Crime

by Irvine Welsh

  — Where is everybody? Lennox asks as he registers the glass from the broken coffee table. He recalls trying to tidy it up, but there are still plenty of shards around.

  Fuck sake, the kid’s barefoot.

  Lying prone on the rug, watching the television, the girl wears a pair of blue shorts and a yellow tank top. Some kind of rash: red, angry burns on one shin. She doesn’t even turn round as her right leg beats out a rhythm on her left. It’s like he scarcely exists. Doesn’t exist or is always there, Lennox wonders. — Where’s Robyn?

  — Dunno. Tianna sits up. Swivels round. Her top has BITCH emblazoned on it in gold glittering letters. She regards him briefly, before pivoting back to recumbency by the box.

  She isn’t a kid you can take to, Lennox thinks. He wanders around the apartment. It’s empty. He shrugs to an invisible audience and makes for the door. Stops. He can’t leave her alone like that, not without finding out when Robyn will be back. That creepy shitbag might come along again.

  He considers Trudi. Will she be worried about him? Possibly. Probably. Once she’d calmed down, would she not think: ‘Where’s Ray?’ Lennox finds it nigh on impossible to conceive of anybody missing him.

  But of course she would. She’s his fiancée. He’s been ill. Is ill.

  I’ve stayed out all night. What the fuck have I done?

  I have the pussy, I make the rules. Jesus fuck Almighty.

  No. Trudi would be hurt. She may even have gone home, got a flight back to Edinburgh, perhaps telling his family – what’s left of it – that he’s had another breakdown. Maybe the police are looking for him! Or she might possibly be with Ginger and Dolores.

  But he can’t leave the girl here alone.

  It isn’t right. Her mother is …

  — Do you get left on your own often? Lennox asks the supine figure as he starts to pick up the rest of the glass. The table as fragmented as last night in his mind. His head pulses like a wasp’s nest. Nasal cavities and throat stung raw.

  — Dunno, she shrugs.

  — When’s your mum due back?

  — Like you care? she says, and he almost reacts, but as well as reprimand her tones carry a smidgen of enquiry.

  So he gives up with the glass and sits back on the couch. He feels like leaving. But what if they’d gone on to another party and forgotten about her? You take enough coke, you can forget about anybody and anything. And Robyn looked like she took enough coke. An empty cigarette packet on the floor: it makes him miserable.

  He rises and goes into the kitchen. There’s some beers left in the fridge, cans of Miller. How he wants one. Just one. But it isn’t right to drink it in front of the kid. It isn’t right because that’s what they all did. They lumbered to the fridge, every guy that had ever come into her mother’s apartment, at all hours. He could see them. Trace that path from the couch like a biologist would a bear’s salmon-fishing route. He wants to show her that it isn’t normal. Not taken as given that a kid would see guy after guy come into her home, into her life, with beer on his breath. Cause if she thinks it is normal then she will grow up and be with guys who have beer on their breath all day, every day. And guys who have beery breath all day, every day, they’re bad news to women. What else can they ever be?

  What else?

  So Ray Lennox makes himself a cup of coffee and he waits.

  And waits.

  Minutes stretch into quarter-hour blocks, pulling piano-wire nerves to their tensile limit then swiftly contracting, letting a sharp fatigue leak in pulses from his brain into his sinuses and eyes. Each of these temporal blocks resembles a stretch of ocean and he feels like a manacled, oar-pulling slave in the bowels of a coffin ship trying to cross its choppy expanse. Penance for the drink and drugs, their playful uncoupling of time and space last night. Thoughts of strategy come slowly and tentatively.

  He should call Trudi. Feels the plastic room key in his pocket. She has a duplicate. A separate card with the address. She’ll be fast asleep. It’s still early: the digital clock says 8:33. Maybe she won’t thank him. What can he do? There is no excuse. That’s what she’ll tell him. No excuse for that kind of behaviour. What excuses can you make? He has reasons, but at what point do they stop becoming excuses?

  When you should be old enough to know better. He was thirty-five on his birthday. Officially middle-aged – if you accept the old three-score-years-and-ten dictum. He sits back, looks at the cartoons on the telly. The Roadrunner humiliates the Coyote for the millionth time.

