G03 - Resolution (9 page)

“Aye,” said Angus.

“Ye not eating your lunch?”

“Not hungry.”

The guard hesitated. “Well, look, leave it down,” he said, gesturing to the bed, “and I’ll give it in to Hungry George down the row.”

Angus turned and placed the tray on the bed. They would be in here when he was away, searching. He was glad he’d taken the pill the night before. They wouldn’t find anything in his room. He stood up again and the guard stepped away from the door, let him pass. They walked the length of the corridor, passing door after door, hearing men strain to shit or talking to themselves. The warmth in the corridor heightened the acrid smells of unwashed men, of feces and piss, and the flashing pain behind Angus’s eyes made him flinch again. Davie, the trustee, looked at his feet as he rolled the trolley by and banged on the next door, calling for the trays back.

The strip-lights and high whir of the cameras burrowed behind his eyes and he leaned forward to make it worse so that when he sat up it would feel like a relief. The pain started to recede, to feel like a flashback to pain from another time, pain from Maureen O’Donnell. In his mind, Angus looked around the little room in Millport: twin beds with matching covers, a sink in the corner and the terrible heat, his hand cuffed to the bed and his legs bare, trousers somewhere else, Maureen O’Donnell standing in front of him, her outline watery through the hot air. He told her she’d been having the dreams because her father had raped her and she’d head-butted him, breaking his nose. He liked making her do that to him. He smiled to himself and sat up slowly, folding his hands in his lap as he looked around the waiting room. Maureen’s pale blue eyes, livid and angry, panic at the edges, hoping to God that he was wrong about her father.

He imagined a courtroom. A witness box with Maureen in it, dressed in cheap clothes — she always wore cheap clothes. Hair tidied, some makeup on. If he was near to her he would smell cigarettes from her clothes, smell her shampoo, see her never-quite-clean fingernails. No — he rewound — he’d be across the room. They’d put the witness box far from the dock. A witness box with Maureen in it, dressed in cheap clothes, she always wore cheap clothes. He’d look at her, let his eyes fall to her tits, and she’d get that look again, panic at the edges of her pale blue eyes.

He had written to Maureen from hospital, when he first came out of the acid haze. A volley of letters, nonsensical notes that only she would understand about her father and the bleeding. He liked to imagine her getting each letter and opening it, reading it, and her first reaction, avoiding the letter during the day and rereading it at night, reviving the revulsion. He had sent the letters through the official post. They couldn’t stop him writing to her because she wasn’t part of his case and she wouldn’t complain: he’d mentioned Millport often enough to make it tricky for her. He’d known all along that the hospital censor read the mail and would have notified the police. They’d have traced the letters to Maureen, and her reluctance to hand them over would only serve to convince them that he was sincere.

He looked around the waiting room. The guard next to him was yawning repeatedly because the room was airless. Angus closed his eyes. A witness box with Maureen in it, dressed in cheap clothes, she always wore cheap clothes. Hair tidied, some makeup on. She’d have to point him out, have to look at him. He imagined her being calm and denying giving him the acid-laced coffee. She was a bad witness, had a history of mental illness, a problem with authority, but she could be quite together sometimes. She had a university degree and a pleasant manner. He remembered her coming into his office, smiling for him, asking after him in her heavy, smoky voice, her dark ringlet hair falling over her face. Angus opened his eyes. She couldn’t be like that at the trial. She couldn’t be credible at his trial. None of it would work if she was.

Grace sat at the table and talked through the details he had gleaned from the police statements. Times and places, Maureen’s known movements and when she came to the clinic. “She’s got to be a rotten witness,” said Angus. “She’s got a history of hospitalization, and I’m a trained psychologist.”

Grace looked up at him. The fringe of hair fell back over his ears. “We want to avoid bringing evidence about her personal reputation if we can.”

“Why?”

“Because if we do that,” said Grace quietly, “then they can bring evidence about your reputation.”

Angus shrugged nonchalantly. “So?”

“They’ll bring evidence about the rape allegations at the Northern Psychiatric Hospital,” said Grace. Just for a moment Angus saw a shiver in his eyes, saw what he really thought about him. “You realize, Mr. Farrell, that if this case fails they’ll be bringing a rape case against you?”

