G03 - Resolution (44 page)

It was one o’clock in the afternoon when maureen looked at her watch. She had slept for ten hours and couldn’t bring herself to get out of bed. She could tell it was a cloudy day from the gray light peeping in through the curtains and she was glad. The flat was full of the new-beginning smell of paint from the front room. When she got up to go to the toilet and climbed over the settee in the hall she was amazed at how different the living room looked. She checked that the floor was dry before walking into the middle of it. It was as if Dead Douglas had never been here, like the room she had known before he died.

She had a bath and soaked the bandages on her arms before peeling them off. The bit of glass stuck under the skin was aching and when she pressed on it yellow pus came out, but the other cuts were healing nicely. By the time Leslie knocked on the door she was dressed and sipping coffee on the settee in the hall. She reached over and unlocked the door. Leslie climbed across the back of the settee and looked in at the living room.

“Fucking hell,” she said, reaching into her bag, “that’s the business. Here, I brought ye a present.”

It was wrapped in pink tissue and when she pulled it back she saw that it was a half bottle of Glenfiddich in a fancy presentation tin. “I only got the half bottle ‘cause I know you’re a bit of an alkie.”

Maureen grinned up at her, opened the tin and pulled the bottle out. “What’s this for?” she said, peeling the metal seal back.

“No.” Leslie grabbed the bottle and put it back in the tin. “It’s for Monday or Tuesday, when the verdict comes in.”

It seemed a cruel gesture to Maureen, to hand her lovely whiskey and tell her not to drink it right now, as if Leslie was testing her. She must have known how hard it would be to have it in the house.

“Well, thanks,” said Maureen, and slid it under the sofa. She could buy another on Monday and pretend it was the same one when Leslie asked her to open it. “My arm’s going off.”

Maureen sat on a blue sea of the living-room floor where the light was best and let Leslie cut the skin with a sharp needle. The bit of glass stuck in her arm had worked its way back from the original wound and was pressing through unbroken skin. Leslie had already tried squeezing it forwards but it hurt like a bastard. Leslie’s cigarette idled in the ashtray. Maureen looked at the top of her head as she bent over her arm, scratching at the skin. Maureen wanted a drink. Michael was over, Angus was almost dealt with, and Si McGee would never import women again. She didn’t know how to have a glad heart without a glass in her hand but Leslie would give her a row. Even if she didn’t give her a row, she’d look at her in a way that suggested a row and, because Maureen knew her so well, she’d have no trouble filling in the blanks herself.

“Should you be smoking?” said Maureen.

Leslie bent deeper over the wound. “Fuck off,” she said. “I haven’t had a drink for weeks.”

“A mother’s love’s a blessing.” Maureen was glad it was hard for her too.

“Should you be winding up a woman who’s sticking needles into your arm?”

The skin split behind the glass and a press of opaque yellow pus rushed to the surface. Maureen felt the release of pressure from the wound, and after a bit of painful poking, Leslie had the bloody splinter out and was holding it up between her fingers. She dabbed on some antiseptic cream that Maureen had found in the bathroom. It was a very old tube and the cream felt a little gritty but it was better than nothing. Finally Leslie wrapped fresh bandages around her arms and Maureen pulled on a shirt fifteen minutes before the surveyor arrived.

The photographer was half an hour late and didn’t bother to apologize. Leslie tried to pull him up about it but he only spoke when she was speaking, cutting through her to say that his car had broken down. She was saying that they had intended to go out but he interrupted her to say that it was a Korean car, his wife’s, actually, and it tended to break down. The conversation turned into a battle of wills, both of them refusing to stop their sentences and let the other one speak, like parliamentarians on a radio show.

“Just,” Maureen shouted over the top of them, “take the pictures.”

Everyone stopped talking and the man took his lens cap off, snapping the living room and getting them to move the settee back in from the hall. He left after ten minutes to take a photo outside and Leslie slammed the door on him.

They settled back in the living room, sitting on the settee and looking out of the window.

“God,” said Leslie, rubbing her tummy, “I feel sick again.”

“Is it the smell from the paint?”

“No, I just feel sick. Tell ye what else, I’ve got tits like rocks.”

