G03 - Resolution (16 page)

She smelled him before she saw him. Michael was standing there, reeking of cheap lager and stale fags, holding on to the door frame to steady himself. He looked at Winnie’s fading reflection in the window, paused, then swung himself into a seat across the room. His forehead and nose were badly sunburned and he was sweating. “You’re late,” said Winnie. “He called you hours ago.”

“Aye,” he said. “I’m here.” He was slurring heavily and seemed very drunk. Winnie envied him. He reached for his fag packet and took one out.

“Ye can’t smoke in here,” said Winnie, but he ignored her and took his lighter from the other pocket. “Ye can’t smoke in here.” She stood up, stepped towards him and smacked the fag from his mouth. Michael looked startled, as though he had forgotten she was there. “You can’t smoke in a hospital,” she said, backing into her own chair.

“Hospital?” Michael seemed confused and looked to her for confirmation.

“Una,” said Winnie ferociously.

“Una?”

“She’s having her baby.”

“Oh,” he nodded, “Una. That’s right. Una.”

George woke up, rubbing his face and blinking hard. “Yes?” he said automatically.

Michael nodded at him and growled. George looked around the room and smiled, remembering where he was. “Oh, yes,” he said, patting Winnie’s knee excitedly, and settled back for another nap.

Michael spotted the fag on the floor. He leaned forward, picked it up and slipped it back into the packet for later.

Winnie looked at him. He was drunk and confused with a bitter distance in his eyes. His belly hung forlornly over his belt, his scarlet sunburned head was freckled with liver spots and tenuous tufts of hair. He saw her watching him and snarled as he tried to cross his legs. He was too stiff and couldn’t lift his leg high enough — his knees banged off each other. He tried again, swinging his foot on the diagonal, but couldn’t reach his knee. He was wearing nylon trousers, white socks and dirty trainers, all personal dislikes of Winnie’s. She had loved his jaw, she had loved his hair, his dear, dark hair. When they met, Michael was going to write like Hemingway, tell tales of derring-do. He could command the attention of any party with his stories, flatten anyone with a punch and move like no other guy at the dancing. And now he was an unemployable abusive drunk whom no one liked and she, the doll on his arm, was six months sober with thirty years of apologies pending. As Winnie looked at him the years concertinaed and she wondered how they had got from there to here, if there was some sign she should have picked up on, if she should have known. But everybody drank in those days, she told herself, everybody drank.

They heard a scuffle in the corridor and Alistair was at the door, his face smeared with blood and tears, cradling his bleeding thumb as if it were the baby. “Beautiful,” he said, and covered his face to cry.

UNA HELD THE BABY close to her chest and Winnie tried to smile. Please, God, if there is a God, not a girl.

“It’s a girl,” said Una, exhausted and cheated.

“Oh,” said Winnie, grinning as her eyes welled. “Lucky.”

They looked at each other, Una angry, Winnie sorry. Winnie reached out for the child but Una pointedly handed the little bundle to Michael, who had staggered in at her back, elbowing in front of George. They could all smell the drink off him. He reached out for the newborn, hands trembling. Concerned, the midwife stood at Michael’s back, ready to catch the baby if he fell. Michael cradled her in one arm and poked a nicotine-stained finger at a nose that had been used for forty breaths. The baby sneezed twice.

“Have ye decided on a name?” asked Winnie, letting the insult go.

Una bristled, straightening the sheets. “I’m going to call her Maureen,” she said. “I like the name.”

Alistair frowned at her. “You can’t do that,” he said. “There’s already a Maureen in the family.”

“Not anymore, there isn’t,” said Una firmly.

Michael blinked slowly and looked at the baby. “Hello, Maureen,” he said.

They sat on their canvas seats at the stall and stared at each other, passing a monosyllabic morning. Maureen guessed from the paucity of chat that Leslie had repledged her troth to Cammy the Wanker over the weekend. She didn’t want to tell Leslie about Si McGee or Ella’s death. She wanted to keep it to herself and let it fester.

It was Monday, Liam’s night for getting paid. Traditionally, Leslie came home with Maureen, and after they’d paid pecuniary homage to Liam, they sat and drank together and fantasized about what they’d do with all the money if it was extra, if Leslie didn’t have rent and her mum to sub, and Maureen didn’t have debts. Maureen would pretend to hanker after foreign destinations, spending a week in the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, hanging out in Berlin and going to the Kathe Kollwitz museum. Leslie would pretend to want a big bike or a car. They sounded grander than a house full of whiskey and new shoes, more unobtainable, as if they had big plans, foiled by circumstances. In truth, neither of them wanted the big stuff— they both wanted peace and to keep working at the market and having a laugh together until the tunnel damp crept under their skin and gave them arthritis. They wanted to keep this time going forever but they both knew, each for her own reasons, that it couldn’t last.

