stick into Maureen's ribs. She let go. "We all love you very much," she said kindly.

"I know that, Una," said Maureen, crying with fury.

"We all want the best for you," she said.

Maureen turned her face away, angrily swatting the tears off her face. "I know," she said, "I know."

Una had meant to suggest that Maureen go back to hospital but she seemed so unstable that it might not be a good idea. She'd phone Dr. Wishart when she got back to the office and ask her about readmission. She started the car again. "You could come and stay with us if you want," she said, pulling out into the traffic.

It would be Una's worst nightmare, herself moping around their ordered house, smoking fags all over the place and watching old movies. "You're such a sweetheart, Una," Maureen said, controlling her voice to make it sound normal. "I don't know how you do it. We're all crazy and it just seems to roll off your back."

Una smiled, pleased at being differentiated from the rest of them. "Let's have some music," she said, and clicked the radio on.

They sang along to a jolly pop song all the way up the road, guessing the words and humming the hard parts so they wouldn't have to speak to each other.

Maureen looked out of the window and told herself that very, very soon, as soon as the Douglas thing was over, she would tell Una and the rest of them what she thought of them.

UNA PARKED THE CAR outside the close, pulled on the hand brake, turned off the ignition and undid her seat belt.

"No," said Maureen. "You can't come up with me."

She was desperate to get away from her sister. If Una came upstairs and saw as much as a drop of blood she'd start crying and need to be tended and comforted. She'd phone Alistair and get him to come over, she might even call Winnie and George. She'd be there for fucking hours.

Una stared at her. "Why not?"

"Urn, the police won't let you in, only me."

"Why are the police up there?"

"They want me to show them around the house, so you can't come in."

"But I'm your sister."

"I know that, Una, but they can't let just anyone in."

"I'm not just anyone," said Una, taking the key out of the ignition and pocketing it. "I'm your sister." She opened her door and put one foot on the pavement.

"Una," said Maureen, as firmly as she could without shouting, "you cannot come upstairs."

Una brought her foot back into the car and turned to face her wee sister. "Maureen," she said solemnly, "I am not letting you go into that house without anyone to support you."

"Una," said Maureen, copying her sister's sanctimonious tone, "I am not letting you come upstairs with me. The police are there, they already dislike our family because Mum was drunk and shouted at them and because our brother is a drug dealer, and I am not going to jeopardize what small relationship I have with them by demanding that they grant you access to the house."

Una sighed heavily and shook her head. "Why on earth wouldn't the police want me up there?"

"It's in case you interfere with some evidence they haven't collected yet."

"But I'm your sister. I don't think you should go in there alone."

"I won't be alone, the police'll be there with me."

Una rolled her eyes heavenward and muttered "Pete's sake" before shutting her door.

"It's all right," said Maureen, pulling the polyethylene bag with her answer phone in it out of the backseat. "The police are in there."

They kissed and arranged to meet at Winnie's for lunch on Thursday, when Marie would be home.

Una watched Maureen walk up the close carrying the poly bag. It was dark inside the door; Maureen's small shadow jogged up the first flight of stairs, around the corner and disappeared. She sat for a moment before picking up the car phone and dialing Dr. Wishart's number at the Albert Hospital. It was engaged. She hung up and pressed the redial button. Still engaged. She replaced the phone and looked back up the close, weighing up the pros and cons of going after Maureen. She fitted the key in the ignition, started the engine, lifted off the hand brake and pulled the car out into the steep street.

Maureen climbed the stairs with trepidation, slowing down as she neared the top floor. The sight of Jim's door reminded her that she had left his Celtic shirt sitting in the bottom of Benny's wardrobe. She wished he hadn't told her about watching through the spy hole, not that she was ungrateful for the information about Benny, but she'd never stand on the landing again without imagining Jim, with his worrying hairdo, pressed up behind his door, peering out at her with his jumper tucked tightly into his denims. She took out her keys, unlocked the front door and let it swing open.

