Denise Mina - Garnethill

Leslie appeared at the kitchen door, panting and zipping up her trousers. She looked terrified. "What do you want me to do?"

"Pack everything," said Maureen. "Leave the place spotless so there aren't any complaints. And leave a tenner on the table for a tip."

"A tip?"

"Goodwill gesture."

"You've got blood on your forehead."

The train was waiting in Largs Station. Maureen helped Siobhain and Leslie into the first carriage and ran up to the conductor, who was smoking a fag on the platform. "What time does the train go?" she asked.

"Twelve-thirty," he said lethargically. "You've got ten minutes."

Her heart was beating loudly. She ran over to the phone box and called Liam at home. "Hello, Liam?"

"Maureen, I know you're in Millport, I booked the fucking house."

"Did Benny tell you, then?"

"Yeah, the fucker phoned here last night as pally as anything, asking for the address we stayed at the last time. He said he wanted to send you flowers. I was going to drive down and see you."

"Well, don't, I'm coming home. I just phoned to tell you that I've finished using Benny, you can do what you like with him."

"Fucking… right." Liam slammed the phone down.

SIOBHAIN GRINNED AT Maureen as she came along the carriage and sat down next to her. She took Maureen's hand and squeezed it. "Where are we going now?" she asked.

"We're going home, Siobhain."

"Is it safe now?"

"Aye."

"Why is it safe?"

"It just is."

"How did it get to be safe?"

"I'm awful tired, Siobhain, do you mind if we don't speak?"

"Yes, I want to speak."

"But I'm dead tired."

Siobhain's cheeks blushed pink. "Fine, then," she said, throwing Maureen's hand away and turning her face resolutely to the window.

Maureen opened the door and walked into her house. She dropped her coat onto Douglas's blue kitchen chair in the cluttered hall, went into the kitchen and turned the boiler on. She wandered into the living room. The floorboards were stained with brown blood but they could be painted over. She had a feeling that she wanted to live with the marks for a while, to walk past them in the morning and get used to them.

She opened the hall cupboard and looked at the bloody stain. Crouching down on her hunkers, she put her hand on it. It was stiff and crunchy. She stood up a little and shuffled her feet forward, moving into the cupboard, and pulled the door shut, closing herself in. She sat in the corner for a while, her fingertips resting on the dried bloody splatter, thinking about love hearts. Finally, she kicked open the door, clambered out and went into the living room, leaving the cupboard door to swing open into the hall. She binned the empty whisky bottle and the half-empty box of chocolates, went into the bedroom, stripped the bedsheets and binned them too.

She walked to the bathroom, shedding her dirty clothes as she went, dropping the jumper in the hall and losing her jeans at the bathroom doorway. She put the plug in the bath, turned on the hot tap and went for a naked walk through her little house, smoking a fag as she did. Her scalp felt rank from wearing the woolly hat against the incessant damp rain; she scratched at it, letting the air through.

It was the best bath she'd ever had. The water was deep and hot, she lay back and felt it run through her hair, warming her scalp and running into her ears. She got out and towel-dried her hair, covered herself in scented body oil and took the blue chair into the living room, sitting on it like a giant sherbet pomander, enjoying her house.

The phone rang out, disrupting her serenity. She didn't answer and the machine wasn't plugged back in yet. It rang for a long time. When it stopped she got up and dialed 1471. It was Liam, phoning from his house. She'd call him later.

She lifted the chair into the bedroom and sat there for a while, thinking about all the times the room had seen her through. Then she took the chair into the kitchen and reclaimed that room too.

She was just beginning to tire of the ritual when someone banged on the door impatiently. It seemed strange because they hadn't knocked a first time. She scampered into the bedroom and looked for something to put on. She was covered in body oil-whatever she put on would be ruined. They banged on the door again and she threw on an old summer dress with a red-wine stain down the back.

She looked out of the spy hole. It was Jim Maliano with his jumper tucked into his jeans and his spooky hairdo. He seemed annoyed.

Maureen opened the door. "Hello-"

"I've come to get my top back." His voice was high and aggressive and grated on her sweet mood.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Give me back my Celtic top."

She couldn't be bothered with this. "Jim," she said apathetically, "I've lost it, I'm sorry."

Jim's eyes widened, the bouffant over his crown started to shake. "You're sorry?" he shouted. "Do you have any idea how much that cost me?"

"Jim, I'll give you the money, I just-"

Jim pointed a stubby finger in her face, jabbing it an inch from the end of her nose. "Is this how you repay me? I took you into my house, I gave you and your brother coffee and treated you to my hospitality-"

"Auch, piss off," she said unreasonably. "I'll give ye the money."

"Piss off? Piss off?"

"Yeah, and stop spying on me through your door as well."

"How dare you? I went to the police about your friend-"

Maureen felt a bit giggly. "Jim," she said, trying not to smile, "get the fuck away from my door."

And she shut it in his face. She crouched behind it, shaking with laughter, holding her hands over her mouth so that he wouldn't hear her. She stood up and peered out of the spy hole. He stomped across the landing and slammed his own door shut.

Maureen let the phone ring itself out and went back to sleep. Minutes later someone was banging on the door. She pulled on her dressing gown and staggered into the hall. Her eyes were so puffy she could barely negotiate the spy hole. Liam was standing in the close, holding bits of shopping. She opened the door.

"Have you just woken up, Mauri? It's one in the afternoon." He stepped into the hall and held out a bag of fresh croissants and a carton of orange juice. "I've been phoning you loads."

When she came back from the toilet Liam had put the croissants in the oven to warm, made a pot of tasteless instant coffee and set the table for a formal breakfast, with cups and cutlery and everything. He had tiny bloody cuts on his knuckles and a long black bruise on the side of his neck. It started as an inch-wide mark under his ear, spreading into a broad triangle as it descended to his shoulder; the edges of the bruise were yellowing. He handed her a cold glass of orange juice.

It was sunny outside. Maureen leaned against the window frame and looked out at her favorite view. "I got sacked," she said.

"Auch, well, you'll find another job soon enough," said Liam. "I expect you'll miss the cut and thrust of ticket selling, though, eh?"

"Yeah, I'll miss sitting behind that drafty wee window like a Dutch whore day after day. What's happening with you, then, Liam?"

"Well," he said, "I went to Glasgow Uni the other day. They said I could start a course this year if I wanted, as long as I can guarantee the fees."

She smiled at him. "God, that's brilliant, but will you have to pay for it yourself?"

"The first grand, yeah. I phoned the SED and they'll pay the rest but it might take a while to come through."

"What's the course?"

"Film and Media."

"Not law?"

"Nah," he said, "I'm tired of chasing money."

"I didn't even know you were interested in filmmaking."