Denise Mina - Resolution

The corridor was empty but brightly lit. There was a door off the corridor at the far end, and coming from it she saw a familiar yellow night-light. The door had a sign reading "F4" on the lintel. She could hear men talking, their voices loud and joking, but she couldn't work out where they were.

She waited fifteen minutes, trying to pinpoint the voices and work out what to do. Finally she saw a shifting shadow in the yellow doorway and pulled the door in front of her closed a little. He had on a white nurse's shirt. "Aye," he said loudly, laughing back into the room. "He did it an' all." He walked down the corridor, passing close. She smelled soap and tobacco. He turned the corner at the far end of the corridor. The patients must be in a bad way in that ward, heavily medicated enough for the staff to shout at each other when they were trying to sleep. It occurred to her that Michael might be too deeply asleep for her to move him, and the possibility blossomed warmly in her chest.

Suddenly, the other voice came towards her out of the ward. He was fat, dressed in pale blue and holding a fiver, jogging with his heavy arms up at his shoulders, running after his pal, calling in a mock whisper. "Hughie," he said, "Hughie, get us a couple o' Twixes." He turned the corner, going after his pal. Maureen held her breath and slipped across the corridor.

It was a small room with four beds arranged two against each wall with the curtains pulled between them. A very old man was asleep in the bed in front of her, his hand lying limply by his side, a newspaper on his chest. She crept round the curtain. In the bed beyond, she saw Michael sitting bolt upright, wide awake and looking at his feet. She waited for a scream or a lunge, but Michael sat still, a small man in pajamas. He had Liam's eyes and square jaw.

Maureen stepped forward and Michael turned to her, looking for guidance. He didn't know who she was. She pulled back the bedcovers and he swung his feet around to the floor, feeling for slippers with his toes. For reasons she would never be able to fathom, she helped him on with his dressing gown before taking his upper arm and guiding him out of the room, across the corridor to the dusty kitchen.

It was dark and silent apart from Maureen's labored breathing. She held his arm tight and felt her skin burning where it touched him. Michael didn't struggle or try to get away. He seemed to find her fingers digging into him reassuring, as if she was grounding him. He smelled of sour vodka and dusty cheese. The smell infected her, getting into her lungs, sticking to the moist membranes in her mouth. She felt Michael seeping in through her skin.

They listened to the fat nurse's feet as he came back down the corridor and went into the ward. The chair squeaked as he sat down. He hummed to himself and cracked open a paper. Beside her, Michael was still. She led him out of the kitchen, pushing him in front of her, afraid to let go of his arm in case she couldn't bring herself to take hold of him again. He followed her prompts compliantly and said nothing until they were two corridors away.

"Is it-it-it?" he asked, smiling nervously as though they had just been introduced.

Maureen heard it through the rush and roar in her ears. He reminded her of Farrell. "Yes," she whispered, walking just in front, reminding him to keep moving. "Do you know this way?"

"Yes," he whispered back, chopping a straight path with his hand, gesturing ahead.

"What are they doing to you in here?" she said.

He hesitated, unsure. "Walking?"

"They're walking you?"

"Yes," he said definitely. "It's walking."

He was watching her, reading her face, trying to work something out, who she was or why they were whispering.

"Do you know me, Michael?"

"Yes," he said.

"Who am I?"

"A doctor."

She stopped and looked at him. "Who are you?"

"I'm… mm." He chopped forward with his hand again, forgetting what they were talking about. "A doctor?"

"You're in a hospital but you're not a doctor. What are you?"

"I'm in. Nurses? Nurses? I make nurses?"

The burning in her hand subsided. He wasn't addled with medication: it always left a blurriness in the eyes. She heard the clatter of a trolley being pushed a long way away. They had to get out of the corridor.

As they hurried along she tried to remember what Doyle had said. Leave the knife, but wipe it first. Take the knife out when Michael was looking away. Phone someone when she got in, talk about the court case tomorrow or something. Just as they arrived at the door to the disused wing of the hospital, she suddenly wondered how Doyle knew about the case tomorrow.

Maureen pushed open the door and stepped down into a fog of stale, damp air. Blinking to adjust her eyes to the gloom, she could hear her heart beat. Michael followed her, dropping the step to the corridor. He stumbled, letting out a little frightened exclamation. She reached out and caught him under the arms and wondered what the hell she was doing here, stealing this confused old man with Liam's eyes. He stood upright and she turned away from him. This wasn't the time to think – she'd been thinking about it for a year already. But Michael hadn't been real then: he hadn't been as small and he hadn't been confused. Don't look at him, she told herself, steeling herself against humanizing pity. Don't think about it, just do it.

The room wasn't hard to find. Maureen followed the floor of broken tiles down to a window, looked left and right and found the corner room. She pushed open the door and ushered Michael in ahead of her as Doyle had told her to, reaching for the knife in her pocket. Doyle had been right about the room. It was bright but the window was covered by the fervent growth outside. The floor was covered in dust and rubble, crunching underfoot. It felt like the mental rehearsals of killing him, but Michael had been taller in the fantasy, stronger and scary, not this frightened and bewildered little man. He looked back at her for reassurance and she urged him onward, thinking of the baby: that was why she was here. She was doing it for the wean.

She pulled the knife from her pocket and stepped towards him. He was pointing at something on the ground, trying to ask about it but forgetting the words: "Whatsits, it-it?"

She had the knife in her hand, raised the tip to his back, and a chink of light caught her eye. It was outside the window, just outside, inches outside, a bit of glass catching the light. Mark Doyle was outside the window, crouching among the foliage, holding a small video camera to the hole in the broken pane and filming her. He had knives in his eyes.

She was shaking so much she could hardly see. needles of broken glass were stuck in her arm, each puncture demanding attention, each an urgent distraction. Michael groaned behind her and she spun, startled, almost dropping the knife. It was so much sharper than she had thought it would be, so much sharper than a normal knife.

She was terrified. She could hear her own breathing, in her ear, like a stranger's breath. It wasn't dignified, not a happy exit. She was afraid of herself. All her elaborate justifications had dissolved in the visceral reality.

Down at the burn, before the road, she washed her hands and cried at what she had done, rubbing her arms with the dirty water, working the glass deeper under the skin, the sharp pain reminding her that she wasn't dead. She took her squelching, bloody boots off and walked home barefoot, like a pilgrim, taking dark back roads. She left the boots a mile away, under a mattress on some waste-ground. As she walked towards home she felt sure that the tangy metal taste of panic would stay in her mouth forever.

When she climbed the stairs to her house she wanted to bang on Jim Maliano's door and apologize for what she had been thinking about him, give him a gift of something, take the packet of biscuits he had brought her from holiday and be gracious.