G03 - Resolution (28 page)

Doyle’s glance fell to the table and the open newspaper. “What’s this?” he said, tapping the picture of Maureen O’Donnell with a finger.

Bewildered, Si looked up. “Oh, her.” He saw Doyle looking at it intently. “Do you know her?”

“She works in Paddy’s,” Doyle said, his face impassive. “I’ve bought fags from her.”

Margaret slithered over to the desk and picked up the paper. “She’s trouble. We need someone to sort it out. D’you know anyone?”

Doyle scratched at a raw patch on his cheek and Tonsa looked away. “It’ll cost ye,” he said.

“Much?”

“Ten.”

Si frowned at the bag. “Ten’s a lot.” But he knew he had thirty thousand in clean notes in the bag and was due the same again in a month’s time.

“Ten’s what it takes to get it done right,” Doyle said. He picked up the paper and looked at the picture of Maureen’s close.

Si knew how important Doyle was to Adams. One word from Doyle and they’d be gone. He would be the best person to deal with O’Donnell. It was just a question of convincing Margaret.

Doyle shut the paper and put it down on the desk. “Forget it.” He was at the fire exit, his hand pressing down on the bar, when Margaret spoke. “Wait.”

A mile away, standing in a dark lane, Mark Doyle folded the newspaper and tucked it under the lid of a dustbin. She was his only remaining link with Pauline and no fucker was going to touch her.

It was Friday night, they had two bottles of spirits and fifteen hundred cigarettes, but they were still miserable. Kilty was sad for the Candys. Leslie had started a course of antibiotics and couldn’t drink, which made her fractious. Maureen had to decide what to do about Michael within the next two days and last night outside Una’s had made her think that all she could do was give up. The three women sat next to one another on the settee watching the Friday night comedy shows on television, instinctively letting off sickly smiles in time to the laughter tracks. It was an airless night and sweat trickled down their necks and foreheads. They kept having to stand up and peel their T-shirts from their backs. On the screen some pals had a group hug and the adverts came on.

“The Life of the Candys,” said Kilty. “What must it be like?”

“Ye know,” said Leslie, sipping her cranberry juice, “a huge number of them have been abused as children.”

“Really?” said Maureen.

“Yeah,” said Leslie. “Massive correlation. Same as rent-boys.”

“Why do men do it?” said Kilty. “How could anyone get horny enough to touch Candy I?”

“It’s not about being horny,” said Leslie. “If it was about uncontrollable male sexuality the men would all be adolescent boys. They’re men in their twenties and thirties and most of them are married anyway.”

“Are they married?” said Kilty, most surprised.

“Yeah, a good proportion.”

Kilty sank into the sofa. “God, that’s really creepy.”

“Those poor women,” said Leslie. “It’s sexual oppression, it’s straightforward. Same the world over.”

Maureen shrugged. “I don’t think so. I mean, it’s a shit job and ye’d hate to do it yourself, but miners get paid danger money and work in horrible conditions that damage their bodies. They do it because there’s a local custom of thinking that’s an acceptable way to make a living and all those conditions apply to prostitutes.”

“They’re not prostitutes, Maureen,” said Leslie. “They’re prostituted women.”

Maureen tutted at her and wished Leslie’d have a drink.

“Oof,” said Kilty, forcing fake cheer. “That’s depressing, isn’t it?”

Maureen could tell by Kilty’s resolutely upbeat tone that she was here to gee her along. The introductory music to the next program started and they settled back, watching and laughing. The second half of the program came on and they watched a beautiful couple in a perfect house get on, fall out and make up.

“He’s gay, that guy,” said Kilty absently, pressing out her cigarette and folding it over itself in the ashtray.

Leslie sat forward before the final tagline. “Cammy’s asking me for deposit money to get his own flat,” she said suddenly.

Kilty looked horrified. “Hen,” she said sternly, “he’s a fucking chancer. Stay away from that guy.”

“I’m gonnae, I’m gonnae,” said Leslie, so emphatically that neither of them believed her. “I’m just trying to talk about all the things I’ve been keeping to myself.”

“Will we go and find the missing Candy tomorrow?” said Maureen. “We could go and ask at the Wayfarers’ Club, see if they know who she is.”

