Denise Mina - Resolution

It was Friday night, they had two bottles of spirits and fifteen hundred cigarettes, but they were still miserable. Kilty was sad for the Candys. Leslie had started a course of antibiotics and couldn't drink, which made her fractious. Maureen had to decide what to do about Michael within the next two days and last night outside Una's had made her think that all she could do was give up. The three women sat next to one another on the settee watching the Friday night comedy shows on television, instinctively letting off sickly smiles in time to the laughter tracks. It was an airless night and sweat trickled down their necks and foreheads. They kept having to stand up and peel their T-shirts from their backs. On the screen some pals had a group hug and the adverts came on.

"The Life of the Candys," said Kilty. "What must it be like?"

"Ye know," said Leslie, sipping her cranberry juice, "a huge number of them have been abused as children."

"Really?" said Maureen.

"Yeah," said Leslie. "Massive correlation. Same as rent-boys."

"Why do men do it?" said Kilty. "How could anyone get horny enough to touch Candy I?"

"It's not about being horny," said Leslie. "If it was about uncontrollable male sexuality the men would all be adolescent boys. They're men in their twenties and thirties and most of them are married anyway."

"Are they married?" said Kilty, most surprised.

"Yeah, a good proportion."

Kilty sank into the sofa. "God, that's really creepy."

"Those poor women," said Leslie. "It's sexual oppression, it's straightforward. Same the world over."

Maureen shrugged. "I don't think so. I mean, it's a shit job and ye'd hate to do it yourself, but miners get paid danger money and work in horrible conditions that damage their bodies. They do it because there's a local custom of thinking that's an acceptable way to make a living and all those conditions apply to prostitutes."

"They're not prostitutes, Maureen," said Leslie. "They're prostituted women."

Maureen tutted at her and wished Leslie'd have a drink.

"Oof," said Kilty, forcing fake cheer. "That's depressing, isn't it?"

Maureen could tell by Kilty's resolutely upbeat tone that she was here to gee her along. The introductory music to the next program started and they settled back, watching and laughing. The second half of the program came on and they watched a beautiful couple in a perfect house get on, fall out and make up.

"He's gay, that guy," said Kilty absently, pressing out her cigarette and folding it over itself in the ashtray.

Leslie sat forward before the final tagline. "Cammy's asking me for deposit money to get his own flat," she said suddenly.

Kilty looked horrified. "Hen," she said sternly, "he's a fucking chancer. Stay away from that guy."

"I'm gonnae, I'm gonnae," said Leslie, so emphatically that neither of them believed her. "I'm just trying to talk about all the things I've been keeping to myself."

"Will we go and find the missing Candy tomorrow?" said Maureen. "We could go and ask at the Wayfarers' Club, see if they know who she is."

Leslie and Kilty stared at the television for a minute. Kilty coughed and sat forward. "D'ye think they'll know who you're talking about, though?"

"Yeah," said Maureen. "If she was God-bothering she'll probably have told everyone what Jesus saved her from."

It was a dark night and their lineup on the settee was perfectly reflected in the window: three women squashed together on a sofa, holding drinks, with ashtrays, fags and lighters balanced where they could be. Leslie looked at the reflection, watching her pals staring at the flickering television. "What do you suppose other young women do with their Friday nights?" she said.

They all looked at one another.

"Well," said Kilty, "I suppose they go out dancing or something."

Maureen said nothing and raised her eyebrows.

"Should we go dancing?" said Leslie.

"Fuck off," Maureen replied.

Outside the window, in the sprawling city beyond, every person under thirty simultaneously wondered what everyone else of their age was doing and whether they were having a better time.

They settled back to watch the next show and Maureen noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Kilty and Leslie nodding to each other, making wordless plans.

"Mauri?" said Leslie, when the ads came back on. "Kilty and I have been talking."

"Good for you," said Maureen, pretending to be mesmerized by the terms of a new credit card.

"And we want to talk to you about something…"

She stared at the television, hoping she could stall them by simply not answering.

"Mauri," said Leslie, "you're drinking way too much. We both think you should have a look at your drinking pattern."

Bitches. Fucking bitches. Of all the things they might have said to her, Maureen felt that this was the lowest subject they could have brought up. The drink was the only fucking thing that was standing between her and howling, self-harming madness. She thought of Winnie's defensive fury when anyone challenged her drinking and stopped herself saying what she thought.

" 'Kay."

"Why were you steaming at half twelve in the morning the other day?" asked Leslie.

"I got up late," Maureen said, and tried to smile.

Kilty patted her leg like a patronizing shit. "Will you look at your drinking?"

Maureen wanted to shout at them that, fuck it, they drank too, and she'd seen both of them match her drink for drink, but she hadn't ever seen Kilty do that and Leslie hadn't managed it for a long time.

"Will you cut down?" asked Kilty.

"This is a bad time," she spluttered, "with the trial and the baby and now Ella dying. I just don't think this is the time to do it."

"It is a bad time," Kilty acknowledged, and Leslie hummed in agreement.

"I can't even think about it right now." Maureen sat back. "I'll think about it after I've sorted out this Ella thing."

"Mauri," said Kilty softly, "leave it. The woman died of a heart attack. Her kids are horrible and they probably worried her to death but there's nothing you can do about it."

"He killed her," said Maureen, "and she asked me to get her out." They'd obviously talked about this at some length, behind her back, on the phone, and neither of them had even fucking mentioned it to her.

"Mauri," said Kilty. "It's a distraction. You know it is. Neither of us is asking you to stop drinking right now-"

"You have to want to stop," interrupted Leslie.

"Yeah," said Kilty. "Ye have to want to."

The suggestion that Maureen should stop drinking altogether made her feel sick. She might have humored them and considered cutting down but stopping altogether sounded like dying. "I'm not that bad," she said weakly.

"No, Mauri," said Leslie. "You are that bad."

They sat in silence for a minute, Kilty and Leslie feeling uncomfortable and unkind while Maureen fumed.

Kilty leaned forward. "Can you even-"

"Could you stop forever?" shouted Maureen at Leslie. "You're just being sanctimonious because you're on fucking antibiotics."

Leslie held up her hand, telling Maureen to back off. They sat back and watched some television, waiting for the ads, each planning what they were going to say when the break came. The little square appeared at the corner of the screen, warning them that it was coming. They sat through the first ad, each waiting for the others to start first, and Maureen stood up. "I'm going for a piss, if that's all right with both of you," she said.

Leslie stood up to meet her, pointing in her face. "You've just been for a fucking piss," she shouted.

A sharp banging on the door made them all jump. Maureen thought it might be the SAS branch of AA and Leslie thought it might be Cammy.