“Wilma would be proud of me, she thought. Not that she’d confided that night’s outing to her

Maggie sat on the toilet. Not that she needed. Anything to relieve the pain in her feet. She contemplated the graffiticovered walls: rude comments complete with graphic illustrations. Her mind flew to her daughter down in Dundee. What sort of world had she brought her girl into?

“What are you doing in there?” Someone was hammering on the cubicle door.

She got to her feet and flipped the catch. She was met by hostile stares as two would-be WAGs tumbled past her into the toilet.

There were three girls at the basins. Well, perhaps “girls” was stretching it.

One of them at least was older than herself, a line of silver regrowth defining the parting in her dark hair, a ring of white concealer only serving to exaggerate the dark blue shadows beneath her eyes.

The other two could have been twins: same blonde hair, bleached lifeless, same hair extensions, same kohl-rimmed eyes.

The three eyed Maggie in the mirror. “Hi,” she did her best to look friendly.

Three heads ducked in unison.

Undeterred

“Do you come here often?” She pressed on, undeterred.

“What’s it to you?” The older woman looked up. “Just, you know, I wondered if you girls know any of the staff here?”

“Wouldn’t touch any of them with a bargepole,” one of the women muttered. “You never know where they’ve been.”

“Oh.” In the mirror, Maggie watched the colour rise in her face. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…I’m trying to get in touch with someone.”

“Aye? Like who?”

“Goes by the name of Craigmyle.”

“What does he do, like?” The older woman again. Maggie shook the drips from her fingers. “Security, from what I can gather.”

“A bouncer, like?”

She kneaded damp hands. “I don’t know.” “You could ask Jason at the bar. He’s been around a good while.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

Maggie threaded her way towards the bar. Around her, drinkers were squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder on buttoned, leather-look banquettes.

Above them, a mezzanine floor was bordered by chrome railings. Spectators hung over, watching the goings-on below.

The bar was six-deep. Behind it, a bank of optics was backlit in a lurid shade of pink.

At least half a dozen barmen in fancy waistcoats were hard at it, twirling glasses, juggling bottles, moving at speed between the optics and the counter. Maggie shouldered her way through.

An elbow jabbed her in the ribs.

“Sorry,” she kept on going.

Wilma would be proud of me, she thought. Not that Maggie had confided that night’s outing to her neighbour.

No, Windmill Brae would have to remain under the radar, at least until she had a result to show. “What’s it to be?”

She finally made it to the bar. “You wouldn’t be…” Someone pushed in front of her. “Jason?” Just as roughly, she shoved back in.

“No,” the barman snapped. “Don’t hang about.” “T-tonic water,” she stuttered.

“That all?” The young man didn’t make eye contact. “Yes.”

“Two pounds.” The barman squirted liquid from a hose. Banged a wet glass down on the shiny counter.

“Is Jason here?” She slid two coins across the bar.

Fruitless

The young man jerked his head. “Down there.” She followed his eyes. At the far end of the bar, one figure appeared slightly older than the others: plump, bald, shiny pate gleaming, diamond stud twinkling in each ear.

Maggie wormed her way down the length of the bar. “Jason, is it?” After several fruitless attempts, she finally drew level.

“What if it is?” Jason cocked his head coquettishly. He made eye contact. Right. Left. Right again in quick-fire succession.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“If you make it quick.”

“Do you know a man called Craigmyle?” “Jimmy? Aye.”

Maggie felt positively light-headed, “Is he here?” “No.”

“But he does work here?”

Jason homed in on Maggie’s right eye. “Didn’t I say you’d to be quick?”

The barman contemplated the outstretched hands all around.

“Does he, though?” she persisted.

“Aye. But he’s off tonight.”

“Can you give me his phone number?” “We don’t give out confidential information.” Keep talking. “But, I’m a-a friend of his.” “Then how come you haven’t got his number?” Maggie’s mind worked overtime. “He must have changed it.”

“That’s your bad luck.”

“Jason,” she wheedled, “I’m desperate.”

The man sniggered. “He’s no interested in sex.” “It’s not…”

His lip curled. “They all say that.”

Maggie was being jostled back and forth, the drink in her hand slopping onto Kirsty’s frock. “Can you give him a message?”

Suspicious look. “What sort of message?” “Just…”

Jason made to turn away.

“Hang on,” her voice was pleading, “have you got a pen?”

The barman rolled his eyes. Sighed theatrically. “If you must,” he extracted a streamlined silver Sheaffer from an inside pocket.

“Thanks.”

Maggie scribbled her name and mobile number on a paper napkin. Pushed it with the pen across the counter.

“Please,” she produced her very best smile, “will you give him this?”

Capacious

The curtains were closed. Other than that it looked like any other house on the street: a six-in-the-block council flat, grey harled walls, slate roof, tidy enough garden out front.

She climbed the steps. There would be nobody home. The wife was long gone, the bairns with her. And hadn’t Wilma just left him sitting bug-eyed in the sprawling estate’s solitary pub?

She delved into her capacious handbag, a fake snake Gucci knock-off with tassels on the pockets and a plethora of shiny brass studs.

She’d bought it at the Wednesday market on her honeymoon to Tenerife the previous winter.

Her lips curled into a lascivious smile. They’d a rare time, she and Ian: no meals to cook, no dishes to wash, a good bevvy every evening, some lunchtimes too, no work to get up for in the morning.

And night-time. Well… Wilma had another wee smile to herself.

For a few moments she rummaged in its depths, fingers finding a well-used hairbrush and various items of makeup among other detritus.

More tomorrow.

By Claire MacLeary