Leslie and Kilty stared at the television for a minute. Kilty coughed and sat forward. “D’ye think they’ll know who you’re talking about, though?”

“Yeah,” said Maureen. “If she was God-bothering she’ll probably have told everyone what Jesus saved her from.”

It was a dark night and their lineup on the settee was perfectly reflected in the window: three women squashed together on a sofa, holding drinks, with ashtrays, fags and lighters balanced where they could be. Leslie looked at the reflection, watching her pals staring at the flickering television. “What do you suppose other young women do with their Friday nights?” she said.

They all looked at one another.

“Well,” said Kilty, “I suppose they go out dancing or something.”

Maureen said nothing and raised her eyebrows.

“Should we go dancing?” said Leslie.

“Fuck off,” Maureen replied.

Outside the window, in the sprawling city beyond, every person under thirty simultaneously wondered what everyone else of their age was doing and whether they were having a better time.

They settled back to watch the next show and Maureen noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Kilty and Leslie nodding to each other, making wordless plans.

“Mauri?” said Leslie, when the ads came back on. “Kilty and I have been talking.”

“Good for you,” said Maureen, pretending to be mesmerized by the terms of a new credit card.

“And we want to talk to you about something …”

She stared at the television, hoping she could stall them by simply not answering.

“Mauri,” said Leslie, “you’re drinking way too much. We both think you should have a look at your drinking pattern.”

Bitches. Fucking bitches. Of all the things they might have said to her, Maureen felt that this was the lowest subject they could have brought up. The drink was the only fucking thing that was standing between her and howling, self-harming madness. She thought of Winnie’s defensive fury when anyone challenged her drinking and stopped herself saying what she thought.

” ‘Kay.”

“Why were you steaming at half twelve in the morning the other day?” asked Leslie.

“I got up late,” Maureen said, and tried to smile.

Kilty patted her leg like a patronizing shit. “Will you look at your drinking?”

Maureen wanted to shout at them that, fuck it, they drank too, and she’d seen both of them match her drink for drink, but she hadn’t ever seen Kilty do that and Leslie hadn’t managed it for a long time.

“Will you cut down?” asked Kilty.

“This is a bad time,” she spluttered, “with the trial and the baby and now Ella dying. I just don’t think this is the time to do it.”

“It is a bad time,” Kilty acknowledged, and Leslie hummed in agreement.

“I can’t even think about it right now.” Maureen sat back. “I’ll think about it after I’ve sorted out this Ella thing.”

“Mauri,” said Kilty softly, “leave it. The woman died of a heart attack. Her kids are horrible and they probably worried her to death but there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“He killed her,” said Maureen, “and she asked me to get her out.” They’d obviously talked about this at some length, behind her back, on the phone, and neither of them had even fucking mentioned it to her.

“Mauri,” said Kilty. “It’s a distraction. You know it is. Neither of us is asking you to stop drinking right now—”

“You have to want to stop,” interrupted Leslie.

“Yeah,” said Kilty. “Ye have to want to.”

The suggestion that Maureen should stop drinking altogether made her feel sick. She might have humored them and considered cutting down but stopping altogether sounded like dying. “I’m not that bad,” she said weakly.

“No, Mauri,” said Leslie. “You are that bad.”

They sat in silence for a minute, Kilty and Leslie feeling uncomfortable and unkind while Maureen fumed.

Kilty leaned forward. “Can you even—”

“Could you stop forever?” shouted Maureen at Leslie. “You’re just being sanctimonious because you’re on fucking antibiotics.”

Leslie held up her hand, telling Maureen to back off. They sat back and watched some television, waiting for the ads, each planning what they were going to say when the break came. The little square appeared at the corner of the screen, warning them that it was coming. They sat through the first ad, each waiting for the others to start first, and Maureen stood up. “I’m going for a piss, if that’s all right with both of you,” she said.

Leslie stood up to meet her, pointing in her face. “You’ve just been for a fucking piss,” she shouted.

A sharp banging on the door made them all jump. Maureen thought it might be the SAS branch of AA and Leslie thought it might be Cammy.

“Did you order pizza?” said Kilty to no one in particular.

The banging started again and didn’t sound friendly.

“I don’t think that’s a pizza,” whispered Leslie.

They got up and tiptoed out to the hall, taking turns to look out through the spy hole.

