Denise Mina - Garnethill

"Did Liam tell you about Mum at the police station?" said Maureen.

"Oh, dear me, yes," said Una, wrinkling her nose. "She was a bit excited."

"He told me she was screaming her fucking face off," said Maureen loudly, her voice quivering with misplaced indignation. Una didn't like swearing or screeching or untoward emotional reactions of any kind. Maureen could tell she was freaking her out.

Una pulled the car into the curb and stopped the engine. "Are you sure you're okay?" she said carefully. "D'you think you should be going home today?"

Maureen thought about confronting Una now, weighing up the pros and cons. Not yet. Not just now. She didn't want to go ballistic. "I'm fine," she said. "I'm a bit frightened about going home again, that's all."

Una leaned across and pulled her over, hugging her and pressing the gear stick into Maureen's ribs. She let go. "We all love you very much," she said kindly.

"I know that, Una," said Maureen, crying with fury.

"We all want the best for you," she said.

Maureen turned her face away, angrily swatting the tears off her face. "I know," she said, "I know."

Una had meant to suggest that Maureen go back to hospital but she seemed so unstable that it might not be a good idea. She'd phone Dr. Wishart when she got back to the office and ask her about readmission. She started the car again. "You could come and stay with us if you want," she said, pulling out into the traffic.

It would be Una's worst nightmare, herself moping around their ordered house, smoking fags all over the place and watching old movies. "You're such a sweetheart, Una," Maureen said, controlling her voice to make it sound normal. "I don't know how you do it. We're all crazy and it just seems to roll off your back."

Una smiled, pleased at being differentiated from the rest of them. "Let's have some music," she said, and clicked the radio on.

They sang along to a jolly pop song all the way up the road, guessing the words and humming the hard parts so they wouldn't have to speak to each other.

Maureen looked out of the window and told herself that very, very soon, as soon as the Douglas thing was over, she would tell Una and the rest of them what she thought of them.

UNA PARKED THE CAR outside the close, pulled on the hand brake, turned off the ignition and undid her seat belt.

"No," said Maureen. "You can't come up with me."

She was desperate to get away from her sister. If Una came upstairs and saw as much as a drop of blood she'd start crying and need to be tended and comforted. She'd phone Alistair and get him to come over, she might even call Winnie and George. She'd be there for fucking hours.

Una stared at her. "Why not?"

"Urn, the police won't let you in, only me."

"Why are the police up there?"

"They want me to show them around the house, so you can't come in."

"But I'm your sister."

"I know that, Una, but they can't let just anyone in."

"I'm not just anyone," said Una, taking the key out of the ignition and pocketing it. "I'm your sister." She opened her door and put one foot on the pavement.

"Una," said Maureen, as firmly as she could without shouting, "you cannot come upstairs."

Una brought her foot back into the car and turned to face her wee sister. "Maureen," she said solemnly, "I am not letting you go into that house without anyone to support you."

"Una," said Maureen, copying her sister's sanctimonious tone, "I am not letting you come upstairs with me. The police are there, they already dislike our family because Mum was drunk and shouted at them and because our brother is a drug dealer, and I am not going to jeopardize what small relationship I have with them by demanding that they grant you access to the house."

Una sighed heavily and shook her head. "Why on earth wouldn't the police want me up there?"

"It's in case you interfere with some evidence they haven't collected yet."

"But I'm your sister. I don't think you should go in there alone."

"I won't be alone, the police'll be there with me."

Una rolled her eyes heavenward and muttered "Pete's sake" before shutting her door.

"It's all right," said Maureen, pulling the polyethylene bag with her answer phone in it out of the backseat. "The police are in there."

They kissed and arranged to meet at Winnie's for lunch on Thursday, when Marie would be home.

Una watched Maureen walk up the close carrying the poly bag. It was dark inside the door; Maureen's small shadow jogged up the first flight of stairs, around the corner and disappeared. She sat for a moment before picking up the car phone and dialing Dr. Wishart's number at the Albert Hospital. It was engaged. She hung up and pressed the redial button. Still engaged. She replaced the phone and looked back up the close, weighing up the pros and cons of going after Maureen. She fitted the key in the ignition, started the engine, lifted off the hand brake and pulled the car out into the steep street.

Maureen climbed the stairs with trepidation, slowing down as she neared the top floor. The sight of Jim's door reminded her that she had left his Celtic shirt sitting in the bottom of Benny's wardrobe. She wished he hadn't told her about watching through the spy hole, not that she was ungrateful for the information about Benny, but she'd never stand on the landing again without imagining Jim, with his worrying hairdo, pressed up behind his door, peering out at her with his jumper tucked tightly into his denims. She took out her keys, unlocked the front door and let it swing open.

The house smelled stale and oppressively sweet. She stepped in and shut the door behind her, leaving Jim with nothing to see. She dropped the bag in the hall, took a deep breath and turned the handle on the living-room door.

The blood had turned brown in the direct sunlight. It was hard to spot a bit of the carpet that wasn't brown. Deep puddles of Douglas's precious blood had dried into it; action streaks from jugular spurts radiated out from the four circular indents marking the position of the chair. The blue chair had been cleaned by some kind officer; it was by the window, facing it at an angle, as if someone had been sitting there, enjoying the view.

She stepped carefully across the crunchy floor, using the clear spaces as stepping stones to the window, which she opened, pulling it right back against the wall, letting the harsh wind into the room. She sat down in Douglas's blue chair because she was afraid to and smoked a cigarette by the blustery open window, waiting until the horror of it had passed. She stubbed the end of the cigarette out on the windowsill, lifted the chair by the back and carried it out into the hall.

She stacked the contents of the bookcase into piles on the floor and carried them out one at a time, resting them precariously against the wall by the kitchen door. She took the coffee table into the bedroom, then humped the portable television through, banging her legs with it. Back in the living room she folded the bookcase flat, leaving it near the bathroom door. She wheeled out the old horsehair armchair, recklessly rolling its wooden castors over the crusty brown blood.

She walked back into the empty living room and stood on the spot marked out by the indentations from the chair, looking around and breathing in the dry, bloody dust. Only the settee with the stripe of blood across the arm was left in the room. It wouldn't clean up; she didn't know what to do with it. She could throw it away but then she wouldn't have anything to sit on except the horsehair and that was uncomfortable. She didn't need to decide right away; she could work around it today. She found the hammer in the kitchen cupboard and, starting below the open window, used the forked end to lever up the carpet tacks around the edge.

WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG she had lifted a third of the carpet around the skirting board. She shut the door to the living room before looking out of the spy hole. A young man, tanned like a tea bag, was standing at the door holding a small metal box with a handle. He was wearing a T-shirt with "Armani" written across the chest, jeans and a yellow suede jacket. His hair was striped with ill-suited blond streaks that looked green in the close light. He was two hours late and looked badly hung over. He probably hadn't been home yet. She opened the door. "Locksmith?"