Garnethill

Chapter 34

It was still dark when the pocket alarm went off, beep-beeping her awake. She grabbed it and sat up, remembering instantly why she had set it. In the kitchen she lit a fag and made a pint of strong coffee with lukewarm water, drinking it down despite the taste. Reaching under the sink, she picked up the flask and took the Marigolds out of the bag, slipping them on, taking special care not to touch the outside of them with her bare hands. When she lifted the flask out and unscrewed the lid she could see little flecks of dissolved paper floating on the surface. She unfolded a fresh filter paper and put it into the cone. Holding the cone over a saucepan, she tipped the flask gently. Lumps of soggy paper slopped out with the coffee, catching on the sides of the filter paper. When the coffee had filtered through she warmed it gently over a gas ring, watching carefully, making sure it didn't get too hot. She didn't know whether heat could spoil acid. She added a touch of cream and poured in the three sugars.

After decanting the coffee back into the flask, she filled the saucepan with some diluted bleach and cleaned the work top. She put every trace of the wrappers and filters into the thick plastic bag, rolled it up tight and put it in the bottom of her rucksack.

She dressed in her black jeans, boots and jumper, pulled on the woolly hat, Leslie's leather gloves and her overcoat, leaving off her telltale tartan scarf. She checked her pocket for the stabbing comb, telling herself that it was him, she was right. It wouldn't come to that. The flask would be enough.

The green bus arrived just in time to meet the ferryboat backing slowly up to the concrete ramp, churning the dirty water beneath it. The crowd of waiting pedestrian passengers walked on quickly, afraid that they might miss it, bumping and jostling the few disembarkers. Three cars rolled off. Few people came to the island in the morning: most of the passengers were traveling to work on the mainland. Adjusting her eyes to the grainy half-light, she managed to get a good look at everyone leaving the ferry and waited until the last minute before getting on so that she didn't miss anyone.

She climbed the steep metal ladder up to the top deck, watching the swell and spill of the black water illuminated by the white light of the ship. Across the bay a string of lights at the power station swung steadily in the rising dawn breeze. Her nose was numb with the cold. She pulled her overcoat tight around her and lit a cigarette. It was one of Leslie's, it was a stronger brand than she was used to.

The ferry crossed the bay and pulled into Largs. There was no undignified jostling here: the ticket collector held everyone back until the ferry was empty. Maureen stayed behind the lifeboat on the high deck and looked down at the pedestrians waiting to board. If he was catching this ferry he wasn't on foot.

Only one car rolled on, an Astra with a woman driver. When the ferry was halfway back to Cumbrae Maureen clambered down onto the car deck, standing behind the metal ladder, and looked in at her. She didn't know her.

As the ferry made its way over to Cumbrae and back to Largs for the second time the sun rose gloriously over the bay, the yellow sunlight gilding the tips of the choppy gray waves. A larger crowd of pedestrians and eight cars were waiting at Largs for the second crossing. The rising sun hit the car roofs at an acute angle, casting a deep shadow over the drivers' faces as they paused to give up their tickets to the conductor. She couldn't see any of them clearly but she was ready, her hand curled around the teeth of the stabbing comb, just in case.

She had to wait until the hull had been cranked up and the ferry was entering the bay again before climbing down the ladder for a look. She was standing in the shadows, checking out the drivers, when she saw him sitting patiently in a white Jaguar, his gloved hands resting on the wheel, a cigarette in his right hand. He was wearing a green jacket and a fishing hat. The sunlight glinted off his steel-framed glasses.

Maureen let go of the comb, took a deep breath and patted her bag to make sure the flask was still with her before crossing the deck to his car.

She knocked on the passenger window. He leaned across the white leather upholstery and looked out at her. His expression didn't falter. He touched the door and the window lowered electronically. "Hello, Maureen."

"Oh, Angus, thank God. Did Siobhain phone you?"

He blinked. "Yeah," he said uncertainly, sitting back so that she couldn't quite see his eyes.

"I can't believe you came," she said. "It was so good of you. Can I get in?"

He swallowed and glanced sideways.

"Siobhain's staying with me. We came over together."

"Oh, right," he said, and smiled. It wasn't a very good smile – she had expected him to do better than that. He opened the passenger door, trailing his leather-clad fingertips on the retreating handle, as if reluctant to let it go. She put her bag on the floor and climbed in before he had time to object.

