Denise Mina: Exile

The pedestrians looked to their left and shouted in the affirmative. Daniel grinned and looked down at his feet. He was sitting on a corpse, the heel of his foot sinking into her thigh.

He scrambled to his feet, shaking the mattress, making her arm fall out onto the muddy bank. She was wearing a chunky gold identity bracelet with "Ann" inscribed on it. He staggered backwards towards the river, keeping his eyes on her, trying to make sense of the image.

He could see her now, a bloated pink and blue belly and a void of a face framed by stringy gray hair, drained of color by the rapacious water. A ragged handful of custard skin was missing from her belly. Daniel called out, a strangled animal cry, and flailed his left hand in the air, scattering her disintegrating flesh. He crouched and splashed his hand in the brown water, trying to wash away the sensation. Panting, he turned back and pointed at the rotting thing hanging out of the mattress.

A man shouted to him from the high river wall. "Are you injured?"

Daniel looked up. His eyes were brimming over. The man's head was an indeterminate blob floating above the river wall. Daniel's eyes flicked back to the corpse, startled afresh by its presence.

The well-meaning man was shouting slowly, enunciating carefully. "Can you hear me?" he yelled. "I am a first-aider."

Daniel tried to look up but each time his eyes flicked back to her. He imagined she had moved and fear took the breath from him. He started to cry and looked up. "Are you the police?" he shouted, in a voice he barely recognized.

"No," shouted the man. "I am a first-aider. Do you require medical attention?"

"Get the fucking police!" screamed Daniel, his eyes streaming now, his nose running into his mouth. He shook his hand in the air, his skin burning with disgust. "Get the fucking police."

A stark wind streamed into Glasgow tugging black rain clouds behind it. Litter fluttered frantically outside the strip of glass and the close door breathed gently in and out. The students kept their heads down as they worked their way up to the art school. Maureen cupped her scarf over her ears and turned up her stiff collar before opening the door and venturing out. The bullying wind buffeted her, making her totter slightly as she turned to shut the door. She kept her fists tight inside her silken pockets and made her way down the hill to the town, cozy in her rich-girl overcoat.

She had bought the coat in a pre-Christmas sale. It was pure black wool with a gray silk lining, long and flared at the bottom with a collar so stiff that it stood straight up and kept the wind off her neck. It was the most luxurious thing she had ever owned. Even at half price it had cost more than three months' mortgage. She swithered in the shop but persuaded herself that it would last three winters, maybe even four, and anyway, she enjoyed losing the money. On the day Angus murdered him, Douglas had deposited fifteen thousand pounds in her bank account. It was a clumsy act of atonement for their affair and the money compromised her. She knew that the honorable thing to do was give it away but she was dazzled by the string of numbers on her cashpoint receipts and kept it, justifying her avarice by doing voluntary work for the Place of Safety Shelters. She was hemorrhaging money, leaving the heating on all night, smoking fancy fags, buying endless new cosmetic products, fifty-quid face creams and new-you shampoos, trying to lose it without having the courage to give it away.

The biting wind made her eyes burn and run as she crossed the hilt of the hill. Leslie would be coming into the office today and Maureen was dreading meeting her.

"Maureen?"

Someone was shouting after her, their voice diluted by the wind. She turned back. A woman in a red head scarf walked quickly over to her, keeping her head down, stepping carefully over the icy ground. She stopped two feet away from Maureen and looked up. "Maureen, I love you."

"Please," said Maureen, fazed and wary, "leave me alone."

"I need to see you," said Winnie.

"Mum, I asked ye to stay away," insisted Maureen. "I just want ye to leave me alone."

Winnie grabbed her, squeezing her fingertips tight into the flesh on Maureen's forearm. She was drunk and had been crying for hours, possibly days. Her eyes were pink, the lids heavy and squared where the tear ducts had swollen beneath them. A gaggle of pedestrians hurried past, coming up the steep hill from the underground, walking uncertainly on the slippery ground.

"I love you. And look"-Winnie held a silver foil parcel towards her and clenched her teeth to avert a sob-"I've brought you some roast beef." Winnie poked the package towards her but Maureen's hands stayed in her pockets.

"I don't want beef, Mum."

"Take it," said Winnie desperately "Please. I brought it over for you. The juice has run in my handbag. I made too much-"

A passing woman skidded slightly on the frosty ground, let out a startled exclamation and grabbed Winnie's arm to steady herself. She dragged Winnie over to one side, jerking her hand and knocking the lump of silver onto the pavement. The cheap foil burst, scattering the slices of brown meat, splattering watery blood over the white ice.

"Oh, my." The woman giggled, nervous with fright, patting her chest as she stood up. "Sorry about that. It's so icy this morning."

Winnie yanked her arm away. "You made me drop that," she said, and the woman smelled her breath, greasy with drink at nine in the morning.

She glanced over Winnie's shoulder to Mr. Padda's licensed grocer's, shot Winnie a disgusted look and stood up tall and straight. "Didn't mean to touch you," she said perfunctorily.

"Go away," said Winnie indignantly.

"I'm sorry," the woman addressed Maureen. "I slipped-"

"We didn't ask for your life story," snapped a suddenly nasty Winnie.

Maureen couldn't help herself. It was a big mistake but she smiled at Winnie's appalling behavior and gave her quarter. The disapproving woman took to her heels and scuttled away, watching her feet on the icy ground. Maureen took Winnie's arm and guided her out of the busy thoroughfare and onto the side of the pavement.

"Thank you, honey," said Winnie, covering Maureen's hand with her own.

Maureen wanted to turn and walk away. Every time she had seen Winnie before the schism Winnie hurt her or freaked her out or had done her head in in one way or another. She dearly wanted to walk away, but looking at her mum's badly applied makeup, at her shiny nose and big mittens, Maureen realized that she'd missed her terribly, missed all the fights and the high drama and the mingled smells of vodka and face powder. "Mum," she said, "I'm not staying away from you because you don't love me."

Tears were running down Winnie's face and her chin began to tremble. "Why, then?" she demanded, catching the eye of a workman on his way into the newsagent's.

"You know why," said Maureen.

Winnie wiped her face with her mittens, scarring the beige suede with her tears. "You know about Una?" she asked.

"I know she's pregnant. Liam told me."

Winnie sniffed, wringing her hands. "And what did you do on Christmas Day?" she asked.

Maureen shrugged. "Had dinner with friends," she said.

She had spent the day alone with a packet of Marks & Spencer's sausage rolls, which she had eaten and hadn't liked at all. An hour later she had read the back of the packet and realized she was supposed to have cooked them. Liam had come over in the evening and they had watched the tail end of the good television together and had a smoke. He had refused to eat with the family because Michael would be there. Liam said George, their stepdad, had almost come out with him. George didn't like Michael either and he liked everyone. George would have liked Old Nick if he could hold a tune and got his round in.