Angus frowned, as if he hadn’t known that, as if he hadn’t orchestrated the whole play himself. “That’s a ludicrous allegation,” he said nervously. “The Northern hospital rapes were nearly a decade ago now. Certainly I worked there but that doesn’t make me guilty. They can’t have any witnesses.”

“They do have one witness,” said Grace softly.

Angus drummed his nails on the table. He looked at Grace and laughed abruptly. “Do you know what I’m really worried about?”

Grace shook his head.

“I’m worried about what I’m going to wear.” He snorted. “My mum’s got my suit in the dry cleaner’s. I haven’t got any phone calls left to tell her to get it out and bring it.”

“Well,” said Grace, reaching into his inside pocket, “that’s one problem I can alleviate.” He pulled out a mobile phone and flicked it open. Angus watched him hand it over the table and he smiled. He knew the number by heart, tapped it in and grinned up at Grace as he listened to it ring, pressing it tight to his ear so that Grace couldn’t hear it. It rang twice. “Mum, it’s me—you know my suit and shirt and things?” he said to the ringing, pausing for breath as the operator picked up and asked him for his message. “Send them now.”

“Is that all, sir?” asked the operator.

Angus hung up. “Left a message on her pager,” he said, knowing Grace might get an itemized bill and check the call. He handed back the phone. “Thanks for that, you’ve really helped me.”

The Albert Hospital was a blackened Victorian monstrosity. It stood alone at the head of the town, dwarfing the squat medieval cathedral. Eight stories high, the sheer facade had suffered attempts at ornamentation but the pilasters and banding on the brick were as effective as false eyelashes on an elephant. Maureen had been here many times, first on her regular visits to see Louisa, the psychiatrist to whom Angus had referred her, then one last time to see her school friend Benny after Liam broke his jaw.

Ducking across the busy slip road from the motorway, Maureen waited at the lights. The warm sun and the exhaust fumes formed a gritty haze over the road, catching on her chest. Above her, overlooking the road, wards ended in long balconies furnished with seats for the smokers who were too sick to get downstairs to a designated area.

The reception area was an open two-story space with a mezzanine and a newsagent’s and flower stall near the door. She bought a bunch of big, tired daisies padded out with ferns, and followed the signs for Ward G. The lift doors slid back and Maureen stepped in. An elderly man in a felt cap and summer jacket was taking charge of the controls and asked her which floor, pressed the button with a flourish and smiled at her when the doors closed.

Down a number of corridors with polished lino floors and muted echoes, Maureen finally found Ward G. It consisted of a long room with ten beds on either side and three separate rooms for jumpy trauma victims. High windows trapped the warm, fetid air. At the head of the big room, just before the corridor entrance, a small room served as the nurses’ station. A young male nurse with a naval beard was sitting at the desk looking depressed and tired. He didn’t stand up but swiveled towards her on his chair and hung his head lethargically to the side when Maureen asked after Ella. Apparently, she had contusions to both eyes, a broken thigh and bruising to her arms. He pointed her through to one of the private rooms off the ward. “Her son’s already here,” he said.

Ella was propped up against some pillows but seemed to have slipped down the bed. Her eyes were a terrifying red mess of burst vessels, clashing with the blue irises. The left side of her face was black and green and her eyebrows were missing, making her forehead look bald and barren. The sheet, pulled up to her chin, had somehow slipped over her mouth. Under the blankets a small tent held it away from her legs. Her right hand lay on top of the covers, a clear plastic tube taped to the back, a small plaster cupping the flesh between her thumb and forefinger where the bandage had been.

In front of her sat a middle-aged man, dressed in blue slacks and a pale blue shirt. He turned to look at her and Maureen could see traces of Ella everywhere, in the thin lips, the gold-rimmed glasses and the small blue eyes, but Ella’s son was not a bonny boy. His eyes were slightly splayed, not enough to constitute a squint but enough to be disconcerting. His chin was so weak it looked as if he was recoiling from the world in disgust. He was not pleased to meet Maureen. He looked her up and down, hiding his resentment behind heavy hooded eyes.

The atmosphere between mother and son was strained and shocked, as if Ella had just revealed the truth about crop circles and he had countered with pictures of Elvis working as an interpreter at the UN.

“Hiya, Ella,” said Maureen, pretending not to notice the peculiar atmosphere. “We were all worried about ye at the market so I was sent up to see ye.”

