Denise Mina - Field of Blood

She raised her hand to wave, but he didn’t see her. Instead of demanding his attention she went to the bar and bought him a double of the best malt McGrade stocked. She watched McGrade carry the drink over and put it down on the table in front of him, whispering what it was and who it was from. Pete didn’t look up to thank her but sipped the drink reverently instead of throwing it to the back of his throat, and smiled at it as he turned the glass with his thumb and forefinger.

She walked around the entire room looking for Terry and noticed that the men were ignoring her to a pronounced degree. It was a mark of respect. Terry wasn’t among the men playing the whisky-drinking game by the toilets, and he wasn’t propped up anywhere along the length of the bar. Dub was sitting on a bench behind the door with a crowd of printmen, arguing about German bands and whether “O Superman” qualified as music.

“Hiya.” She slid onto the seat next to him, and Dub grinned and moved up to make room for her.

“That,” he said, pointing at her bandage, “is a new look for you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I thought I’d experiment with some brain-surgery themed outfits.”

“Suits ye. Makes you look like someone with interesting things to say.”

“ ‘Ouch’?”

“Yeah, and ‘argh.’ ”

Paddy gestured at the scene in front of them. “Is it me or is this madder than usual?”

“Settle back,” Dub answered, handing her someone else’s half-pint off the busy table, “and I’ll tell you a story.”

The way Dub told the story, the evening had started off with Dr. Pete arriving at the newsroom door, released on police bail and still wearing his hospital pajamas. He announced that he was fucked if he was going to take a minute more of this shite. He was leaving to write his book about MacLean; it would make anyone sick the way the fucking staff were treated in this place, and all because of McGuigan. A more reflective analyst would have noted that McGuigan was in no way responsible for Dr. Pete’s complaints, but the newsroom loved a ruckus. He swept down to editorial, and they followed behind him like a crowd of angry villagers. Even Farquarson went with them, half laughing while ordering them to return to their desks at once, protesting as effectively as a jolly octogenarian being tickled by his favorite grandchildren.

Pete burst into McGuigan’s office and shouted a lot of rubbish, pulling him around by a lapel at one point and telling him he had a mouth like an arse. He resigned and said he’d never be back.

Pete’s reckless excitement had spread and multiplied- emotional loaves and fishes- and the atmosphere in the Press Bar felt less like a damp Tuesday in February and more like a lonely sailor’s millennial Hogmanay shore leave.

Paddy laughed at the story, enjoying herself, occasionally touching her hand to her sore head to see if the feeling had come back to the skin. She lifted the drink to sip a couple of times but couldn’t get past the image of a sweaty man slavering over the lip of the glass.

The door opened next to them and Terry Hewitt stepped in, looking around the room. Paddy cringed and leaned over, tugging on the hem of his leather jacket to get his attention. He nodded when he saw it was her, acting as if they had arranged to meet there, and came to sit by her, forcing Dub to slide up the bench even further so that he was jammed uncomfortably into the corner. He stood up, offering to get a round in but failing to ask Terry what he wanted.

“Wild night,” said Terry softly.

“I’m so sorry.”

“’S okay. I’ve just finished a draft for tomorrow with Garry in.”

“No, I’m so sorry I convinced you it was Henry, I had no business-”

“You realized it was Garry when we were at Tracy’s, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“You should have said something to me.”

She’d been ashamed of being wrong, but tried to dress it up. “I wanted to protect you,” she explained, her voice trailing off weakly at the obvious lie.

Terry nodded and muttered “Fair enough” under his breath, letting her off with it.

“Will I get credited for the story?”

Terry looked a little reproachful. “I gave you first credit in the morning edition.”

“I did nearly die for the story.” She sounded defensive.

“I know.”

“I am entitled.”

“I know.”

Across the room, Dub scowled over at them from the bar.

“Is Dub gay, do you think?”

Terry watched her face curiously.

“You know, I really don’t think he is.”

Paddy looked up at the bar. Dub frowned at Terry again and took an angry draw on a cigarette. Beyond him, Pete was standing behind a wall of whisky drinkers, swaying slightly, his eyes shut. Dub glared over at them again. Paddy gave him a cheery little wave. He tipped his chin at her and flared his nostrils. Next to her, Terry cleared his throat loudly. It was getting a bit intense. Perplexed at what was going on, Paddy suddenly craved the calm of home. She patted her knees decisively.

“Well, I’m going to say good night to Pete.”

“’Kay.” Terry pressed his knee against hers and whispered, “Will I see you in tomorrow, wee Paddy Meehan?”

Embarrassed at the intimacy, Paddy smiled into her half-pint. “Mibbe’s aye,” she said, “and mibbe’s naw.” She stood up and walked away, wearing a soft smile to match Terry’s.

Halfway through the fog of men she bumped into McVie. Even he, the most mean-spirited man at the News, was drinking and enjoying the carnival atmosphere. He cornered her by the fag machine and tried to think of advice to give her, having enjoyed his moment in the chair when they were out in the calls car. He had not one morsel left and was rather drunk, so he gave her some slurred secondhand wisdom, passing it off as his own. Don’t take shit from anyone. Don’t buy things on hire purchase. Never back a horse called Lucky. Don’t go on holiday to Blackpool, it’s fucking horrible there.

By the time she got away from McVie, Pete was slumped in the corner, his eyes shut and his face slack. She had to fight her way through the whisky drinkers to get to him.

“Careful!” shouted one as she pushed past him, tipping his drink and making him spill a little whisky on the floor. He saw her going for Pete. “Don’t try to wake him up. He’s been in hospital, he needs his sleep.”

Paddy sat down next to Pete and slipped her fingers around his wrist. His pulse was still.

“He’s not asleep,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” shouted one of the guys at the table. “He’s the king, man, he’s the fucking king. He’s had us in here since five o’clock.”

“He’s not asleep,” she whispered, taking Pete’s cold, lonely hand in hers and bringing it to her lips.

Paddy stood in the cold, pressing her hands into her pockets. Her warm, white sigh flowered and lingered in front of her.

Over the fence and through the window she could see the tops of their heads in the living room. Sean was sitting in one armchair, Con in the other, and they were watching the television news together. The light was on in Marty’s bedroom, and she could just discern the faint hum of a radio. Mary Ann would be having a bath. Trisha would be in the kitchen tending the food, warming plates ready for her return from work.

She told her feet to take her to the door, but she stayed, watching over the hedge, unwilling. Sean said something and Con nodded. Her parents didn’t know that they had split up. She wasn’t sure Sean had taken it in yet either, but it was nice that he was there. He wasn’t angry at her, anyway.

They’d go mad when they saw the bandage on her head, and now her eyes were raw from crying. She couldn’t tell them that her friend had died in a pub. She certainly couldn’t tell them about Garry Naismith.