Free G03 - Resolution by Denise Mina

he couldn’t go on without her, that he’d get a job, make friends with her friends, do anything to make it all right again. She’d said it was over and he’d said he loved her, as if that were an answer, as if that would change her mind. She put him out. She never wanted to see him again but he’d come back to the house at four in the morning, crying and banging on the door.
    They arrived at the market and Leslie pulled the van over to the side, slumping over the wheel, staring at the cobbles ahead and looking desperate. Maureen hugged her, rubbing her back, giving her an emotional winding. Beyond the dirty windscreen a figure approached, a middle-aged man with his hands in his pockets, swinging his shoulders, his gray head down. He looked up and for a searing moment Maureen saw Michael’s face. She blinked. The man’s features melted, resolving themselves into another face, utterly unfamiliar. He glanced into the cab as he walked past. Leslie peeled herself away and looked at her hands. “Mauri, are you going through the change or something?” She sniffed. “You’re covered in sweat.”
    “Fine, I’m fine.”
    When Peter opened the door to the tunnel they saw four regular punters already waiting for them. Leslie served them, attracting an even larger crowd of customers who had been hanging about at the doors, getting the sun while they waited. Any one of them might be Michael. Maureen felt herself start to sweat again. She did as Angus had taught her, brushing away the intrusive thoughts by bringing herself back to the present. She took the money, getting into the swing of the day. They had sold a quarter of their stock before they had even set up the stall. Leslie cocked her head. “No tunes,” she said.
    Maureen looked down to Ella’s stall. It was empty and an old cardboard box had been abandoned on it, suggesting that it hadn’t been set up at all today.
    “Peter?” said Maureen. “Where’s the lady that sells the tapes today?”
    “She’s in hospital,” said Peter.
    “How come?”
    He shrugged. “Dunno. Wee Trish told me.”
    “I’ll not be long,” said Maureen, and left before Leslie answered.
    Wee Trish had a holy stall selling nylon first-communion dresses, fake mother-of-pearl prayer books, plastic rosaries and twenty sizes and styles of crucifixes. Trish herself looked like a cairn terrier. Her hair was streaked blond and wiry, cut so short that it stood up whatever she put on it. Her sharp features and leathery skin were accentuated by a short chin and a top lip that curled upwards when in repose, showing her teeth, so that she looked as if she was growling.
    “Trish, where’s Ella?”
    Trish looked wary. “D’you even know Ella?” she asked.
    “Aye,” said Maureen. “Peter said she was in hospital.”
    “Aye,” said Trish, still unsure of her. “She got taken in last night.”
    “What’s wrong with her?”
    Trish thought about it. Obviously no one else had bothered to ask for details. “Dunno. The ambulance came and took her from the house. I heard she fell and hurt her face.”
    “She fell?” said Maureen incredulously.
    “She’s old,” Wee Trish said defensively.
    Maureen wanted to say that a woman able to crouch on a crossbar for twenty minutes was unlikely to topple over spontaneously in her living room. “D’ye know what hospital she’s in?” she asked.
    “I dunno. Somewhere with a casualty ward? The Albert probably.”
    Leslie was waiting for her when she got back to the stall and Maureen told her what Trish had said. “Poor thing,” said Leslie. She was very pale and her lips were turning blue.
    “Have you eaten anything since that roll yesterday?”
    “No,” said Leslie, and looked as if she might cry again.
    “Poor wee henny-hen,” said Maureen, wrapping a jumper around Leslie’s shoulders and sitting her down on her stool. “You stay here and I’ll go and get you a roll ‘n’ sausage and a juice.”
    Leslie nodded miserably at the floor,