Exile by Denise Mina Read Free Book Online Page A

trapped in updrafts and crosswinds. Maureen flapped the skirt of her coat open and shut, trying to shake off the worst of the weather.
    “Is that a new coat?” asked Leslie.
    Maureen nodded.
    “Nice,” said Leslie. “Douglas’s money?”
    “Yeah.” Maureen smiled. “From rags to bigger rags.”
    Leslie blanked her and put the helmets in the luggage box, clipped the padlock shut and led Maureen round the corner. They opened the door and stepped into the Driftwood restaurant, leaving the damp night behind them.
    The Driftwood looked like a lifelong dream swallowing a redundancy check. It was a tiny room with big windows onto the dirty street, little tables covered in wax cloth and candles in Perrier bottles. It served tempting fusion food but charged next to nothing because it was in exactly the wrong place. Maureen and Leslie were the only paying customers. A chef in a T-shirt and checked trousers sat at a table near the bar, reading a tabloid and eating a bowl of soup. A pretty blond waitress fluttered across the floor, whipping the menus from behind the bar as she came towards them. “For two?”
    “Yes, please,” said Maureen.
    She sat them at a table by the window. The convection heaters were blowing as hard as they could but Maureen and Leslie had to keep their coats on. The waitress apologized for the cold and promised them that the place would heat up soon. “We’re not long opened,” she explained, and took their drinks order.
    Maureen looked around at the tasteful orange walls and the candlelit tables. Behind the bright bar the waitress danced their drinks ready in a series of bunny dips and graceful swoops. “How did ye find this place?” she asked.
    “I come here with Cammy.” Leslie looked at the menu. “The goat cheese salad’s nice.”
    “I’ll have that, then,” said Maureen, shutting the menu without reading it. She didn’t want to eat, couldn’t be arsed fighting with Leslie about it, and a cheese salad seemed as good a thing to leave as anything else.
    “I think I’ll have a steak,” said Leslie. “Keep my strength up.”
    She smiled at Maureen, a weak and guilty smile, and Maureen thought she’d save her the bother of working around to it. “Why are we really here?” she asked.
    “Well”—Leslie looked hopefully at the waitress but the drinks weren’t ready—”it’s not just for steak. It’s Ann. See, her man said he didn’t hit her and he didn’t write to her, says he never lifted a finger.”
    “Leslie,” said Maureen wearily, “what’s the fucking deal with Ann? Will you just tell me?”
    “He said he didn’t hit her,” repeated Leslie firmly.
    They sat in silence until the waitress came over with their drinks on a rubberized tray. “Whiskey and lime for you,” she said, placing the glass in front of Maureen, “and a vodka and soda for yourself.”
    Leslie took the drink and ordered their food. Maureen watched her make eye contact with the waitress and smile, fresh and open-faced. She hadn’t seen her look like that for a long time. The waitress finished writing their order and backed off, leaving them alone together with the miles between them.
    “Okay, so her man says he didn’t hit her,” said Maureen, trying to kill the fractious pause. “Suppose he’s telling the truth? Could someone else have hit her? Maybe a boyfriend?”
    Leslie looked incredulous. “Fucking hell, Maureen. The men never admit to hitting these women, but that doesn’t mean they don’t do it.”
    “No,” said Maureen, feeling slighted, “but she’d hardly tell us a story that complicated, would she? She’d just say it was her man. If she had a boyfriend she could be with him now. Why didn’t she bring her weans when she left?”
    “Well, I don’t know,” Leslie said sarcastically. “Maybe running away with four kids is more complicated than running away alone.”
    And that one snide comment was enough. Maureen could be home in twenty minutes if she walked. “What