Maureen looked last. Two familiar policemen from Stewart Street station were standing in the sharp white halogen light of the close. Inness was a snide, unsophisticated toady with a gay biker mustache. His young companion, Something McMummb, was a skinny, shy guy who spoke so quietly that although Maureen had met him many times, she’d never managed to catch his name. Inness sneered at Something so smugly that he looked nervous. Trying to keep Leslie and Kilty out of it, Maureen opened the door just a little, as if she had a crowd of nosy puppies behind it.

“Hello, Miss O’Donnell,” said Inness.

Back in the living room an ice cube cracked loudly in a glass of whiskey.

“Tell me what this is about,” she said, “or I’m closing the door.”

The policemen looked at each other and hid smiles. “We’re here to get an assurance from you that you’ll be in court on Wednesday morning.”

“I thought it was Monday.”

“It’s changed to Wednesday now,” said Inness.

“I’ll be there,” she said, and went to shut the door, but Inness had stuck his foot in the way and pressed it open again.

“You sure?”

Maureen rolled her eyes. “I’ll be there, okay?”

“Have you changed your mind?” asked Inness. “The guy who served the citation said you weren’t going to cooperate.”

“Yeah, I decided to stop being frightened when I found out I’d be going to jail if I didn’t.”

Inness smirked at Something again and Leslie yanked the door open. “Are you two having an affair?” she said. “Why d’ye keep looking at each other?”

“Yeah,” said Kilty, still angry from the argument. “Have ye got no fucking manners at all?”

Inness pointed at her. “Don’t you swear at me or I’ll have you for breach.”

“Yeah?” said Kilty. “Well, fuck you.”

Suddenly, Something McMummb reached into the hall to grab her by the arm but she skipped backwards and Leslie stood in front of her. “Stop it,” said Leslie.

McMummb didn’t like her tone. “We could take any one of you in,” he muttered angrily.

“For what?” demanded Kilty.

“Breach of the peace.”

“Breach of the peace?” shouted Kilty. “We’re standing in our own hallway taking shit from you bastards —”

Leslie put an arm over Kilty and pushed her back into the hall. “Thank you for coming this evening,” she said calmly. “Miss O’Donnell will be at court on Wednesday morning.”

But the policemen were not to be placated. They had come to take someone in and spend the rest of their shift sitting in an office drinking tea and filling in forms.

“You,” said Inness, reaching into the hall to grab Kilty.

A sudden loud crack rent the air and Jim Maliano was standing in the close, his chest puffed out like an improbable superhero. He was wearing a blue shirt tucked tightly into his pink slacks. “Enough,” he declared, tapping a small notebook with a specially sharpened pencil and pointing at the policemen individually. “The both of you have been up here before, causing trouble at this house. I have already been on the phone to your station. That’s four times altogether I’ve done that and they assured me that the matter will be dealt with forthwith”

The policemen were smirking again but not as confidently now. They backed away from Maureen’s door and turned on Jim Maliano. “And what is your name, sir?”

“My name,” said Jim, pink and tremulous, “is James Maliano. My cousin is Detective Inspector Nicolas Farquharson of the Midlothian Police and he will be advising me how best to pursue my complaint against the lot of you at Stewart Street.”

No longer confident that Jim could be bullied, they looked at each other. Something shrugged and hesitated before dropping an uncertain foot to the first step. Inness dipped his head, reluctant to give in, but his companion nodded him away.

“You,” said Inness, pointing at Maureen, “be there.”

He backed down the first two steps and Kilty stuck her head out of the door. “Bye-ya,” she said, in a girlish falsetto.

The policemen glared at them.

“See ye later,” sang Kilty. “Take care, now.”

Jim Maliano was glaring at Maureen, and she wondered how she could possibly have suspected the officious little twit of being in league with Angus. “I have warned you,” said Jim, “about the noise level in this close.”

“Sorry, Jim,” she said, backing into her hall. “Sorry about all of it.”

Back in the living room they settled uneasily into their respective places on the settee but it didn’t seem as cozy now, as if the visit had burst the boundaries of their evening, letting the big scary world seep into the house.

“Would they have jailed ye?” asked Leslie quietly.

“Yeah,” said Maureen, holding her cold fingertips to her burning eyes.