The house smelled stale and oppressively sweet. She stepped in and shut the door behind her, leaving Jim with nothing to see. She dropped the bag in the hall, took a deep breath and turned the handle on the living-room door.

The blood had turned brown in the direct sunlight. It was hard to spot a bit of the carpet that wasn't brown. Deep puddles of Douglas's precious blood had dried into it; action streaks from jugular spurts radiated out from the four circular indents marking the position of the chair. The blue chair had been cleaned by some kind officer; it was by the window, facing it at an angle, as if someone had been sitting there, enjoying the view.

She stepped carefully across the crunchy floor, using the clear spaces as stepping stones to the window, which she opened, pulling it right back against the wall, letting the harsh wind into the room. She sat down in Douglas's blue chair because she was afraid to and smoked a cigarette by the blustery open window, waiting until the horror of it had passed. She stubbed the end of the cigarette out on the windowsill, lifted the chair by the back and carried it out into the hall.

She stacked the contents of the bookcase into piles on the floor and carried them out one at a time, resting them precariously against the wall by the kitchen door. She took the coffee table into the bedroom, then humped the portable television through, banging her legs with it. Back in the living room she folded the bookcase flat, leaving it near the bathroom door. She wheeled out the old horsehair armchair, recklessly rolling its wooden castors over the crusty brown blood.

She walked back into the empty living room and stood on the spot marked out by the indentations from the chair, looking around and breathing in the dry, bloody dust. Only the settee with the stripe of blood across the arm was left in the room. It wouldn't clean up; she didn't know what to do with it. She could throw it away but then she wouldn't have anything to sit on except the horsehair and that was uncomfortable. She didn't need to decide right away; she could work around it today. She found the hammer in the kitchen cupboard and, starting below the open window, used the forked end to lever up the carpet tacks around the edge.

WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG she had lifted a third of the carpet around the skirting board. She shut the door to the living room before looking out of the spy hole. A young man, tanned like a tea bag, was standing at the door holding a small metal box with a handle. He was wearing a T-shirt with "Armani" written across the chest, jeans and a yellow suede jacket. His hair was striped with ill-suited blond streaks that looked green in the close light. He was two hours late and looked badly hung over. He probably hadn't been home yet. She opened the door. "Locksmith?"

"Mm," he said, stepping into the cluttered hallway and fingering the locks on the door.

"Want a cup of tea?"

"Naw."

She left him to it and went off to hide in the kitchen. She wanted to finish the living room but she couldn't get in there without him seeing the mess and she didn't feel like explaining. She put the kettle on and opened the door to the cups cupboard. The cups had all been moved around. Rarely used ones had been put to the front of the shelf and several were upside down, the way cups are meant to be stored. She opened the food cupboard and the cutlery drawer: same thing in all of them. The police had been through them and moved everything. They must have been very thorough. Flushed with a sudden shamed panic she went into the bedroom and opened the door to the bedside cabinet. Three broken vibrators had been tidied away in a little triangular pile. The one with the acid burns from the leaky batteries was on the bottom with the red screw-top lid placed neatly beside it. She kept meaning to throw it away but was too embarrassed to put it in a bin, as if all of her neighbors would find it and come to the door en masse demanding an explanation. Both of her Nancy Friday politically correct wank books had been leafed through. She sat down on the bed and tried to minimize it but couldn't. She slumped on the bed, looking at the floor. The Selecter CD was gone, right enough.

She went back to the kitchen, trying to convince herself that once she told Leslie it would become a funny story, and made herself a coffee.

After a long pause in the drilling the locksmith came to the kitchen door. He looked downcast and green.

"Want a cup of tea now?" she said.

"Naw." His voice was wobbly, as if he was about to spew his ring. "Finished."

She paid him in cash and he gave her two copies of the key for the new Yale lock and one for the bolt. When he left she used the new bolt and locked herself firmly in.

