point into her lap.
“Shelter?” she said finally.
“Oh, yes,” said Bunyan, looking at her notes. “The shelter photographs?” Moe nodded. “Unfortunately, they seem to have been misplaced. You must be quite anxious for a case to be brought against your brother-in-law for that assault?”
Moe shut her eyes and nodded again.
“Well,” Bunyan continued, “I’m afraid that’s not our jurisdiction. The assault case happened in Scotland and would be dealt with by the legal authorities up there.”
Moe Akitza stopped dying and opened her eyes wide with annoyance. Williams stepped forward. “It’s a separate legal system up there, Mrs. Akitza,” he said. “I’m very sorry. Because Ann has passed on, the assault case will probably be dropped. Unless there were other witnesses?”
Moe Akitza shook her head. “No case?” she said. “He’s … not charged? At all?”
“Well,” said Williams, “if the assault is relevant to the murder case it may be mentioned tangentially, but I’m afraid it won’t be dealt with by an English court.”
Moe Akitza was not best pleased. She was not pleased at all.
Chapter 13
TEN-GALLON HAT
Liam hadn’t seen her this drunk since the experimental drinking days of teenage parties. She was sitting on the floor, slumped against the settee with her eyes half shut, ash all down her front and what appeared to be cheese on her sleeve. Despite being well supported by the settee she was still managing to sway. She had sounded progressively more and more tipsy on his answering machine but he hadn’t been ready for this.
Maureen had everything she needed here fags, whiskey, water, ashtray but she felt so sick. She had half the bottle of whiskey inside her and it was a big bottle. At some point she’d realized that she’d be sick if she didn’t eat, so she had something she found in the fridge, cheese probably, but it wasn’t sitting well at all. And there was Liam in front of her, dear Liam, who’d come an entire mile from Hillhead to see her. He was so kind. She started to cry.
“Fuckin’ hell,” said Liam, taking his jacket off. “What brought this on?”
She nodded at least, she meant to nod. She threw her head around in uneven circles and Liam watched her for a while, mesmerized and enchanted by her lack of coordination. “Mauri,” he said, in awe, “you’re utterly fucking bloothered.”
She wiped her face on her sleeve, rubbing ready-grated cheddar into her hair. “I’m unhappy,” she said indignantly.
“Well,” said Liam, serenely, “that makes you very special.” He sat back in the horsehair armchair and watched her trying to pick up a cigarette from the floor with rubber fingers. “Why are you so drunk?”
Maureen gave up on the fags and shrugged at him for an age. “Life’s shite,” she havered, drunk and guileless. “Leslie’s … spit on my eyes.”
Liam stood up. “Oh, God, Mauri, I’m sorry, I can’t stand this.”
He left the room and Maureen waited, forgetting that he was in the house and then remembering and then forgetting. When he came back into the living room it was a delightful surprise and she started crying again. Liam made her drink the coffee and the coffee made her very sick.
He stroked warm water through her hair, holding the showerhead too far back on her neck, letting the water run over her jaw and up her nose. She was bent over the bath, trying to stay up, but her legs weren’t working very well and she kept tottering forward.
“Oh. Fuck. I’m sick.” Her bleary voice echoed around the white ceramic valley.
“You’ve spewed up everywhere.”
“That’s enough.” She tried to stand up but Liam was holding her shoulder down and she staggered back and forth.
“Mauri, there’s vomited cheese in your hair. Stay still for fuck’s sake.”
He rubbed the shampoo into the nape of her neck and washed it out slowly, wrapped a fresh towel around her neck and gathered her hair into it. Maureen stood
“Shelter?” she said finally.
“Oh, yes,” said Bunyan, looking at her notes. “The shelter photographs?” Moe nodded. “Unfortunately, they seem to have been misplaced. You must be quite anxious for a case to be brought against your brother-in-law for that assault?”
Moe shut her eyes and nodded again.
“Well,” Bunyan continued, “I’m afraid that’s not our jurisdiction. The assault case happened in Scotland and would be dealt with by the legal authorities up there.”
Moe Akitza stopped dying and opened her eyes wide with annoyance. Williams stepped forward. “It’s a separate legal system up there, Mrs. Akitza,” he said. “I’m very sorry. Because Ann has passed on, the assault case will probably be dropped. Unless there were other witnesses?”
Moe Akitza shook her head. “No case?” she said. “He’s … not charged? At all?”
“Well,” said Williams, “if the assault is relevant to the murder case it may be mentioned tangentially, but I’m afraid it won’t be dealt with by an English court.”
Moe Akitza was not best pleased. She was not pleased at all.
Chapter 13
TEN-GALLON HAT
Liam hadn’t seen her this drunk since the experimental drinking days of teenage parties. She was sitting on the floor, slumped against the settee with her eyes half shut, ash all down her front and what appeared to be cheese on her sleeve. Despite being well supported by the settee she was still managing to sway. She had sounded progressively more and more tipsy on his answering machine but he hadn’t been ready for this.
Maureen had everything she needed here fags, whiskey, water, ashtray but she felt so sick. She had half the bottle of whiskey inside her and it was a big bottle. At some point she’d realized that she’d be sick if she didn’t eat, so she had something she found in the fridge, cheese probably, but it wasn’t sitting well at all. And there was Liam in front of her, dear Liam, who’d come an entire mile from Hillhead to see her. He was so kind. She started to cry.
“Fuckin’ hell,” said Liam, taking his jacket off. “What brought this on?”
She nodded at least, she meant to nod. She threw her head around in uneven circles and Liam watched her for a while, mesmerized and enchanted by her lack of coordination. “Mauri,” he said, in awe, “you’re utterly fucking bloothered.”
She wiped her face on her sleeve, rubbing ready-grated cheddar into her hair. “I’m unhappy,” she said indignantly.
“Well,” said Liam, serenely, “that makes you very special.” He sat back in the horsehair armchair and watched her trying to pick up a cigarette from the floor with rubber fingers. “Why are you so drunk?”
Maureen gave up on the fags and shrugged at him for an age. “Life’s shite,” she havered, drunk and guileless. “Leslie’s … spit on my eyes.”
Liam stood up. “Oh, God, Mauri, I’m sorry, I can’t stand this.”
He left the room and Maureen waited, forgetting that he was in the house and then remembering and then forgetting. When he came back into the living room it was a delightful surprise and she started crying again. Liam made her drink the coffee and the coffee made her very sick.
He stroked warm water through her hair, holding the showerhead too far back on her neck, letting the water run over her jaw and up her nose. She was bent over the bath, trying to stay up, but her legs weren’t working very well and she kept tottering forward.
“Oh. Fuck. I’m sick.” Her bleary voice echoed around the white ceramic valley.
“You’ve spewed up everywhere.”
“That’s enough.” She tried to stand up but Liam was holding her shoulder down and she staggered back and forth.
“Mauri, there’s vomited cheese in your hair. Stay still for fuck’s sake.”
He rubbed the shampoo into the nape of her neck and washed it out slowly, wrapped a fresh towel around her neck and gathered her hair into it. Maureen stood
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