From her reclining position Ella nodded faintly, making the sheet slip off her mouth and shoulder. She was wearing a blue paper nightdress.

“I brought ye these flowers but I can see we’ve been outdone.” Maureen gestured at the bedside cabinet and a big bunch of long-stem red roses hanging wildly out of a short vase. The man smiled a little, his lips sliding open over his teeth, his eyes remaining static as he wondered who the hell she was. Ella looked down at the tent blanket over her feet.

“How are ye feeling?” said Maureen.

Ella looked at Si for a moment and he leaned forward, giving her a light slap on her elbow. “You can speak,” he said disdainfully. “Go on, answer her.” His accent was middle class and he smiled an apology for his ignorant old mother at Maureen.

Maureen felt her gorge rise. “I’m Maureen from Paddy’s,” she said, and shoved out her hand.

He stood up and shook it. His palm was damp and she had the impression that he didn’t want to shake hands or introduce himself but courtesy compelled him. “Si McGee,” he said quickly. “She’s been very quiet today. Maybe you should come back tomorrow.”

Ella looked up at her with startled red eyes and Maureen pulled over a chair. “Aye, well, I’m here now.” She set the chair upstream of Si and sat down. “What’s the food like here?” she asked, for something to say.

Ella seemed to shrink under the sheet a little.

Maureen tried again. “What happened to get you in this state, then?”

Ella wasn’t about to answer. Maureen turned to Si. “She fell over in the house,” he said, annoyed that she was still here, “and hurt herself.”

Maureen looked to Ella for confirmation but she wasn’t talking. Behind the bloody eyes she looked absent and afraid. If Ella had fallen she would have had to land on both eyes and on the side of her head as well. Barring the possibility of a bizarre trampolining incident, Ella’s injuries hadn’t been caused by a fall. “Is she on medication? “

“Aye, painkillers,” said Si, adding unnecessarily, “for the pain.”

Maureen nodded as though she were a surgeon and understood. She turned back to Ella. “Can I bring ye anything up? D’ye want rollers for your hair or anything?”

Ella’s eyes didn’t move. She was staring over Maureen’s shoulder at her son.

Maureen patted her hand and promised to come up again the next day. When she stood up and bent forward to move the chair back behind her, she could see the bottom half of Si’s face. His mouth was a wizened line. She stood up quickly to catch him, but he anticipated her and took her hand in both of his, squeezing a little too hard as he pumped it and thanked her for coming. “I’ll get you out,” he said.

“No, it’s all right,” said Maureen. “I know the way.”

“I’m leaving anyway.” He stood up and smiled at her, trying to seem friendly. “I’ve got the car outside. I’ll drive you home, if you like.”

Maureen glanced at Ella but Ella was staring at her son. “Thanks, but I’m fine, someone’s picking me up.”

Si smiled with cold eyes. “It’s no trouble,” he said. “I’d like to.”

“No, someone’s picking me up.”

In the lift Si kept catching her eye and trying to smile. “Where is it you stay?” he said, sliding along the metal wall towards her.

Maureen slid along the wall in the opposite direction, distancing herself. She didn’t want to tell him anything about herself. “West End,” she lied.

“That figures,” he said. “Trendy wee thing like you.”

Maureen looked him in the eye and thought what an arsehole he was. She didn’t like creepy strangers trying to flirt with her. It felt like a grotesquely intimate intrusion.

“I bet you’ve got a lot of boyfriends.”

She could happily have hit him then but the lift reached the ground floor and the doors opened. She stepped back to let him go first but Si misunderstood and, thinking she was flirting back, insisted that she go first.

“Is it a boyfriend who’s picking you up?” he said, catching up with her at the door.

“It’s my brother,” she said firmly.

Despite her hearty protestations Si insisted on waiting with her outside the gates until Liam turned up in his Triumph Herald. “What an unusual car,” he said, as Maureen walked away.

Liam’s triumph herald had a soft top, and a back end so rusted that it looked as if it might snap off in a brisk wind. It had been bought as camouflage during his days as a dealer because no one would suspect the driver of being anything but a mug. As Maureen brought the cigarette to her mouth, the wind blew live ash into her hair and she heard the tiny crackle of hairs burning, smelled a whiff of sulfur.