"Didn't Siobhain tell you I was with her?" she asked. Her eyes were racing around his face, she was raising her eyebrows with every second word, creasing her forehead and speaking too quickly. She slowed herself down. "I'm surprised she didn't because she knows I know you."

"She didn't mention you," he said, drawing on his fag. "Maybe she forgot."

"God, I wouldn't be surprised. I expect she was in a state when she phoned, yeah?"

"Yes," he said. "Very upset."

"What did she say?"

"Oh, just, could I come and get her immediately, you know, that sort of thing. Why are you on the ferry at this time in the morning?"

"I had to send a fax to my work," she said, off the top of her head. "I forgot to put my sick line in."

"Don't they have a fax machine on the island? You'd think it would be particularly useful for an outlying community."

He was nervous, she'd never heard him speak so formally, and knowing that he was shitting it made her feel infinitely more comfortable, as if she couldn't do wrong, as if it was destined to go smoothly. She savored the feeling and realized how tense her shoulders were. "Yeah," she said, stretching her neck to relieve the knotted muscles. "They've got one in the post office but it's broken." She reached into her bag, amazed at her bizarre sense of calm, and took out the flask.

Angus frowned and stubbed out his fag in the ashtray. "How is Siobhain, anyway?"

Maureen unscrewed the lid, balancing the silver cup on her knee. "To be honest, she's not making much sense. But, then, she's speaking dead quickly and I can't really understand her accent too well."

"Yes, it's difficult."

"I suppose you're used to the way she speaks?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, she won't talk about you but I can tell you did her a lot of good." Maureen smiled shyly. "She gets a funny look on her face whenever your name's mentioned."

Angus smiled humbly at the dashboard. Maureen used the opportunity to find the Tipp-Ex mark with her finger and keep it there so she wouldn't have to keep looking. "Did she gibber on the phone?" she said.

"A bit. She was able to get the address out, though." He reached down to his pocket and pulled out a packet of fags, lighting one for himself before offering them to Maureen.

"Just had one," she said. "Thanks." She took a firm hold of the cup and poured the coffee quickly. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him watching her with interest. The bitter-chocolate smell of hot coffee radiated out of the flask. She lifted the cup to her mouth and looked at Angus. He was watching her closely. She lowered the cup. "I'd offer you some but it's got lots of sugar in it," she said.

"I take sugar."

"Do you?"

"Yes." He nodded and smiled. "I take loads of sugar."

"Well," she said, sounding chirpy, "a fellow sugar taker. There aren't many of us left these days, are there?"

"Nope." Angus grinned.

She handed him the cup. He lifted it to his nose and smelled it before he sipped. "That's quality coffee," he said, and took another drink.

"It's real coffee." She turned the flask around until the white marker was pointing toward her. "We brought it with us." She tilted the flask forty-five degrees, hoping to fuck he wouldn't realize she was drinking air. He offered her the half-full cup back. "No, it's all right," she said, saluting him with the flask. "You finish that."

She watched him tip the cup high and drink the last drop. He held it out, offering her it back. She didn't want to touch it. She put the stopper in and held the flask out to him. He screwed the cup back on, turning it until it was tight. He smiled at her. "Nice to see you," he said.

Maureen smiled back. "Aye, it's nice to see you too, Angus."

They felt the bottom of the boat scrape the incline of the concrete ramp and the hull wound down in front of them like a drawbridge. The pedestrian passengers walked off in front of them, hurrying up the ramp to the waiting bus.

He started the car and drove over the ferry hull, up the steep concrete ramp, and turned left onto the road, following the signs for Millport. They drove around the east side of the island, passing Lion Rock, magnificent with the early-morning light behind it, through Karnes Bay and on to the seafront at Millport. Angus was keeping an eye on the road and reading the door numbers. "What is it," he said. "Number six?"

"Yeah," said Maureen. "Number six."

"Top flat," said Angus, smiling to himself.

He parked the car opposite the chip shop, pulled on the hand brake, opened his door and got out. The shops were just opening, the bike-hire shop's shutters were half-up and a bearded man with a ponderous beer belly was pushing colorful bicycles and tricycles outside, arranging them in rows on the pavement. The baker's was open: the window displayed full trays of bridies and mince rounds, fresh-made bread and iced buns. The newsagent's was open. Paulsa had told her it might take an hour to work and it was only fifteen minutes or so since Angus had drunk the coffee.

