Denise Mina - Exile

She wiped her face on her sleeve, rubbing ready-grated cheddar into her hair. "I'm unhappy," she said indignantly.

"Well," said Liam, serenely, "that makes you very special." He sat back in the horsehair armchair and watched her trying to pick up a cigarette from the floor with rubber fingers. "Why are you so drunk?"

Maureen gave up on the fags and shrugged at him for an age. "Life's shite," she havered, drunk and guileless. "Leslie's… spit on my eyes."

Liam stood up. "Oh, God, Mauri, I'm sorry, I can't stand this."

He left the room and Maureen waited, forgetting that he was in the house and then remembering and then forgetting. When he came back into the living room it was a delightful surprise and she started crying again. Liam made her drink the coffee and the coffee made her very sick.

He stroked warm water through her hair, holding the showerhead too far back on her neck, letting the water run over her jaw and up her nose. She was bent over the bath, trying to stay up, but her legs weren't working very well and she kept tottering forward.

"Oh. Fuck. I'm sick." Her bleary voice echoed around the white ceramic valley.

"You've spewed up everywhere."

"That's enough." She tried to stand up but Liam was holding her shoulder down and she staggered back and forth.

"Mauri, there's vomited cheese in your hair. Stay still for fuck's sake."

He rubbed the shampoo into the nape of her neck and washed it out slowly, wrapped a fresh towel around her neck and gathered her hair into it. Maureen stood up and staggered into the wall, leaning on it, testing her head. Through the curious alchemy of alcohol, her wet hair made her feel close to sober. "Oh, fucking hell," she said.

Liam perched on the side of the bath, feeling responsible because he'd given her the coffee. "D'ye feel any better?"

She patted her towel turban. "Aye."

Liam didn't look convinced.

"Honest," she said. "You throw up and I'll do it to you."

They went back into the living room and Maureen arranged herself in a small bundle on the settee. The debris of a drunken afternoon was all over the floor. Her packet of cigarettes had spilled everywhere and more than half of the contents of the bottle of whiskey had evaporated. A photograph of Winnie was propped up against the leg of the easy chair, facing her encampment. She looked at the window and thought back to the cold wind wrapped around her and her bare foot swinging over the void. Liam would be so horrified if he knew.

"God," she said, feeling guilty and trying to change the subject in her head, "that was very good of you."

"Greater love hath no man," said Liam, lighting a spliff.

"I'm not even tired."

"It's only seven thirty. Why were you so drunk?"

She frowned and sipped a glass of water, trying it to see if she would be sick again. Her extremities felt shaky but her stomach felt fine.

"You always get drunk with Leslie," said Liam. "Where is she?"

Maureen owned up. "We've fallen out. It's since that Cammy guy. She's dropped me like a sack of hot shit and I'm sick of being nice about it."

"But she's fallen in love for the first time. She's going to disappear for three months."

Maureen watched him, puzzled.

"You wouldn't know about it," said Liam, "because Douglas was married. When ye first fall in love ye spend all your time together for three months and then you come out the other side wondering what that was all about, looking for your old pals. That's what's happening with Leslie. I bet she's never been in love before, has she?"

"It's more than that, Liam, she's changed. You've seen the way she dresses now."

He smiled indulgently. "She's trying to please him," he said. "He'll be doing the same for her too."

"You mean, she wants him to dress like that?"

Liam frowned as he thought back to the straight-leg jeans and Celtic top Cammy had worn to the Hogmanay party. "We don't know what he was wearing before he met her," he said. "Could've been a flying suit with zips everywhere."

"And platforms," Maureen said weakly.

"With spurs."

"And a ten-gallon hat."

"Could have been," said Liam. "Don't fall out with her now – you'll spoil it for her."

He picked up a book and started arranging Rizlas on the back of it. He had brought a huge lump of black with him. The lamp on the floor shone on the cellophane, turning it into a cube of water. She gestured to it. "Where did you get that, anyway? I thought there was a dry on?"

"Got lucky." He smiled at his origami. "Is Leslie all that's bothering ye?"

Maureen slumped. "Winnie came to see me. I miss her. I know I slag her but I miss her, and when I saw her she said George won't talk to her. They won't split up, will they? We'll never see him again if they do."

"No, wee hen, they won't split up. He's just letting her know it's not on, her having Michael over to the house."

"I miss George."

"He misses you as well." Liam smiled at her. They never discussed it but all four of the children loved their stepfather. George never spoke to them or gave them guidance. He wasn't even in the house very much. He drank like Winnie, but instead of starting fights or trying to involve them in fictional dramas, George sang a lot and recited sentimental poetry. Winnie fought with him, as she had fought with Michael, vicious and loud and relentless. George listened to her until he couldn't be bothered anymore and then he went out to visit his pals. He was the closest thing the children had ever had to a benign parent.

"She told me Michael's staying in Glasgow." Maureen looked at Liam, but he was licking a cigarette down the seam and pulling the paper away. "Well," she said, "is he?"

"He doesn't have anyone to drink with," he said dismissively "He won't stay long."

Maureen sighed heavily into her chest. It had been a long day.

"I walked out on my job. I hate it. Leslie got me that fucking job. She'll never speak to me again if I don't go."

"Ah, she would so."

Maureen watched Liam busily keeping himself replete with spliffs, rolling as he smoked, acting casual as if it didn't really matter but working hard. She was like that with drink. It looked casual on the surface but underneath she was frantic about her intake, desperate not to slow down or lose the level.

"Look at you and your wee spliff factory," she said unkindly.

He looked up at her, resenting the intrusion. "Look at you and your wee vomit factory," he said, and went back to work.

"I worry about drinking," said Maureen. "I worry about turning into Winnie."

"I worry about it too. Before Christmas there I was very worried. Alcoholism's supposed to be genetic so I've decided to cheat fate and just take hundreds of drugs." He giggled, glancing at her feet. The cheer snowballed in his belly and he laughed loud, coughing when the laugh went deep into his lungs. He sat laughing and coughing like a jolly consumptive, and Maureen smiled sadly and watched him. Liam used to be angry all the time; he had mellowed so much since he retired – it was like watching him regress back to the hopeful wee guy he'd been as a kid. If she'd died she'd be missing this. A polite rap on the front door stopped Liam dead. Startled, Maureen sat up straight and they stared at each other, sitting still in case they were heard. Liam giggled silently. "Why are we…?" he whispered, holding his nose to abort a guffaw. "We're not in trouble."

The caller chapped again.

"Go," mouthed Liam, waving her to the door as he shoved the lump of black under the sofa. "Go on, get it."

"Throw that out of the window if it's the police," she whispered, pointing to where he had stuffed the hash as she tiptoed out to the hall. She peered out of the spy hole.

Vik was standing on the landing, holding a bottle of white wine and a small bunch of flowers, his handsome face shiny and hopeful, watching the crack of the door, waiting for her to appear. She felt instantly wicked and guilty and angry about Katia. She should open the door and tell him to go away, that was the honest thing to do. Maureen and Liam had always looked alike, they had the same square jaw, the same dark curly hair and pale blue eyes, but Vik might not notice the family resemblance. He'd think she had another man in and she wasn't well enough to explain why she could let her brother in but not him. She leaned her forehead on the door, less than a foot away from Vik's shoulder, and listened as he knocked and shuffled his feet impatiently. The door pressed towards her; he was leaning on it, scratching lightly or something. She heard the chink of the bottle on stone and cringed as he walked away alone, his feet falling heavily on the stone steps. The close door slammed shut in the high wind and she listened to the stillness for a while, just to be sure. She opened the door. Vik had left the note under the bottle and the flowers. His writing was big and round and cheery.