Back in the living room she lit a fag, holding it between her teeth as she levered up the rest of the carpet tacks with the hammer. She lifted the edge under the window and dragged it over itself halfway across the room. It was heavy. She let go of the carpet and took hold of the settee arm, pulling it over the fold in the carpet and onto the bare floorboards. The last castor stuck on the fold. She tugged the settee and the carpet started to unfurl. She was kneeling down, trying to lift the castor over the fold, when she happened to glance across the room. A tear-shaped drop of blood had dried on the skirting board, red and glassy against the white paint. She crawled over on all fours and sat down next to it, her head resting on the wall, stroking it with her fingertips, over and over, until it got dark.

She turned on the hall light and opened the cupboard door. The shoe box had been lifted and placed on the high shelf at eye level, leaving the floor of the cupboard empty. In the right-hand corner of the carpeted floor was a bloody oval stain the size of her palm. She crouched down and put her hand on it. It wasn't powdery and thin like the stains around the edge of the living room: it was solid like the space under the chair. The pile on the carpet was completely flattened because the blood spill had been so heavy. It was too heavy to be a splash and the mark was too small to have come from her slippers. Something bloody had been put there.

She stood up, letting her eyes linger on the spot as she tried to imagine what sort of thing could have caused a stain that shape. A bloody rag would have left a stain with uneven edges, so that wasn't it. She tried supposing that the Northern rapist and Douglas's murderer were the same person to see if that would shed any light on the cause of the mark. It could have come from bloody ropes being dumped there but they'd have had to be dripping with blood and, anyway, Douglas had still been tied up when she had found him. She couldn't think what could have caused it.

In the kitchen she opened the door to the boiler and checked the timer for the heating: it was set to go on at five-thirty a.m. and off again at eight. The evening times had been changed too. The little arrows on the dial had been pushed together so that the heating would be off all evening. She changed them back to the previous setting, off in the morning and on from six p.m. until eleven, and shut the door.

The list Martin had given her was still in the condom pocket of her black jeans. If the patients had been raped the only safe approach was through the female members of staff. Starting with the nurses' list, she picked out the three recognizably female names and got the Glasgow phone directory from the kitchen drawer. The first name was Suzanne Taylor. Fifteen Taylors were listed in the book. Maureen worked out that they were arranged alphabetically by the first name. The last one listed was Spen. Taylor: Suzanne had either married or moved away. The second name, Jill McLaughlin, might well have been hidden among the thirty or so J. McLaughlins.

Sharon Ryan was a godsend. She was one of three if she was there at all. Maureen tried the first one. The number had been disconnected. The second number had never heard of Sharon Ryan; the third hadn't either.

She hung up and tried to narrow the margins on Jill McLaughlin. Jill would be somewhere between Jas. and Joseph; that left eight possibles. She lifted the receiver and tried the first one, then the second, then the third. She was losing hope. Five McLaughlins and still no Jill. On the seventh a tiny voice answered: "Hello."

"Hello, could I speak to Jill McLaughlin, please?"

"Who're ye?" said the tiny voice.

It might have been habit or the child's voice but she didn't lie. "I'm Maureen O'Donnell," she said.

The little voice thought about it for a moment before shouting, "Mummy, Mummy, it's a lady."

She could hear the woman at the other end talking the child gruffly away from the phone. "Yes?" she said.

"Am I talking to Jill McLaughlin?"

"Yes," she said.

"Can I ask you, Ms. McLaughlin, are you a nurse?"

"Not now," she said bluntly.

If Jill McLaughlin had left the caring profession she'd done it a big favor.

"Were you a nurse?" asked Maureen.

"Auxiliary."

"Sorry?"

"I was a care assistant," she said. She broke off to tell the child to stop it. Maureen heard a slap and the child started to cry.

"Look, I'm sorry to bother you, I can hear you've got your hands full there."

"Yes, I have."

"Are you the Nurse McLaughlin who worked in George I ward at the Northern?"

