Denise Mina - Garnethill

Maureen pressed the doorbell. She could hear Liam brushing heavily against the walls as he staggered to the front door. He opened it without looking out and sloped back into the front room. She followed him in. The coffee table was strewn with empty cans of imported lager.

It had been a scabby room before the police searched it but Maureen wasn't prepared for the state it was in now. The dirty beige carpet had been pulled back and floorboards had been lifted and placed back down unevenly. The black leatherette settee had been cut open along the back; yellow foam spewed out like an action shot of a bursting spot. The old television was on in the corner; the molded plastic back had been reattached badly and was open at the side. Match of the Day was showing: a panel of three ugly men in bad ties were laughing at a joke.

Liam walked unsteadily over to the coffee table and picked a lit cigarette out of the full ashtray. He slid more than fell sideways onto the settee, pulling at the ripped back to work his way into a sitting position. He looked her up and down as if he were sickened by the sight of her and blinked slowly. "Maureen," he stated. He lifted his fag to his mouth slowly and sucked it, dragging his cheeks inward.

"You're pissed," she said, unable to hide her disappointment, and went to use the phone on the hall table.

She found the insurance company's twenty-four-hour help-line number in the Yellow Pages. She gave her details to a woman with a plummy accent and explained the situation as simply as she could. The telephonist paused for a moment, probably wondering whether it was a hoax call, and asked her for her policy number. "No, I don't actually have it with me."

"We need it to find the policy."

"Can't you just use my name and address?"

The woman paused again and sighed. "Just putting you on hold," she said. A high-pitched reworking of "Frere Jacques" squealed across the line. Maureen held the receiver away from her ear. The tune played twice through. The woman came back on the line to tell her that she was still on hold, and was gone again.

Liam was standing in the doorway in a drunken foul temper. He was having trouble keeping upright and mumbling curse words.

"Hello?" asked the woman at the insurance company. Liam's knees buckled and he slipped sideways in the door frame.

"Yes, yes, I'm here," said Maureen, standing up and helping him back onto his feet. He spun round and fell face-first into the living room.

"Well," said the woman, "I've had a look at your policy and you'll have to do it yourself. You can be reimbursed for the cost of any items provided you keep them-"

"Cheers," said Maureen, and hung up. Liam was crawling on all fours toward the settee. "Ya fuckin' drunken horse's arse," she said tenderly, working her hands under his damp armpits and dragging him onto the settee. He pulled his T-shirt straight and sat, almost prim, crossing his legs carefully, looking eerily like Very Drunk Winnie. He coughed, thought about something and glowered at Maureen. "See the state?" he said, gesturing around the room. "See it?"

Maureen sighed. "If we're going to have a fight, can we have it tomorrow?"

Liam blinked for a month. "Who's fightin'? I never said we were gonnae have a fight."

Maureen sat down next to him. "You strongly implied it," she said.

For a moment Liam's expression quivered between furious and distraught. He started to cry. "I'm fed up," he said, covering his face with his hands. Maureen put her arm around his shoulder. "Oh, Christ, Mauri, everything's turning to shite. My business… Douglas. I had to let Pete down on the deal and he's pissed off at me. I lost thirty grand 'cause I crapped it."

"But, Liam," she said, "you don't need more money, you've got loads of money."

He tried to shake off her arm by jerking his shoulders up and down. It didn't work and she left it there. "My bottle's gone," he said, looking at her as if she had taken it. "And Mum's going mental, she says you're a wee shite and Maggie won't even speak to me." He sat forward, wriggling out of Maureen's grasp, and wiped his face on his T-shirt.

"When did you see Mum?"

"She said that you're a wee shite and you went back and took all your photos away."

"I did."

"And she said you're a wee shite."

"Yeah, you don't have to keep going on about that bit."

"Did ye?"

"They're my photos, Liam."

"Ye could have asked her."

Maureen was indignant. "She was selling them to the newspapers."

"Yeah, but they were in her house," he said, aware of the weakness of his argument.

"Look, Liam, I'm not having a great time right now either. Why are you picking on me? Do you want a fight?"

"I don't want a fight."

"Well, shut up, then."

They sat in an uncomfortable silence and watched Prisoner: Cell Block H until Maureen got up to go to the toilet. He muttered after her, "Prick."

"Hey," said Maureen, shouting back into the room, "don't you be fucking cheeky to me, son."

The toilet on the first floor had been ripped apart: the U-bends had been taken off the sink and the toilet and all the jars and bottles of toiletries were sitting in the sink with their lids off. The linoleum had been pulled up, folded over and left in the bath. She went upstairs to the other bathroom. Liam kept it fairly sparse anyway and it was more or less intact. Only the towel cupboard had been riffled through: all of the fresh towels had been opened up and thrown back on the shelves.

When she came downstairs Liam was asleep in the armchair. She put out his fag, turned the telly off and went upstairs to the spare bedroom, leaving him there, his neck bent into his chest in a way that was certain to hurt like a bastard in the morning.

It was a sunny autumn day. Red sandstone buildings clashed with a powder blue sky, and out of the front windows of the bus, in the clear, far distance, Maureen could see the rugged Campsie hills capped in snow. She got off the bus and walked round the side to the staff canteen. She knew she was taking a chance and shouldn't ask for him; she would just have a quick look. She thought about going to his secret place to wait for him but he might not come there. She was buying a cup of tea at the canteen counter when she remembered that he only worked every second Saturday – he might not even be in today.

She sat at a table on her own and drank her tea, checking the tables and watching the door. She couldn't see him. She was wearing her gray overcoat and tartan scarf. The staff were all there in their white uniforms. She saw them looking at her and knew she should take off the coat to blend into the crowd but if she took it off she'd have to take the scarf off too and then the marks on the back of her neck would be visible and they would definitely think she was a patient. Dr. Paton might come in and spot her. She should never have come. A male nurse with the same eyes as Michael caught her eye and smiled, quizzically concerned. She changed her mind and hurried to leave. Martin almost banged into her in the doorway. "What in God's name are you doing here?" he said angrily.

He took her elbow and guided her firmly down the corridor, into a theater lift. He punched the button for lower ground with the side of his fist, not speaking until the doors were shut in front of them. "Why have you come back here? I told you everything."

"Martin, I need to ask you some more questions. I'm really sorry, I didn't want to phone you, I thought I'd be less conspicuous if I just turned up and found you."

"For pity sake. Sitting in the staff canteen with your coat on waiting for me?"

He walked briskly down the forked corridor. The failing fluorescent bulb was flickering slowly, like a dying man's pulse. She followed him through the door to the L-shaped room and round the corner to his den. He turned on the light and shut the door behind her. "Right, what is it?" he snapped.