Denise Mina - Garnethill

She went back downstairs. The young nurse was sitting in the dayroom, watching TV and holding a woman's hand. The patient was nodding and twitching in a vain attempt to resist medication-induced sleep. The nurse saw Maureen standing in the hall and waved her in. The color on the TV set was turned up too high: the actors' faces were orange and their red lips were blurred and undefined. Six or seven empty identical brown orthopedic armchairs were arranged around the television. A folded wheelchair and a Zimmer frame were tidied away against the wall. There were no pictures on the walls and the glorious windows were defaced with beige nylon curtains. It was a desolate, functional room. Maureen sat down in a chair. The nurse reached over with her free hand and touched Maureen's arm. "Are you okay there?" she said, whispering so as not to disturb her sleepy companion. "You look a bit shocked. You haven't seen her for a while, have you?"

"How long's she been like that?" Maureen whispered back.

"Long time. Where do you know her from?"

"From before she went into the Northern."

"Oh, dear," said the wee lassie. "She went downhill there, apparently. She had a bit of a stroke."

"What's that mark around her ankle?"

"No idea. She's had it since I've known her."

"Did a guy come to see her recently? About five ten, in his forties, soft voice?"

The nurse's face lit up. "Yeah," she said. "Guy called Douglas. He was a relative of Yvonne's. He came on business."

"On business?"

"Yeah," said the nurse. "He saw Jenny in the office and paid Yvonne's costs for the next six months. Do you know him?"

"Vaguely," said Maureen.

The sleepy patient gave up the fight and slumped sideways. "I better get Precious to bed," whispered the nurse.

She couldn't face the bus. She hailed a cab and got the driver to drop her at Mr. Padda's, the licensed grocer's around the corner from her house. Mr. Padda had been questioned by the policemen: they'd asked him whether he had seen anyone covered in blood walking down the road a week last Wednesday. "Did you, Mr. Padda?"

"No, dear," he said, and smiled. "Saturdays, yes, often, Wednesdays, no."

She bought a half bottle of whisky and some fags.

When she got into the kitchen she unscrewed the lid of the whisky bottle and then shut it again without taking a drink. She didn't want it.

Back in the living room she levered out the few remaining carpet tacks and rolled up the carpet, wrestled it upright and leaned it against the wall. Even the underlay was covered in Douglas's blood. She took two black bags from the kitchen drawer and filled them with bits of underlay, ripping it up in raw angry handfuls.

It was eleven o'clock before the floor was bare. She brought the whisky and a glass in from the kitchen and sat in the dark living room with her back resting against the wall, looking at all that was left of Douglas: a ten-foot stretch of blood-soaked rug.

She drank the whisky too fast and dipped into Yvonne's box of chocolates as she held a maudlin, solitary wake to the memory of Douglas, chronologically recalling all that she knew of his life. She celebrated his first day of school, when he cried for three hours until Carol took him home again, his exchange trip to Denmark in fourth year, where he met a German girl and fell in love for the first time, his father's death, over which he felt nothing, his first degree and his place on the coveted clinical psychology course, his marriage to Elsbeth, his first night in Maureen's bed, when poor Elsbeth would have been lying awake alone, wondering where her husband was until four in the morning, guessing right and crying to herself, his lost weekend in Prague, his petty dislike of the people he worked with and his numerous illicit affairs.

She poured the last of the whisky into the glass and held it up, toasting the rolled-up carpet against the wall. "To Douglas and his miserable, grasping life," she said, and cringed. In polite company talking like Bette Davis always means it's time to put the glass down and go to bed.

She did.

They put her through to the back office. "Liz?"

"Maureen! God, you're in so much trouble, why didn't you put the sick line in?"

Maureen had forgotten. She'd been off her work for a week and a half without remembering to send the note from Louisa.

"He's going to sack you," said Liz. "I kept phoning you to try and tell you. If you've got a line you can still put it in."

The last time she had seen the sick line was in Benny's house, the night he cooked the venison steaks. "I've left it somewhere," said Maureen. "I'm not even sure whereabouts."

"Well, find it," said Liz.

"Right, I will, Liz. How are you, anyway? Are you going to sue the papers?"

Liz said she couldn't be arsed. She'd phoned the paper and they had printed an apology on page twelve. "Listen," she said, "put the sick line in. If you get the sack because of something you've done they won't let you sign on for ages."

Someone banged heavily on Maureen's front door. "Fuck, really?" she said, holding the receiver between her ear and shoulder and leaning over to look out of the spy hole. McEwan and McAskill were standing in the close. McAskill was frowning and shaking the rain off his mac, flapping the front panels open and shut. McEwan was wearing a full-length black woolen overcoat and a black trilby.

"Tell you what," said Liz, "I'll tell him you're mental again and we'll see what he does, okay?"

"Good one, Lizbo."

She checked her trousers were done up and straightened her hair before opening the door. McEwan took his hat off and told her officiously that Martin Donegan had gone missing from the Northern Hospital in the middle of his shift on Saturday. A security breach at the hospital was under investigation, they thought Martin's disappearance might have something to do with it and Maureen had been seen there.

She opened the door wide, letting them into the cluttered hall. Something must have happened to make Martin disappear. Something must have frightened him. Or worse. She tried to remember what Martin had told her and what she had promised not to repeat.

McAskill was actively avoiding her eye. He stepped carefully across a pile of books and took up the space in the living-room doorway.

"You've taken the carpet up, then?" said McEwan, looking past McAskill into the living room. His eye fell to rest on the indulgent still life sitting on the floor, an empty half bottle and the box of chocolates.

"Yeah," said Maureen, "I just lifted it out."

"You'd have to do that anyway," said McAskill timidly. "It doesn't come out very well. Usually leaves bad stains." He shuffled past McEwan in the hall, keeping his eyes down and his back to the wall. He was aware of Maureen watching him and blushed a little.

Martin was missing and she didn't know what to do. If she could just be alone for ten minutes she might be able to work it out.

"Will you have to keep the carpet until the insurance see it?" asked McAskill, pointing back into the living room.

"No," said Maureen. "It'll take too long, I'll just chuck it out."

"We'll carry it downstairs for you, if you like, get it out of the way."

"Thanks, Hugh," said Maureen, and touched his elbow, but he still wouldn't look at her.

McEwan was less eager to help. "But I've got my good coat on," he said.

"I'll help you to take it off," muttered McAskill. They looked at each other for a moment.

"Come in here," she said, breaking it up and leading them into the kitchen. Martin had been so adamant when he made her promise not to repeat the stuff about the George I ward. The only reason he'd discussed any of it was because she insisted it would be safe to. She shook the kettle to check the water level and turned it on, praying to a bleak void that nothing bad had happened to him, that he was sitting in his little den reading the paper and listening to a football match.