Exile by Denise Mina Page B

to her until he couldn’t be bothered anymore and then he went out to visit his pals. He was the closest thing the children had ever had to a benign parent.
    “She told me Michael’s staying in Glasgow.” Maureen looked at Liam, but he was licking a cigarette down the seam and pulling the paper away. “Well,” she said, “is he?”
    “He doesn’t have anyone to drink with,” he said dismissively “He won’t stay long.”
    Maureen sighed heavily into her chest. It had been a long day.
    “I walked out on my job. I hate it. Leslie got me that fucking job. She’ll never speak to me again if I don’t go.”
    “Ah, she would so.”
    Maureen watched Liam busily keeping himself replete with spliffs, rolling as he smoked, acting casual as if it didn’t really matter but working hard. She was like that with drink. It looked casual on the surface but underneath she was frantic about her intake, desperate not to slow down or lose the level.
    “Look at you and your wee spliff factory,” she said unkindly.
    He looked up at her, resenting the intrusion. “Look at you and your wee vomit factory,” he said, and went back to work.
    “I worry about drinking,” said Maureen. “I worry about turning into Winnie.”
    “I worry about it too. Before Christmas there I was very worried. Alcoholism’s supposed to be genetic so I’ve decided to cheat fate and just take hundreds of drugs.” He giggled, glancing at her feet. The cheer snowballed in his belly and he laughed loud, coughing when the laugh went deep into his lungs. He sat laughing and coughing like a jolly consumptive, and Maureen smiled sadly and watched him. Liam used to be angry all the time; he had mellowed so much since he retired — it was like watching him regress back to the hopeful wee guy he’d been as a kid. If she’d died she’d be missing this. A polite rap on the front door stopped Liam dead. Startled, Maureen sat up straight and they stared at each other, sitting still in case they were heard. Liam giggled silently. “Why are we … ?” he whispered, holding his nose to abort a guffaw. “We’re not in trouble.”
    The caller chapped again.
    “Go,” mouthed Liam, waving her to the door as he shoved the lump of black under the sofa. “Go on, get it.”
    “Throw that out of the window if it’s the police,” she whispered, pointing to where he had stuffed the hash as she tiptoed out to the hall. She peered out of the spy hole.
    Vik was standing on the landing, holding a bottle of white wine and a small bunch of flowers, his handsome face shiny and hopeful, watching the crack of the door, waiting for her to appear. She felt instantly wicked and guilty and angry about Katia. She should open the door and tell him to go away, that was the honest thing to do. Maureen and Liam had always looked alike, they had the same square jaw, the same dark curly hair and pale blue eyes, but Vik might not notice the family resemblance. He’d think she had another man in and she wasn’t well enough to explain why she could let her brother in but not him. She leaned her forehead on the door, less than a foot away from Vik’s shoulder, and listened as he knocked and shuffled his feet impatiently. The door pressed towards her; he was leaning on it, scratching lightly or something. She heard the chink of the bottle on stone and cringed as he walked away alone, his feet falling heavily on the stone steps. The close door slammed shut in the high wind and she listened to the stillness for a while, just to be sure. She opened the door. Vik had left the note under the bottle and the flowers. His writing was big and round and cheery.
    He said, Hi! He’d just popped up for a visit! Phone him soon! She was starting to hate him.
    She sloped back into the room with the bottle of guilt and the wreath.
    “Not the police, then?” said Liam.
    She fell into the settee. The flowers were pale pink roses, already open, tinged brown on the petal tips.
    “They’re nice,” said