Denise Mina - The Dead Hour

She called out in Gaelic and McDaid came on the phone.

“PC McDaid. Paddy Meehan here. The note’s still in the safe.”

“Eh?”

“Gourlay didn’t take it out at all. It’s in the safe and I’ll bet it’s tucked inside another production.” She could hear him grunting. “What are ye doing?”

“Putting my coat on. I live around the corner from the station. Can ye wait by the phone for an hour or so?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll call ye back.”

The newsroom was busier on a Friday. The calls car relief shift were playing cards over by the picture editor’s office, eating fish suppers and drinking indiscreetly from a half bottle of whisky. When she first started everyone drank at the News but she hadn’t seen a bottle in the office since Farquarson left. She read a book while she waited, aware that Dub would be introducing the open spots now, that Burns would be sweating at the back of the dark room, nervously running over his set.

McDaid phoned back on the direct line after forty minutes. He didn’t even greet her. “Got it. The bugger tucked it in the back of another envelope. The shits were going to wait until I’d given the keys over and tidy up the cupboard themselves.”

“Will you phone Sullivan?”

“I would be delighted.”

“Have a good night, PC McDaid.”

“And yourself, Miss Meehan.”

The club seemed busier than usual. Lorraine wasn’t guarding the door and it had just been pulled shut, not secured at all. Paddy slipped down the stairs and watched the stage. Dub was on and the atmosphere was bristling; his voice was high and he was talking fast, pointing at the audience, riding a wave of love.

Lorraine was standing by the bar and sidled over, forgetting to pretend she didn’t recognize Paddy.

“He stormed.”

“Dub?”

“Burns. He absolutely fucking stormed.”

Dub came off to a roar of applause, running down the fifteen-foot aisle too fast and coming to a gangly stop at the back wall. He was sweating with joy.

When he saw Paddy he threw an arm around her neck, pulling her roughly over to the far end of the bar. She grinned, despite the wet on the back of her neck from his armpit, and staggered across with him to the four square feet that counted as backstage.

He let go of her and she stood up. Burns was standing at the bar with his long, suburban policeman’s drink, smug and wired at the same time.

“You did well?” said Paddy.

Burns looked her up and down. “I looked for you, in the crowd. You weren’t here.”

Paddy waited for a punch line that never came. Finally she muttered, “Sorry about that. I had a lot of work on.”

He poked her in the chest, and let his finger linger there, making a slow climb up her long neck. “I wanted you to see me, could have done with your support.”

She took hold of his hand and pushed it away. “I’m not much support, Burns. I’m a jinx for open spots anyway, you didn’t want me here.”

“That’s right.” He fell back a step. “You’re a headliner, not a sideshow, are you?”

A member of the audience came over and took Burns’s elbow. “You were brilliant, pal. That was the funniest thing I’ve seen in ages and I come here all the time.”

Burns’s eyes lingered on Paddy’s neck until Lorraine fought her way through the crowd and stood by him. Swaying, she began to bump her tits on Burns’s arm. Burns put his hand around Lorraine ’s waist, watching Paddy for a reaction.

She grinned at him. “Oh, I wish I’d come now. You’re making me so jealous.”

Dub draped his arm over Paddy’s shoulder so they were standing in a foursome. “We were all great tonight. It was so fluid. Perfect night, one act just built on the previous one. There were no shifts of tone, no break in the atmosphere, you know, like there normally is? None of that.”

“Yeah?”

Burns shot her a dirty look and steered Lorraine away by the waist, leading her over to a table. Paddy watched them canoodling and shook her head.

“That guy is an out-and-out prick.”

“You think so?”

“He’s a fucking arsehole.” Burns was looking straight at her and she hoped he could lip-read.

“He’s fucking funny, though, Paddy. If we get him as a regular it would do the club’s rep a ton of good. Anyway, where were you tonight?”

She told him about Loch Lomond and Meehan and whispered about McDaid and the note. They drifted away from the crowd over to the audience chairs, sitting on the stage when the barman took their chairs to stack them up with the rest of them by the wall. Between them and Burns’s table the audience pulled on coats and finished drinks, talking too loudly because they sensed the excitement in the place.

Dub listened intently, his face inches from hers, and she was loving talking to him. She didn’t feel worried when Dub was there. She never felt fat or naive or imperfect with him.

He was leaning close, the better to hear her, and she looked at his big nose and the swirl of his ear, at his powdery white skin. She didn’t know why, it was nothing to do with Burns being there, but she wanted to kiss his cheek. He sat back and looked at her, his eyes clear and appreciative. “You’re fearless. I don’t know anyone like you.”

She was shocked by how much she wanted to kiss him. It would be easy, all it would take was for her to lean forward a few inches and her mouth would dock with his. Their eyes locked. He was her only friend. She sat back and slapped his leg. “God,” she said, focusing on his knee, “I feel as if I haven’t seen you forever, Dub.”

“And you. Even if he is a prick, thanks for bringing him here.” Dub smiled wide, glancing at her. For the first time she saw a trace of disappointment in his eyes. He had looked at her like that before, she realized now. She had seen him with that look many times over the years they had known each other and never understood it before.

She smiled back, glad she hadn’t kissed him. “You’re my best friend, Dub.”

Dub nodded at his feet. “I am.”

“Going to walk me to the station?”

Dub glanced over at Burns. Lorraine was almost sitting on his lap, her mouth firmly clamped over his. Burns had his hand halfway up her T-shirt. “Aye, I’ll walk ye.”

It was the best sleep she had ever had. Ten and a half hours of solid sleep, unconsciousness, broken only when she woke up and listened for the steady metronome of Mary Ann’s breathing.

Caroline was refusing to go back to John and tonight she was due to move into Mary Ann’s bed. She was sulky and depressed and snored because she smoked.

Mary Ann woke her up with a cup of tea and a warning that her train to London was from Central at eleven so she’d be leaving soon. Paddy sat up in bed, sipping the milky tea and watching as her sister checked through the pale blue cardboard suitcase, making sure she had everything she needed for a month away in France.

She had seven pairs of panties and undershirts, two bras, three tops and skirts, and a dress. The rest of the space in the suitcase was taken up with prayer books and rosaries and a French phrasebook Con had bought her in a secondhand shop.

When Mary Ann clicked the lid shut and set it on the floor her suitcase looked very small.

Paddy carried it down to the station for her. They waited for the train into town in silence. Paddy was afraid to talk in case she cried because she was going to miss her so much, and Mary Ann was afraid she’d cry because she was afraid.

“I’ve never been farther than Largs,” she said, her chin wobbling as she looked down the track.

“You’ll love it,” said Paddy, as if she’d been any farther. “I’m mad jealous.”