Paulsa and Maureen watched Shirley take a small crossword book out of her handbag, a pencil and a roll of mints. She opened the book, pressed the pages apart and began to consider an important clue.
Shirley had been friendly when Maureen went to the Rainbow Clinic. They chatted during her visits there and when Maureen went back after Douglas died Shirley had talked to her about it. Something had happened in the interim. Something had happened that made Shirley now think that Maureen was frightening and disgusting. Paulsa, assuming he was spotting an ally in Shirley, went to sit three seats down from her. Too polite to get up and move, Shirley glanced distastefully at Paulsa's dirty tennis shoes and shifted the angle of her crossed legs away from him in a small, symbolic rejection.
Maureen's knees felt watery. She sat down, watching the door, and hoped the nausea would pass. Shirley would tell the jury that Maureen had been back to the clinic after Douglas died, asking questions about him, that she'd gone to see Angus. Paulsa would tell them that Maureen got the acid from Liam. Of all the people gathered in the witnesses' waiting room one thing was abundantly clear: Maureen was the bad guy and everyone knew it.
Nothing happened all morning. No one came to get them. They were allowed to go to the loo, as long as they told someone where they were off to. There were no-smoking signs all over the building but the toilet smelled of stale cigarettes and Maureen waved her lit fags around to disseminate the smoke in case there were hidden alarms.
All morning they sat, trying to find a place for their gaze that wasn't someone else's face, chest or groin. The room got smaller as the hours ticked by and Paulsa became increasingly agitated. He kept going to the loo and coming back, sitting down heavily and flicking the heel of a tennis shoe on and off. Shirley finished her crossword and moved on to another one.
Maureen felt sick with exhaustion. Tiny air bubbles made their way up her throat, popping in her mouth. The heat and sunlight in the room created optimum sleeping conditions and suddenly she stopped believing in last night or Michael or even the existence of Gartnavel. She was in the Hermitage wearing a warm fur coat, sitting in front of Matisse's Arab Coffeehouse, watching the goldfish turn and swirl. Bright colors fanned from their tails, falling through the frame to the floor and ceiling like sparks from a Catherine wheel. Every drop of color sanctified what it touched. She was smiling, smelling sweet cardamom and watching the world being cleansed with color, when she turned her head and saw a flash. Mark Doyle was next to her, the pointed black tip of his tongue emerged from between red lips, turning into a roaring black cyclone, rushing, growing, opening wide to engulf her.
"Are you okay?" The police officer looked worried.
She had called out and somehow fallen onto the floor, banging her arm on the chair.
Paulsa had called the police officer rather than touch her himself. A red smut grew on her arm, seeping into her sleeve. Huffing with pain, Maureen looked up and saw Shirley, her legs crossed, a zigzag thread hanging down from the hem of her skirt, and she knew this part wasn't a dream because it was too detailed.
"I fell asleep," said Maureen.
She went to the loo and locked herself in a cubicle. She pulled up her sleeve and peeled back the tissue, ripping off the scabs, making them bleed. She wrapped fresh tissue paper around her forearm, salvaging two strips of not-very-sticky tape to secure the ends.
Back in the witness room, Shirley continued with her crossword while Paulsa stared guiltily at the floor and patted his damp face with a paper tissue, leaving little patches of white fiber on his forehead. When the door opened everyone turned to face it desperately, as if the air supply had been cut off and suddenly restored. The policeman stuck his head into the room. "Lunch. Back by one forty-five sharp."
Everyone else seemed to know where they were going. Outside the room Shirley and Paulsa disappeared through the front door. Maureen stood outside the paneled room, feeling lost, and then she saw them. They were standing in a crowd, Winnie, George and Liam, Leslie and Kilty, Vik and Shan, all introducing themselves to one another and shaking hands. Even Leslie's cousin Jimmy Harris had made the effort to come and raised his hand, smiling. The rest of them turned in unison, beaming at Maureen like a homecoming dream of comfort and joy.
The small cafe in the basement of the court had been painted a grating shade of howling yellow. Maureen looked down the table at Liam, Vik and Shan, chatting, establishing common acquaintances, and it felt strangely natural. She had studiously kept them all apart in case Vik thought she meant to get serious. None of it seemed to matter anymore. Leslie and George were talking, and Winnie was making Kilty laugh.
Liam seemed tired and jumpy. It hadn't occurred to her before now but there would have been a phone call in the night, bad news, someone needing to identify Michael. Liam was keeping it from her, protecting her. She caught Winnie's eye and saw the strain there, as if Winnie hadn't seen enough trouble in her life.
She reached forward to put down her sandwich and felt the twice-used tape on her right forearm peel away from the skin. The tail of the tissue unfurled slowly, resting inside her sleeve. She put her arm on her lap and tried to remember not to use it.
"Mauri," said Winnie, "look. See them?" She dipped her head in a secretive manner, gesturing to a table behind her. "That's his family," she whispered. "Don't they look mental?"
Two women in old-lady tweed overcoats were sitting at a nearby table, looking poor and slightly ashamed of themselves, carefully picking the salad out of their sandwiches, laying it aside. One had a small elaborate growth on her chin, a bulbous lump of extra skin with smaller lumps on top. Next to them sat a gangly young boy in his early teens with the same uncomfortable look, dressed in a tracksuit and T-shirt and highly polished brogues. Maureen could almost hear the conversation in the house before they left, the for God's sake, he wasn't going to wear that, oh, all right, then, but change the shoes at least. As Maureen looked at Angus's family she could imagine him having miserable Christmas Days in ugly houses, being a teenager and growing his hair long. The two women would have turned up at his every school play, been intimidated and ruined his graduation. She could see Angus trying to shed them as his income crept up and his tastes changed. He had a history, a background and a cause. Liam saw her looking at them and leaned across the table. "Bet Hannibal Lecter didn't have to wave back to a family of hillbilly freaks at his trial," he muttered.
Maureen smiled. Two women and no father. In the penny-dreadful version of the story those women would be the monsters who had turned him into a sexual predator and the missing man simply a source of sadness to him. She sat back, looking down the table at all of her friends. Still feverish with exhaustion, she imagined lifting them all away from here, taking them to a cliff-top table overlooking a calm sea and having a lovely dinner together, a last supper. Winnie would be funny and George would be dear. Jimmy Harris wouldn't look so hungry and Leslie would have her baby in her arms. At the end of the night Maureen would retire with Vik and they'd cuddle each other and talk lazily about nothing much as they dozed off into a deep sleep. As she looked at them, Maureen felt she was in an idealized afterlife, where all was love and peace and everyone she cared about was looked after.
Liam finished his sandwich quickly and nodded her outside for a smoke. She was nervous that he might ask her about last night or following Michael. "Why are ye wearing a top that says 'porn star' on it?" he said, when they got to the steps.
"Cheer myself up," she said.
"You don't look well."
"I'm very tired," she said, remembering to use her left hand to rub her eye. "I didn't sleep last night at all."