McLaughlin paused. Maureen could hear her sucking on a fag. "Who is this?" she said suspiciously, exhaling noisily into the receiver. "Are you with the papers?"

"No, no," said Maureen. "I'm not."

The child was wailing in the background. "You are so with the papers."

"No, honest, I'm not."

"Who are you, then?"

"I'm Maureen O'Donnell-"

"I've seen you in the paper," growled McLaughlin viciously. "I seen you."

There was a click on the line and Maureen found herself listening to the dial tone.

Siobhain's list of women would be harder to trace because they were Highland clan names, and the listings were long for all of them. Siobhain had written "Bearsden" in brackets next to Yvonne Urquhart. It was the name of an upper-class suburb to the northwest of the city. Maureen looked in the phone book for the Urquharts listed with Bearsden codes. There were only three. When she dialed the second number she got Yvonne Urquhart's sister. She sounded quite old and had an anxious, tremulous voice. "My sister Yvonne has moved to Daniel House, out by Whiteinch," she warbled. "She moved there a wee while ago."

"Oh, I see."

"Are you her friend, perhaps? Would I know you?"

"Well, I knew her at the Northern. I wanted to see her again, see how she was getting on."

"Oh, dear me, I'm afraid you'll find she's terribly changed. She got much worse in the past few years. She isn't well at all now, not well at all, I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Could you give me the number for Daniel House?"

"Certainly, certainly. May you hold?"

Maureen phoned the number and was told she could visit Yvonne until eight o'clock but not after that. It was half-five already. She put on her coat hurriedly, straightened her makeup in the bathroom mirror and made for the door, patting her pockets to check for money and the new keys.

The phone rang out abruptly, startling her so much that she fumbled with the receiver and dropped it. The woman at the other end was giggling and embarrassed. "Um, hello, um, you rang here about half an hour ago? Looking for Sharon Ryan? I rang one four seven one and got your number because I thought you might actually be looking for Shan instead of Sharon."

The name was written down on Martin's list as Shan Ryan. Maureen had assumed it stood for Sharon. "Is Shan a nurse?"

"Yeah, but he isn't in right now."

"Um, did he work at the Northern between 'ninety-one and 'ninety-four?"

"Well, I'm not sure of the dates but I think it's definitely him you want."

"I've got him down as Sharon."

"It's a mistake lots of people make," said the helpful woman, "but he's not in just now."

"Do you know what time he'll be back?"

"No idea, I'm just his flatmate, he doesn't tell me anything. He's probably in the Variety Bar in Sauchiehall Street if you want to go down there."

"Well, it's not that urgent, really."

"Or you could call him at work tomorrow. He's in the dispensary in the Rainbow Clinic on the South Side. If you phone Levanglen they'll put you through."

"Thanks," said Maureen, and put the receiver down as if it had burned her.

She could feel tiny Jim's eyes on her back as she locked the front door behind her. Out in the dark street the policemen in the car nudged one another awake and waited until she was halfway down the hill before starting the engine and turning the lights on.

Maureen tried to come up with a good justification for wasting money on a cab instead of hanging about and waiting for a bus. If she ran out of her own money she could use some of Douglas's, but she didn't want to. It was Sunday and there wouldn't be many buses about. She might have to wait for ages; she might miss the visiting time. She walked down the hill to the main road and hailed a cab, asking the driver to take her to the far end of Whiteinch.

The driver began a monologue about his daughter's wonderful exam results and kept it up all the way down Dumbarton Road. Maureen asked him to stop at a newsagent's and nipped out, blowing more money on an unhappy bouquet of dying flowers and a box of chocolates to take to Yvonne.

Daniel House looked like any of the other detached brownstone houses in the street. Only the economy-model cars in the driveway marked it out: the other houses had Mercedes and BMWs parked outside. A discreet brass sign screwed into the low garden wall identified it as Daniel House Nursing Home. The storm doors were open and folded back against the porch; the doorstep had been replaced with a short ramp. The inside door was enormous and had a four-foot-tall glass panel, etched with an elaborate Grecian vase design.

