Mary expected the police to ask her a lot of questions, but did not expect one of them to be: ‘You masturbated to the point of climax while fantasising about Macdowall?’ The cop was female, fourteen, and at some point had taken Mary’s red notebook from her satchel. Teen cop raised her eyebrows at sidekick cop, who looked busy counting his days to retirement.
Teen cop had already grilled her about Macdowall’s death and the hours and days preceding it, and she’d answered with confidence and a fair amount of honesty. Throughout her work life, Mary constantly imagined herself in court, defending whatever she was doing or saying, and was practised at it. Jack used to chide her for this all the time because apparently she applied the rule to everything, including the dishes. The policewoman took notes and, to Mary’s surprise, did not seem at all interested in blaming her for Macdowall’s suicide or in ruining her reputation and career. In fact, Mary was starting to like teen cop.
‘You haven’t been online this afternoon?’ she asked.
Mary shook her head. ‘I was at Lowfield; had an urgent report.’
‘Derek McLaverty is using Macdowall’s death to promote his cause and sell books. You’re the perfect bad gal.’
‘He’s a bad egg.’ Unexpected remark from retirement cop.
‘McLaverty was arrested trying to see his kids when he got back from Edinburgh last night. He’s safe inside for three weeks, but he’s good at ruining lives, even from his cell; he’s got a big network. He’ll do anything he can to undermine you. Like telling us you had an affair with Macdowall, which is why I’m asking you about your feelings for him. And considering what’s written in this notebook, did you?’
‘Did I masturbate while fantasising about him, or did I have feelings for him?’
She read out loud: ‘“Last night I fantasied about Liam Macdowall and pure came like a banshee.”’
‘I didn’t write that, did I? Can I have it back please?’ Mary grabbed it and held it tight. She’d burn it tonight. ‘On one masturbatory occasion, I thought about Liam Macdowall, but that doesn’t mean I had feelings for him, other than work-related ones, most of them very negative.’
‘Aren’t you married?’ asked retirement cop.
‘Yes, and over the thirty years I have been, I’ve masturbated while fantasising about other men approximately twice a week – are you writing this down? You should be writing this down. Therefore – thanks to not being fucked up about sex, thanks to having a healthy relationship with my husband, and also a huge thanks to my vibrators, particularly the Just Ears – highly recommended – I have “pure come like a banshee” to hundreds of men, known and from off the telly. He was a killer, a lifer; he was antisocial, pro-criminal, unemployed and unemployable, alcoholic and a terrible father. I thought about him once, and never again. He’s no more important to me than a topless roofer or an inappropriate masseur. He was briefly D list in my hefty and not abnormal wank bank.’
Retirement cop no longer looked dead inside and was taking energetic notes: ‘Bunny Ears, you say?’
Teen cop threw her colleague the evil eye.
‘Just Ears. Great for Mother’s Day,’ Mary said.
Catherine had left three urgent messages on Mary’s Blackberry, the last of which was: Off to Peterhead. Stay at home and rest. Meeting has been arranged for Mon in office at 4pm, so take it easy and cu then.
This meeting could take two forms: supervision with Catherine, in her cosy office. Catherine would ask Mary if she was okay, offer her a tissue when she cried about killing her client, reassure her she did not kill him, offer the telephone number of a counsellor specialising in post-traumatic stress disorder, phone her GP and make an urgent appointment. She would resign with immediate effect and they would hug. Mary would hold her head high as she walked to her desk, and everyone would clap because Mary had suffered in this place for thirty years and it was over.
(They’d clap, but they’d hate her guts cos not everyone’s got a rich twat husband, do they?)
Or the meeting could be more formal. Fact finding. This would take place in the conference room on the ground floor, with the windows that had never opened, and which smelt of the sweat of neglectful mothers. Present at this meeting would be Catherine, her boss, and maybe her boss’s boss. Mary would be terrified, but confident. She was not afraid of the facts. Despite the nature of the meeting, her colleagues would be kind and supportive. She would hand in her resignation and leave quietly by the back door with her head held high-ish.
She fired up her other phone. Facebook and email had gone wild with links to The Lion’s Roar and other men’s rights sites, all of which portrayed Mary as public enemy number one.
Mary was surprised at how little she gave a fuck. She was too tired to give one. She could have slept for a month. When Roddie’s money came in, any day now, she could book a week in a spa, or a month in an American clinic specialising in emotional exhaustion. They’d feed her, force her to eat fruit. She’d get massages and tell people all her shit for a change, bore them with the series of life events that led her to be the most hated woman in Scotland.
Mary turned both phones off again. She must not think about that.
3.00 p.m. What time was Roddie getting in? And how long before she could have a drink: two hours? Unless you’re on Australian time of course, which Roddie would be, and which she should maybe try to be on too; so she could selflessly be his jet-lag hag. She poured herself a ‘living-room Sangiovese’ (smaller in appearance than a ‘kitchen’ one, but appearances can be deceptive), ran the bath, and took off her clothes. The stress of the last week had taken its toll, and to her delight, she was sporting a significant thigh gap. Mary was looking for the measuring tape when a figure appeared through the frosted glass of the front door. Keys jangled, the door opened. ‘Roddie!’
