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.
McEwan sat down on the most comfortable chair, splaying his meaty legs around the little table and taking up more room than he need have. Maureen's kitchen was even smaller than Jim's: it was cramped with three in it and McEwan and McAskill were big people. She gestured for McAskill to sit down on the only other chair at the table. He shook his head and remained standing behind McEwan, leaning his backside against the work top. For a terrible moment the image of the wank books came into her mind, but he would have been embarrassed before now if that was it. The incest survivors, of course. She kicked him discreetly and winked when he looked up, letting him know it was all right. He looked at his shoes and grinned with relief.
"Why were you there?" asked McEwan.
"At the Northern?"
"Yes," he said, blinking slowly with forced patience. "At the Northern." He seemed to feel the need to be particularly unpleasant to Maureen when they were in her house, as if his authority was threatened by being on her patch.
"I went back as part of my therapy and Martin was asked to show me around again. You can check with Louisa Wishart. She phoned the hospital and asked him to meet me." She picked her cigarettes up from the table and lit one.
"Worst time to smoke, in the morning," said McEwan.
"Then don't," said Maureen. "What time did Martin go missing?"
"He was last seen at two o'clock on Saturday. He wasn't seen for the rest of the shift and he hasn't been home."
"His wife's worried sick," added McAskill.
His wife hadn't seen him, he hadn't been home. He couldn't sit in his den for twenty-four hours, no way. "Two o'clock… That was a couple of hours after I left."
"What time did you leave?"
"About noon."
"Where did you go afterward?"
"I went to visit a pal."
The kettle boiled and she took a mug down from the cupboard, filled it with water and shook in some coffee granules straight from the jar. She had assured Martin that it would be safe to tell her. She had talked him into it. She swirled the mug around to mix the coffee with the water and sat down opposite McEwan.
"Did Martin say anything to you about going away?" he asked.
Of course, the Jags. "Oh, God, he was talking about a Thistle game in France yesterday – Meatis? Meatpiss?"
McAskill corrected her. "Metz," he said, and smiled the fond way men do when they're talking about their team. That's why he didn't give a shit when she said she was Catholic. McAskill was a Thistle fan.
"That's it," she said. "Martin said the bus left two hours before his shift finished so he couldn't go. Maybe he changed his mind."
McEwan used his mobile and got the number off Directory Enquiries. He phoned the Partick Thistle office, asked for the secretary of the supporters' club running buses to Metz. They gave him the guy's work number and he phoned, looking out of the kitchen window as he waited in a telequeue for his call to be answered.
It was a gray day outside the window. The cloud was so low that Maureen could see above little puffs of mist clinging to the roofs below.
"It's quite a view you have from here," he said.
"Yeah, 's nice," said Maureen, sipping her coffee happily.
The secretary said he'd check the passport list for Martin's name and phone McEwan back.
Maureen smiled to herself. Martin could be sitting on a bus in France somewhere, singing Jags songs, surrounded by old friends and red and yellow scarves and hats and jerseys. She sketched the image in detail, trying to convince herself that it was a possible explanation, maybe even a probable explanation, but she knew it wasn't. Martin had made her promise not to tell anyone.
It was lunchtime for McAskill and McEwan, and Maureen's breakfast time. At her suggestion they agreed to go down the hill to the Equal Cafe for something to eat. She wanted to stay near McEwan until the call came through from the supporters' club. "Let's get that carpet downstairs then," said McAskill, pushing himself forward from the work top. He stepped carefully over the piles of books in the busy hall and went into the living room. "You get that end," he said, wrapping his arms around the roll and letting it slide horizontally onto the floor.
McEwan's defiance was underspoken. "No."
"It'll only take a minute."