still sounds like shit and she can't talk for long, but she's improving. I told her about you. She said to say thanks."
"She still in hospital?"
"She's in Glasgow, staying with my sister. Thought she'd be safer there."
"I didn't realise. I assumed she was still—"
"She's been out a couple of days. They only kept her in overnight. Hospital beds are precious commodities."
"Right. Maybe I'll get to meet her sometime."
"Maybe," Ailsa said.
He stole a last glance at the ceiling and strode towards her. She turned again and he followed her into the sitting room. He felt clumsy in his boots, thinking he was going to tread on her toes. She sat on the settee and he sat next to her. She faced him, feet angled towards each other, big toes touching, toenails flashing red.
Something hard was growing in his chest. He coughed into his balled fist. Just ask if you can borrow the gun. She doesn't need to know anything else. "It's my mum," he said. He coughed again. "She was in an accident."
Her face froze. Her hand sprang from her lap and her fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Is she – was it serious?"
He leaned back and stared at the opposite wall. Above the boarded-up fireplace hung a painting. Dozens of ovals, some stretched fat in shades of red, others thin in shades of green, dominated the canvas. Randomly placed black curved lines looked like someone other than the artist had added an assortment of eyebrows. While she stroked the back of his hand with her fingertips, he told her what had happened.
She didn't interrupt once. When he'd finished she said, "I'm really sorry, Pearce. Christ, that's awful. I don't suppose they know who…"
He continued to stare at the painting. His mouth was so dry his tongue was beginning to crack. Something was about to burst out of him. He swallowed.
"Look at me," she said. She shook his hand up and down as she squeezed it. "If there's anything I can do…"
He swallowed again, gently removing his hand from her grasp. Slowly he turned to look at her.
"It's okay," she said, eyes shining like polished jade.
He shook his head. "It's very far from okay." His voice quietened. "I thought I'd feel sad, you know." He paused. "We were close." He locked his fingers together in his lap. "But I don't."
"You will."
"Yeah?"
"Promise," she said. "It might take a while, but it'll come."
"I've waited ten years. I haven't…" He clenched his fist. "I mean, my mother – I ought to be grief-stricken, but I'm not. I'm angry, all right. And a bit tired and incredibly hungry. But," he unclenched his fist, "that's nothing out of the ordinary."
"You're describing a normal reaction."
"I am?"
When she smiled at him he noticed how white her teeth were. "What do you want to eat?"
"Don't go to any trouble."
"I haven't had breakfast yet. It's no trouble."
He got to his feet. "I'll take you out somewhere. Anywhere you like. Pete Thompson's paying."
"Sit down," she said. He flopped back onto the settee. "I'm taking nothing from Pete. Now, what do you want? Eggs, bacon, sausages?" He nodded. "Baked beans?" He nodded again.
"Can I do anything?" he asked, as she bounced across the carpet on the balls of her bare feet.
"Come into the kitchen with me if you want." She stood in the doorway with one knee bent. "Keep me company."
9:29 am
Hilda Pearce's smell was still there, tinged, now, with a sickly sweet putrescence, as if the smell from the mound of black bin bags littering the pavement below had seeped through the narrow gaps in the planks the scaffolders had laid.
Calmer now, Robin turned away from the window. The sound of six-shooters penetrated the wall as his deaf neighbour sat down to watch his first cowboy movie of the day. Robin looked at the clock. Almost, darling. Almost time to go.
Carol had left early, saying she wanted some fresh air, that she'd walk. Likely story. She'd be straight into a taxi, round to Eddie's, shedding her clothes before she was in the door. Did she think he
"She still in hospital?"
"She's in Glasgow, staying with my sister. Thought she'd be safer there."
"I didn't realise. I assumed she was still—"
"She's been out a couple of days. They only kept her in overnight. Hospital beds are precious commodities."
"Right. Maybe I'll get to meet her sometime."
"Maybe," Ailsa said.
He stole a last glance at the ceiling and strode towards her. She turned again and he followed her into the sitting room. He felt clumsy in his boots, thinking he was going to tread on her toes. She sat on the settee and he sat next to her. She faced him, feet angled towards each other, big toes touching, toenails flashing red.
Something hard was growing in his chest. He coughed into his balled fist. Just ask if you can borrow the gun. She doesn't need to know anything else. "It's my mum," he said. He coughed again. "She was in an accident."
Her face froze. Her hand sprang from her lap and her fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Is she – was it serious?"
He leaned back and stared at the opposite wall. Above the boarded-up fireplace hung a painting. Dozens of ovals, some stretched fat in shades of red, others thin in shades of green, dominated the canvas. Randomly placed black curved lines looked like someone other than the artist had added an assortment of eyebrows. While she stroked the back of his hand with her fingertips, he told her what had happened.
She didn't interrupt once. When he'd finished she said, "I'm really sorry, Pearce. Christ, that's awful. I don't suppose they know who…"
He continued to stare at the painting. His mouth was so dry his tongue was beginning to crack. Something was about to burst out of him. He swallowed.
"Look at me," she said. She shook his hand up and down as she squeezed it. "If there's anything I can do…"
He swallowed again, gently removing his hand from her grasp. Slowly he turned to look at her.
"It's okay," she said, eyes shining like polished jade.
He shook his head. "It's very far from okay." His voice quietened. "I thought I'd feel sad, you know." He paused. "We were close." He locked his fingers together in his lap. "But I don't."
"You will."
"Yeah?"
"Promise," she said. "It might take a while, but it'll come."
"I've waited ten years. I haven't…" He clenched his fist. "I mean, my mother – I ought to be grief-stricken, but I'm not. I'm angry, all right. And a bit tired and incredibly hungry. But," he unclenched his fist, "that's nothing out of the ordinary."
"You're describing a normal reaction."
"I am?"
When she smiled at him he noticed how white her teeth were. "What do you want to eat?"
"Don't go to any trouble."
"I haven't had breakfast yet. It's no trouble."
He got to his feet. "I'll take you out somewhere. Anywhere you like. Pete Thompson's paying."
"Sit down," she said. He flopped back onto the settee. "I'm taking nothing from Pete. Now, what do you want? Eggs, bacon, sausages?" He nodded. "Baked beans?" He nodded again.
"Can I do anything?" he asked, as she bounced across the carpet on the balls of her bare feet.
"Come into the kitchen with me if you want." She stood in the doorway with one knee bent. "Keep me company."
9:29 am
Hilda Pearce's smell was still there, tinged, now, with a sickly sweet putrescence, as if the smell from the mound of black bin bags littering the pavement below had seeped through the narrow gaps in the planks the scaffolders had laid.
Calmer now, Robin turned away from the window. The sound of six-shooters penetrated the wall as his deaf neighbour sat down to watch his first cowboy movie of the day. Robin looked at the clock. Almost, darling. Almost time to go.
Carol had left early, saying she wanted some fresh air, that she'd walk. Likely story. She'd be straight into a taxi, round to Eddie's, shedding her clothes before she was in the door. Did she think he
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