  Tianna occasionally glances back at him. She gets up once, to replenish her cola. The pulsing glow of the narrative – the circumstances that have delivered him to this room – are intermittent in his head, but in someone else’s voice-over. Continued sanity compels action, and Lennox inventories the kitchen. There is no food in the house.

  Plenty fuckin beer: but nothing for the kid’s breakfast.

  He sits back down and watches Tianna channel-hop. She’s growing restless, Lennox can tell. It isn’t just the chemicals from the cola.

  Stretching and bending to test his racked muscles, he picks up Perfect Bride from the floor. Reads about wedding etiquette. Thinks about who his best man might be. His old pal, Les Brodie, how they’d made a pact as kids. Playing on the old Tarzan swing down Colinton Dell. Agreed that they’d be each other’s best man if they ever got married. But then came the incident at the tunnel and they’d stopped going down the Dell. And he hadn’t seen Les in years, not until a few weeks ago: at his father’s funeral. When he’d made such an exhibition of himself. But I was right to, because the bastards in this life: they fucking tore your heart out. They had to be told. But here he was. Marriage. The best man. Inevitable that he’d ask one of the boys from the force, if only because there was nobody else. No Les, no Stuart. It would be Ally Notman probably, on the grounds that he was the least likely to cause offence. That was if getting married remained on the agenda.

  He is aware of the mass of Trudi’s notebook in his back pocket. Gripping his arse cheek like her hand used to. He pulls it out and examines it: all one- or two-word entries. Lists. Websites. Her handwriting: slender, curvy and expressive. The vivaciousness of it makes him pine. Then even more as he flips a page and sees Trudi Lennox written several times; the same ‘L’, ‘o’ and ‘e’ in her current surname. Perhaps it’s time to call, to try and explain.

  Nothing happened.

  But that isn’t true. Plenty has happened. Is still happening.

  Tianna glances from the TV set to him, as if steadying herself to say something. Before she can, the splintering ring of the phone lying on the floor skewers them both. They regard each other urgently. Both want the other to pick it up. — It might be your mum, you’d better answer it, Lennox says, shocked at the fearful child in his own voice.

  Tianna lifts the receiver. There is a gap in her front teeth; he hasn’t noticed it before. It makes her look like a proper kid.

  Rather than a –

  It makes her look like a proper American kid. The Waltons. A white picket fence. She is the sort of kid who if she had a different American – what? – ma, mum, mother, mom, she would have braces in her choppers. Suffering the pre- and early-teen years of Hannibal Lecter teasing in order to get that winning infomercial-presenter smile.

  — Hi, honey … Tianna is relieved to hear her mother’s voice, but she knows that paltry tone, the one which will deliver a million apologies before she screws up again. And Momma’ll be in big trouble cause that table got broke good.

  — Hi … Tianna says. From Lennox’s point of view she seems to visibly relax. Her shoulders, which were tensed forward, now slump back. The voice on the other end, though, is panicky and jittery. He can hear it from where he sits. Knows to whom it belongs. Then Tianna looks over at him, — That guy who talks funny, yeah. Yeah … and she holds out the receiver in one hand and phone in the other in appeal.

  As he takes them, Tianna, in sudden, disturbing fleetness, bounds out the door. — Hello?

&
nbsp; — Ray … is that you?

  It’s Robyn. He hasn’t been mistaken.

  — Yeah. Where are you? I should –

  — Listen, is Tia okay?

  — Aye, she’s been watching cartoons. What time will you be –

  She cuts him off again. — Is she listening?

  He checks. She’s gone. — Naw, I think she’s in her room –

  When she talks over him for the third time he knows her assertiveness is fuelled by desperation rather than cocaine. — Ray, please listen to me, her voice, pleading and urgent, pushes down on him like a dark, ominous cloud, — I ain’t got long to talk. You gotta pen and paper to hand?

  — Are you okay?

  — No, I’m not okay, Ray, I am not okay. I cain’t come back to the apartment yet, but I need you to get Tia out of there right now! Right now, y’all hear me?

  — What is it? Where are ye? Lennox snaps, angry at the further imposition, — If you’re in some kind of trouble we should phone the police. These guys last night –

  — No! Promise, Ray, promise me that you won’t phone no po-leece. They’ll take her away from me, they’ll put her into care! Please, Ray, please, she begs in rasping, almost strangulated tones, — don’t you be phonin no po-leece. Just promise me!

