Denise Mina - Resolution

She looked down at the picture again. The child's pain seemed so immanent, the threat to her so urgent, that Maureen felt a rush in her stomach and flush on her cheeks. She wanted to do something, run into the street and punch someone or something, take action and save the wee girl, but the picture could be decades old. And all she could tell the police if she phoned them was that she had been sent a cheap photocopy of a picture of a girl who seemed upset. She crouched down by the picture and put her fingertip on the child's hand.

Weeping, she picked up the picture by its edge and put it in the hall cupboard, facing the wall. She shut the door, resting her head on the frame, and decided to get out of the house.

As she pulled the front door open, her eye caught the wicker laundry basket sitting under the basin in the bathroom at the far end of the hall. Suddenly irritated by the innocuous item, she left the front door open, walked down the hall, emptied the basket onto the bathroom floor and carried it down the stairs. She threw it out of the back door, into the midden.

She bought a can of Coke in Mr. Padda's and put her shades on, sitting on the low wall outside her door between the jagged metal stumps, remnants of railings sawed off in the war. She smoked a cigarette and drank, watching for the van. She would go and see Ella McGee this afternoon, tell her about the date of the small-claims case and then wash her hands of it. Since she couldn't talk about it in front of Si McGee she decided to dress up smartly and sneak in before the visiting hours started. She wasn't going to think about the photograph or talk about last night's citation until she'd spoken to Hugh McAskill. He'd tell her what it meant and what she should do about it.

Leslie arrived and, to Maureen's astonishment, was upset about Cammy. They had spent the previous evening trying to settle who owned what in the flat but he kept crying and Leslie had had to restrain herself from comforting him in case he took it the wrong way. Maureen suspected that Cammy knew exactly what he was doing. Leslie chucking him out meant he'd have to go back and stay with his mum, pay digs money out of his giro and at least pretend to try to get a job.

The market was bustling with the Saturday crowd. They were different from the weekday punters, less purposeful and more likely to browse, but the takings could be good. Some of the stalls in their tunnel were only used on Saturdays. Punters wandered around in groups of two or three, silting up the market's arteries. Foreign tourists came to the market on Saturdays because the tour guides wanted to fit in the Barras weekend market on the same day. It was a healthier crowd than during the week, when the underfed and underprivileged gathered together to trade reusable rubbish. They were unpacking the van and setting up the stall when Leslie started peering above Maureen's eyes.

"Mauri, you've got a wee mark there." She tried to rub off the tender bruise on Maureen's forehead.

"Stop it," said Maureen, slapping her hand away. "It's a bruise."

"What is it?" asked Leslie.

"I dunno," said Maureen, and tipped up her chin. "Look. There's another under here."

"How did ye do that?"

"I dunno. I must have done it when I was asleep."

"D'ye put your head in a vice when you're sleeping?"

Maureen smiled and rubbed her forehead. "Aye, mibi."

Engaging with a person who wasn't Cammy for thirty seconds had taken it out of Leslie. She looked down the tunnel to the bright lane. "Cammy bruised his big toenail at football. It's still black. He did it months ago, as well."

It was half eight in the morning and Maureen was already furious with everyone. She was angry with Leslie for not listening, angry with whoever had delivered the picture, angry at the thought of seeing Angus again and with that fucking laundry basket for taking up so much fucking space for so long. She thought of it sitting out in the dusty back court and hoped it would rain.

Leslie was red-eyed but standing firm. Maureen listened to her talk about Cammy, trying to care. She was angry; she could feel it gnawing at the pit of her stomach. She tried breathing in deeply to dilute it, trying to bring her mind back to Cammy and the disputed ownership of an Orb album.

The market died off in the early afternoon. Leslie went to get the lunch and came back with bacon and egg rolls.

"Getting sick of rolls every day," said Maureen, throwing hers, half eaten, to Elsie Tanner.

"Yeah," said Leslie, licking runny yolk from the back of her hand, looking at her roll as if Maureen had taken the good out of it.

"I got a letter this morning," Maureen said reticently. "Hand-delivered. I'm sure it's from Farrell."

"How could he deliver it by hand?" asked Leslie. "Isn't he still in hospital?"

"Aye, but I figure he probably knows someone. Gave them my address."

"What was the picture of?"

"A wee girl, naked and crying."

"Fuck, Mauri, that's creepy."

"It's supposed to be," said Maureen, scratching her head.

Maureen and Leslie took turns going for walks up and down the lane. After one walk Leslie came back looking shifty and carrying a Marks & Spencer food-hall bag. When she set it down the bag's contents slid to the side, the top gaped open and Maureen saw two portions of chicken tikka and a double portion of rice. Leslie pushed the bag into her holdall and sat down on her stool.

Maureen lit a cigarette as she walked down the lane to the river. The market ended at a disused iron bridge over the river. Greenery sprouted from between red riveted girders like the hairs on an old man's ears. On a sofa in the shade of the bridge sat two drunk men with sunbaked faces, looking out at the rusting underbelly. One man watched her pass, smiling genially. His pal was either asleep or dead, slumped sideways at an improbable angle over the arm of the sofa.

She went into the Sutherland Vaults, a dingy pub painted black throughout. The Saturday drinkers were there, propped along the bar, looking as sober as the settee men. Around a blind corner a sad old song was being played on a fiddle, accompanied by the exhausted heartbeat of a bodhran.

She used the pay phone and called Hugh McAskill at work. He said hello and that he would meet her for a curry the next night. He talked as if they'd already made the arrangement and were finalizing details. They had never so much as been for coffee together before. When she agreed to meet him at Charing Cross at seven thirty he said, "Yes," and hung up on her. She stood for a moment, wondering if it had been Hugh she'd spoken to. It had sounded like him.

She hadn't intended to do it, but the bar was there and she was pissed off and worried so she ordered a triple whiskey, without a mixer, and drank it down like medicine. When she left the glass on the bar and stepped out into the road the day was warmer, the sunshine less corrosive, and the colors of the cars against the deep green of the river were vibrant and thrilling.

The market was all but deserted by half one. It was too hot and everyone was staying in their gardens or hanging about the park. Maureen suggested that they shut up early but Leslie didn't want to. They argued about it apathetically for half an hour and Leslie was proved right when one of the regulars came jogging down the aisle breathlessly at two o'clock and bought a whole box of Regal and a packet of tobacco. "For the weans," he said, and wheezed a laugh.

Leslie had nothing to do but go home and cry so she agreed to drive Maureen to her flat, wait for her to change into some fresh clothes and take her to the Albert. Maureen wanted her to wait outside and give her a lift home again afterwards but Leslie thought she was pushing it. "I'm not just being lazy," said Maureen, "but her creepy son tried to drive me home yesterday and I want to leave with someone."