Denise Mina - Garnethill

Maureen thought about it with the tired, apathetic calm of a bad hangover. "Mum's nuts," she said.

Una laughed loud and high with relief.

By the time Una and Alistair left it was six o'clock. Maureen phoned Liam.

"Mauri? What the fuck's going on? I came looking for you and Benny let me in and you were crashed out on the settee with an empty half bottle on the floor."

"Have you tidied up?"

"Yeah, totally. Are you all right?"

"God, aye, I suppose. I'm hung over."

"What was the message about?"

"I saw Carol Brady yesterday. She said the police called our family unsavory and I just thought… you know, it might be about you. I might have panicked but she was pretty scary."

"No, it was good thinking."

"She asked me to go for lunch yesterday. She thinks I killed him."

"You?"

"I don't feel too good, Liam," said Maureen. Her voice was trembling.

"I'll come over. I'll get videos out and you can forget about it for tonight."

Benny came back just in time to catch Liam skinning up on the coffee table while Maureen watched the trailers to Hard Boiled, a kung-fu movie with lots of shooting in it. He had his good brown leather jacket on, the one he wore when he went to clubs looking for a lumber. They teased him about it for a while but he wasn't up for it. He was fractious and worried about his exams. He said he'd seen the paper and Liz could sue for defamation because they'd called her by Maureen's name.

"Yeah?" said Maureen. "Why's that defamatory?"

"Because you're a notorious character," said Benny.

Benny wasn't allowed any mood-altering substances because he was in AA. He insisted that he didn't mind them smoking hash in the house but he kept waving the smoke away from his face. Liam told him not to be such a tight-arse and his tense mood deepened.

When the films were over Liam went home and Benny hurried off to bed. Maureen sat in the dark on the edge of the settee and tried to cry but her eyes just stung and burned.

The next morning they were puffy and sore. She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked mad. Anyone with an ounce of wit would think she had killed Douglas. She washed her face, splashing cold water on her eyes, hoping to soothe them. She wanted to go to work, she was missing Liz, but she comforted herself with the thought that it was Tuesday and she'd be seeing Leslie later.

She phoned Liz to tell her she could sue for defamation. Liz said that the booth was besieged by journalists and sensation seekers coming for a peek at her. Mr. Scobie kept trying to shoo them away but the minute he went inside they came back. He told her to shut the ticket office until he could find someone to take her place. So she was sitting alone in the dark booth, answering the single daily call for the hypnotist-show tickets because he wouldn't let her go home without docking her pay. She said that the photograph in the paper made her look as if she had a double chin. "He's dead pissed off with you, Maureen."

"Yeah, well, he's gonnae be more pissed off, because I'm taking a couple of days off."

Liz inhaled sharply. "Shall I tell him?"

"Yeah, go on. I'll see ye later, yeah?"

"See ye, Maureen."

It seemed to be overcast and raining every time Maureen went to the Rainbow Clinic. She got off the bus and crossed the empty dual carriageway, following the ten-foot-high wall around to the driveway.

The clinic operated out of a converted creamery, built as part of the Levanglen Lunatic Asylum estate. It consisted of a long, single-story building with Portakabins at the back, where the admin was done. Maureen walked in the front door, went straight past the pay phones, through the main foyer and down the short corridor to the waiting room. The walls were painted yellow and covered in posters of puppies and kittens and monkeys. When it was full of patients the maniacally cheerful room looked like a sarcastic joke.

Straight across from the entry door, beyond Shirley's desk, a set of fire doors led through to the corridor where Angus, Douglas and Dr. Murray's offices were. Douglas had spoken of Murray often, usually in a less than loving manner. They had had a fight over extending the Rainbow's client group to include patients being moved back into the community from a long-term hospital to the east of the city. Douglas thought that they didn't have the resources to deliver the service but Murray was determined to spearhead the development and get his name on all the letters. Douglas said he was disgustingly self-promoting.

The waiting room was empty except for a young girl sitting in the corner, pretending to read a battered copy of Good Housekeeping. She was wearing a leather jacket, combat trousers and big boots. She seemed to have cut her hair herself: it was chewed short and uneven with long lumps sticking up at the back. Her left jacket sleeve was deliberately pushed back to display an angry grid of slash scars on her inner wrist. Visible scars are a good way to stop casual approaches from the happy and content. Maureen turned away and sat down in a plastic chair against the other wall.

She had met many depressives in hospital. They were interesting company when she could coax them to talk: they seemed more in touch with reality than most people. Depressives, in full flight, can correctly estimate their chances of getting cancer, being the victim of a sexual attack or winning the lottery. They don't dilute to taste.

The fire door to the offices opened and Dr. Murray bustled into the waiting room carrying a sheaf of files. He put half of the bundle on Shirley's desk and walked out to the main foyer with the rest. The combat girl watched him leave. Maureen hoped she wasn't waiting to see him. He hadn't even acknowledged her presence. The foyer door opened and Shirley came in, carrying a tin tray with steaming mugs and cream and sugar set on it. She put the tray down on the desk before looking up and seeing Maureen. "Helen?" she said, surprised to see her. "What are you doing here?"

Maureen motioned for Shirley to follow her out to the foyer corridor. "Shirley, my name isn't Helen, it's Maureen O'Donnell."

" You're Maureen O'Donnell? But there was a picture of her in the paper yesterday."

"I know. I know. They took a picture of the wrong person."

Shirley didn't bother to mask her incredulity. Maureen wasn't particularly offended, Shirley must have seen some sights in her time and an ex-patient posing as the most recent city saddo wouldn't be beyond the bounds of possibility.

Maureen took out some ID. "It really is me. Look."

Shirley glanced at the library card and Maureen's cashpoint card, turning them over and looking at the back for extra clues.

"Okay, right, you might not believe me, but assuming I am who I say I am, will you answer some questions for me?"

Shirley thought about it. "I dunno. It's not about anything sick, is it?"

"No, no, I just wanted to know who could get to see my file here."

"Well… I'll go along with it but I'm stopping if you ask me anything weird, and I don't want to talk to you about Douglas. If you are Maureen O'Donnell then you probably know a lot more about him than I ever did, and some journalists have been hanging around and asking about him. Okay?"

"Tops, Shirley."

Shirley relaxed, resting her back against the wall in the dimly lit corridor.

"Okay," said Maureen. "First thing, how did the police find out I was here for treatment? I didn't tell them."

Shirley paused, forming her answer cautiously. "All I know is that the police phoned security early on Sunday morning and got them to let them into the offices."

"Did they know what they were looking for?"

"Yeah, they logged into the system, called up the right file and printed it out. I checked. It was the only file they called up."