Read Online G03 - Resolution by Denise Mina - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Denise Mina
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Whether you go to jail or not, he’ll define every aspect of your life. Every time you look in the mirror you’ll see him.”
Spitefully, Maureen thought about pointing out the irony of an anorexic with a fridge full of low-cal jelly giving motivational speeches. She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Sometimes it’s right to put yourself aside,” she said. “It’s not always about a lack of self-esteem or destructive patterns of behavior. Someone needs to be responsible.”
Sheila sat back in her chair and looked at her. “Yes, but it doesn’t need to be you, Maureen. It doesn’t always need to be you.”
Maureen got Sheila to drop her around the corner from her house. Her flat was at the top of Garnethill, the highest hill in the city. The views were spectacular but the possibility of subsidence kept the property prices low and the steep hill meant that few outsiders wandered into it. It was an island state in the heart of the city. She waved back to Sheila as she walked up Rose Street, heading for Mr. Padda’s licensed grocery around the corner. She heard the dread clatter of metal shutters being pulled down and ran faster. Mr. Padda saw her sprinting towards him and smiled.
Inside the shop Mr. Padda Junior was playing behind the counter, stroking the kittenish bum-fluff on his cheeks and chin. He had recently graduated from watching telly in the cupboard at the back of the shop to working behind the counter but he found it dull. As Maureen approached he spun round, narrowly stopping himself from falling over by catching the counter, one shoulder up, the other hand raised in surprise as if he were in a Bollywood musical.
“Very good,” Maureen said.
“The usual?” he asked, pointing at her and pulling the trigger.
Maureen nodded. Padda Junior did a demi-spin, singing under his breath, caught a bottle of cheap whiskey off the shelf, spun back into place and stabbed at the till buttons like Liberace on a camp day. Delighted with the overall effect, he grinned to himself. “You fairly knock it back, don’t ye?”
She made a mental note to use another offy in the future.
As she climbed the stairs to her front door she promised herself that if there was no message on her machine about the baby she wasn’t going to think about it or Sheila or Michael tonight. She’d have a long, calm evening alone. She should savor the time while she had it.
“Well, buongiorno, Maureen.”
Her creepy neighbor, Jim Maliano, was standing on the landing above her, a large red suitcase on the landing in front of him, his tan deep and flush. He was a small man with a little round belly that he accentuated by tucking his jumpers into his jeans. He did something odd with his hair so that it changed texture and quality over his crown. It was as if he were trying to hide a bald patch but Maureen had seen his crown and it wasn’t bald. It looked like a tiny yarmulke-toupee.
“Jim.” Maureen climbed the last few stairs. “You’re back.”
“Aye.” Jim was dressed like an Italian spiv in a cream and salmon striped shirt, gray slip-on loafers and beige slacks held up with a white plastic belt. He went to see his extended family every year for a month and every year he came back more Italian, less able to articulate in English, more hand-wavy, more punchable. He was always pleased to see her and Maureen didn’t know why. She was never very nice to him. “I had a marvelous time, as usual.” He took a step towards her. “It really is so beautiful over there. You should go. The heat makes you relax and the food is fabulous”
“And how’s the family?” interrupted Maureen, sliding her key into the lock and opening the door.
“Aye, the family’s all well,” he said, smiling and nodding as if she knew them and cared. “I brought you some amaretti biscuits.”
“Ah, great, I’ll get them from ye later. Welcome home,” she said, and shut the door on his hopeful face.
There were no messages on the
Spitefully, Maureen thought about pointing out the irony of an anorexic with a fridge full of low-cal jelly giving motivational speeches. She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Sometimes it’s right to put yourself aside,” she said. “It’s not always about a lack of self-esteem or destructive patterns of behavior. Someone needs to be responsible.”
Sheila sat back in her chair and looked at her. “Yes, but it doesn’t need to be you, Maureen. It doesn’t always need to be you.”
Maureen got Sheila to drop her around the corner from her house. Her flat was at the top of Garnethill, the highest hill in the city. The views were spectacular but the possibility of subsidence kept the property prices low and the steep hill meant that few outsiders wandered into it. It was an island state in the heart of the city. She waved back to Sheila as she walked up Rose Street, heading for Mr. Padda’s licensed grocery around the corner. She heard the dread clatter of metal shutters being pulled down and ran faster. Mr. Padda saw her sprinting towards him and smiled.
Inside the shop Mr. Padda Junior was playing behind the counter, stroking the kittenish bum-fluff on his cheeks and chin. He had recently graduated from watching telly in the cupboard at the back of the shop to working behind the counter but he found it dull. As Maureen approached he spun round, narrowly stopping himself from falling over by catching the counter, one shoulder up, the other hand raised in surprise as if he were in a Bollywood musical.
“Very good,” Maureen said.
“The usual?” he asked, pointing at her and pulling the trigger.
Maureen nodded. Padda Junior did a demi-spin, singing under his breath, caught a bottle of cheap whiskey off the shelf, spun back into place and stabbed at the till buttons like Liberace on a camp day. Delighted with the overall effect, he grinned to himself. “You fairly knock it back, don’t ye?”
She made a mental note to use another offy in the future.
As she climbed the stairs to her front door she promised herself that if there was no message on her machine about the baby she wasn’t going to think about it or Sheila or Michael tonight. She’d have a long, calm evening alone. She should savor the time while she had it.
“Well, buongiorno, Maureen.”
Her creepy neighbor, Jim Maliano, was standing on the landing above her, a large red suitcase on the landing in front of him, his tan deep and flush. He was a small man with a little round belly that he accentuated by tucking his jumpers into his jeans. He did something odd with his hair so that it changed texture and quality over his crown. It was as if he were trying to hide a bald patch but Maureen had seen his crown and it wasn’t bald. It looked like a tiny yarmulke-toupee.
“Jim.” Maureen climbed the last few stairs. “You’re back.”
“Aye.” Jim was dressed like an Italian spiv in a cream and salmon striped shirt, gray slip-on loafers and beige slacks held up with a white plastic belt. He went to see his extended family every year for a month and every year he came back more Italian, less able to articulate in English, more hand-wavy, more punchable. He was always pleased to see her and Maureen didn’t know why. She was never very nice to him. “I had a marvelous time, as usual.” He took a step towards her. “It really is so beautiful over there. You should go. The heat makes you relax and the food is fabulous”
“And how’s the family?” interrupted Maureen, sliding her key into the lock and opening the door.
“Aye, the family’s all well,” he said, smiling and nodding as if she knew them and cared. “I brought you some amaretti biscuits.”
“Ah, great, I’ll get them from ye later. Welcome home,” she said, and shut the door on his hopeful face.
There were no messages on the
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