G03 - Resolution (43 page)

“I’m sorry,” said Maureen, irked at being publicly ticked off by someone she neither knew nor worked for. “I’m not a lawyer, I don’t know the rules.”

The judge was not pleased with this. “Then you ought to listen to me when I tell you what they are,” he said, and turned away from her to cut off any further exchanges.

“As I say,” said the smug advocate to the jury, “quite feisty.”

It all felt very unfair. Suddenly from the public gallery came a drawling, angry voice: “Don’t you fuckin’ talk to her like that.”

Oh, God. It was Winnie, choosing this above every other opportunity in her life to lift a drink and stand up for her daughter. Liam caught Maureen’s eye from the public gallery, cringing, helpless to stop it. The bow-tied man gestured to someone. A uniformed policeman stepped out of the shadows at the back of the public gallery and removed Winnie from the court to the tremendous amusement of the back row of the jury box. Liam followed her out, carrying her coat. Maureen tried to smile as if drunken women were a big surprise to her too, but she couldn’t pull it off.

“This is a criminal trial,” said the judge sonorously, looking around the room and addressing everyone. “It will not be allowed to descend into a circus.”

For a moment everyone in the court shuffled in their seats and wondered what sort of rotten circuses the judge had been subjected to as a child.

The advocate gathered himself together, flicking through his papers and taking a loud, deep breath to get everyone’s attention again. “So, you chose to go to the Rainbow Clinic?”

Maureen said yes.

“And you went for how many sessions?”

“Two.”

“And” — he turned away from her, facing Angus — “whom did you see when you were there? Who, in other words, was your doctor at the Rainbow Clinic?”

Maureen pointed at Angus. “Angus Farrell.”

“Can you” — he turned to face her — “point him out to us in this court today?”

The purple and red jurors sniggered audibly. Maureen pointed to Angus again.

“And what was Mr. Farrell like during these sessions?”

Maureen was pleased that she had the chance to say something positive and overcome the impression that she had a grudge. “He was great. He was kind and patient and very helpful.”

The advocate nodded. “He helped you?”

“Very much so.”

The advocate pushed himself off the side rail and headed into the middle of the court. “This is a little delicate, Miss O’Donnell,” he said softly, as if he gave a shit about her, “but could you tell the court the nature of the problem you went to see my client about?”

Maureen cleared her throat carefully. “I was experiencing flashbacks and bad dreams.”

This was not the answer he wanted. He tried again: “Could you tell us what the cause of these symptoms was?”

She didn’t want to tell them. She looked at the giggly jury members, at the table of lawyers and the haughty judge, and knew that not one person in the room gave a flying fuck. If she made a fuss they’d play on it. “I was abused by my father when I was a child and this was the fallout from it,” she said quickly.

The advocate nodded in apparent sympathy. “And Mr. Farrell was patient with you and helped you to get over it?”

She looked at Angus, sitting in the box between the two bored guards. His eyes were half shut, blank but creepy, as if he were about to pounce on her. She looked behind him and saw his ugly family, eating chewy peppermints, passing the roll between themselves. “Yes,” she said, “he did.”

“Did you see him as a father figure?” He waited patiently for her to answer.

“I don’t know what you mean by that.” Her amplified voice rattled around the room.

“Did you see him as a father figure? It’s a term in common usage.”

“I didn’t see him as my father,” she said, knowing full well where he was going with it.

“You didn’t see him as an older man who had helped you,” he said incredulously, looking at the jury, “who perhaps had authority over you?”

“I don’t see my own father that way, so, no, I didn’t see him as a father figure.”

The advocate shuffled his papers. “But he did help you?”

“Yes.”

“So,” the advocate addressed the jury, “he was a good man.”

“He was good at his job,” said Maureen, quickly. “I don’t know what sort of man he was.”

“Miss O’Donnell,” said the judge, losing patience with her, “no more interjections, please.”

“Sorry,” she said, a picture of innocence. “I thought that was a question.”

The judge knew she was lying. “Unaware of the rules of the court you may be, Miss O’Donnell, but you seem to have a natural aptitude,” he said, and the lawyers smiled at what appeared to be a thin judicial joke.

The advocate stepped forward, and continued to question her, making her tell the story of finding Dead Douglas in the front room. He got her to tell how she had written to the Public Registrar for a copy of Douglas’s marriage certificate but wouldn’t let her say that she’d done it because Douglas swore blindly he wasn’t married. And then he asked her questions about Angus, whether he had known that she was seeing Douglas and, if he had, would he have approved? Maureen said she didn’t think he would because she was a patient. The advocate pounced on the comment, suggesting that Angus had tried to split them up and she’d fed him acid because of it. Maureen tried to contradict him and got into trouble again.

“Now, Miss O’Donnell,” the advocate went on, “we have heard evidence about the state Mr. Farrell was in when he was found on the Isle of Cumbrae.” He paused for effect. “We have heard expert witnesses testify to the effect that he was very heavily drugged with lysergic acid diethylamide.”

Maureen nodded.

“LSD,” said the advocate, “to give it its street name.”

It was hardly a street name. The red and purple jurors nudged each other.

“Furthermore,” he continued, “we have, just this morning, heard evidence from Paul Cunningham that you purchased a large quantity of that substance from him before or around the time of the deaths of Mr. Brady and Mr. Donegan. Do you recall such a purchase?”

Maureen pretended to think about it. “No,” she said.

The advocate turned on her. “You don’t recall going to Mr. Cunningham’s flat and buying a large quantity of LSD?”

“No,” she said certainly. “I have bought drugs for recreational use from Paulsa before but I don’t remember buying anything then and I’d never buy a big quantity. If you buy too much at one time and get caught you could be charged with dealing and sent to prison for ages.”

” ‘Paulsa’ being Mr. Cunningham?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Angus Farrell, the man who helped you” — he looked up at her — “has stated that after Mr. Brady’s death you came to visit him in the clinic and gave him a coffee. Mrs. Shirley Evans has also testified to that. It is our contention that the said coffee was heavily laced with LSD.”

The judge intercepted to say something wry and the advocate conceded, looking at his notes.

“No further questions,” he said curtly, and sat down.

The judge looked at his watch pointedly. He asked another lawyer sitting at the table if he would be long. The man said no. He was thin and nervous. The shirt and suit beneath his gown were cheap, and hung less well than the defense advocate’s. He might have been a genius, but the slick, smug lawyer inspired more confidence. He stood up and shambled over to the same spot next to the jury.

“Miss O’Donnell?” His accent sounded less of a distant speck on the social scale. “You said you intended to end your relationship with Mr. Brady?”

Maureen waited to make sure the question was finished. “Yeah.”

“Why were you going to end it?”

“We were both pretty miserable,” she said, “and he’d lied to me about being married.”

The prosecution’s questions dragged on for a bit longer, covering the same ground about Douglas and there being no reason for her to drug Angus and how she liked him, really. The judge started getting pissed off and looking at his watch. Finally, he asked the lawyer if he was going to ask any new questions instead of the old ones over and over and suddenly, after a small discussion between them, Maureen was dismissed.

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.