Denise Mina - Exile

Bunyan laughed softly and sat back. "You really haven't got a girl, have you? They're terrible. Whatever you tell them they do the opposite. Just like when they grow up."

Harris smiled and showed his horrible little teeth but Bunyan didn't notice. She was looking at his eyes. Alone with four kids and no money. Jesus. Harris's face fell suddenly somber and he glanced at the tape. "Will ye promise to keep the social work away from my boys?"

"I can't promise that, Mr. Harris, but I'll try."

Harris drew a deep, trembling breath, and propped his elbows on the table, resting his forehead in his hands. "I was in London," he muttered to the table top. "Someone put a ticket through my door and I went down on a plane for the day."

Startled by the vital piece of information, Bunyan forgot how she sounded. "Who would do that?" she breathed.

"I don't know. But I think I better tell ye because if I don't they will."

Kilty was right about the Argyle. It was a short, narrow road but the yellow-brick block of flats was dirty and less cared for than Dumbarton Court. Maureen looked through the small glass panel on the door to block six and knew she didn't want to go up there. The stairwell was littered with burned juice cans, fag butts and empty crisp packets. At the very foot of the flight sat what she hoped was a dog turd. She could hear someone walking slowly down the stairs, their footfalls uncertain and irregular. She backed away from the door and walked across the road, standing at the bus stop, watching. The door opened and a skinny woman emerged, walking uncertainly, her eyes glazed and troubled. She wore a sweatshirt with "Viva Las Vegas" written on it in a rubberized transfer, the kind that peels off in a hot wash. She made her way out to the hill, steadying herself against the bus-stop wall. She didn't look any more able to handle herself than Maureen. Tentatively, Maureen approached the entrance and walked up to the second floor, reminding herself that it was just the boring barman and she had nothing to fear but long pauses.

There was no welcome mat in front of flat 211. The door was coated in sheets of bolted metal, and a protective outer door, constructed from seventies hacienda-style wrought iron, stood half a foot out from the wall. A big three-dimensional spy hole, like a marble, stuck out from the door in a way that would allow the viewer to see downstairs and into every dark shadow on the landing. The doorbell at the side was drilled into the wall. She pressed and stepped back, waiting for the answer.

"Who're ye?" It was a man's voice, a Scottish man, and he sounded nervous.

Maureen had been expecting the barman.

"I got a message to come here."

"Who from?"

"On my pager."

Four or five metal locks of different types snapped, crunched and slid back. The door opened with the chain on. A man's eye looked out at her, checking her out, looking behind her. The door shut, the chain came off and he opened it, swinging the bars out, beckoning her indoors while he kept his eye on the stairs. He was white and in his forties, with a twisted stab scar on his left cheek. The contused skin had contracted as it healed, dragging the cheek down and in. An older, cleaner slash line ran from the soft skin on the outside of his left eye, across his cheek, ending in an artful twist on the tip of his nose. Face slashing is a Scottish gang custom, used to teach lessons and mark opponents. No wonder he was nervous. No wonder he'd left Glasgow. "Come," he whispered, flapping his hand urgently, calling her in.

Maureen didn't want to go in. She didn't like the bars on the door or the dirty stairs or the locks. "Who are you?" she said, crossing her arms and shifting her weight onto one foot, letting him know she wasn't moving.

"Tarn Parlain," he said, and pointed at her. "You're from Glasgow, eh?"

"Yeah."

"You'll have heard of my family."

"No," said Maureen. "I'm sorry, I haven't."

Tarn Parlain was still watching the stairs. "Ah, come on," he said, "you've heard of the Parlains. From Paisley."

"No, I haven't, I'm sorry. Why would I have?"

He looked at her and seemed disappointed. "Well," he said, acting modest, "we're in the news a lot." He smiled and the stab scar on his cheek puckered, dragging the skin into a pointed nipple. He remembered what he looked like and let his face fall. Maureen guessed that the Parlains didn't grow prize marrows.

"Come in," he said. "I can't keep the door open."

"Why?"

"There's guys after me."

"D'you know anything about Ann?"

"Ann? The poor girl who was found? Aye, come in."

She was wary and unsure, but Maureen thought of Kilty and squeezed the stabbing comb in her pocket. She sidled past him, turning through the half foot he left for her. Parlain shut the door and Maureen watched as he did up the locks again. She tried to remember the order and method of each but by the time she had walked through the hall to the living room she'd forgotten the second and third locks.

The living room was a long rectangle with a fitted kitchen at the back and a breakfast bar marking out the territories. The flat-pack kitchen cupboards had been badly put together and several of the doors were missing. The cupboards were empty. A fussy dark green leather sofa with loose cushion attachments sat against the wall and next to it a coffee table, recently washed and still wet. The room was ridiculously clean. The walls had been painted with glaring white emulsion. There was no carpet on the floor, just big squares of immaculate bare hardboard, painted black. The picture window was barred from the inside. "Sit down." He motioned to the tattered leather sofa.

Maureen took a seat, resting her hands beside her on the leather sofa, and looked up at him. Tarn Parlain twitched like a heavy smoker and his eyes were hollow and insincere.

"Tarn," said Maureen, "did you page me?"

"Yeah."

He sat down next to her on the settee, turning to face her, his arm outstretched behind her, like a gauche teenager angling for a snog. He half smiled and pointed at her. "Sorry," he said. "What's your name again?"

She didn't want the creepy fuck to know her name. The barman had probably told him already. "Marian," she said. If they crosschecked the name each would think the other had misheard.

"Marian." He took time to think about it and she knew the barman had told him it was Maureen.

"Whereabouts in Glasgow are ye from, Marian?" he said, trying to place her in the city and work out whether she was connected.

"Just Glasgow," she said, sitting forward, taking her fags out of her pocket. She didn't want to offer them in case Parlain touched her. "The barman at the Coach and Horses gave you my pager number, didn't he?"

"Oh, aye."

"Do you know something about Ann?"

"Aye, Ann. Poor Ann." He hung his head. "That was terrible."

Maureen lifted the fag to her mouth, and as she lit it she noticed that her hands were damp and giving off an odd smell, like a detergent. They felt gritty. He had been washing his leather sofa with watery detergent. He had washed the floor too and the coffee table, and the kitchen cupboards were empty. He had washed every surface in the house. He was exactly the sort of paranoid lulu Liam would have turned into if he hadn't stopped dealing. She turned back to him, pitying him his life, nodding along with him. "Yes," she said, "it was terrible. And how did you know Ann?"

"We drank in the same pubs around here." He let the conversation falter.

"Do you know her sister?" asked Maureen.

Parlain shook his head and again they found themselves staring blankly at each other.

"She lives a few streets up," she said.

"Naw, I don't know her." He stared at Maureen as if he was waiting for her to do something.

"What is it you want to tell me, Tarn?"