Maureen slid down the settee into a slump. “What do ye think, then? A boy or a girl?”

Leslie took a deep breath, sat up and smiled. She had been thinking about it, enjoying thoughts of the future. “Dunno.” She looked around the room. “How much do they think you’ll get for this place?”

“Don’t know until the surveyor files his report. He reckons flats like this have been going for fifty grand. I’ll just have to pray no one clocks that it’s the scene of a grisly murder. Are ye going to tell Cammy?”

“I’ll tell him if he tells me about Katie McIntyre. And he won’t.”

“Ye sure?”

“Yeah.” Leslie seemed sad but resigned. “Even after you’ve paid the tax and fees for a curator’s course that’ll leave you with a bit of extra cash, won’t it?”

Maureen grinned. “Yeah.”

“What are ye going to do with it?”

“Piss it up against a wall.”

The phone rang in the hall and Maureen stepped out to pick it up. It was Liam and he had been crying. “Mauri,” he said, “she’s in hospital.”

The hospital complex was ramshackle and ill thought-out. It was getting dark as they drove up the steep hill. Metal chairs with canvas seats were abandoned around the grounds, left after a week of nurses and hospital staff taking the sun in their lunch hour. Two ambulances sat outside A & E with their engines switched off, light spilling out of their open back doors, green-suited paramedics chatting, waiting for calls.

Liam pulled into the dark car park and turned off the engine. He sat, tapping the wheel with a finger, as if he was weighing something in his mind, before opening the door and getting out. Maureen climbed out and shut the door. “Liam?” she called across the roof of the car.

He looked at her, suspicious and apprehensive. “What is it, Maureen?” he said. “Have you got something to tell me?”

“I want to ask ye something.”

He stood solidly on both feet and waited, and Maureen sensed that she was delivering a shocking anticlimax. “Just, I’m thinking of going back to college but if I do I won’t be able to afford the house. D’ye think I could rent a room off you?”

Liam tutted, annoyed at her for asking such a frivolous question now. “Aye.” He turned to the hospital.

Maureen trotted after him.

The pavement outside was covered in fag butts. They walked through two sets of consecutive automatic doors and entered the lobby. The A & E was dirty and faintly threatening. The receptionist was sitting behind a shout-proof, punch-proof, spit-proof glass wall, writing something on a sheet. Notices on the walls told visitors not to fight or throw things or splash blood around the place. A police incident room had been set up in a cubicle in the corner. A young officer was sitting inside with the door open, looking at a form.

Two old women were seated facing the reception area, watching it like a television. They smiled up at Liam and Maureen as they walked in, waiting eagerly to see what they were there for. The receptionist ignored them until finally Liam rapped gently on the window. She dropped her pen resentfully and slid a glass panel back to allow them five holes to speak through. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said tartly, slapped the panel shut and went back to her form.

“My mum’s in here,” said Liam. “She’s in a bad way.” He turned red and covered his face, trying not to cry.

“That’s a shame,” said one of the watching women.

“That is,” said her pal. “That is a shame.” She leaned over to speak round Maureen and Liam to the receptionist. “Go on, see to them. His mum’s in there.”

“Aye, go on, it’s the boy’s mum, go on.”

The receptionist sighed and slid the panel back. “Name?”

“Winnie O’Donnell.”

She looked at a sheet pinned to the partition in front of her. “Wait.” She stood up and went to a phone on the back wall, dialed an extension number and turned back to them. “Wait,” she said, pointing them into one of the rows of seats.

They sat down and the old women turned back to look at them. “Ye all right, son?”

Liam caught his breath. He blinked hard, trying not to cry.

“She’s cheeky,” said one, gesturing to the rude woman, “but she’s a good receptionist.”

Maureen thought that not being a foul-mannered old bitch would have been an essential qualification for a good receptionist. She linked her arm through Liam’s and gave it a little squeeze. She had never known him so brittle. Liam wrestled his arm away and sat forward, rubbing his face hard. A door at the far end of the corridor opened and Una looked out. She was not pleased to see Maureen there and focused on Liam, waving him towards her.

“There they go,” said the woman.

“Good luck,” called her pal cheerily.

Una was far ahead of them in the corridor. She turned at the corner to check that they were following her.

