Crime (45 page)

Les Brodie’s smile grew wider. — Yeah, maybe they did.

Lennox stared at him, agog. The cop in him rose to the surface, before he could stop it. — What! You’re saying that you –

His old friend let out a long, hollow laugh, dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it into the gravel under his heel. — Nope, I fuckin wish. For a long time I’d have given anything to have found them. But they’re no in ma life now. Dinnae get ays wrong, I hope they’re in a place where they cannae harm any other kids, but I made the decision tae wash my hands of it all.

— But how could ye?

— Because I have tae, Les said, reaching into his jacket, pulling out a wallet and a family photograph of his wife and children. — I’ve other people to worry about. I don’t want ma wife’s husband and ma children’s faither tae be a fucked-up bam. I need tae be there for them, no obsessed wi auld vendettas. Your girl, Ray, she’s a cracker. Dinnae lose her. No tae a bunch ay fuckin nonces, that would be the
real
tragedy.

You could hear words like those a million times and understand the sense of them, but until you were emotionally ready to embrace them, it was trying to sow seeds on a motorway. After another silence Lennox rose from the bench like a football substitute in injury time, no role but to run down the clock, and shook his old friend’s hand. Les stood up and pulled him close, but Lennox was stiff in his embrace, managing only a cursory pat on the back. — I need tae get a wee walk, Les, clear the heid, he’d said, breaking the hold.

— Want company?

— Naw, I’m awright.

— Ray? Les Brodie paused. — Let it go, mate.

— See ye, Les.

Lennox walked without realising where he was going; mud and gravel under his feet, the water roaring below him, the river visible through the threadbare winter trees. The tunnel ahead, now so small and benign to his adult stature. He walked into it, headed to the dead zone in the middle, wanted it to work its magic and transform him again. Change him back. Then he craved their reappearance, the three very human monsters who had changed the boy, to come back and face the man. Willing something to happen. Voices to start up. Anybody. Anything. — C’MOAN THEN! he roared. — COME OAN THEN, YA CUNTS! His right hand jabbed out, pummelling the big, unforgiving stone bricks of the wall. There was a halting charge of pain but he smashed through it, then could feel nothing but a sick throb in his chest, his hiccup-convulsive breathing, and watch the blood from his pulped fist drip on to the harsh ground.

He had no idea how long he sat in that tunnel, head resting on his knees, lost in psychotic ramblings, but Trudi and Ally Notman found him there. — Ray … oh my Ray, my baby … Les said you’d be here … Trudi began, before seeing the state of his hand, her gaping mouth freezing in the egg of horror.

But Les had known he’d be there.

See ye, Les
.

And he resolves that he will try. When he gets back to Edinburgh he’ll look Les up. Take the friendship outside that glass storage tank while they still had time to enjoy it. He stretches out the fingers on his damaged hand. Picks up and clicks on the remote.

He is seized by the programme. The local Miami-Dade County channel: a show called
Sexual Offender Watch
. Mugshots of wild-eyed and stone-faced men designated either ‘sexual offenders’ or ‘sexual predators’ – Lennox doesn’t know the difference – are paraded on a loop with name, race, eye colour, hair colour, d.o.b. and accompanied with a cheesy supermarket instrumental version of ‘Caravan of Love’.

The revolution will not be televised, but the register will be
, he thinks as he watches for a bit, but recognises none of the men from the nonce conference. They were all white, while almost everyone here is black or Hispanic. He laughs bitterly and clicks on the real-estate programme. A breathless female voice coos: — People who live in glass houses, then breaks into a forced frivolous laugh, — have more fun!

It seems that a luxury condo overlooking South Beach, Biscayne Bay and downtown Miami is twenty thousand dollars cheaper than it was last week. Then a new advert starts up, as a hunky, young Christopher Reeve-type sits at a table by a pool with a laptop and cellphone, finishing a staged call. He faces the camera. — At Bonaventure, the emphasis is on
ad
venture, and he rises and looks across to a pier where a boat moors, waving at the family who disembark and tie up the craft. The camera pans to the tower block. Then we cut to the luxury apartment and the man takes us around.

Trudi emerges from the bathroom, naked save for the towel round her head, looking at the screen as the chiselled-featured salesman says, — I’m Aaron Resinger and I’m not just selling the dream, I’m living it. That’s right. When I say this complex has the highest quality design specifications and is the ultimate in luxury, stylised living, its more than just fancy sales talk. When I built this place, I decided that I simply couldn’t find anywhere better to live. So come take a look, Aaron urges, then produces a full, toothy smile and with a minor self-deprecating shrug, adds, — and the neighbours are pretty darn nice too.