Maureen pressed the white plastic doorbell and stepped back. A young nurse opened the door. She wore a white pinny over a blue candy-striped uniform. "Hello?" she said.

"I phoned earlier, about Yvonne Urquhart."

"Oh, yes," she said, and opened the door wide, welcoming Maureen in.

Maureen felt the heavy-duty nylon carpet squeak and drag on her rubber-soled boots. The heating in the nursing home was very high and she started sweating as soon as she stepped through the door. Twin oak doorways on either side of the hall led into large communal rooms. Directly opposite the front door a broad oak staircase swept up to the second floor. A stainless-steel rail had been screwed onto the elegant balustrade and a folded lift chair nestled idly at the foot of the stairs. In the shadow of the graceful staircase stood a gray medication trolley with the lid down.

The nurse saw the box of chocolates in Maureen's hand and flinched. "It's a while since you saw Yvonne, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Maureen.

"I don't think you should give her those," she said, pointing at the box. "She could choke."

Maureen put them in her bag. The nurse smiled apologetically and led her up the staircase to the second floor. She pointed to a half-open door with a brass number five screwed onto it and trotted off down the stairs. The doors marked three and four were firmly shut, so Maureen guessed this was the right one. She pushed it open with her fingertips.

The room was smaller than the big door suggested. It had been partitioned badly: the window consisted of a two-foot offcut from next door's window, the ceilings were too high and the new walls looked patched on and flimsy. The only light came from a pink-shaded lamp sitting on top of the chest of drawers, giving off a dull pink glow – it was a nightlight for a frightened child. There didn't seem to be any personal effects in the room. The pictures of flowers on the wall had been chosen because the red plastic frames matched. On top of a locker next to the sink sat an unopened matching set of soap and talc and a glass of weak orange squash with a toddler's feed lid on it.

A painfully thin elderly nurse was dressing a woman sitting in a chair. She was wearing the striped uniform, and thick support tights over her varicose veins. She kept her back to the door as she wrestled Yvonne's limp body into a washed-out nylon nightie. The nightdress was frantic with static and clung to Yvonne's face and arms. It was split up the back like an incontinence dress. The nurse muttered soft words of encouragement as she popped Yvonne's head through the neck and buttoned it up. Maureen coughed notice of her presence and the nurse turned on her heels. "Who are you?" she said, annoyed and surprised.

"I've come to visit Yvonne."

"Will you wait outside until she's dressed, please?" she said crossly.

Maureen stepped out and stood like a scolded child on the landing until the nurse came out. "You may go in now," she said, as she passed on her way downstairs. Maureen held the flowers in front of her and went into the room.

Yvonne's hair was honey blond, turning brown through lack of sun and cut into a short, manageable hospital style. She was sitting in an orthopedic armchair; cushions had been placed between her hips and the chair sides to stop her slipping over. A freshly puffed pillow in a transparent plastic cover lay in front of her on the table attachment. She was slumped over it, her hands in her lap. Her glassy blue eyes were half-open, her cheek was resting on the plastic-covered pillow in the slick of warm saliva dribbling horizontally out of her mouth. She was forty at most. The skin on her face was loose, sagging to the side, folding against the pillow but devoid of wrinkles. It was a long time since Yvonne had had an expression on her face. Both her hands were curled shut like a stroke victim's and swatches of heavily talcumed cotton wool had been worked between the fingers to stop her getting contact sores.

Maureen put the flowers in the sink and pulled a chair round to Yvonne's left side so that she could see her face as she spoke to her. She asked her whether she had been at the Northern, did she remember Siobhain McCloud, had she seen Douglas, Douglas with the dark eyes and the low voice? Maureen found herself describing him slowly and softly, her voice dipping so low that she could only have been whispering to herself.

She waited with Yvonne for ten minutes to make it look good.

