"I do. Have ye got your key, Kilty?"
"Yeah," said Kilty. "Aren't ye coming for a drink with us?"
"Can't," said Maureen. "I'm meeting someone."
As Vik parked his car he thought of Maureen up on her hill, sitting in her cozy little house with the heating up and the big curls in her hair dancing as she laughed at something on telly. He walked up Sauchiehall Street, digging his hands deep into his jacket, lowering his head to keep his neck warm. The pubs were busy for a Monday. The Issue sellers and the beggars were working the cinema queues and the drinkers filtered up and down the street, finding a bar for the night. An excited crowd of women in sweatshop nylon outfits gathered at Porter's door for the karaoke and the students were hanging about outside the Baird Hall.
Mark Doyle was waiting in the Equal Cafe. He had kept his donkey jacket on, a big dirty man sitting alone at a small table by the window, smoking. He nodded when she came in. "Right?"
"Were you early?" she said.
"Bit, aye."
"D'ye want something to eat?"
He shrugged. He didn't look comfortable. Maureen didn't know if he'd ever been in a cafe. "What is there?" he said, behaving like a nervous spy.
"Cottage pie?" He shook his head. "Fry-up?"
He shook his head again. "Bad stomach."
"Soup?"
"What kind?"
"Minestrone."
"Aye. I like that. I'll have that."
The waitress was busy at another table. Maureen looked at Doyle. He wasn't an easy man to make light conversation with so she didn't try. "Do you think Pauline would be pleased that we know each other now?"
He touched the broken skin on his face. "Think she would," he said. "But, then, she never mentioned you tae me. For all I know she mibi couldn't stand the sight of ye."
He raised an eyebrow and Maureen smiled at his joke. The sullen waitress limped over to the table and Maureen ordered them a bowl of soup each and some bread.
Vik turned to cross the road and looked into the Equal Cafe. Maureen O'Donnell was sitting in the bright white light behind the window, wearing a skin-colored neck brace, looking relaxed and happy. Across the table from her was a tall, dark-haired man with broad shoulders. He wasn't her brother: he didn't look anything like her. Vik walked on and crossed farther down the road. When he got to the Variety he ordered a pint and found that he was trembling with disappointment. She would have to pass the doors on her way home to Garnethill. She'd know he was in there. He was always there on Mondays. He and Shan were always there.
"Elizabeth," said Doyle. "She's dead."
"What happened?"
"Out on bail. Went for a hit. OD'd." He told the story as if he were passing on a social arrangement.
"God," said Maureen, "that's awful."
"No, it's not," said Doyle.
The waitress brought over two plates of soup garnished with greasy croutons and a plate of spongy white sliced.
"What did ye want to see me for?" asked Doyle, resting his big hands on the table, leaving the cutlery undisturbed.
Maureen stopped with her spoon an inch from her mouth. She put it down in the bowl. "My father is back in Glasgow."
Doyle nodded as if he already knew that.
"He's a bad father," she said. "He's like your father."
He caught her eye. "Don't," he said.
"But – '
"Ye can't go back, after. Ye think they're in your head before, but when ye cross that line, then they've really got ye. You're no better than them."
But she hadn't been weakened by Millport, she'd felt better afterwards, stronger, more powerful. If she could keep her nerve this time and not freeze like she had with Toner, she could do it.
"Whatever he did to me," she said, "is in the past."
Doyle nodded. "It's over," he said.
"That part's over."
They looked at each other. Doyle lifted his spoon and sipped his soup.
"What's this part?" he said.
"My sister's expecting. I want to know what to do."
"Warn her."
"I have warned her. She doesn't believe me."
Doyle shook his head, looking at the table. "Don't do it, hen."
"What else can I do?"
"Run away. Leave. It's not your business."
"I can't leave."
"Ye can't stop it."
"But I can stop it. You know that. We both know that. I can stop it."
Doyle shook his head again. "You'll ruin yourself." He wrapped his big hand around the handle of the spoon and flexed it anxiously, splitting the skin at the joints into red slits on the papery skin. He began to eat his soup. Disappointed, Maureen watched him. She'd wanted him to say yes, make suggestions, or even offer to help her. "Nothing's ever over, is it?" she said.
"Nut," said Doyle, and crushed a crouton between his teeth.
Vik waited all night. He sat on a bar stool, watching the door for four hours, pretending to chat to Shan about Gram Parsons and Motherwell's lineup. Every time the doors opened he felt sick and nervous. He waited and waited until the bar staff were shouting time, but Maureen never came.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is my opportunity to express my gratitude to everyone at the Strathclyde Police Media and Information Service Department, and to Superintendent Iain Gordon especially, for their help in researching this book; to Philip Considine for technical advice and support; and to Gerry Considine who'll push us both over if he doesn't get a mention. Also, many fervent thanks to Rachel Calder, Katrina Whone, and, of course, to my mum for holding my coat while I did all this. Ursula, so long, baby. Finally, special thanks are due to Stephen Evans for matters which are no concern of yours.
Denise Mina
