"Okay," said Jimmy, nodding wide-eyed, as if it was any kind of help at all.
Maureen suddenly, desperately, wanted a big drink of whiskey. "You know that Ann's sister lives in Streatham?"
Jimmy didn't understand the connection. "I told you that," he said.
"Streatham's right next to Brixton. Ann was seen in a pub down there."
"Oh," said Jimmy, "I didn't know that. I knew it was London. That would be right because her man's a darkie."
"Black people live all over London, Jimmy, not just in Brixton."
Jimmy knew that she was correcting him and he knew he was in the wrong. His chin sank farther into his chest. She felt like a sanctimonious prick.
"Moe's… a good-living woman," he said.
"I'm sure she is. It's a coincidence, though, isn't it? The lawyer and Ann being in the same area? Was Ann close to her sister? Would she go and stay with her?"
"Oh, aye, they were close. Ye know how sisters are."
Maureen didn't know how sisters were; she had two herself but she didn't know. She remembered that Leslie was waiting outside and did her coat up.
"I got money through the door the other night as well," said Jimmy quickly, "a lot of money. I don't know what to make of it."
"How much money?"
"Two hundred and fifty pounds. What do ye suppose it means?"
"What did ye do with the money?"
"I hid it."
She was embarrassed to admit to it. "Jimmy, I gave ye the money.
Ye can spend it however ye want. Just don't mention me to the police, okay?"
Jimmy frowned at his fag.
"Look," she said, "Isa and Leslie are going to look out for ye. They'll come around and get to know the boys in case, you know, ye have to go away. I'm going to London for a few days, see if I can find out what happened to her."
Jimmy looked at her vacantly. "Why are ye doing this for me?"
But she wasn't doing it for him.
"And you put that money through my door," he said. "Why?"
Maureen blushed. She was doing it because she pitied him, because he was the sorriest, saddest, most unsympathetic person she'd ever met, in or out of psychiatric hospital, because if life was any more cruel to Jimmy then Michael would live to a ripe old age surrounded by family and friends and she'd die soon. "I've been stuck myself," she said.
She drank her coffee in the living room and made up a small list of the things she'd need in London. Angus's letters were scattered all over the coffee table. She had been reading through them again, trying to work out the reasoning behind them, but she had sickened herself and now couldn't bring herself to touch them and put them away. She sat the cup on top of them and went into the hall cupboard to get her bag. It was a big rubberized cycle bag, black with a red stripe down the middle. She had bought it for the little fish logo picked out in silver thread. The bag had a broad shoulder strap that fitted across her chest. It was designed for a man, not a large-chested woman, and the strap sat across her breastbone, squeezing one tit up and the other down, but it looked more casual than a rucksack and it could carry more. She pulled it out and crouched down, looking at the bloody stain on the floor, where the tender memory of Douglas and times behind her lingered. She stood up and looked through to the kitchen, out of the window, past the drizzling rain and the dark clouds to the gray shadow on Ruchill. She wasn't coming back to this, whatever happened. She wouldn't come back to a house where she was afraid to look out of the window.
She took the bag into the bedroom and began to pack. She was lying to herself, estimating a stay of three days to a week, packing pants and socks and spare jeans and a change of jumpers. In the bathroom she packed her toothbrush and Maxine's pricey cream and eye-makeup-remover pads. She dropped the bag onto the tiled floor, sat down on the edge of the bath and cried. She felt the pull to London, the draw of the anonymous city without Ruchill and her family and the hospital and her history. She felt she'd never get back.
She ran a deep bath and undressed slowly, climbed into the scalding water and lit a cigarette, breathing in the moist nicotine. The damp atmosphere seeped into the paper and killed the light. She laid it on the side of the bath, looking down at her scorched red body, and cried again, curling small with misery and grief, longing to be anyone but herself.
The phone rang out in the hall and Winnie spoke into the answering machine, sounding sober and somber. "Maureen," she said, "this is your mother." Her voice had none of the melodrama Maureen was used to, none of the premature crescendos or the wavering high emotion. It was nine o'clock on a Wednesday night: she should be very drunk. "I'm sorry for all the phoning before but I love you and want you to contact me. Please phone. Urgently."
Maureen waited for a while, glad that something had happened and she had a task. She washed her face, scooping the vehement water onto her skin again and again until she was breathless. She wrapped the chain around her big toe and pulled the plug out, sat up and hauled herself out of the water.
She was sweating into the towel as Liam answered the phone.
"No, Mauri, she's fine."
"I hardly knew her voice."
Liam chuckled. "She's sober, that's why." Maureen could hear Lynn calling, "Hiya, Mauri," in the background. "She's been sober for three days."
"Three days? What about the nights?"
"I mean sober continuously for three days."
"Fucking hell. How is she?"
"Well," said Liam, "she's just as mad as she was when she was drunk but she sleeps less and she's more articulate."
Maureen was suddenly very glad that she had a good reason not to be in touch with Winnie. Winnie had tried abstinence several times before and they had been some of the family's saddest times. Maureen remembered playing cards with Winnie after school, keeping her busy until dinnertime, helping her shave another half hour from the hellish day. Winnie trembled like a foal as the alcohol left her. Her eyes kept flicking to the clock and she cried as the stinging minutes scratched by, thinking perpetual discomfort was the alternative. She never lasted longer than a day because they had to leave her alone sometime.
"How's she managing to stay sober?"
"She's gone to AA."
"With that bastard Benny?"
"No," said Liam. "Not with him. She said it's huge in Glasgow – she might never meet him."
Benny had been at school with Maureen and Liam. He'd slept on her floor for three months when he was getting sober and he'd betrayed her so badly over Douglas that Liam broke his jaw. The last time either of them had seen him he was sitting in hospital with his arm in a stookie and a face like a waterlogged plum. Sober Winnie and the possible return of a traitorous childhood friend were two events too many. Maureen shut her eyes and made a conscious decision not to dwell or deal with either. Not for a while, anyway. "I bought a pager," she said, pleased with herself for sounding light-hearted. "Do you want the number?"
"Oh, yeah," he said, and jotted it down. "Are you off to London, then?"
"I'm going in an hour, on the night bus."
"Fucking hell, I wouldn't get the fucking night bus for anyone," said Liam, talking over the receiver and projecting his voice, talking for Lynn's benefit. "Be careful down there. Don't mention Hutton to anyone."
She was dressed and about to leave when her hand picked up the receiver again and dialed Vik's number. She got his answering machine. "Pick up, Vik," she said. "Please pick up."
She waited for a breath and he didn't so she told him she was getting the night bus down to London tonight and she'd phone later and she was sorry, again, really sorry. Please pick up? She had his lighter. Please? She felt ridiculous and dirty and ugly, as if everything Katia thought about her was true. As she hung up she saw a slit of blackness in the bedroom window. Michael was out there. He raised his razor finger, ready to make the first incision. Maureen caught her breath and waited until the horror subsided.