The yellow plastic cagoul was drenched in blood.
The hood had been kept up; the blood pattern on the rim was jagged and irregular.
He could have been there all night, she thought. She'd gone straight to bed when she got in. She'd slept in the same house as this.
Eventually, she got up and phoned the police. "There's a dead man in my living room. It's my boyfriend."
She was standing still next to the phone, sweating and staring at the handle on the front door, afraid to move in case her eyes strayed into the living room, when she heard cars screaming to a stop in the street and people running up the stairs. They hammered on the door. She listened to the banging for two long bursts before she could reach over and open it. She was trembling.
They moved her into the close and asked her where she had been in the house since coming in. A photographer took pictures of everything.
Her neighbor, Jim Maliano, came out to see what the noise was. She could hear him asking the policemen questions in his Italian-Glaswegian rat-a-tat accent but couldn't make out what he was saying. Maureen was finding it hard to speak without drawling incomprehensibly. She felt as if she were floating. Everything was moving very slowly. Jim brought her out a chair to sit on, a cup of tea and some biscuits. She couldn't lift the cup from the saucer because she was holding the biscuits in her other hand. She put the cup and saucer down on the ground, under her chair so that no one would knock it over, and balanced the biscuits on her leg.
The neighbors from downstairs gathered vacantly on the half-landing, standing with their arms crossed, telling each new arrival that they didn't know what had happened, someone had died or something.
A plainclothes policeman in his early thirties with a Freddie Mercury mustache and piggy eyes cautioned Maureen.
"You don't need to caution me," she mumbled, standing up and dropping her biscuits. "I haven't done anything."
"It's just procedure," he said. "Right, now, what happened here?" He said yes to everything she told him about Douglas as if he already knew and was testing her. He interrupted Maureen as she tried to explain who she was. "You lot," he said tetchily to the assembled neighbors, "you'll be contaminating evidence there. Go back indoors and wait for an officer to come and see you. Give your names and addresses to her." He gestured to a uniformed policewoman and turned back to Maureen. She threw up, narrowly missing the policeman's face but hitting him squarely in the chest, and passed out.
It took her a minute to work out where she was. It was a large bed, a black-lacquered mess with small tables attached at either side. It looked like the devil's bed. Jim Maliano was third-generation Italian immigrant and proud. His house was a shrine to Italian football and furniture design. On the wall at the foot of the bed a black and blue Inter Milan football shirt was squashed reverently behind glass and framed with tasteful silver. It was wrinkled and fading like a decaying holy relic.
Her mother, Winnie, was sitting by her feet stroking them histrionically. Winnie liked to drink whisky from a coffee cup first thing in the morning and most days were a drama from start to finish. She coughed a sob when she saw Maureen open her eyes. "Oh, honey, I can't believe it." She slid up the bed, cupped Maureen's face in her hands and kissed her forehead. "Are you all right?"
Maureen nodded.
"Sure?" Winnie's breath stank of Gold Spot.
"Aye."
"What on earth happened?"
Maureen told her about finding the body and passing out in front of the policeman. Winnie was listening intently. When she was sure Maureen had finished talking she said that Jim had left a wee brandy for her, for the shock. She lifted an alcoholic's idea of a wee brandy from the side table.
"Mum, I've just thrown up."
"Go on," said Winnie, "it'll do you good."
"I don't want it."
"Are you sure?"
"I don't want it."
Winnie shrugged, paused and
The hood had been kept up; the blood pattern on the rim was jagged and irregular.
He could have been there all night, she thought. She'd gone straight to bed when she got in. She'd slept in the same house as this.
Eventually, she got up and phoned the police. "There's a dead man in my living room. It's my boyfriend."
She was standing still next to the phone, sweating and staring at the handle on the front door, afraid to move in case her eyes strayed into the living room, when she heard cars screaming to a stop in the street and people running up the stairs. They hammered on the door. She listened to the banging for two long bursts before she could reach over and open it. She was trembling.
They moved her into the close and asked her where she had been in the house since coming in. A photographer took pictures of everything.
Her neighbor, Jim Maliano, came out to see what the noise was. She could hear him asking the policemen questions in his Italian-Glaswegian rat-a-tat accent but couldn't make out what he was saying. Maureen was finding it hard to speak without drawling incomprehensibly. She felt as if she were floating. Everything was moving very slowly. Jim brought her out a chair to sit on, a cup of tea and some biscuits. She couldn't lift the cup from the saucer because she was holding the biscuits in her other hand. She put the cup and saucer down on the ground, under her chair so that no one would knock it over, and balanced the biscuits on her leg.
The neighbors from downstairs gathered vacantly on the half-landing, standing with their arms crossed, telling each new arrival that they didn't know what had happened, someone had died or something.
A plainclothes policeman in his early thirties with a Freddie Mercury mustache and piggy eyes cautioned Maureen.
"You don't need to caution me," she mumbled, standing up and dropping her biscuits. "I haven't done anything."
"It's just procedure," he said. "Right, now, what happened here?" He said yes to everything she told him about Douglas as if he already knew and was testing her. He interrupted Maureen as she tried to explain who she was. "You lot," he said tetchily to the assembled neighbors, "you'll be contaminating evidence there. Go back indoors and wait for an officer to come and see you. Give your names and addresses to her." He gestured to a uniformed policewoman and turned back to Maureen. She threw up, narrowly missing the policeman's face but hitting him squarely in the chest, and passed out.
It took her a minute to work out where she was. It was a large bed, a black-lacquered mess with small tables attached at either side. It looked like the devil's bed. Jim Maliano was third-generation Italian immigrant and proud. His house was a shrine to Italian football and furniture design. On the wall at the foot of the bed a black and blue Inter Milan football shirt was squashed reverently behind glass and framed with tasteful silver. It was wrinkled and fading like a decaying holy relic.
Her mother, Winnie, was sitting by her feet stroking them histrionically. Winnie liked to drink whisky from a coffee cup first thing in the morning and most days were a drama from start to finish. She coughed a sob when she saw Maureen open her eyes. "Oh, honey, I can't believe it." She slid up the bed, cupped Maureen's face in her hands and kissed her forehead. "Are you all right?"
Maureen nodded.
"Sure?" Winnie's breath stank of Gold Spot.
"Aye."
"What on earth happened?"
Maureen told her about finding the body and passing out in front of the policeman. Winnie was listening intently. When she was sure Maureen had finished talking she said that Jim had left a wee brandy for her, for the shock. She lifted an alcoholic's idea of a wee brandy from the side table.
"Mum, I've just thrown up."
"Go on," said Winnie, "it'll do you good."
"I don't want it."
"Are you sure?"
"I don't want it."
Winnie shrugged, paused and
Similar Books
The Fell Sword
Miles Cameron
Studio Showdown
Samantha-Ellen Bound
Twice Tempted by a Rogue
Tessa Dare
Becoming a Man of Unwavering Faith
John Osteen
Water to Burn
Katharine Kerr
Mara
Lisette van de Heg
Blood Red
Vivi Anna
Deliver Us
Lynn Kelling
Soul Catcher
E. L. Todd
