Read The Dead Hour for Free Online

had lost faith that he would ever find work again. Force of habit made him rise at seven every day, take the breakfast Trisha set in front of him, and then, abruptly, find the whole hollow day staring him in the face. He took long walks across the industrial desert between Eastfield and Shettleston. Inside flimsy security fences ran miles of Armageddon fields, pitted with tangled metal and abandoned buildings, and Con picked his quiet way, carrying home scraps they might have a use for.
    “Find any goodies?”
    He shook his head, turning back to his tea. “Nothing.”
    Beyond the kitchen window the sharp, low daylight sliced across the grass tips of the overgrown garden and cut through the kitchen. Trisha was at the empty sink, her face screwed up tight against bright morning, wiping down the metal until it sparkled. She looked up at Paddy.
    “I’ve put your cereal out.” She pointed to a box of pressed high fiber that tasted like malted paper.
    Paddy yearned for bed. “I had something at Sean’s, Mum.”
    Trisha looked at her, barely suppressing a pang of fury. “Okay then, but you’ll have tea.” She turned to the worktop and pulled off the knitted tea cozy, pouring two mugs of strong tea from the steel pot. “And how was last night?”
    “Oh, quiet,” said Paddy, watching the tea pour and hanging firmly onto the outside of the door frame, as if her mother’s need for company would be strong enough to suck her into the kitchen. “Missed the big stories again.”
    “Did ye hear about this girl killed up in Bearsden? A lawyer, nice girl. A Protestant but a nice girl. It was on the radio.”
    Paddy smiled at her mother trying to show she wasn’t a bigot. “How do you know she was a Protestant, Mum? They hardly announced that, did they?”
    Trisha poured milk into both cups of tea. “Yes, Miss Smarty-Pants: they always mention it when someone’s Catholic. Anyway, she lives in Bearsden and her name’s Burnett.” She held out the mug to Paddy, just far enough beyond the reach of her fingertips so that she would have to step into the kitchen to take it. “The news’ll be on again in a minute.”
    Paddy was being sucker-punched and she knew it. Trisha lifted the mug of strong hot tea a fraction, releasing a puff of comfort. Paddy could smell it at the door. She reached for it and no sooner had her fingers curled around the handle than Trisha pulled a chair out.
    “Isn’t Caroline down today?” Paddy only asked the question to upset her mother and they both knew it.
    Usually Caroline would be in when Paddy arrived home late, and it was ominous that her seat was empty. Baby Con had started school and Caroline came home most days. When she didn’t get the two buses down to Eastfield it was always because of her husband: John’d either given her a sore face or raised hell about the housework and she had to stay home and scrub.
    “She called from the phone box. She’s got too much to do today.” Trisha raised her mug to her mouth. “Sit. Just give us your chat for a wee minute.”
    Feeling small and unkind, Paddy sat down. “Well, first we went to this car crash but no one was hurt, and then we went over to the police station in Anderston.” She monologued as she knew her mother wanted, giving her the highlights of the night shift but skipping the visit to Bearsden.
    Same as all her women friends, Trisha’s life was vicarious. Paddy heard them in the Cross Café and outside the chapel: they passed on secondhand stories about their kids’ friends, got angry about fights their husbands had at work, boasted about their families’ achievements while they themselves stayed in the kitchen. With an unemployed husband and three of her kids sitting at home waiting for the recession to abate, Trisha had very little material. She couldn’t talk honestly about Caroline’s home life and Mary Ann spent her life in the chapel. Marty and Gerard were monosyllabic at the best of times. If Paddy didn’t take the