Denise Mina - Exile

"Why did they beat her up at all?" asked Maureen.

"She lost a whole bag of their drugs."

"She lost them?"

"She was mugged."

"What's the story with the Polaroid?"

"He was her boyfriend," said Moe. "He was going to protect her. She said I should contact him if anything went wrong."

"What's his name?"

"I don't know. She said she'd left a photo and I'd be able to find him through that."

"And that's why you wanted to keep it?"

"I just want to know what she was doing," said Moe desperately, "why she was working for drugs… people. Our family have never been involved in anything like that. We're from a decent family. Can I have the picture?"

"No," said Maureen. "I haven't got it anymore but the guy's name is Frank Toner and he drinks around here."

"In Streatham?"

"No, in Brixton. Coach and Horses."

"I thought he lived in Scotland. What happened to the picture?"

"I gave it to a guy I met in a pub."

Moe was very offended. "Why did you give it to him when I asked for it?"

"I had the feeling you were lying to me, Moe, and I didn't want to give it to you."

Maureen stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and as she did Moe lurched across in the chair and grabbed her hand, squeezing too hard, crushing the scratched fingers together. "I'm sorry I lied," she said, pointedly making eye contact. "I just don't know who to trust. Thank you for being kind to me, I'll never forget it."

Maureen disentangled her hand and stood up. "Look, take care of yourself. And burn that book."

"I will," sighed Moe unsteadily. "I will."

"You can make your phone call now."

Moe shut the door behind her and double-locked it from the inside.

The sunlight and the mild weather heightened the smell from the bins and Maureen held her breath as she hurried out of the enclosed courtyard. Another message was coming through on her pager. She dug it out and found that Leslie had left a mobile number and asked her to phone urgently. She took a side street to the station and soon found herself in a pretty road of low, terraced houses with climbing plants around the doors and shallow gardens. She lit a cigarette and walked slowly. A car crawled past her, lilting over the speed bumps, speeding up in the pauses. If Moe had the book then Ann must have signed all the checks for her in advance. She must have known, thought Maureen suddenly. She must have known she was going to die.

The receiver in the phone box in the high street had been smashed and she had no choice but to move nearer to the tube station. The Hebrew Israelites were shouting through a megaphone at a small crowd of bewildered listeners standing five feet away. They had constructed a small platform for themselves and were dressed in what appeared to be old costumes from an amateur play about Hannibal – studded belts and trousers tucked into knee-high leather boots. Two stood on either side of the speaker, their arms crossed, looking over the heads of an imaginary vast crowd. The speaker had been shouting about the evils of homosexuality and handed the megaphone to his pal. 'And they shall be put to death!" he shouted. 'And they shall be put to death!"

She tried the mobile number recorded on her pager but found it engaged.

"Liam?"

"Mauri?" he shouted. "When are ye coming home?"

"I'm a bit rough, Liam. Don't shout again, okay?"

A bus passed the phone box, sending a gust of air under the door.

"Are ye hungover again?" he said, sounding a bit worried.

"No, I've got the flu or something." She felt like Winnie, telling a hopeless lie to cover up her drinking. "I think I got it from someone on the bus," she said, digging herself in deeper and deeper, wondering why the fuck she was lying.

"Hutton was trying to move out on his own," said Liam. "That's why he was hit."

It took her a couple of seconds to remember why she cared about any of it. "Oh. That's good, isn't it?" she said. "Means Ann had nothing to do with it."

"Probably. No one knows where he got his stash from. She might have been carrying up to him."

Maureen tried to think of something intelligent to say but blanked. "My head's bursting," she said.

Liam paused. "Why are you outside, then?"

"Sarah chucked me out for getting drunk and bad-mouthing Jesus."

"So, you got drunk while you had the flu or you've got a flu with exactly the same symptoms as a hangover."

She laughed softly, trying not to shake her head or breathe out too much. "Oh, God," she whispered, "I feel so bad. I've hurt my hand."

"Well, you shouldn't drink so much," said Liam. "I heard they arrested that Jimmy guy."

"Yeah. Look, Liam, your druggie pals down here, are they nice people?"

"Yeah, they're nice enough."

"Can I go and see them? I want to ask them about something."

"I can't give you their address, Mauri. It's a confidential relationship, you know."

"Come on, Liam, you're not a priest."

"They won't be chuffed if I send you there. They're a bit, you know, careful."

"Can't you phone them first and ask?"

"They might not be in."

"Well, ye can tell me whether they're in when I phone back in a minute, can't ye?"

"They won't like it."

"I'll phone ye back in twenty minutes, Liam."

Liam tutted and muttered "fuck's sake" before hanging up. Maureen looked around at the soft porn in the phone box, wondering what the children who came in here thought of it. A lorry passed by outside and the cards on the cheaper paper fluttered, whipping up like curling fingers. The Hebrew Israelites were still chanting threats through a megaphone. She would have given anything to be at home, before Mark Doyle had grabbed her elbow, before Sarah had called her an alkie.

Martha's voice was a drawling syrupy balm and her soft eyes were a solace. She wore a colorful wraparound skirt, a short red T-shirt and big trainers. "Alex is away for a couple of days," she said, blinking slowly, as if she'd just had a smoke or was about to have a smoke. "Anyway, babe, Liam said you had a really bad hangover and I had to look after you."

Maureen lay back on the settee and looked at the ceiling. Martha lived just across the road from the Oval underground station. It was a poky flat, gracelessly shaved from a more illustrious whole. The odd-shaped rooms were too high, the cornicing stopped abruptly at walls like a discontinued stanza and the galley kitchen was shaped like a streamlined map of Italy, splaying out at the end to avoid cutting the big window in half.

Martha and Alex had not spent a lot of money on decoration but their entire flat seemed specifically designed to appease a hangover. The front room was dark and the heavy curtains were drawn, even though it was one in the afternoon. Damp patches on the ceiling were covered with Paisley shawls and a dim deflected light shone out from underneath a floating umbrella in a high corner. A collection of 3-D postcards of dogs wearing hats was displayed on the fireplace. Compared to Sarah's house it was the most cozy, welcoming place she had ever been, and Maureen never wanted to move from here. Martha sat down next to her on the sagging sofa.

"Do you own this flat?" asked Maureen.

"No," said Martha, in her breathy English accent. "We rent it from a bloke who lives in Ireland. He owns the building. He's cool when it comes to rent and dates and stuff."

"It's nice. Very calming."

"Would you like something to eat? What about a cup of tea and a chocolate mini roll?" said Martha, well versed in the chemistry of comfort.

"Oh, that would be perfect."

"I've got some Valium too, babe," said Martha, heaving herself up. "You could have one or two."

Maureen declined. She desperately wanted to stay on the sofa but she thought it might be rude to sit while her host attended to her so she wrenched herself out of her seat and put her shades on again as she followed Martha into the bright kitchen. She wanted to use the phone but thought it might be cheeky to call a mobile in Scotland. The kitchen was homely and comfortable: the cupboards had been painted pink and yellow with matte emulsion, and the fridge had a big picture of Lionel Richie, sans beard, varnished onto the door, looking as if his mouth and jaw had been manipulated in a special computer program. They hadn't. Martha filled the kettle from the tap.