Maureen bit her lip and played with the edge of the cushion.
Michael was scratching at the bedroom window again. She sat up to see him, to know what he looked like, so she could be ready for him, but he opened his mouth and breathed, splattering specks of blood and liver onto the glass.
Leslie was giggling in her sleep. Maureen turned her head on the pillow and looked at her. Her cheek was folded under her eye, her long dark lashes lying on the pillow. Maureen had been mistaken when she thought herself sober the night before. Her throat felt like a raw scab and the back of her head throbbed viciously. She tried to get out of bed but her head was bursting and her stomach hurt so much she couldn't sit up. The hangover was threatening to wash over the top of her skull and attack her eyes. She lay down again and rolled sideways out of the bed, holding the duvet down to keep the warm in for Leslie, and stood up very slowly She needed some nicotine but didn't think her throat would tolerate a cigarette.
The postie had left some bills but that was all. She went into the kitchen, put the kettle on and sat down at the table. It was dry and crisp outside. Gray frost mingled with the black dirt on the window, framing the view of the motorway like an ill-conceived Christmas card. She saw the Ruchill tower and scratched her head with both hands, digging the nails deep into her scalp. Her hair felt lank and heavy. She got up, averting her eyes from the window, and tripped down the hall to the bathroom.
The sill was crammed with expensive bottles of cosmetics, sachets and applicators and miracle creams. She thought of Jimmy, a man too poor to buy toilet paper who'd flown to London on BA. It didn't make any sense. There were lots of budget carriers he could have gone on for less than half the price of a BA flight. If Leslie knew, she would be convinced he was guilty, and she'd insist that they give the police the photos of Ann. They'd crucify him.
She washed her face and wondered if she could be right. Jimmy just wasn't the sort of man who would kill a defiant wife. He wasn't in control of anything when she saw him and he didn't even try to defend himself when he thought she was lying to him. The only thing he vigorously denied was hitting his wife. She played with the possibility that he had been to London and killed Ann, but the mattress troubled her. It suggested a house and a bed and privacy and a van to get her to the river. He'd have to know people in London. She scratched her heavy hair again and looked over to the bath. A small blue glass bottle lay on its side with the lid off and a final portion of lavender-scented hydrolyzed collagen trickled onto the ceramic ledge. Liam had washed her hair in industrial-strength conditioner.
Back in the kitchen she made herself a coffee, sensing the eyes of the fever hospital tower on her body. She sat down, ignoring it, and lit a cigarette, breathing in deeply. It felt like breathing in sand, and the pain brought her back to the present. She heard the thud of feet on the floor in the bedroom. Leslie padded to the kitchen door dressed in a T-shirt and knickers. Her black pubic hair extended an inch below the elastic on either side. "Fuck, it's parky. Get us a coffee, will ye, Mauri?" She turned and trotted down the hall to the loo, picking the gathered underpants out of the crack of her arse.
Maureen got up and made two cups. She wouldn't tell Leslie about the London ticket, she'd ask Jimmy about it first. She was sure it wasn't him. Deep in her gut she was sure.
The toilet flushed at the far end of the hall and Leslie came back down. "God," she said, "you've got some amount of stuff in there." She nipped into the bedroom, pulled on some jumpers and her leather trousers before coming back to the table for her coffee. She noticed Maureen glancing out of the window and saw her looking away quickly, smoking anxiously. Leslie looked out, across to the three high-rise blocks at George's Cross and the snowcapped hills beyond. Thick custard clouds skimmed by, letting the sun wink through at them.
"What are you looking at out there?" she said, and pointed to the gray sky.
"I hate that tower," said Maureen, embarrassed that Leslie had seen her. "It does my head in."
Nonplussed, Leslie looked at the jagged Ruchill tower peering over the hill. "Why?"
Maureen shrugged. "It's so ugly," she said. She couldn't make herself look at it.
Leslie wondered if it was because it was a hospital – maybe it reminded Maureen of being in hospital herself. "The hospital's shut now," said Leslie. "It's been sold off for housing."
Maureen looked up at it. "What, the land's been sold?"
"No, the buildings are listed. They have to keep them."
"Are they houses now?" Maureen sounded so tense and Leslie felt sure she'd helped her.
"Dunno," she said, "but it's not a hospital anymore."
Maureen stood up and lifted her makeup bag from the worktop. She used a magnified mirror so she wouldn't have to look at her face and rubbed foundation over her nose. Leslie knew she didn't like to remember the hospital.
"See about Ann?" she said, trying to bring Maureen back to the moment. "We might as well face it, Jimmy's the most likely candidate, isn't he?"
"Jimmy's the only candidate so far," said Maureen. "He's the only person connected with Ann that we know about."
Leslie looked into her cup. "To be honest, it's not exactly a surprise that he turned out violent."
Maureen picked up her mascara, making sure she had the waterproof one. "Is he violent?" she asked.
"His background's very violent."
"But Jimmy isn't violent?"
"No," said Leslie, "but it runs in families, doesn't it?"
"Well, it's your family too and you're not violent." It sounded like a reproach but she hadn't meant it that way.
Leslie let it pass. "We didn't see that side of the family, really. I haven't seen Jimmy since I was wee."
Maureen plunged the mascara brush back into the holder and screwed it shut. "Why not?" she asked. "The rest of ye are awful close."
"Yeah," said Leslie. "You know how it is, families stay together through the women. We're nature's diplomats."
Maureen smiled. Leslie was the rudest person she'd ever met. "Are you one of nature's diplomats, Leslie?"
Leslie grinned fondly back at her. "No, but I'm a throwback," she said. "A warning from nature. Anyway," she said, serious again, "wherever it comes from, women are the ones who say sorry and negotiate families. We're the ones who keep in touch and look after each other. Jimmy never phoned anyone, or looked after anyone's weans, or invited anyone to anything, and we just sort of, I dunno, lost him." She took a deep breath and looked out of the window, her eyes darting over the city. She looked suddenly haggard and old. "This is going to kill Isa."
"The social worker won't let her take the kids, Leslie, she doesn't even know them."
"It's not just about taking the kids… It's a long story. Mauri, will ye come with me? She won't cry if you're there and you can comfort her better than me. I'm not very good with her."
Maureen pulled the zip shut on her makeup bag. "Let's go and see your mammy."
Chapter 15
Leslie couldn't see a way around it. Her mum had a heart condition and she didn't want to worry her, but if they lied to her and Isa found out she'd worry all the more. Leslie adored her mum. When she talked about Isa she became almost tearful with awe and frustration because her mother was a deeply good person, not just kind but a woman who had tended and cared for other people all her life. Isa was beyond selfless, she was almost invisible, one of a breed of women left penniless and aching from a lifetime of chores and caring, women who spent their lives waiting for the work to be done. It never was: there was always another potato to peel, another child to wash, another dirty floor. Leslie didn't talk about it but it was glaringly obvious how pivotal meek Isa was to Leslie's pathological bolshiness. Isa wanted little for herself: her idea of a high old time was sugary food, her family around her and a wee chant at the old songs.