When she stood up to leave she noticed Yvonne's feet. They were curled over the arch like a ballerina's point. Someone who cared about her had knitted little pink booties with a white drawstring around the ankle. The light from the hall shone under the table, illuminating the dry, flaky skin on her skinny legs. An inch above the ankle the skin color changed. It was a ribbon of pink shiny skin, like snakeskin, running all the way around her calf. And then Maureen realized it was a scar. From a rope burn.

She went back downstairs. The young nurse was sitting in the dayroom, watching TV and holding a woman's hand. The patient was nodding and twitching in a vain attempt to resist medication-induced sleep. The nurse saw Maureen standing in the hall and waved her in. The color on the TV set was turned up too high: the actors' faces were orange and their red lips were blurred and undefined. Six or seven empty identical brown orthopedic armchairs were arranged around the television. A folded wheelchair and a Zimmer frame were tidied away against the wall. There were no pictures on the walls and the glorious windows were defaced with beige nylon curtains. It was a desolate, functional room. Maureen sat down in a chair. The nurse reached over with her free hand and touched Maureen's arm. "Are you okay there?" she said, whispering so as not to disturb her sleepy companion. "You look a bit shocked. You haven't seen her for a while, have you?"

"How long's she been like that?" Maureen whispered back.

"Long time. Where do you know her from?"

"From before she went into the Northern."

"Oh, dear," said the wee lassie. "She went downhill there, apparently. She had a bit of a stroke."

"What's that mark around her ankle?"

"No idea. She's had it since I've known her."

"Did a guy come to see her recently? About five ten, in his forties, soft voice?"

The nurse's face lit up. "Yeah," she said. "Guy called Douglas. He was a relative of Yvonne's. He came on business."

"On business?"

"Yeah," said the nurse. "He saw Jenny in the office and paid Yvonne's costs for the next six months. Do you know him?"

"Vaguely," said Maureen.

The sleepy patient gave up the fight and slumped sideways. "I better get Precious to bed," whispered the nurse.

She couldn't face the bus. She hailed a cab and got the driver to drop her at Mr. Padda's, the licensed grocer's around the corner from her house. Mr. Padda had been questioned by the policemen: they'd asked him whether he had seen anyone covered in blood walking down the road a week last Wednesday. "Did you, Mr. Padda?"

"No, dear," he said, and smiled. "Saturdays, yes, often, Wednesdays, no."

She bought a half bottle of whisky and some fags.

When she got into the kitchen she unscrewed the lid of the whisky bottle and then shut it again without taking a drink. She didn't want it.

Back in the living room she levered out the few remaining carpet tacks and rolled up the carpet, wrestled it upright and leaned it against the wall. Even the underlay was covered in Douglas's blood. She took two black bags from the kitchen drawer and filled them with bits of underlay, ripping it up in raw angry handfuls.

It was eleven o'clock before the floor was bare. She brought the whisky and a glass in from the kitchen and sat in the dark living room with her back resting against the wall, looking at all that was left of Douglas: a ten-foot stretch of blood-soaked rug.

She drank the whisky too fast and dipped into Yvonne's box of chocolates as she held a maudlin, solitary wake to the memory of Douglas, chronologically recalling all that she knew of his life. She celebrated his first day of school, when he cried for three hours until Carol took him home again, his exchange trip to Denmark in fourth year, where he met a German girl and fell in love for the first time, his father's death, over which he felt nothing, his first degree and his place on the coveted clinical psychology course, his marriage to Elsbeth, his first night in Maureen's bed, when poor Elsbeth would have been lying awake alone, wondering where her husband was until four in the morning, guessing right and crying to herself, his lost weekend in Prague, his petty dislike of the people he worked with and his numerous illicit affairs.

She poured the last of the whisky into the glass and held it up, toasting the rolled-up carpet against the wall. "To Douglas and his miserable, grasping life," she said, and cringed. In polite company talking like Bette Davis always means it's time to put the glass down and go to bed.

She did.