Trudi freezes and turns away from the screen.

— I’ll bet you’d fancy some ay that! Lennox says.

— What …? she gasps.

— Marble-top kitchen tables, hardwood floors, built-in mod cons, sun balcony, breathtaking views, boat moorings and car parking, I saw your eyes widen … Lennox teases, and his hand rests around the small of her back. The other grazes between her legs. — Hey … you think we might have time …?

She pulls away from him. — We have to get ready. We’re going to Fort Lauderdale to have lunch with Ginger and Dolores,
and
pick up Tianna remember, she says and switches off the television.

— Right … Lennox says reluctantly and heads to the bathroom to confer with other selves, who will all sing the same song.

Robyn had come through, making a full statement. Johnnie and Starry had been taken into police custody, no bail set. He’d be informed of the trial date, and would need to come back to Miami. There had been a number of charges made in three states. They had questioned him about the condition of one of the men they’d arrested, a James Clemson, who was found in a city hospital having been brutally assaulted. — I should imagine that bunch would turn on each other pretty viciously when it went tits-up, Lennox had observed, deadpan, to the interviewing officer, who had looked pointedly at him, but it was obvious that it was going no further.

Lance Dearing had made it as far as the ambulance before the lights had gone out. Technically he’d hung on another three days in limbo, his body eventually succumbing to the septic poisoning caused by the wounds. Lennox hoped he could feel every second and that they’d spared the morphine. For those who satiated their drives by handing out life sentences to children, he was short on mercy.

He sits in a restaurant, awaiting Tianna’s arrival as he talks to Dolores’s granddaughter, Nadia, a teacher. She is spending time with her grandmother, who has not taken well to Braveheart’s demise. Dolores hadn’t been the same at the ballroom-dancing tournament the previous night, where Bill and Jessica Riordan had easily defeated her and Ginger, who is still rankled by this. — Have you ever heard of a Paddy who could dance? he asks the assembled company of Lennox, Nadia, Dolores, Bill and Jessica over pre-lunch drinks in his favourite Mexican Cantina.

— Michael Flatley? Jessica retorts.

— Poofs, faggots; they can always dance, Ginger scoffs, — I’m talking about normal heterosexual Paddies like Bill here.

— Flatley’s not gay. He’s married, Jessica says, lifting a margarita to her lips.

— He dances like that and he’s straight? Ginger laughs in derision.

El Hombre de el Cantina de Fettes
, Lennox considers. Then, thinking of Tianna, who is on her way following an impromptu shopping detour with Trudi, he asks Nadia about the way the girls at her school dress.

— It’s my biggest headache, she says, crunching a dipped salsa chip. — I gotta send kids home all the time. Ten, eleven, they wear short skirts; you can see their panties. I tell em, ‘You gotta go cover yourself up, girl.’ In most cases they don’t think anything of it, it’s just the fashion. They look at me like I’m some evil old spinster hag, she says, sweeping her long, curly hair out of her face. — But what happens if you let it go? Young guys and not so young guys start giving them attention. And they like it, so they start all the sexy prancing around, without really knowin what it is they’re doin.

Lennox has found himself paying attention to young girls’ consumer habits over the last week: how they dressed, what they read, the records they bought, how they spoke to each other. He’d read that they were hitting puberty and getting their periods earlier. It seemed that growing up was more stressful than ever. He considers his own childhood. It had seemed fine until the dark curtain abruptly came down on it that summer’s day in the tunnel. But perhaps even the happy memories were rose-tinted.

Les Brodie. He could tell him what it had been like before then. Because Les hadn’t been fucked up by what happened. Yes, he’d gone off the rails in his teens, been a bit of a tearaway, but now he’s the family man, with a successful plumbing business. Ray Lennox is the disturbed one. Les has just absorbed it, and got on with things. What would have happened if it had been him those nonce jailbird guys had buggered? All he did was suck some cock. He finds his shoulders shaking in nasty mirth, the idea now briefly seeming as slapstick and benign as pantomime at the King’s Theatre; certainly not worth a crusade over. How would he have reacted, have turned out, had the roles been reversed? Probably even worse, he grimly considers, as he sips on his orange juice, while craving the margarita he can’t trust himself
with
. He was the real nutter, so consumed with his own fear, he hadn’t realised how badly he’d spooked Dearing and the nonce gang from the off.