Leslie was working her way round to not coming over tonight, Maureen could feel it, and she wanted her to stay away. She couldn’t listen to another shoddy rationale for Cammy turning out to be a good guy after all. Besides, she had plans.

“God, my head’s getting really bad,” said Leslie, rubbing her forehead and frowning in a manner that demanded sympathy.

Leslie was a terrible liar: she could say the words but her face just looked angry, as if she was furious at the indignity of having to stoop to subterfuge. “Maybe you should stay in tonight,” said Maureen, hoping to cut short the angry fiasco.

“No,” said Leslie, dropping her fag and squashing it out with a twist of her shoe. “I said I’ll come to see Liam and I’ll come.”

Maureen knew she should reciprocate, act angry herself so they could have a fight and then make peace tomorrow when Leslie’d had her way, but she didn’t have the emotional reserves. “You never said you’d come to see Liam,” she said calmly.

“He’ll be expecting me,” said Leslie stiffly.

“Well, whatever. Do what ye want.” Maureen stood up and went to the loo.

When she got back Leslie was in reconciliatory mood. “I’ll come,” she said, as though Maureen had insisted.

Maureen took a deep breath. “Leslie, I can read everything that’s going on, now stop it.”

She saw a glint of recognition behind Leslie’s eyes and then the curtain came down. “I don’t fucking know what you’re talking about,” she said, and stormed off with the key to the toilet.

Maureen sat chewing her nails and watching the traffic in the tunnel. She shouldn’t have to put up with this crap. If Leslie wasn’t so ashamed of taking Cammy back she wouldn’t be angry but it was hardly Maureen’s fault.

“Are yees having a fight?” asked Peter, calling over the heads of some customers. Maureen rolled her eyes. “She’s some kid, eh?” smiled Peter.

“Aye,” muttered Maureen. “Some kid right enough.”

Ten minutes later Leslie came back with a diffident, hurt attitude. “Maybe I should just leave it tonight, if you’re going to be in this mood,” she said.

It rankled, but Maureen agreed.

“Are ye fighting with her now, Leslie?” shouted Peter. “Ye like the fights, don’t ye?”

Leslie shot Maureen a disgusted look. “Ye had to fucking tell him, didn’t ye?”

Kilty was walking up the hill as they drew up to the pavement. She’d come straight from work, was wearing clam diggers, a vest and big mad trainers with red lights in the heels, which flashed when she walked. She saw them driving up and waved, trotted up to the van window and hung in. “All right, Leslie? You shot of that nippy prick Cammy yet?”

Leslie’s lips withered and she stared straight ahead. Tammy’s fine, thanks,” she said sarcastically.

Kilty slapped her arm. “Come on, chuck him and we’ll all go out on the pull. Did Mauri tell you about her lumber the other night?”

Leslie looked at Maureen as if she’d been unfaithful.

“Vik.” Maureen was unable to sustain misery in Kilty’s company. “Are ye sure ye won’t come up?”

“No,” said Leslie, double huffy because she felt usurped by Kilty.

“Ah, come on.” Kilty tried to drag her through the open window by her arm, putting a foot flat on the door by way of leverage.

Leslie almost smiled. “No, I’m not feeling well and I should go home.”

“You pull,” said Maureen to Kilty, “and I’ll push.”

Maureen tucked her hands under Leslie’s legs and Kilty tugged at her arm. Leslie’s face erupted into a wonky, reluctant grin. “Fuck off, no, stop.”

Maureen climbed out of the van and tumbled round to Kilty’s side.

“Chuck him, chuck him, chuck him,” chanted Kilty, banging her fists on an imaginary table. “Look how miserable you are.” She pressed her fingers on Leslie’s cheek and flicked her face away. “Get on with your life, lovely woman. Ye’re coming to the wedding?”

Leslie shook her face free of Kilty’s hand and let the van roll down the hill to the lights.

“She is coming?”

“Aye,” said Maureen. “We’re all coming.”