They’d always been excellent at long-distance relationships, if the relationship was with each other. Mary had backpacked with a childhood friend the year after they got together, for example – a long-anticipated Asia-inspired experience that ended the childhood friendship. She and Roddie had written to each other each week for six months: happy letters that Mary recently discovered in a biscuit tin and realised were love letters.
If anyone asked the secret to their success, they’d both give the same two answers. The first was that they talked. Poor communication was a stupid reason to screw things up, Mary reckoned. So many tragedies could be avoided by a simple conversation, by the quick imparting of relevant information.
Mary was sobbing into his chest. ‘Is Jack okay? He’s falling for the guy’s daughter, we have to stop it.’ She didn’t want to let him go.
‘He’s fine, baby. He’s absolutely fine. I’ve been chatting to him.’
‘I shouldn’t have breached him,’ Mary said.
‘You should have breached him sooner.’
She held Roddie’s face to impart the most important piece of information. ‘Derek McLaverty’s saying I was having an affair with Macdowall.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘I know.’ Mary nuzzled into his chest again, so relieved. ‘I have to go to a meeting on Monday about all this. I’m fantasising about resigning then.’
‘Yes. Please. Immediately. Go off sick from now till your notice is served; fuck their threats.’
‘Have you signed the contract?’ she asked.
‘Rich is emailing it over tomorrow. And I’ll go with you on Monday to make sure you don’t chicken out.’
The second secret to their success was that they had fun together. Shit happened, of course it did, but if Mary had something planned with Roddie, she never once wondered if she’d have a good time. It was a given. They both insisted on heavy and regular doses of the stuff, particularly after a period of separation.
‘You mean it?’ The idea of never going back was too good.
‘You are no longer a criminal-justice social worker.’
‘I can’t abandon my guys without saying anything.’
‘Yes, you can. You are never going back. I promise. Never. That’s it, done, finito. The rest of your life is about this: us, you and me. From now on, I am the breadwinner. I am an international sensation who’s just arrived from an overseas tour, and you know what that means?’
She did know. It meant fun.
‘I note we have a bubbled bath.’ Roddie said. ‘Do we have wine?’
‘We have wine.’
‘Do we have cannabis?’
‘Yes, we have cannabis. Shit, no, I flushed it.’ Pause. ‘But we do have cocaine.’
Roddie was wearing one of the surgical masks he bought in preparation for the inevitable chaos of the millennium bug. He’d retrieved it from the zombie-apocalypse cupboard in the hall. Mary hoped he didn’t notice the canned goods she’d skimmed in the last week for the impromptu food bank she ran from her car boot. She hadn’t had time to replace them.
Hands gloved, apron on, he leaned over the first of the three takeaway containers he’d filled with water and decreasing amounts of bleach. With the steady tweezers of a celebrated chin-hair-plucker, Roddie rotated the rubber package, studying the rate at which the chlorinated-water turned brown. When satisfied, he repeated the process in takeaway container two, then three, before placing a pristine-looking balloon on a sheet of kitchen paper and spraying it with disinfectant.
‘I can’t see any.’ Roddie steadied the package with his tweezers, cut the rubber ball with his least favourite knife, and the white powder revealed itself. Their evening was born.
‘You think some specks will have seeped in?’
‘I’m a hundred percent certain,’ said Roddie.
Mary scooped the powder onto a dinner plate and tidied it with her Glasgow Library card. ‘Wanna snort some shit?’
Ever since Jack moved out, Mary and Roddie had ordered a gram of Mandy from Johnny each month as a payday treat, and set aside an evening together to dabble in various combinations of the following activities:
Brainstorming business ventures, such as an artist’s retreat (Roddie’s idea) or the lottery (Mary’s).
Brainstorming graphic-novel ideas, such as Menopause Woman (could melt a man with a single hot flush – Roddie’s idea), or Misogyny Man (could get fucked – Mary’s idea).
Massaging neglected body parts.
Dancing round the kitchen table.
Having the kind of sex they would both swear, on their lives, they’d never had before.
Alas, through no planning of their own, they had taken the wrong drug. That, and perhaps ned excrement, meant neither managed to locate the other’s neglected body part nor dance round the table with conviction for any length of time. Mary only managed to complete two of her recently discovered activities – the angry strip, and cooking with resentment. At some point things took an unfortunately serious turn, and Mary told Roddie about Christmas when she was twenty-one and her mum was throwing milk bottles against the kitchen wall, one after the other: smash, smash, glass all over the floor, and some milk, smash. ‘Fuck you. Fuck you all.’
Mary had not only said this out loud, she had also done it. There was glass everywhere, and some wine. ‘Holy Shit. I’m so sorry. My God, it is me. I am the arsehole.’
Roddie walked across the kitchen, glass crunching under the slippers Mary got him for Christmas, and took her hands. ‘Don’t be daft. It’s okay. We shouldn’t have taken that coke.’
‘I’ve hit you before.’ She was crying.
‘You’ve never scared me. You’re unwell sometimes. So am I. I get it.’
‘You know what you sound like, Roddie? My victim.’
He held her face and kissed her. ‘Mary, you’re tiny.’
He had melted her. ‘That is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,’ she said, and burrowed in.