Denise Mina - Resolution

Peter smiled nervously at Maureen. Leslie stood up and sidled over to him, looking around as if she was about to confide in him. "Peter," she said slowly, her mouth a couple of inches from his ear, "I'm menstruating. Heavily."

Peter shut his eyes and shuddered with disgust as Leslie swaggered back to her seat. He looked at her as if she'd hit him and turned his back, pretending to have an interesting and engaging conversation with Lenny, as if such a thing were possible.

Leslie lowered herself onto her stool. "What d'ye do that for?" said Maureen.

"I like scaring them with our big leaky bodies." Leslie grinned. "That's cheered me right up."

"Yeah, well, good one," said Maureen. "Let's attack all the men with chronic angina. That'll learn 'em."

Leslie liked to put up an aggressive front but she was a bit cowardly, really. When they had lured Angus to Millport she had crapped it and stayed downstairs with Siobhain while Maureen went to meet him. It was a sore point. They'd argued about it but never talked about it and Maureen had noticed that knowing she was impotent had made Leslie even more aggressive.

"So," said Maureen as she sat down, "ye'd a bad night?"

"Aye." Leslie hung her head and rubbed the back of her neck. "It was fucking terrible. He wouldn't go away."

"Ye know, ye could do the deed and move in with me for a couple of weeks. Let him cool off a bit." Maureen hoped she wouldn't need to. Leslie was hard work at the best of times and this wasn't the best of times.

"Yeah. He's convinced I'm seeing someone else so he wants us to have a kid."

"How do those two things fit together?"

"He doesn't want kids at all, he just wants to tie me down and control me. It's a twenty-year commitment for me and he's a guy so he can piss off and come back when it suits him."

"I think you're right."

"What a situation to bring a wee life into. He's not working, I'm here and God knows how long that'll last for." They nodded to each other. "And he wants a family. I said to him, I said, 'Cammy, fuck off."

Maureen chuckled to herself. "You're a great negotiator, Leslie."

"Yeah, well, he can fuck off. Tell ye what else: it sharpens the mind when ye think about someone else listening to the 'Fields of fucking Athenrye' five times a week." She smiled at Maureen. "I'll think about moving in, if that's all right?"

"Anytime," said Maureen, and lit a cigarette to mask her reluctance.

Angus Farrell sipped his cold tea, closing his eyes tight, trying to shake the sore head that had plagued him since breakfast. He had taken a painkiller bought from the trustee the night before because he wanted a sleep but there had been something wrong with it – maybe it clashed with his other medication. A shrill, hot pain had been flaring up behind his eyes since morning. Drug taking was the central recreation of the ward but he couldn't give himself to it. He pushed aside the sandwich.

A clatter against the metal door made him jump, and as the door swung open into the bright, sunny corridor Angus sat upright, straightening his face, getting ready to be seen by the warden. "Solicitor's here," said the officer. "You're going through to Alpha block."

Angus picked up his cup of tea and the food tray with the uneaten sandwich on it and stood, looking at the guard.

"Is that you ready?" said the guard.

"Aye," said Angus.

"Ye not eating your lunch?"

"Not hungry."

The guard hesitated. "Well, look, leave it down," he said, gesturing to the bed, "and I'll give it in to Hungry George down the row."

Angus turned and placed the tray on the bed. They would be in here when he was away, searching. He was glad he'd taken the pill the night before. They wouldn't find anything in his room. He stood up again and the guard stepped away from the door, let him pass. They walked the length of the corridor, passing door after door, hearing men strain to shit or talking to themselves. The warmth in the corridor heightened the acrid smells of unwashed men, of feces and piss, and the flashing pain behind Angus's eyes made him flinch again. Davie, the trustee, looked at his feet as he rolled the trolley by and banged on the next door, calling for the trays back.

The strip-lights and high whir of the cameras burrowed behind his eyes and he leaned forward to make it worse so that when he sat up it would feel like a relief. The pain started to recede, to feel like a flashback to pain from another time, pain from Maureen O'Donnell. In his mind, Angus looked around the little room in Millport: twin beds with matching covers, a sink in the corner and the terrible heat, his hand cuffed to the bed and his legs bare, trousers somewhere else, Maureen O'Donnell standing in front of him, her outline watery through the hot air. He told her she'd been having the dreams because her father had raped her and she'd head-butted him, breaking his nose. He liked making her do that to him. He smiled to himself and sat up slowly, folding his hands in his lap as he looked around the waiting room. Maureen's pale blue eyes, livid and angry, panic at the edges, hoping to God that he was wrong about her father.

He imagined a courtroom. A witness box with Maureen in it, dressed in cheap clothes – she always wore cheap clothes. Hair tidied, some makeup on. If he was near to her he would smell cigarettes from her clothes, smell her shampoo, see her never-quite-clean fingernails. No – he rewound – he'd be across the room. They'd put the witness box far from the dock. A witness box with Maureen in it, dressed in cheap clothes, she always wore cheap clothes. He'd look at her, let his eyes fall to her tits, and she'd get that look again, panic at the edges of her pale blue eyes.

He had written to Maureen from hospital, when he first came out of the acid haze. A volley of letters, nonsensical notes that only she would understand about her father and the bleeding. He liked to imagine her getting each letter and opening it, reading it, and her first reaction, avoiding the letter during the day and rereading it at night, reviving the revulsion. He had sent the letters through the official post. They couldn't stop him writing to her because she wasn't part of his case and she wouldn't complain: he'd mentioned Millport often enough to make it tricky for her. He'd known all along that the hospital censor read the mail and would have notified the police. They'd have traced the letters to Maureen, and her reluctance to hand them over would only serve to convince them that he was sincere.

He looked around the waiting room. The guard next to him was yawning repeatedly because the room was airless. Angus closed his eyes. A witness box with Maureen in it, dressed in cheap clothes, she always wore cheap clothes. Hair tidied, some makeup on. She'd have to point him out, have to look at him. He imagined her being calm and denying giving him the acid-laced coffee. She was a bad witness, had a history of mental illness, a problem with authority, but she could be quite together sometimes. She had a university degree and a pleasant manner. He remembered her coming into his office, smiling for him, asking after him in her heavy, smoky voice, her dark ringlet hair falling over her face. Angus opened his eyes. She couldn't be like that at the trial. She couldn't be credible at his trial. None of it would work if she was.

Grace sat at the table and talked through the details he had gleaned from the police statements. Times and places, Maureen's known movements and when she came to the clinic. "She's got to be a rotten witness," said Angus. "She's got a history of hospitalization, and I'm a trained psychologist."

Grace looked up at him. The fringe of hair fell back over his ears. "We want to avoid bringing evidence about her personal reputation if we can."