Kilty’s brother was getting married in two days’ time. Predictably it was to be a huge affair, a thirty-grand extravaganza, with a reception in Cameron House, a castle hotel on the banks of Loch Lomond. The venue presupposed a car. Kilty didn’t know her brother’s friends and had insisted on bringing Liam, Leslie and Maureen. Maureen knew that part of the reason Kilty liked being seen with them was because they inspired shock and disappointment when introduced.

Maureen and Kilty sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee while they counted out the coins and notes from the week into freezer bags of fifty quid. Maureen wanted a whiskey but knew Kilty would object. She didn’t approve of Maureen’s drinking and had sat her down the previous spring and suggested she get help for it. Having worked in a detox unit in London for a while, Kilty was a bit overcautious. Given a choice between giving up drinking or disguising it in front of Kilty, Maureen opted for the latter.

As they counted, Maureen told her the story of Ella and the small-claims case, about the hospital and Ella crouched on the crossbar and the way Si was with her. As she told the story she felt the familiar heat in her belly and the tension in her neck. She liked it.

“So,” said Kilty, sweeping a pile of pound coins into a plastic bag, “what makes you think the son did it?”

‘Cause she was so scared of him, she said, ‘Get me out.’ He was really creepy and she said she’d had a fall and he told the police she’d been mugged. And then suddenly she’s dead.”

Kilty looked unconvinced. “Is it any of your business?”

“No,” said Maureen, trying to remember why she suspected Si, “but it’s weird, isn’t it? She wouldn’t speak when her son was there and he watched her all the time. Like, on Saturday, he really didn’t want me to be left alone with her and even when I was changing her into a nightie he left the door open a bit.”

“Kinky,” said Kilty, tapping a sheaf of fivers into a tidy bundle.

“The guy in the morgue said she’d died of a heart attack.”

“But you don’t think she did.”

“I don’t know,” said Maureen. “If she did, it was because she was terrified.”

“Could the son have bribed them to say that she died of a heart attack?”

“Nah,” said Maureen, wondering if Kilty was getting her to talk herself out of it. “ltd cost a right few bob to get them to change the cause of death on a certificate, wouldn’t it? He’d need to bribe doctors and everything. He didn’t look that well heeled to me.”

“What if he just bribed the guy in the morgue to say it to you? D’you think he’d know you’d come back to visit and ask about it?”

“Yeah.” Maureen thought of the poly-bag with the nighties and the soap in it. “He knew I’d be back.”

‘Cause if the police think she was mugged and died of her injuries they’ll be looking for a murderer. Do you think it could get a bit heavy?”

Maureen hesitated. She didn’t know. “Well,” she said sourly, “are ye not going to come with me, then?”

Kilty sat up and looked at her. “Keep your fucking hair on,” she shouted, breaking into a grin. “Drama, drama, drama.”

“How could we find out the cause of death?”

“Dunno,” muttered Kilty. “Ask her doctors?”

“I don’t know the doctors.”

They went back to the count, filling Liam’s bags with notes because he had other people to collect from. Maureen took most of the smash for herself, because it was going in the cupboard and she didn’t need to carry it anywhere. There were six bags each for Maureen and Leslie.

At seven o’clock exactly Liam knocked at the door and Kilty went to let him in. “All right, Kilty?” he said, coming down the hall with a fag in his hand. “How are ye?”

He looked pissed off and tired, and Maureen guessed he was nervous about his resit the next day. He had three people to visit before he came to her and they weren’t always as cooperative as she was. “You all right, Liam?” she asked.

“That fucking wee arse up in Springburn wasn’t in.”

“He’s done that before.”

“Well, he won’t be doing it again. I’m not supplying him anymore.”

“All set for your exam tomorrow?”

Liam flushed and looked nauseous. “Don’t even talk about it. Have you seen this one?”

He handed her a Sunday newspaper from the day before. On page five it carried a double-page story detailing Maureen’s breakdown and her stay in hospital. It had a whole lot of rubbish about how she’d met Douglas when she was still in there and had fallen madly in love with him. In the accompanying photograph, taken after a bad fight during a family dinner, Maureen was arm in arm with their oldest sister, Marie. Marie was beaming and pretty, wearing a beautifully cut scarlet dress. Next to her, Maureen looked sulky and rude. It was taken during the good times for Marie, before she and her husband had become Lloyds Names and gone bankrupt, before her husband left her and went off to farm wheat in the Ukraine. “This is unmitigated crap,” she said. “Why’s Marie in this picture? She should sue them.”