Maureen stepped out of the car with her bag and shut the door. She walked around the bonnet to Angus. A Land Rover was driving slowly down the seafront, closely followed by the green and chrome bus. They stepped back against the Jaguar and waited for them to pass. Angus was holding a foot-long Gladstone bag with a flat bottom and a hinged mouth. It was made of flawless dark brown leather.

"That's a beautiful bag," she said, as the Land Rover sailed past. "You don't see many of them nowadays."

"I had it made. It was to replace an old one."

The ferry bus passed them and she held out her gloved hand to Angus. "Can I see it?" she said.

"My bag?"

"Yeah."

Angus tightened his grip on the leather-bound handle. "It's got my notes and everything in it."

Maureen smiled innocently. "Oh, come on, Angus, I'm hardly going to steal it, am I?"

"No," he said stupidly. "But I have a professional obligation."

He turned and crossed the road. She watched him walk away. His tweed jacket was ripped at the back, the seam under the arm was coming apart, ruining the line of it. His shoes were handmade.

She trotted after him. "Listen, can you hang on for a minute? I need to get something."

She meant for him to wait outside but he followed her into the newsagent's. Not wanting to be seen with him, she moved over to the magazine rack, leaving Angus standing on his own by the books. She might be able to get out of the shop without talking to him. She picked up a chocolate bar and took a pint of milk out of the fridge, wasting time by checking the sell-by date. Angus was at the far side of the shop – he didn't want to be seen with her either: he had pulled his hat down and was facing some posters. Next to him a tidy queue of pensioners waited patiently under a red sign. Suddenly the sign came into focus and she realized that they were in the post office. She moved over to the counter quickly, paid for the chocolate and the milk, shoving the money at the bearded man behind the till, and walked out.

Angus followed her onto the pavement and took hold of her elbow, pulling her round to face him. "They do have a fax machine," he said, looking at her with his eyes half-closed.

"Yeah, and I told you it's broken."

"It didn't have a sign on it or anything."

She thought about the day she went back to the Rainbow, how he had called her Helen and pretended not to know her. He'd recognized her the moment she'd opened the door and handed him the coffee; she could tell he had, but she'd suppressed her discomfort, mistaking it for embarrassment at being forgotten. He'd pretended not to know her when only a few days before he had been creeping around her house in a blood-soaked cagoul, planting footprints and cutting off Douglas's soft bollocks. "Do you need to send a fax?" she said, seeming confused.

"No."

They stood and looked at each other.

"So… what?" said Maureen.

Angus jerked his head away and looked over the bay. "Nothing," he said. "I just… I don't know."

She checked her watch. She had better get him off the street before it kicked in. "I'm sorry, Angus, I don't know what you mean. D'you need to contact someone? There's a phone upstairs if you need an ambulance for Siobhain."

"Okay," he said uncertainly. "That'll be all right, then."

"We're at number six," she said, and walked on. She led him up the steep stairs, not daring to look at the front door on the first landing in case he saw her. She blinked hard, willing Siobhain and Leslie to stay inside. Angus followed her up to the top flat.

She waited until he was standing on the top landing with her before she took the keys out. She positioned herself at an angle to the door, with her back to the wall, as she slid the key in, turned it and waved him into the flat in front of her. Angus stepped back gallantly and gestured for Maureen to go in first. She couldn't insist without arousing his suspicion. She stepped into the pink flowery hallway. Angus followed her in and shut the door carefully, quietly. She heard him slip the button on the lock, sealing them into the flat together. Maureen stepped forward toward the living-room door. Angus was moving behind her, standing too close. She shoved the living-room door open, banging it against the wall in her hurry to get away from him, and a burning wave of heat billowed out into the hall. "Jesus," said Angus, blanching. "What's going on in here?"

"It's very hot," said Maureen.

She walked into the living room as though she were looking for someone.

"Yeah, but why is it so hot?"

"It's the heating. Hello?" she called softly.

"Where's Siobhain?"

"She doesn't seem to be here."

Angus dropped his bag and hat onto the floor and took off his jacket, resting it over his arm. Two dark rings were forming under his arms, he wiped his glistening forehead with his hand.

Maureen looked at him and smiled. He smiled back, slightly confused, panting lightly in the unbearable heat. He rolled his head back a little and gathered himself together slowly, reminding himself that the bag was on the floor. "Maureen," he said, sliding toward her over a mile of carpet, "I like you." He reached for her wrist but she whipped it away from him.