  — Okay.

  — I need ya to do me a favour, please! Do you have a pen and paper?

  — What? Lennox says, with a scribbling mime to Tianna, who is entering the front room, but the girl flinches and steps back behind the door. Of course – Trudi’s small notebook, with the pen clipped into the ringed spine. — I’ve got yin. What’s going on here?

  — I need you to take Tia somewhere. Right away.

  — I – you can’t leave your daughter with me, he protests. — You don’t know a thing about me!

  — I trust you, Ray, Robyn whispers urgently, and coughs out the address.

  He’s seen the kind of men she’s trusted – incarcerated many of them, those men who have somehow managed to win the confidence of a woman. Until you’ve seen the women in question, and then it all makes perfect sense. Lennox reluctantly scribbles it down. Prepares to read it back to her, when a guttural squawk flares down the line then fades into silence.

  A shivery spasm seizes him, along with the notion to dial 999, before he remembers it’s 911 here. — Robyn? A failing gasp as his throat scorches.

  From behind the door, Tianna squirms. She can see him through the crack, his face hard, his eyes dancing, as he holds the phone. Maybe he could tell em all, creepy Lance, that Johnnie pig and that mean Starry bitch to just go away and leave Momma and me alone. Tell em all!

  Lennox is aware that she’s watching him, but then another voice is on the line. — Hello. Who’s there?

  — Who’s this?

  The caller coolly answers in kind, by announcing him. — Our Skarrish friend. Ray.

  That guy Lance, Lennox recalls in icy tremor, Lance Dearing. They’d broken Robyn’s table. Her landlord’s table. — Aye. Where’s Robyn?

  — We got ourselves a lil’ problem, Dearing says calmly. — She’s gone kinda crazy on that stuff. That ain’t right around a kid, you know that.

  — Yeah, Lennox says, as his mind does cartwheels. He looks at Tianna, partially lurking behind the door. Half her face and one arm and leg visible to him. Her bottom lip quivering: the goose-bumped skin on her limbs.

  — I dunno what you guys were up to in that toilet last night, Lance laughs, and Lennox feels bile rise in his gut, — but you sure as hell wouldn’t open up. Ol Robyn, she was losin the plot real bad. Got herself into a whole heap of trouble.

  — It didn’t seem like it was Robyn that was losin it tae me.

  — Well, I guess we all kinda lost it. That table sure got broke good, Lance Dearing says, forcing Lennox to regard the cold metal frame and legs. — No hard feelins though, huh, buddy?

  Lennox lets the silence hang.

  Dearing seems in no hurry to fill it and Lennox almost wonders if the line has gone dead before the American eventually speaks. — I’m gonna come on by real soon. Right now I’m gonna send Johnnie round to wait.

  — Are you fuckin crazy? No. No way! Lennox barks. He looks at Tianna, who’s come back and sat down on the couch. She brings her knees up to her chest, resting her head on them. Her hair tumbles down, concealing her face.

  — Ol Johnnie was only messin last night. A lil’ too much of the funny stuff.

  — I saw his messing, Lennox says evenly, — and if he comes near that kid again, his voice pauses, slow and deliberate, — I’ll cut his fuckin balls off and feed them to the cunt. They’ll be his last meal on this earth, he hisses, then starts, realising that Tianna is present and not wanting to look at her.

  — Whoah … hold on, Ray, buddy, what kind of fool talk is that?

  — I’m no your buddy, Lennox spits.

  Dearing raises his voice slightly, but remains composed. — I think you got it all wrong here. I’m sorry about our lil’ mis-understanding last night, but you must know that Robyn is a mighty troubled lady, and Lennox feels himself being wooed by the rational, reasonable tone. — She attracts trouble and I guess I’m jus a little overprotective, is all. But I can see you got her best interests at heart.

  Then he thinks of Johnnie. — It’s whom you’re protective of, that’s the issue here. Now put her back on.

  — She’s hysterical, Ray. You saw her last night.

  — It’s her daughter, Lennox insists as Tianna pushes her hair back, — put her on.

