Half of Mary’s lunch hit a man called Ian, and the crowd in the courtyard clamoured to help. ‘Ian, oh my God!’ ‘I’ve got a hanky!’ ‘Here’s a tissue!’ Mary was concentrating on keeping the rest of the noodles down and couldn’t think of a famous Ian.
‘Quick, come with me.’ A suave twenty-something took Mary’s hand and pushed his way from the step outside the authors’ toilets into the red velvet of the inner yurt, depositing her on a luxurious bench and shoving a hessian bag in her face. Mary decided to put her head inside it, which sated twenty-something guy. ‘In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. That’s it. What a thing to see. Poor you.’
‘Are you Mary Shields?’ A policewoman had entered the inner yurt, which was basically an enormous vagina: soft, red velvet benches, draped ceilings, pulsating pellet stove in the corner.
Mary took her head out of the bag. ‘I am. I’m Mary Shields.’ Her name sounded heavy and was downright sinister written down. Even Mary’s address seemed to have an edge – 20 Mansion House Square; it scanned with 25 Cromwell Street. The police officer also wrote down her date of birth, her telephone numbers, her employer info, contact details for Roddie, and a brief statement.
The officer pointed to a woman sitting nearby. ‘You and Margaret need to stay here for now,’ she said. ‘We’ll get you out soon. It’s just neds, nothing to be alarmed about. You should know they’ve removed the body but the area has all been sealed off. Can I’ve a minute Bob?’
‘Sure thing,’ said twenty-something Bob, who reclaimed his hessian bag and stood. ‘Ladies, while you wait there’s whisky, tablet and oysters plucked from under the kilts of clansmen. Mary, doll, you get to hang with Margaret. How cool is that?’
Margaret, sitting opposite, was obviously famous like Ian. She was around seventy, wore long boots, leggings and an oversized shirt, and sported a spectacular fuzz-ball of silver hair.
‘I can look after myself,’ she said when Bob had gone. ‘But are you okay?’ Her accent was American, or Canadian.
You should always say Canadian first, Mary thought to herself, in case she accidentally asked the question out loud. Canadian first. ‘Fine thanks.’ Mary had managed to not say it. She scanned her busy head for famous Margarets and only one came to mind: English, and dead, thankfully. Mary’s cheeks were wet. She reached into her bag for a tissue and noticed her work-issue Blackberry was buzzing. Her hand shook as she lifted it, but the messages were all from before 2.00 p.m. – a comforting time to be from. One was from Detective Sergeant Minnie Mouse, who’d been unable to locate McKinley’s child sex robot and wanted to do an unannounced joint visit tomorrow if poss – how about 9.00 a.m.? There were messages regarding overdue MAPPA paperwork and incomplete LS/CMI risk assessments and late CPO review reports and absence of up-to-date SWID case notes and new mileage forms and a reminder to put all interviews and visits on VISOR. There were several messages from clients about appointments, and an email from her boss, Catherine:
Mary, I am so sorry, but I can’t get anyone to do the report for John Paul O’Donnell tomorrow. I’d do it, but I’ve got a MAPPA2. If it’s not done, he’ll stay in custody another three weeks. He’s ex-Looked After. Can you nip to Lowfield at 10 and write it at home? I’ve booked you in. CJSW done 12m ago, attached, also SCRO, SWID and CPCC. Maybe defer for DTTO? Or CPO w RDS, poss RAMH to beef it up?
Mary understood every letter, and they comforted her. She could do that, sure. There was no disaster here. No blast radius rippling out already. Tomorrow would just be another Thursday. She’d go to prison for the interview with John Paul and make a surprise joint visit to McKinley on the way. She messaged Catherine and Minnie to let them know, then opened the attachments her boss had sent, calming herself with the personal history of twenty-one-year-old John Paul O’Donnell, a coke-addled ned whose life was way worse than hers, even now, and who she’d be meeting for the first time tomorrow.
She was breathing steadily again when Margaret nudged her with a whisky tumbler. ‘I suggest you drink.’
Mary became aware of the noise around her. Fire sirens had joined the angry orchestra in Charlotte Square. She took the whisky from famous Margaret.
‘I think we’re going to be here a while.’ Margaret sat beside her and took a sip of her own whisky. ‘Don’t know how safe we’re s’posed to feel with just canvas between us and them.’
‘I love your work,’ Mary used her limited powers of speech to say. She prayed that Margaret Whoever didn’t ask which work in particular, because she hadn’t read anything made-up since the world forced her to devour The Da Vinci Code in 2003.
‘Thank you.’ The lady author poured another drink in a manner befitting a very important Margaret.
The chanting was getting louder. Male voices, moving closer; they couldn’t be more than metres away. Mary could hear the words now – ‘Feminazi!’ ‘Misandrist Mary!’ ‘Man-Killer Mary!’
‘What? Who are they talking about?’
‘I’m afraid you are the Mary to whom the gentlemen refer,’ said wise Margaret, whose surname was on the tip of Mary’s tongue.
‘But they don’t know me.’