“How is she?” asked Maureen.

“Unconscious,” said Una, and disappeared round the corner.

“Why’s she so angry with me?” muttered Maureen.

“She’s angry with everyone,” replied Liam.

The room was lit by small deflected lights, like night falling on a bright summer day. Winnie was lying flat on the bed under the sheet, wearing an oxygen mask, attached to a heart monitor and an intravenous drip. As the mask misted and cleared faintly, the sound of her breathing filled the room. George was sitting on a chair by her bed, holding her free hand, spent and desperate. He didn’t look up as Maureen and Liam came into the room. Sitting behind him on a chair was Marie. She sat up when she saw Maureen come in, looked wildly around the floor and sat back, disappearing into the shadows.

“What happened?” said Liam, clutching his hair.

“Alcohol poisoning,” said Una. “She drank three-quarters of a bottle of vodka in two hours. Normally she could handle it but she hasn’t had a drink for a few months.”

Liam stumbled over to George who stood up and offered him the seat. Liam took Winnie’s hand and fell into the warm chair.

“What did the doctors say?” asked Maureen, lifting a chair onto the other side of the bed for George to sit in.

“Not good,” said George, smiling to hide his feelings. He sat down.

Maureen went out to the corridor, looking for a doctor, and Una followed her, catching her outside the door. “She drank because of your trial, you know.” She spoke softly to hide the venom from Liam, so he would think she was just filling Maureen in on the details.

“I wasn’t on trial,” said Maureen calmly, knowing Una was bullshitting, knowing Winnie’s binge was about Michael.

“It was too much of a strain on her,” said Una, unreasonably. “You should have kept her out of it.”

Maureen turned to look at Una. “You are bitter and fat,” she said, “and your new hairdo makes your face look like a bucket.”

Una raised her head, ready to retaliate, but caught herself, knowing Liam could see her through the door.

“And by the way,” said Maureen, “Maureen is my fucking name. Find another one for your ugly baby.”

She stomped off to look for a doctor, feeling pleased with herself. Three men dressed in blue scrubs were inside what looked like a cupboard, two sitting on a table, one standing up, explaining something. They looked up when Maureen appeared at the door. “Can ye tell us anything about Winnie O’Donnell’s prognosis?”

The man on the farthest part of the desk leaned forward. “Urn, I’m afraid it’s alcohol poisoning. We’ll just need to wait and see if she comes out of it.” He frowned at his watch. “Should be within the next hour or so if it’s going to happen at all.”

They brought in chairs from the corridor and arranged them around the bed. Marie was still trying to keep away from Maureen and wouldn’t even look at her. The girls were trying not to fight for George’s sake, and because Liam was so upset. He kept sighing and reaching out to touch Winnie with his fingertips, on the leg or arm, smoothing her hair back from her face. After half an hour Una stood up and said she was going to get a drink from the foyer. Marie got up and ran after her, bumping into Maureen in her rush to get to the door.

Maureen, Liam and George sat quietly in the dark room, the three of them as they had always been, watching and waiting for Winnie to do something they could react to. Her leg twitched at one stage and they looked at one another hopefully but she fell still again. Una and Marie came back in, less passive than they had been, making a noise and looking Maureen in the eye. They must have had a conversation in the lobby about what a cheek she had coming here. Marie brushed her jacket over Maureen’s head as she passed and it felt like a deliberate gesture, as if she was showing that she wasn’t afraid of her. She should have been, thought Maureen— she should have had the wit to be afraid of her.

A sudden snorting noise made them all look up simultaneously. Winnie hadn’t moved but George was asleep in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, his big hairy nostrils flaring as he breathed in. They laughed and the fragile silence was broken.

“To be perfectly honest,” said Una quietly, glancing at Marie for support, “I don’t think you should be here, Maureen. She hasn’t seen you for months and her heart’s under enough strain as it is. If she wakes up and sees you, it could be very bad for her.”

“I’ve already seen her, Una” said Maureen, sounding petty and feeling vicious. “I went to the house last week and had tea with her and George.”

Una’s face tightened. “When was this?”

“Last week. Last Monday.” She smiled at Marie. “There ye are, Marie, ye can sell that story to the papers.”