Maureen half listened, watching Leslie's face for visual clues about how to react. She kept thinking she was back in the dusty kitchen, watching the fat man running for a Twix, the sour smell of Michael as she caught him under the arms when he stumbled, the crunching underfoot, down by the burn. She understood the urge to drop away from life, walk into a police station and make a confession, to have the confusion and the terror over, to tell someone else, in detail, what had happened. But as she stood over the body she'd made a pact with herself: that her penance for this would be that as long as she lived, she would never tell anyone what she had done. And Sheila was right: it would always be the most important thing that had ever happened to her.
They lay on their beds in the darkness and gradually Leslie's and Kilty's breathing deepened. Maureen lay awake, eyes open wide, staring at the ceiling. Headlights from occasional cars going up the steep hill rolled along the ceiling. Drunk people passed in the street, shouting or laughing, or staggered home alone. In the city below, sirens wailed and police cars rushed to avert crimes. Ambulances followed them or ventured out on their own.
She looked at her watch. It was ten to four and the sun was smearing the sky blue, waking the birds. Her arms were itchy, the tape tugging at small hairs. She sat up and lit a cigarette, pulling her knees up to her chin and clasping them tightly. If she didn't die from this, if the police didn't catch her, she was going to get away from here. She was going to sell up and go to St. Petersburg and spend a month in the Hermitage, filling her eyes and her head with beautiful things, and never waste a calm hour, never spoil a good meal with worry. The cigarette burned her tongue, stripping it and making her mouth taste of metal tape again. She was getting pain spots in her lungs and couldn't laugh without coughing anymore. She would go to St. Petersburg and stop smoking and see beautiful things. If she had her time over again she'd stop drinking. In the impossible future she'd strive to be happy.
Chapter 44
They woke up when the alarm went off at eight thirty and found Maureen sitting up in her sleeping bag, a thin cloud of cigarette smoke hanging above their heads. They tried to make her eat something but she couldn't. They nagged her so much that she tried but couldn't swallow and had to spit the toast out into the bin.
Kilty had brought a crisp white shirt with an open neck and short sleeves for her to wear but her bloody arms would have showed. Maureen said she had already decided to wear a yellow top with long sleeves and the words "porn star" printed on the chest. Leslie was ironing her skirt in the kitchen and shouted through that it was much better than the clean white shirt. Kilty watched them both curiously. Maureen changed in the bathroom. The tissue had dried on the blood, sticking to the wounds, but she didn't want to change the dressing herself. She put the clothes on and made an attempt with some makeup, using the last of the Dior mascara she had bought when she was flush, rubbing Touche Eclat into every crevice.
They left the house early, tripping down the stairs. The sun was splitting the pavement, filling the city with an unearthly white light. They walked in unison, barely talking, following the quieter streets down to the river. It was half past nine and the traffic was thinning after the rush hour. Harassed-looking women in estate cars drove home after the school run and bus drivers, pissed off after the early shift, jammed the road on their way back to the station. Maureen was so tired she could hardly feel her feet on the ground, hardly see a hundred yards in front of her through the scalding light.
They walked along by the river, sweating gently, picking up the breeze as they passed the Sheriff Court on the far bank and followed the road round to the tail end of Paddy's. The settee was still under the bridge but the men weren't there. Maureen half raised a thoughtless hand, waving to where they might have been. Down the lane Gordon Go-a-Bike thought she was greeting him and waved in response, pedaling slowly, going nowhere.
The High Court of Justiciary looked out over Glasgow Green, where junkie prostitutes, too down on their luck to look for drivers, relied on drunken pedestrians for their trade. Flanked by the city mortuary, the front of the building was a neoclassical string of ionic columns surmounting a set of stairs, topped off by a long pediment. Gathered outside on the stairs, four or five clumps of smokers made the most of the opportunity, puffing away and chatting to one another. One group was composed of lawyers, obvious in their expensive suits and easy manner. Another crowd wore cheaper suits and nylon skirts, smiling nervously and inhaling deeply.
Inside, through a revolving door, was a white lobby with a sparkling mosaic floor that ended abruptly in a set of plain, modern fire doors. At the side of the stairs a court official in a gray uniform was standing behind a black marble desk and police officers were dotted around, as if they were expecting trouble. The hall was full of people looking lost, wearing somber outfits. At each side of the hallway, suspended from the ceiling, were television monitors, stuck on vibrant blue screen and Maureen saw the name: HMA v. Farrell. She approached the reception desk.
"Can I help you?" said the uniformed man pleasantly.
"I don't know where to go," said Maureen. "I'm a witness."
"Do you know which case it is?"
Maureen pointed up at the monitor. "That one," she said, and showed him her citation paper.
A black-haired policeman in a short-sleeved shirt stepped forward from the back wall. The police had been watching Reception, waiting for her to check in, and now they were coming to arrest her for what she had done. Sweet relief washed over her. It was finished. She could tell someone what had happened, every detail, and hope for absolution. "Maureen O'Donnell," he said, pulling out a clipboard and ticking off her name. "If you'd just like to come with me."
Maureen smiled a consolation to Leslie, who looked worried, and followed the officer through a wood-paneled room off Reception and to the door of a waiting room. "We need you to stay here," he said, "and give us notice if you have to go to the toilet or anything."
It seemed like pretty lax security for a murder suspect but Maureen wasn't going anywhere. The police officer read the "porn star" motif on her T-shirt and looked alarmed.
"Not really," Maureen reassured him, smiling weakly.
He ushered her in and shut the door behind her. It was a small room. Cushioned metal seats were pushed up against the walls and sunshine poured in through a small, high window. He was in shadow at the far end of the room, his skinny ass taking up half of a chair, wearing a wide-necked T-shirt that slid off a shoulder, showing enough skin to be obscene on a woman.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" said Maureen, and Paulsa winced.
"Same as you," he said, moving his mouth too much for the words, as if his lips were numb.
Maureen sat down heavily next to him, wondering why he had been arrested. "What have you done?"
Paulsa laughed, high and fast, like a chimp in distress, and shot to his feet, moving across the room towards the door just as it opened again. The uniformed man stood aside to reveal Shirley, the blond receptionist from the Rainbow Clinic, clutching a tiny handbag in front of her like a shield. When she saw Maureen, dismay shimmered across her face. The officer stood aside, holding the door open over her head, ushering Shirley into the room. She smiled a polite thank-you, ducked under his arm and sat down on one of the chairs. Maureen hadn't been arrested after all. She was there as a defense witness in Angus's trial and so were Paulsa and Shirley.