Denise Mina - Exile

Alan's face fell and his eyes flickered to the front door. "What do ye want him for?" he said quickly.

"Just a chat."

The boy seemed panicked. His eyes darted around the room. If Alan had been older Bunyan would have thought he was looking for a weapon.

"You're not gonnae…" Alan caught his breath. "Ye won't jail him, will ye?"

"We're just going to talk to him, here, in the house."

The little boy frowned. "What'll happen to the babies if ye jail him?" he said, but Bunyan knew what he was asking.

"You'll all be fine," she said. "We're just going to have a little chat, that's all. We won't be long."

Williams and Harris came back through the door. Harris's eyes were redder than before: the purple pressure under his eyes was building. Alan ran forward and grabbed Harris around the thigh. "I'll stay," he said. "I'll stay with yees."

"You can't stay, darlin'," said Bunyan.

Alan smiled up at Williams, frightened and hopeful. "Let me stay, I want to stay with yees, ye can talk to me, I'll tell ye things, I'll tell ye." Harris tried to shake the boy off his leg but Alan clung on. "I'll stay – Mrs. Lindsay only likes babies anyway. She doesn't want me."

Harris put his hand on the boy's head and pushed him away. "Get upstairs and dress," he said.

Alan stepped back and looked at him, muttering a random string of dirty words under his breath. He turned and scampered up the stairs noisily on all fours.

"You should have told the children about their mother," said Williams. "This makes it very difficult for us."

James Harris slumped against the wall, his mouth hanging open.

"Why didn't you?"

But Harris was staring at his feet. "I just… I couldn't," he said.

They could hear the boy upstairs, singing loud mock opera in a kiddie baritone. A door slammed open, smashing off a wall, and Alan clattered down the stairs carrying the smallest child, holding the little man under his arms, walking with his legs open so he didn't step on his feet and hurt him. He dropped the little boy onto his feet at the bottom of the stairs and the baby staggered into the living room, holding on to the wall.

"One more to go," sang Alan, and ran back upstairs again.

Tearfully, Harris put the little hat on the boy and kissed his face as if he'd never see him again.

Bunyan took Williams aside, and pointed upstairs. "That child is going mental," she said sternly.

"He's just worried," said Williams.

An upstairs door slammed open again and Alan shouted a strangled rendition of the climax to "Ness'un Dorma." He arrived at the top of the stairs with his laces undone, tugging a gray V-neck over his vest with one hand, holding the older baby's hand. He sang as the baby walked down the stairs one at a time, repeating his favorite bits when he got to the end. He was out of breath when he got to the hall and stood panting and looking at his dad. "I'll stay," he said.

"You can't stay," said Harris, bending down and picking up the smallest baby. He took the other boy's hand. " 'Mon," he said, herding Alan with his knees, out of the door and into the neighbor's hallway.

Mrs. Lindsay stood by the door, holding it open as she smoked a Super King fag. She was an eighteen-year-old with two small babies of her own and a voice like Orson Welles. "When'll ye be back for them?" she graveled.

They looked to Williams for an answer but he wasn't in the business of comforting anyone.

"Not too long," said Bunyan.

" 'Cause I need tae go out later. I cannae watch them past five."

"We should be finished by then," said Bunyan.

"Thanks, hen," muttered Harris, and the policemen took him next door.

Brixton Hill was a broad, fast road. Blocks of high flats lined it, set far enough back across grass or gravel to lend them the looming presence of ugly castles. Farther up the hill the blocks were named after rough Scottish towns like Dumbarton, Renton and Steps. Dumbarton Court must have been the designer's dream when it was built. It was a stranded Deco cruise liner with white balconies running the length of the block and metal railings accentuating the horizontal lines, rounded on the turn. Dead plants, bits of discarded furniture and strings of ragged washing shattered the straight lines of the verandas. Under attack from the sunshine and the exhaust fumes, the whitewash had turned a mottled gray and was peeling off in papery sheets.

Maureen took a turn at Dumbarton Road, as Mrs. Akitza had instructed her, and walked round to the back of the block, looking for the entrance. In the back court a gang of teenagers shouted to one another, their squeals amplified in the concrete circle. The entrance to flats one to twenty-nine was a narrow stairwell with an open doorway in whitewashed concrete and glass bricks.

It was the stairwell that gave it away. A soup spoon had been dropped when it was burning hot and was now stuck into the plastic flooring. Farther up a splurge of vomit had dried on the lower wall. It was too cold to sit on the stairs, and the junkies had left their debris behind them.

She rang the bell, heard steps in the hall beyond the door and felt herself being looked at through the spy hole. The door opened and a skinny woman in her late forties looked out at her. Moe's short hair was thick and as yellow as Ann's but the livid pink of her skin had been mitigated by face powder. She was a handsome woman with large green eyes and eyebrows drawn on with brown pencil. She was dressed in a modest A-line brown skirt and biscuit-colored silk blouse, tucked in at the waist to show off her slim figure.

"Hello, Mrs. Akitza?"

"Hah, yes – Maureen?"

Moe shuffled backwards into her hall, swinging her legs as if her hip bones were fused into her pelvis. She panted incessantly, turning shallow breaths into little "hahs," as if perpetually making tiny, amazing discoveries. "Hah, thanks for phoning before you came up," she said, her accent a fusion of open Glaswegian vowels and tiptoed English consonants. "You gave me a chance, hah, to clean up a little bit. I have to ask you not to smoke, hah, I'm afraid." She pointed to her chest. "Bad heart."

"No bother," said Maureen, wondering if she could actually smell smoke or if she was remembering it. "It's good of ye to see me."

"Go into the front room," said Moe, shivering at a pain in her arm, "and sit down, hah. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely, thanks," said Maureen, stepping into the bright mouth of the front room. She waited until Moe had hobbled into the kitchen before looking at the living room. It was a long, low rectangle with a horizontally barred window running the full length of the outside wall. A large green chenille three-piece suite filled the room. A vase of dead and molting tulips sat on the windowsill, the black stamens spilled over the floor and sill like a cascade of spent matches. Sunlight shone into the room at an angle, lighting up the soupy dust swirling lazily in the atmosphere. Evidence of Moe's disability sat around the room: a Zimmer frame stood in front of the sofa and a folded wheelchair leaned against the wall. Maureen went to sit down but found an Eazigrip stick standing upright in the chair. The claw looked sticky as if someone had been picking up food with it. Maureen stepped away from the chair and saw a badly hidden ashtray tucked under the fringe of the chair. It had a dead cigarette in it. She bent down, holding her hand over the stub. It was still warm. She stood up and smiled.

A concealed panel in the wall shot up and the top of Moe's head appeared in the hatch. She shoved a tea tray onto the shelf. "I'll, hah, give ye this through if ye don't mind…"

Maureen took the tray, but couldn't find anywhere to set it down. She had to wait for Moe to hurple into the living room and, bending over with considerable effort, pull over a leather-embossed pouf. Maureen sat the tray on it, listening to Moe panting hard. "D'ye not keep well, Mrs. Akitza?" she asked.