One thing he is sure of; America is a far more complicated place than he’s allowed on his previous visits. It is more than a country of big cars and strange sports. Or a place where even feted novelists can’t write a book without mentioning Jell-O and where animals excel athletically in the movies. He’s learned a little about himself as well. He’d often hid behind the curtain of Calvinistic gloom his tribe could wear like plaid, knowing that the heart would be taught bitter lessons in spite of all our conceits. But he’s seen how behaviour shapes outcomes. He would now find it hard to shrug the years away as a passive stoic.

— Thank God for that, I’m famished, says Ginger, picking up a menu, as Trudi and Tianna skip excitedly into the restaurant together, clutching bags containing the sort of stories Lennox loathes. They’d spent a lot of time together in the last week, enough for them to assume the corporate appellation, ‘the girls’. Tianna has her hair tied back, with big shades resting on her head. She wears a knee-length claret dress with white polka dots, white silky scarf tied round her neck, cream pop socks and black shoes. She looks like somebody’s cool ten-year-old. — These shades are SFA, Lennox tells her.

— Skarrish Football Association, she smiles, giving him a niece’s peck, then Trudi follows up with a smack on the lips, a slice of tongue slyly left in. She pulls out some moisturiser she’s gotten him, applying some to his dried, baked face. — You need to take care of your skin, Ray, she says. The contention makes sense to his playfully speculative mind: it has been trying to run away from him for so long, maybe he should be treating it a little better. He is being babied, even minorly humiliated, but he dosen’t care. Sex has come back into their lives so emphatically, it’s already impossible to conceive of it as ever having gone. Another wall has tumbled down; they’d soon be fucking with a grateful lack of inhibition. And like any drug, it numbs concern over other issues. Life was slowly returning to what he thought might be normality. — So how are the landlords? Still treating
you
well? Ray Lennox asks Tianna Hinton, as he winks at Eddie and Dolores Rogers.

— They’re pretty cool, she giggles.

— Good stuff. So where would you like to go this affie?

— Skatlin.

A cloak of sadness falls over Lennox’s shoulders. They are heading home tomorrow and he’ll miss the kid. Trudi has gotten attached to her too. He’s begun to enjoy their playful collusion against him, usually regarding the forthcoming wedding plans. But there’s something he wants to do with her before leaving. And for that they need to be alone.

The food comes and Trudi regards her fiancé, how he looks sweetly dumb when he eats something, as if lost in it. He’s finally wearing shorts, which she approves of, his legs losing their milk-bottle whiteness. Tianna delves into a bag to show off something to the table.

Lennox turns to Ginger. — How’s it worked out, Eddie?

— An awfay sweet wee lassie, and she’s been nae bother at aw, Ginger says. — In fact, her being here’s really helped Dolores, cause she doted on that fuckin dug.

After a spell Trudi raises a downy wrist to check her watch. Lennox takes the hint, and he, Trudi and Tianna say their good-byes and head outside, getting into Trudi’s rented car and driving down to Miami Beach. As they leave the Julia Tuttle Causeway and drive down palm-lined streets with handsome stucco homes and lush tropical gardens cutting into the bay, Lennox thinks this is a spot a newcomer could take his Colombian, Haitian, Cuban or Scots family and they’d proudly say: this cunt’s done awright. And how the American dream is never the property of Americans, but belongs to aspirational citizens of the globe, and how it will fade and die when the US seals its borders up, as it will inevitably do.

Trudi parks at a garage on Alton, then they head down to Lincoln, the upmarket strip of restaurants, bars, galleries and designer stores that is Miami Beach’s glitzy beating heart. Lennox, an orange-and-black backpack hanging from one shoulder, wants to stop and look at the Britto Central Gallery as an appeasement to Trudi,
just
to go through it quickly, believing that if you see something that moves you, it’s best not to linger too long and dwell on it, and ruin some of your capacity for wonderment. But Trudi isn’t keen, instead taking Tianna into a nearby fashion store. Afterwards, they call in at an Internet café on Washington, where they have a coffee and do some Netsurfing. Tianna and Trudi check out Scottish Wedding websites, while Lennox goes on to Jambos’ Kickback. He sees Maroon Mayhem’s last entry into the Craig Gordon thread, which had little to do with the Scotland goal-keeper.