Denise Mina - Resolution

"If she's your pal how come ye don't know her name?"

Kilty stepped forward. "She was a prostitute and she got out of it. We want her to come and talk to someone we know, see if she can help them get out of it as well."

He looked quite interested and glanced at Leslie's long, bare legs. "Are yous all prostitutes?"

"No," said Leslie.

"No," said Maureen. "We're just trying to help someone."

The man's eyes slid back to the hall behind him and all the work he had to do. He opened the door. "Come in, well."

The hall was gigantic, a vast rectangle. At the top of the room stood a small rostrum, above which hung a shakily hand-painted sign inexplicably declaring, "Wayfarer's – Are Go." Along each of the windowless walls leaned high stacks of chairs and folding tables. A blond man with his sad past written in the droop of his shoulders stopped setting up the serving table at the top of the hall and stood, staring, as if he had never seen women before.

"Hiya," said Kilty, raising her hand.

The man raised a hand, bewildered, and turned back to what he was doing, suddenly self-conscious.

"Yous can set up the chairs and the tables along the way." The nasal man gestured sideways with his hand.

"D'ye want an aisle down the middle?" asked Maureen.

"Aye. Just fill the hall halfway."

"And after this you'll talk to us?"

"Aye."

He scuttled away down the length of the room, disappearing through the door at the side of the rostrum. Kilty dropped her handbag by the wall and they set about laying out the chairs and the tables in rows. Above them a train rumbled out of the station, gathering speed, filling the hall with a hissing groan. Maureen nodded to the handwritten sign. "D'ye think that's supposed to read 'Wayfarers Are Go!'?" she asked when the train had passed.

"Or 'Wayfarers' Argot'?" muttered Kilty. She nodded at the kitchen door. "That guy's taking the piss. He doesn't know who we're talking about."

"Yeah," said Maureen, swinging two plastic chairs from the stack to the floor.

Kilty picked up some chairs and carried them over to the blond man. He was setting up the sturdy serving tables at the top of the hall, grabbing handfuls of plastic spoons out of a cardboard box and laying them on the table, spreading them wide to avoid a crush of bodies when the hungry men came to grab them. Maureen could tell from the tension in the man's neck and shoulders that he felt Kilty's approach.

"Hiya," said Kilty.

The acoustics of the hall were such that every word was audible. It must have been deafening when it was full. The man winced and looked up, grayer than before.

"I'm looking for a pal of mine that used to work here," said Kilty.

He nodded, holding his breath.

"Her name was Candy at one time but she might have changed it. She'd been a prostitute down at Anderson but she got Jesus and chucked it."

"Maddie?"

"Was that her name?"

Struck by sudden stage fright the man blushed. He attempted a casual shrug but the muscles in his shoulders clenched tight, making him look as if he were doing a tiny Michael Jackson dance move.

"Ye don't happen to know her second name, do ye?"

He trembled a head shake. "She goes to the Holy Cross now," he whispered.

"Where's that? Coatbridge?"

"Springburn."

Kilty stood a little nearer to him, spreading out the cutlery carefully, keeping outside his space. "You don't meet a lot of women, do ye?"

"Naw." He tried to laugh but it sounded like a death rattle.

"How's that? Are ye just out of pokey or something?"

He nodded and blushed some more. Maureen knew Kilty had a nice manner but she'd never seen her use it before. If she had tried to flirt with the man he would have died. It was a great skill, to make people feel comfortable without seeming vulnerable herself.

"Why are ye working here?" asked Kilty. "Is it a parole condition?"

He reached into the spoons box. "I want to do some good," he whispered.

Tm sure you will," Kilty said, and backed off before the man exploded with discomfort.

Kilty helped Maureen and Leslie finish setting up the tables. When they looked up, the blond man had disappeared into the kitchen. They approached the door by the rostrum and opened it. A smog of moist heat hit them. Four industrial cooking pots of red soup were bubbling on the stove and the stocky man and the blond guy were spreading margarine and cheap jam on rectangular slices of stodgy plain loaf, laying them out on stacked baking trays.

"We're away," called Maureen. "That's the chairs and tables laid out."

The blond man kept his head down, afraid to look up.

"Ye said ye'd help us with the bread," said the other sneakily.

"Yeah," said Maureen sarcastically. "Thank you for all you've done. Thanks."

"We're working for a good cause here, ye know," said the man.

"That's not a mandate to take the piss."

She let the door fall shut and they walked out, picking up their bags and jackets on the way. The crowd of hungry men outside had doubled. The kitchen wouldn't be open for another hour.

The Polish Club was to the Wayfarers' as brandy is to gravel. Overlooking Kelvingrove Park, the front door of the terraced house was fifteen feet high and broad enough to allow two wheelchairs to enter side by side. Kilty's dad had lent her his swipe card and she fitted it into the lock and pulled it down. The door released with a soft buzz and Kilty pushed it open. They could hear the hum of happy, drunken chatter wafting through a nearby doorway and Maureen prayed that Si McGee wasn't in.

The entrance hall was high with a dark wood staircase and rich green carpet. A white marble fireplace to the left was so clear and flawless that it looked like crystallized milk. Maureen touched it, pressing the dip of her palm into the cool curved edge. Sitting in the hearth below was a glass globe vase, full of ripe, stinking tiger lilies, their stamens brimming clear and sticky.

They suddenly felt terribly cheap. Maureen pulled her skirt down and Leslie straightened her shirt. Kilty gestured to them to follow her as she nipped through a small open doorway, into the dining room. A grand piano stood under the windows, surrounded by empty tables laid out with good green linen and silver. Along the walls hung pictures of luminaries in military uniforms, interspersed with paintings of civilians, one of which was a woman.

To their left was the bar. It was a small part of the room but the well-to-do men and women were smashed into that corner of the room as if it were a fire drill. Middle-aged and pissed, they were talking too loudly and laughing. On the edge of the crowd a happy-drunk old woman in an evening dress was reeling on her feet, holding on to a reluctant man for ballast.

"Come on," said Kilty, skirting past the throng at the bar and going through a glass-paneled door.

The smoking gallery was a huge room, with walls clad in dark wood. It had a glass ceiling framed by dark timbers, like the underside of a viewing boat. Behind the glass the evening sky was turning neon pink.

At the far end of the room, under a torn Polish flag, sat Mr. Goldfarb in a large brown leather armchair. He was alone in the room, smoking a big cigar and reading through the business section of the thick Saturday papers. Smoke from his cigar floated sideways lazily, a small blue cloud over his right shoulder. "Hi," said Kilty as she approached.

"Hi, Kay," said Mr. Goldfarb, and stood to give her a peck on the cheek. Not quite sure how to greet Maureen and Leslie, he raised his hand and waved as if they were a mile away. "Hello, girls," he said genially, and offered them seats around him. "Can I get you a drink or anything?"

"No, Dad, we're fine."

"By rights I shouldn't offer you a drink," he said to Maureen.