Resolution

Chapter 47

A gentle breeze willowed across Glasgow green. Empty crisp packets traveled around the flat grass like cigarette girls, scuttling between groups of people and static objects, lingering for a moment before cartwheeling off. Leslie, Maureen, Vik and Shan sat on the dry grass among the cigarette ends. Winnie, it seemed, had been drinking since the night before. She had turned up at the court in a black cab, had had a fight with the driver and was sneaking off to the loo for nips between witnesses. When the policeman on the door asked her either to stay in or stay out she told everyone loudly that she had cystitis. Liam had to take her home in a taxi to make sure she didn't try to break back into the public gallery. When Leslie told the story Vik and Shan laughed. They didn't understand that it was a disaster, didn't know about her history or her liver.

"You did well in there," grinned Vik, kicking her leg. "I liked the bit about the plummy twit."

"Yeah," said Shan, nodding seriously. "Good crack."

"When do ye think we'll hear the verdict?" said Maureen.

"Well," said Shan, "the polis on the door said they've got all the summing-up to do so the jury'll retire this afternoon or Monday. There won't be a verdict before Monday."

"We should go," said Maureen to Leslie.

"Should we?" said Leslie, squinting up at her.

"You should have made an arrangement to see him again," said Leslie, when they got round the corner to the parked bike. "He looked a bit upset."

"No, he didn't," said Maureen.

"He did," said Leslie. "You didn't even look at him."

"I did so," said Maureen, struggling into her helmet.

"He's nice, Mauri," said Leslie seriously. "He's a nice guy. He came and sat through that trial for you."

"He wasn't there for me," said Maureen, doing the strap under her chin. "He was there for Shan."

"Was he fuck," said Leslie, pulling on her helmet. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"Estate agent's."

"What for?"

"You'll see."

When they got back to the house the answering machine was winking a message. They left the pots of paint in the hall and went into the kitchen. Maureen made them a cup of coffee while Leslie took a celebratory pineapple cake out of the paper bag and broke it in half. She ate her half like a sandwich, sinking her teeth into the jam and icing center, chewing and smiling to herself. She nodded Maureen to the other half.

"D'ye know, I actually don't like pineapple cake." Leslie spluttered through her mouthful. "How the fuck can ye not like pineapple cake?" she said, guiding a rogue flake of pastry back into her mouth.

Maureen looked at the bright yellow cake, the clear ocher center spilling out onto the white paper bag. "Well," she said, "it doesn't taste of anything and it looks horrible. It's cheap pastry with jam and icing on it."

"A peculiarly Scottish confection," said Leslie pompously, and took another bite.

"Someone once said that all Scottish cuisine is based on a dare," said Maureen.

Leslie opened her eyes wide and nodded keenly, as if such a premise would be a good thing. "Yeah, I've been dying for one of these all day. D'ye not want that other half?"

Maureen looked at it and shook her head. Leslie was pleased.

"I thought you weren't supposed to get cravings until the third trimester?" said Maureen.

Leslie took another bite. "Yeah," she grinned, "but I'll probably never get up the duff again so I might as well milk it from the start. Shouldn't you get your answering machine?"

Maureen walked out to the hall and pressed the button. The message was from Liam and she was embarrassed that Leslie heard it because he sounded so vulnerable. He was phoning to say he was sorry for leaving a weird message last night. Winnie had been drinking and he didn't want Maureen to know, didn't want her to worry. He heard she'd done really well in the court today, even though that wee shit Paulsa had dubbed her up. Winnie was back at the house and asleep now and he thought she'd probably sober up tomorrow. Her liver was in a bad way, Mauri, really… The message trailed off into a sigh and he hung up. She tried phoning him at home but got his answering machine and left a consoling message. She knew he'd be at Winnie's but couldn't bring herself to phone, not tonight.

They moved what was left of the furniture out of the living room into the hall and washed the floor. Leslie gave it a couple of tours with the mop and Maureen followed on her hands and knees with a scourer, getting into the corners. Douglas's blood turned the water brown. As she poured the contents of the first mop bucket down the toilet Maureen said good-bye, good-bye to his sad eyes and his fervent hard-on, good-bye to his melancholy life. Douglas should never have been so sad: he had everything going for him, everyone rooting for him. As she reproached him for wasting what there was of his short life in ungracious dejection she thought about Suicide Tanya and knew that she had everything going for her too.

They left the floor to dry and sat in the kitchen, watching the start of the good Friday night shows on TV. Leslie ran downstairs and came back with a single fish, a haggis smothered in vinegar and a portion of chips. Maureen started eating the fish to avoid being nagged but it was delicious, fresh flaky fish in a sweet crisp batter. She ate some of the chips too.

They finished painting the floor at midnight. Leslie couldn't take the smell and went to sleep at her mum's, promising to come back in the morning to help tidy up. Maureen sat on the settee in the hall, touching the bandages on her stinging forearms, looking into the living room. The floor was pale blue now, a slick of shining, stinking blue, reflecting the lights rolling across the ceiling. The room looked enormous without the bloodstains.

She remembered when she had first bought the flat, standing inside the front door in the dark, afraid to be alone in a house that was hers. She remembered the things left behind by the people who had lived there before her: a cupboard full of empty ginger bottles, a saucer used as an ashtray and a recent copy of Playboy hidden behind a stack of folded boxes. She'd cried that night, knowing this was where things would get really bad because the flashbacks were getting so much worse. She remembered coming out of hospital and turning Beethoven's Fifth up loud on the stereo, smashing the mattress with a tennis racket until her palms were raw and she was exhausted. She remembered sitting out here in the hall, hunkered into a tight little ball, looking at Dead Douglas, trying to think her way to the phone, three feet away. She'd survived all of that and there wasn't a solitary doubt in her mind that she'd live through the aftermath of Michael.