  — I’ll be round there in a short while, compadre. Why don’t y’all just simmer down a little –

  — I’m telling you this right now: if you don’t put her on, I’m going to the police.

  — Al-righty! Lance chuckles, then Lennox’s mind’s eye sees him turn away from the phone, his voice switching volume and direction, addressing another party, recasting him as eavesdropper. — Hear that, you crazy bitch? Ray’s got himself of a mind to do the same as me and go round to the po-leece with that lil’ gal!

  — NOO! Robyn’s vivid scream, crushed to his ear to shield it from Tianna. It dies, and his arm has gone rigid. The receiver held tight in his bad fist. Pulling it away, with a silence at the other end, he settles it down on the cradle with a click.

  The girl’s eyes blaze at him. — What’s happened? Where’s Momma?

  What can he tell her? — Your mother’s sick. Just not feeling so good.

  His words deflate the kid. Her eyes glaze over as she crumples back into the chair. — Is it the drugs? Her voice is weary in resignation. — She cain’t be takin that powder none.

  — What do you know about that?

  Tianna looks at him in a measured way and asks, — Dunno. What bout you?

  — Nothing, his voice weak and faltering.

  — The way you’re sniffin and snufflin seems like you know plenty, Tianna says, and he hates the worldly scorn in her tone.

  He tries for levity: — I’ve got a cold. I’m from Scotland. It’s not like Florida.

  She tugs her hair back from her face again, as her hawklike eyes scrutinise him. — Yeah, sure.

  Lennox feels low and nasty. — Has your mum … gotten sick before? You know … He can’t bring himself to say ‘on drugs’.

  — She jus got out of rehab.

  — Who looked after you when she was in rehab?

  — Starry, I guess.

  — Don’t you have a gran or grandpa, like your mum’s mother and father?

  She shakes her head in the negative and lowers her eyes.

  Recalling Ronnie Hamil, Lennox leaves it; the last thing some children wanted was to contact grandparents. — You don’t like Starry, Johnnie and Lance much, do you?

  Tianna looks fiercely at him. — They say they’re Momma’s friends but they ain’t no friends of hers.

  This convinces him of the urgency of getting away from this place. He doesn’t want to see Lance Dearing or Johnnie again. — What do you want to do? Are you hun
gry? he asks. Robyn has given him an address. If it’s local, he could make good her request and leave the kid there. Then get back to the hotel. Make his peace with Trudi. Go to bed. Lie out on the beach, even.

  Trudi. Jesus fuck Almighty.

  — I don’t wanna be here. Tianna evidently feels the same as he does. — I wanna go stay with Chet.

  — Who’s Chet?

  — Uncle Chet. He’s kinda cool, she says, her smile suggesting that power children have to purify jaundice.

  Lennox looks at the scribbled note on the pad. He can barely recognise it as his own writing. CHET LEWIS, OCEAN DAWN, GROVE MARINA, BOLOGNA.

  Robyn hadn’t provided a phone number, but at least Tianna knew who her mother wanted to look after her and it was fine by the kid. — Do you have Uncle Chet’s phone number?

  — I guess it’s over by the other phone, she points to the hall, — on the big board.

  Lennox goes across to where the whiteboard is mounted on the wall. He freezes in panic as it gleams back at him, stark in its nakedness. Before it had been teeming with numbers and messages. — Who wiped this?

  Tianna has followed him and looks from Lennox to the board and back. — Dunno.

  He recalls Ally Notman, cleaning the whiteboard at work, sweeping a sponge across it in long, loping strokes. Erasing everything. End of investigation. The big, bold name BRITNEY eradicated for good.

  He’d shivered as he’d watched that board being wiped clean. Now, in the hall of this Miami apartment, he feels a familiar chill.

  In cop mode, he systematically searches the place for letters, notes, bills, bank statements, anything. All gone. Lennox knows that nobody as chaotic as Robyn could be so fastidious. This was a proper clean-up job, even though it had been done in haste while he was locked away with the kid in the toilet. Dearing. The last person to leave had to be him. It would have taken him seconds to wipe down the board and minutes to load her personal stuff into a bin liner if he knew where to look.

  Tianna is standing a little bit away from him. Waiting. Her arms folded. — We gonna go to Chet’s?

  — How far is it?