She handed Mary her iPad, which was open on the Cuck Facebook page. ‘He posted this just before he did the world a great service, and tagged you. Drink this.’ Margaret handed her another whisky, which Mary gulped before reading:
‘THE LAST LETTER
I thought I’d worked it all out, ha, found my tribe. You’re right about me.
I am an idiot,
Unfortunately.
In her head, Mary was explaining her actions to a jury. Macdowall had tagged her as an ironic nod to one of his understandably stringent life-licence conditions, she would argue (i.e., that he must inform his supervising officer of any change of address, which was now nowhere). That was all, nothing more significant than that. The next question was more difficult to defend: Then explain to the court, Mrs Shields, why Macdowall’s last words mirror those he inscribed in your hardback copy of his book on the evening of his launch? I.e., ‘To Mary, who’s not an idiot, Unfortunately.’
Mary would have to burn the book.
What was she thinking?
She’d have to burn the book.
Mary grabbed her personal mobile from her bag, which, as usual for a work day, was on silent. The screen was spurting alerts, but she phoned Jack before looking at them. He didn’t answer, so she left a message and a text: Pls get in touch. Need to know ur ok. I’m in the yurt. xx
Mary had been advised to change her Facebook name to something obscure or to at least set her privacy to ‘friends only’, but she hadn’t bothered. Her offenders were rarely held back by settings, she’d found. She had 343 Facebook message requests, twenty-three direct messages from friends, or friends of friends, and more friend requests than the 154 she already had. An awful picture kept popping up on her timeline, of a middle-aged woman with bile on her chin and boob sweat. It took Mary a few glances to recognise herself. The photo and accompanying article were posted ten minutes ago by Derek McLaverty on his blog, The Lion’s Roar. It had been shared 123 times, 124…
‘That’s me.’
‘’Fraid so,’ said Margaret.
‘I’ve got batwings.’ Mary had zoomed in on an arm. ‘I’ve spent the last thirty years preventing other people’s worst case scenarios and this is mine.’
For quite a while, Mary thought she might have something to say, and Margaret was patient. It was a relief when a team arrived to take the woman home. Before heading off, she leaned down and whispered in Mary’s ear: ‘A lot of people kill themselves. Some of them are good, others are arseholes.’
‘I can escort you out now,’ the police officer said to Mary. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘It’s, um over in Stockbridge, but—’ She had to walk and talk: past the courtyard, which was flickering with fluorescent jackets, and across the boardwalk to a small gate on the now-quiet side of the square.
‘You okay if I leave you here?’ The officer said, having kindly walked her at least a block away from the festival.
‘Yeah, but the thing is, I had whisky, in the tent, cos of nerves. Do you have a breathalyser?’
The police officer did not, and suggested Mary get the train.
Mary tested herself as she walked to Stockbridge. Post hurl she had downed three whiskies with her probably legendary BFF. To assess the gravity of the situation, she leaned on Dean Bridge, closed her eyes, and counted from one. Inebriation score: ten. That was, her head was spinning by the time she got to ten.
There was only one way out of this: sambuca. Mary had never managed the fingers-down-the-throat thing. She’d tried very hard, Roddie or Lil often encouraging from behind: ‘Don’t bring ’em out yet, work through, hold, hold!’ She couldn’t do it, unless she had a sambuca first. It gave her that extra gag factor. She phoned Jack as she walked. No answer, so she texted:
Pls let me know you’re okay. I’m heading back to Glasgow soon if you want a lift.
He texted back straight away: Wtf have you done?
Had someone ignited her face? Mary fanned herself:
What do you mean?
She grabbed the Cuck PR itinerary from her bag. Derek McLaverty’s mobile number was listed on the front page, and she rang it immediately.
‘Derek, it’s Mary Shields. Please don’t hang up. I’m ringing to see if you’re okay.’
‘Mary Shields.’ He must have been on the train. Mary could hear the Glasgow Central announcement and lots of loud talking. Was that Jack in the background?
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ he said.
‘I wanted to say how sorry I am about Liam. I know how much you meant to each other.’
This wasn’t true. She just wanted to diffuse the situation, get him on side, and she wanted to find Jack. Was that his voice? She could hear him. ‘Is Jack there with you, by any chance?’ she asked. ‘Can you put him on?’
Derek muffled the handset. A moment later: ‘He doesn’t want to talk, Mary.’
‘Put him on,’ she said.
‘He doesn’t want to talk to you. That’s awful isn’t it? Losing contact with your child.’
‘It’s been a hard day, Derek; a very sad day,’ she said.
‘Indeed, and hugging your baby would help, no doubt. I understand. In fact, I feel the same. I need to hug my boys.’
‘Are you going there now?’
‘Thanks for your concern, Mary.’ He hung up.
Walking into the first bar she found, Mary rang the police and Nel to inform them that McLaverty was about to breach the bail condition prohibiting him from going near his ex-wife’s address.
‘Sambuca,’ Mary said to the bartender. She gulped it down, grimaced, and raced to the toilet.