Maureen glanced at her and shifted her gaze to the window. The weight was always the giveaway. She couldn't hide it because it came off her face first. When things got bad she couldn't eat, couldn't bring herself to swallow properly, and she started smoking more and more so that her tongue got burned and she couldn't taste anything anyway. When she was first admitted to hospital she had been under seven stone. Leslie was watching her across the table and she felt suddenly aware of her body, profoundly conscious of the bones of her bum rubbing against the seat, of the deep dip between her sharp hips and the baggy waistband on her shorts. "I'm doing fine," she said. "Don't worry."
"We are worried," said Leslie softly. "I mean, okay, this was never going to be the time of your life, with the trial and the baby due and everything -"
"The baby's born." She was surprised she'd said it. She didn't even know she'd taken it in yet. She blinked hard at the table and breathed in deeply.
Leslie hesitated. "Born?"
"A girl."
During the twenty-minute taxi ride up to Drumchapel the driver tried to engage them in chat about the weather. Yes, they agreed, it was hot, very hot, most unusual for Glasgow. The driver told them authoritatively that it was because of global warming, like the floods all over England. The world was going to end soon, nothing surer. Leslie wasn't keen to go upstairs but they needed to get the crash helmets. When she unlocked the front door the stale air hit them and Maureen saw how much Cammy had wormed his way into Leslie's life. In the front room all the furniture had been moved around, as if he had been desperate to make his mark. The bedroom had been painted by a nonprofessional – the line between the white ceiling and the blue wall had been badly negotiated and the window frame had solid drips of gloss on it. Through the kitchen window she could see that Leslie's beloved veranda had been cleaned up and the carpet of dead plants cleared away. Even the stained deck chairs had been washed so that the white stripes were no longer an off-yellow.
Leslie came out of the bedroom with her leather trousers and jacket on, holding two crash helmets.
"He's done a lot of work in here, hasn't he?" said Maureen.
Leslie frowned. "He actually suggested I pay him for it because he wasn't working."
Maureen thought back on all the conversations they had ever had about the importance of wages for housework and looked at Leslie's big, miserable face. "What an arsehole," she said.
The motorbike was chained securely in the backyard of Leslie's close. Maureen watched the children playing on the dusty hillocks while Leslie undid the padlock. A group of small girls were watching them and messing about. Not one was over ten but they were dressed like mini pop stars, in tiny crop tops and leggings, their girlie tummies sticking roundly out in front of them. At the side of the group, two wee girls with wild, dusty hair pushed a smaller girl towards Maureen and Leslie. The big girls were sniggering nervously, the shovee resisting with flailing arms and a shy grin. They stopped pushing her and huddled together, giggling and hatching a plan, and Maureen saw a fifty-pence piece exchange hands. The small girl pocketed it and set her shoulders square for the bike, stomping towards them as if she was annoyed.
"We've got a visitor," said Maureen, smiling.
The child reached them and Leslie smiled up at her. "Hello, Kylie-May. How's your-"
"Your Cammy's been going with Lan Mclntyre's wee sister and he loves her and they're having a baby and he's chucked you."
She turned and bolted back to the girls who had sent her, running past them, gathering them in her wake. The crowd of girls ran away over the hill, squealing with panic and laughing hysterically. They ducked into an open close mouth, glancing back at Leslie.
Leslie didn't say anything for a while, didn't move or twitch. She stood still, open-mouthed, holding the chain and the padlock, her eyes watching the space where the children had been until finally her chin dropped to her chest. "No."
Back upstairs, Maureen poured them both a glass of vodka in the kitchen, drinking hers and filling it again before she took them through to the living room. Leslie was sitting on the settee, crying quietly with her face in her hands. "Drink this," said Maureen, handing her the vodka.
Leslie pushed away the glass.
"Doesn't mean it's true," said Maureen, "just 'cause a wee girl out the back said it."
"It is true," said Leslie, rubbing her red face. "I fucking knew something was going on. He stayed out a couple of nights without phoning and he's never at his mum's when I phone so I knew he wasn't staying there. I fucking knew." She threw herself across the settee and grabbed the phone, pulling it towards her as she sat up.
"Don't phone him, Leslie," said Maureen, as she dialed. "Wait till ye calm down a bit."
Leslie shot her a filthy look and carried on dialing. "Mum?" she said, gesturing to Maureen to sit down next to her. "Aye. Yeah. Listen, that Katie McIntyre, is she pregnant?" She glanced at Maureen. "How far gone?" She looked at Maureen again. "Four months? Aye, yeah, I will, yeah. Good-bye."
Maureen could hear Isa's distant voice still wittering through the receiver as Leslie hung up.
Leslie stood up and lurched into the kitchen. The sudden sound of crockery smashing was accompanied by screams and curses. Maureen knew she should go in and calm her down but she thought Leslie probably didn't want to be calmed down and, anyway, Maureen was afraid of getting hurt. Having run out of crockery, Leslie swerved out of the kitchen and ran into the bathroom. Maureen could see her back as she ripped a new toilet-roll holder from the wall and turned her attention to a matching towel rail, pulling off a big lump of plaster. She sat down heavily on the edge of the bath, sobbing and holding her face, her fingers digging into her scalp. Maureen went over and put her arms around her but Leslie shook her off. "Don't fucking cuddle me," she spluttered. "I'm too fucking angry to get touched by fucking anyone." And she went back to sobbing.
They had been back in the house for an hour, Leslie sobbing and periodically getting up to break things, Maureen sipping vodka and trying not to become alarmed. She went into the kitchen and cleared up all the broken plates. She had been giving Leslie a Barbie crockery set, piece by piece, for years, and it was all shattered on the floor among the plain plates and glasses. Leslie had opened the cupboards and swept everything out of them, even the pots. She stormed back in and found Maureen cleaning. She stamped on an almost intact serving bowl, smashing it to small bits.
Maureen could see Leslie was either calming down or tiring herself out. They smoked a cigarette while sitting in the same room and Leslie stood up. "We should go," she said.
"Leslie, are you all right to drive?"
"I need to drive."
"No, ye don't. We could get a cab."
"I'm fine," said Leslie, picking her helmet off the floor. "We need the bike. How else are we going to watch Michael?"
MAUREEN PHONED KILTY from her house. Kilty had spent the day searching the Net for information about students coming from Poland to brothels in Britain. She had canceled Josh at the last minute and arranged a rematch for Tuesday night but was afraid he wouldn't turn up because she couldn't think of a decent excuse and he'd probably just think she was a head-do. She didn't really care. Did Maureen know that a lot of these women thought they were coming over to work as waitresses and chambermaids?
"I don't think that matters," said Maureen. "What else did ye turn up?"
Kilty said that the gangs who recruited them didn't always keep the women. Sometimes they sold them to another gang and the women had to work for nothing to pay off the debt. It took years sometimes and the going rate was fifteen thousand pounds. If the police caught the women they treated it as a local matter and just deported them back to their country of origin. Deporting the women meant there was no witness against the gangs and no case. "And guess what? Remember ye couldn't work out why McGee is so attached to Poland? I'll tell ye: trafficking isn't an offense in Poland."