"I think you should go home and get some rest," she said, signaling to the waiter for the bill, hoping they'd never be this intimate again.
Outside the night was humid and rank. Dark currents flowed down the road as night swirled into the city. A drunk man was staggering across the road towards them, shouting at the sky, shaking his fist at ghosts. A crowd passed him and a heavily made-up woman bent double, bawling at the man that he was fucked in the head, her voice cracking, her boyfriend dragging her away by the arm.
"The city's crazy when it's hot," said Hugh, pulling on his jacket. "Some poor bastard's gonnae get it tonight."
He said he'd walk her home to Garnethill but she wanted to get away from him and said she'd planned to visit Kilty who lived in the opposite direction. She wanted to tell Kilty about Vik and have a girlie squeal and feel normal. Hugh insisted she get a taxi but she didn't have the money and knew he'd try to give it to her if she said so. She hailed a cab and climbed in, waving to Hugh, trying to look cheery and untroubled as the taxi drove away, calling out of the open window that she'd see him on Thursday. The cab drove a block and turned the corner. "Can ye let me out here, driver?"
Watching her resentfully in the rearview mirror, the driver went farther down the road than he needed to, adding twenty pence to the meter before pulling over.
Maureen took off her jacket, tied it around her waist and walked. The ragged blue remnant of the day lingered on the horizon. Following the tree-lined avenue that led through the center of the park, she passed a small clearing set around a high statue of a forgotten military hero being brave on a horse. Three young men stood talking to one another in the shadows, smoking. They watched her pass, angry eyes sliding to the side, watching her because she was watching them. Slow cars glided up and down the avenue and guilty-looking men walked quickly by, staring at the pavement in front of them.
Joe McEwan would never let her go. If she did anything to Michael, Joe would make sure that she paid for it. She didn't want to spend the next ten years in jail – she didn't want to sit in an ugly cell, smoking wee fags and being told what to do, least of all for Michael. She took a deep breath and looked up. She hadn't done anything yet, not yet. She took a right and headed for Kilty's house at the Botanic Gardens.
When she had first come back from London, Kilty lived in Maureen's sitting room. In all that time Maureen had never fathomed her, never identified a consistent pattern of behavior, could never anticipate her. When they first met, Maureen thought Kilty had no chip on her shoulder and found it incredibly refreshing. As they grew closer Maureen realized that Kilty's chips were of a different shape and size, invisible to her because they weren't familiar, but they were there. Kilty had a horror of marrying well and living near the country. She was a mesmerizingly odd woman, tiny and slim with features that should have made her ugly – buggy eyes and thin hair – but she looked exotic and beautiful.
The morning Kilty's parents arrived, unannounced, to visit them in Garnethill they were unable to hide their shock and disappointment. It was a Sunday morning and Maureen was wearing the dressing gown Kilty had given her. It was an antique, a rotting apricot silk thing with a scary stain on the hem and a rip on the arm that Kilty insisted had happened during a tangoing incident in Rio. Maureen went to get dressed and when she came back Mrs. Goldfarb asked her what the stains on the living-room floorboards were. Maureen said that it was a spill of balsamic vinegar from a salad she had been serving to friends. Mr. Goldfarb remarked that it must have been a very big salad: the vinegar had spilled everywhere.
Her parents had bought Kilty a flat as an inducement, to get her out of the poky house in the bad area. Kilty refused to go househunting with them. They chose a flat near to the children's home where she was working and had to blackmail her into coming to look at it. She had made Maureen come with her.
Maureen gushed about the flat, but it wasn't hard. Despite being decorated by a lilac lover it had definite possibilities. It was in a well-preserved Victorian tenement and overlooked the large glass dome of the Botanic Gardens, illuminated at night like a giant luminous mushroom. The windows were floor to ceiling and the rooms large and plain. Kilty accepted her parents' gift, and Maureen and Liam helped her paint every bit of the flat white over one long weekend. Kilty lifted the carpets and lino from the floors, varnished the bare boards and filled it with sturdy utility furniture.
Maureen looked up at the living-room window. It was dark but she thought she could make out the flickering blue light from a television. She crossed the road, climbed the stairs to the door and pressed the buzzer. Kilty's voice crackled over the intercom. She yippeed when she heard it was Maureen and released the door. As Maureen climbed the steep stairs she saw Kilty hanging out of the storm doors to her flat, dressed in gigantic stripy pajama bottoms and a Charlie's Angels T-shirt.
"Hiya," called Kilty, as Maureen wearily climbed the stairs. "There's a scare-u-mentary on about sharks and I've got a bottle of gin."
Maureen broke into a sprint.
Chapter 17
Una's fingernails were pressing hard, digging into the drum of Alistair's thumb, piercing the skin. "Bastard," said Una. "You shitty, shitty bastard."
"Breathe," he said.
The midwife smirked to herself as she checked the monitors. "I expect they told you to expect this in the classes." She smiled at Alistair across Una's belly. "I hated my hubby when I was in labor. Doesn't seem fair when you're in all that pain."
Una's contraction ebbed away and she gasped for a deep breath. She stared up at the midwife, holding Alistair's hand just as tightly as she had been when the contraction was coming. "He left me," said Una loudly, concentrating hard to speak as another contraction hit, "for my neighbor. When I was three months pregnant." She lost her breath to the contraction and turned red, her face contorting. She was holding Alistair's hand so hard that her fingernails buckled against his skin. He began to bleed.
It was half four in the morning and the maternity unit was quiet. Across the corridor, sitting in the waiting room, Winnie O'Donnell dabbed her eyes and prayed to a distant god. Dear God, she prayed, please, God, if there is a God, don't let it be a girl. She took out the Alcoholics Anonymous card and reread the serenity prayer. She'd have to pray for acceptance if it was a girl, but it might not come to that. Please, God, thy will be done, not a girl, thy will be done. Finding no comfort, she unclasped her hands and looked up. Behind the long window, dawn was breaking over Glasgow and Winnie's reflection was fading. She could see her outline, the white hankie to her face, and the doorway next to her leading into the bright corridor. Asleep in the seat next to her, George was drooling onto his chin, his big work-swollen hands clasped in his lap, his legs sprawled untidily in front of him. Una was across and two doors down, giving birth to Winnie's first grandchild. Winnie hung her head again. Please, God, don't let it be a girl.
She smelled him before she saw him. Michael was standing there, reeking of cheap lager and stale fags, holding on to the door frame to steady himself. He looked at Winnie's fading reflection in the window, paused, then swung himself into a seat across the room. His forehead and nose were badly sunburned and he was sweating. "You're late," said Winnie. "He called you hours ago."
"Aye," he said. "I'm here." He was slurring heavily and seemed very drunk. Winnie envied him. He reached for his fag packet and took one out.
"Ye can't smoke in here," said Winnie, but he ignored her and took his lighter from the other pocket. "Ye can't smoke in here." She stood up, stepped towards him and smacked the fag from his mouth. Michael looked startled, as though he had forgotten she was there. "You can't smoke in a hospital," she said, backing into her own chair.