He nodded, nervous and tired, wrapping his arms around his middle as though his stomach ached. "I thought ye'd decided not to phone." His voice was so quiet she could hardly hear him.
"I've had a lot on," she said. She nodded him onto Leslie's stool but he shook his head.
"Ye don't seem busy," he said, looking down the quiet tunnel.
She smiled. "You don't read the papers, do you?"
Doyle frowned quizzically, not understanding the connection.
"I looked at your number this morning," she said. "I was thinking about phoning ye. It's just… I think I should make my mind up first."
Doyle sagged at this, glancing out towards the bright door. "Hen," he said, suddenly, "you don't know about this… kind of thing. You'll get done."
"Ye won't change my mind, Mark," she said firmly, "not once I've decided."
"Ye want to go tae jail?"
She stared at her feet. "There's a baby, it's not just about me." She looked up at him. The edges of his mouth had turned down, the muscles on his jawbone twitching as he ground his teeth.
Doyle dropped his voice. "I can help ye. I can tell ye… stuff. Where to go, how to get away. Ye'll get done otherwise. Phone me, whatever ye decide."
He made her nod before he turned and walked away, passing Leslie unnoticed at the mouth of the tunnel. Maureen shivered in her seat. He'd help her get away. At a stroke Mark Doyle had robbed her of her best reason for not doing it.
"I've got a bug," said Leslie. "Doctor gave me antibiotics."
Maureen watched Doyle squinting against the sun, deciding which way to go. He disappeared down the lane.
"It's boiling out there," said Leslie, crouching into her seat. "An old woman fainted in the lane and had to be carried into the cafe so she didn't get sunburned while she waited for the ambulance."
"Did you see that guy pass you on the way in?"
"What guy?"
"The tall guy with the overcoat on."
"What guy?"
Back at the flat Leslie boiled some pasta, stirred in a bit of pesto and dropped cheese on it. Maureen listened to her speculate about what Cammy would be doing right now. The pasta was bland and rubbery and the cheese tasted rancid. Maureen moved it around her plate a bit and emptied some of it back into the pot when Leslie went to the toilet. She couldn't stop thinking about Michael and the baby. A rage was growing inside her belly, a white-hot fury snowballing in her chest, taking from her to feed itself. The thought of spending a night listening to Leslie ramble about Cammy made her head ache.
"What'll we do tonight, then?" said Leslie cheerfully, sitting down at the table.
"I've got my meeting," said Maureen.
"Oh, it's Thursday, isn't it?" said Leslie, disappointed.
"Never mind. You get a video and fall asleep watching it – I'll be back late." Leslie looked at her curiously. "Sheila said she wants a chat," added Maureen. She'd have to tell her about the baby soon, otherwise Leslie would think she hated her for moving in, but the truth and what she could safely tell anyone were getting confused in her mind. When she thought about killing Michael she couldn't remember if she needed to or wanted to, if she would be doing something useful or indulging herself like Angus.
Leslie was sorry to see her go out but she settled back on the settee with a cup of tea to watch some crap telly. As Maureen stood in the hall and looked at the back of her head she knew Leslie'd phone Cammy within the hour. "Why don't you phone Kilty and get her to come over?" she suggested.
"Yeah," said Leslie, without turning round. "I might well do that."
Maureen opened the door and stepped out into the cool close, knowing she should have stayed with her sad pal.
In Sauchiehall Street a drunken crowd of sensibly dressed women were waiting at the taxi rank, howling a gentle ballad. She passed a team of teenage boys, hanging about in a pedestrian precinct, kicking a bin. When the rain and the darkness returned, all the office workers and teenagers would look back on this time, some from jail cells, some from maternity units, and wonder what they'd been thinking of. Maureen crossed the river, passed the Sheriff Court and Ella McGee's high-rise. She knew it was a rough area, not one for walking through alone, but she almost hoped that someone would jump out at her, attack her, so she could vent her fury. She walked on into the south side, walking until the soles of her feet hurt.
It was a good area, full of architectural finds, large cars and delicatessens. The houses had burglar alarms outside, flashing red or blue high on the walls. As she turned the corner and approached the house, she knew that Una was inside because her pride and joy, her green Rover, was parked in the street under the shade of an old tree. It was a company car, a symbol of her success, and the leather seats and walnut dash reassured her that she was making it.
Una's house was the bottom floor in a squat three-story tenement. The large three-bedroom flat had two reception rooms and a big kitchen that led into a sliver of private garden, most of it concreted over. The reception rooms were at the front and, as she approached, Maureen saw that the lights were on in the living room.
In the street in front of the flat was a small fenced-in island garden. It was thirty feet across and a hundred yards long, with signs on the gates reserving use of the garden for key holders and residents. A driver had crashed into the fence and the replacement chicken wire hadn't been soldered yet. Maureen pulled out the overlap, climbed through, and sat on a bench directly opposite Una's front room. She watched and waited.
In the course of an hour and a half no one came into the room but as the light began to fade she noticed movement through the open door in the hallway. She waited until she could be sure of what she was seeing, worked out the geography of the house, and slipped out of the garden, following the lane round to the back of the flat.
Una would have done up the garden for the baby coming; she was too organized and controlling to let a major consideration like that slip by, but when Maureen got there and peered through the thin hedge, she discovered that nothing had changed. The concrete was still there; three white plastic garden chairs were still sitting out, uncleaned after the grimy winter. Maureen was so self-involved she'd forgotten about Una's troubles, hadn't really considered how hard Alistair's affair with the upstairs neighbor must have hit her sister.
Crouching down, keeping her head below the hedge, she looked into the brightly lit kitchen. The windows were barred with Venetian blinds and she had to concentrate hard to see, screwing up her eyes and disciplining herself to stare at one slit of light despite movement in others.
Una had changed her hair. It was a relationship-breakup hairdo, a radical change, chosen in a state of upset. She'd cut it short, above her ears, and had streaked it different hues of blond. She was sitting at the table with her back to the window, her hands busy in front of her. Alistair came and went from the room, bringing things, taking a nappy bag away. He kept his eyes down, only looking at Una's chest, smiling when she wasn't talking to him. Una must be holding the baby, feeding it. The television news flickered blue and gray on the worktop. Una was usually meticulous about the house but dirty plates and baby bottles were stacked on the counter, and the table was strewn with wipes and a blanket.
Una tugged at her jumper and lifted a bleary-eyed baby to her shoulder. Maureen couldn't see its face – the blind was in the way-just a tiny red mouth and chubby jowls. The mouth opened and a slick of white sick dripped down Una's shoulder. It took her a moment to feel the wetness of it. She looked at the baby, as if demanding an explanation, and sat it in a plastic carry-chair, folding the handle back. Then she turned and spoke to what Maureen had assumed was the top of a gray soft toy before leaving the room.
The man stood up unsteadily, looking at the baby, and turned to the window, his face red, sweat stains on his collar, and Maureen knew him immediately. It was Michael.