His skin was burning, the heat was trying to escape from his body any way it could, he could feel blood spots bursting on his back, the size of two-pence pieces, bright, red and burning. A lava rush of sweat ran into his left eye. He pulled off his glasses and jerked his arm up to wipe it from his eyelid but something was moving on his shirtsleeve. He looked at it. He was on fire. Tiny jagged flames leaped on his arm, cartoon flames with red eyes and wicked sharp-toothed smiles. He looked more closely. They were real flames, orange at the base with blue tips, like a gas pipe. He tried to breathe in. The hot air dried his throat and mouth, burning his windpipe. His shirt was melting, sticking to his skin. He tried to lie down and roll the fire off but couldn't move properly and fell onto his knees, leaning his head and shoulder heavily against the red wall.

She was pulling his flaming hair, pulling him by his hair, dragging him away somewhere. She clicked a metal bracelet onto his wrist. He was attached to the bed now and pulled as hard as he could but the bed followed him, biting his wrist, making it bleed heat around the bangle.

"I'm on fire," he said tearfully.

She took his jacket and hat and glasses from the floor and put them on a chair. She undid his shoelaces and slipped his shoes off, unzipped his trousers and let them fall down, pulling them out from under his stockinged feet. Riffling through the pockets she found his wallet. She left the money untouched and took anything that could help to identify him – library cards, cashpoint receipts, credit cards. She slipped the Basildon Bond note to McEwan into the wallet and put it in Angus's trouser pocket, folding the trousers and laying them neatly over the chair.

"You know…," he said into his chest, "you've know. "

She carried the portable television in from the living room and put it on the floor, plugged it in and switched it on.

"Where's Siobhain? Why can't I see her?" Tears drizzled down his face. "Let me go?" he said.

"You were Benny's therapist, weren't ye? You blackmailed him about the credit-card thefts. Ye threatened to shop him and ruin his law career."

"Yes. Please stop this."

"Did you get him to plant the knife back in the flat?"

"Yes. Please… make it stop."

"Did he tell you about my cupboard?"

"Yea…" Angus was murmuring nonsense, his head lolling heavily on his chest.

"I want you to know," Maureen said slowly, so that he would remember, "this is for Siobhain and Yvonne and Iona and the others. And this is for Douglas and this is for Martin."

"I don't know who Martin is," he said innocently.

She stood still and looked at him. A little bent man sweating in his underwear. A string of thick saliva fell from the side of his open mouth, landing softly on the front of his shirt.

"Martin is the guy you killed at the Northern."

"The porter."

"Yes, the porter."

Angus raised his head. His eyes were open wide, too, too wide. "You know it!" he shouted, suddenly coherent. His face was red and his voice tight, strangled, as if he was shitting. "That's why the dreams. You said his nail ripped you but he fucked you. You know it. He fuckt you."

She ran two steps forward and head-butted him. She felt more than heard the crack. She stepped back. Blood was running into his open mouth, his nose was swelling rapidly. He drawled, spluttering through the blood, "Fuckt."

She butted him again. He shut his eyes and was suddenly calm. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Yes."

"Am I on fire?"

"Yes, Angus, you're on fire."

Angus gathered his breath and let out a screeching wail. Maureen turned the TV up full and waited for a pause in the screaming. She opened the door and walked downstairs.

Siobhain and Leslie were sitting at the table by the window, eating Ricicles in milk. Behind them the bright sun shone over the bay like a picture postcard and blue and red wooden boats bobbed on the water.

"Hello," said Siobhain. "Where have you been?"

"We have to get out of here right now" said Maureen, and went into the kitchen. She picked up the dishcloth from under the sink and used it to wipe anything in the kitchen that could conceivably have touched the sheet of acid.

Leslie ran into the bedroom and dressed. Siobhain shuffled into the kitchen doorway.

"Why are we in a hurry?"

"Siobhain, do you trust me?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then please, move, get dressed. We need to be out of here in ten minutes."

"You have blood on your forehead," she said, and shuffled away.

Leslie appeared at the kitchen door, panting and zipping up her trousers. She looked terrified. "What do you want me to do?"

"Pack everything," said Maureen. "Leave the place spotless so there aren't any complaints. And leave a tenner on the table for a tip."

"A tip?"

"Goodwill gesture."

"You've got blood on your forehead."