Garnethill by Denise Mina by Garnethill Page B

turning back to Maureen. She was on the verge of tears. "I worry about you so much."
    "But you shouldn't, Mum."
    "But you're a ... I never know ... if only you couldn't . . ." She abandoned the giant brick of cheese and sat back down at the table, lifting her cup and drinking out of it. "I think I've got flu," she whispered, crying thin tears.
    "You should go to the doctor's, then."
    Winnie looked helpless. "I'm a bit depressed," she said pointedly.
    Maureen sighed. "Mum," she said, "I can't comfort you just now."
    "I don't want you to comfort me," Winnie said, crying fluently "I just want to make sure you're all right."
    "I am all right."
    "I worry so much," she whimpered.
    "You shouldn't."
    She sat bolt upright, suddenly in control. "Maureen, I'm your mother."
    "I know who you are," said Maureen, trying to cheer herself up. The wine must be kicking in: her moods were changing rapidly. Maybe more than two cups, maybe three.
    "I just want to know," Winnie said softly. "Did you do it?"
    "Did I do what, Mother?"
    Winnie bowed her head. "Did you kill that man?" she muttered, and bit her lip.
    Maureen pulled away, exasperated by Winnie's capacity for melodrama. "Oh, Mum, for God's sake, you know fine well I didn't."
    Winnie was offended. "I don't know fine well . . ." She turned away as if she'd been slapped.
    "Yes, you do," said Maureen. "You know I didn't kill him. You're so camp, I swear, you're like a bad female impersonator."
    "I don't know you didn't do it," said Winnie solemnly. "You've often done things I didn't think you were capable of." She stood up and walked over to the sink, taking her cup with her, standing with her back to Maureen as she rearranged the glasses on the draining board.
    "Like what?"
    "You know . . ." And she whispered something under her breath, something that ended with "Mickey." Maureen hadn't heard her say the name since the hospital. She could feel herself shrinking in the chair.
    "Don't worry," Winnie said, lifting her mug. "I'll stand by you, whatever you've done." She finished off her wine.
    It was a low blow, hinting at the abuse. It was the meanest thing she could have brought up. "You drink too much, Mum," said Maureen, returning the compliment. "You wouldn't be on the verge of hysteria all the time if you drank less."
    Winnie turned and looked at her, furious at the mention of her drinking. "How dare you?" she said, tight-lipped. "I paid for your taxi."
    "I didn't want you to."
    "But you let me."
    Maureen pulled ten quid out of her wage packet and slapped it on the table. "There's a tenner, Mammy. That's us even."
    Winnie screamed at her, "I don't want money!"
    Maureen rolled her eyes just as George appeared at the kitchen door. "Oh," he said quietly, "I didn't hear you come in."
    "Hello, George," said Maureen.
    "Hello, pal," said George, and frowned. "Heard about yesterday. Nae luck."
    He didn't talk about it much but Maureen suspected that George's early life hadn't been a bundle of laughs either. He had a charming talent for minimizing grief and, living with Winnie, he often had cause to use it.
    "Aye," said Maureen, suddenly tired. "It wasn't good."
    He patted the back of her head gently and turned to Winnie. "Any bread, doll? The seagulls are at the window again."
    Winnie gave him some from the tin and he wandered off, ripping up the slices into uneven lumps, leaving a trail of crumbs through the hall. She came back to the table and shoved the tenner at Maureen. "Take the money back," she said. "I was just feeling a bit uptight. I'm sorry for shouting at you."
    "Well, you shouldn't try to pay for things if you don't really want to."
    Winnie sat down at the table. "I know. I just ... I get nervous . . . and now this."
    "Don't worry, Mum, the police'll find them soon."
    She looked at Maureen and brightened. "Do you think so?"
    Maureen nodded. "I know they will."
    Winnie sat up and looked at the huge block of cheese sitting on the work top. "What the hell am I going to do with that much