Crime

by Irvine Welsh

  He finds himself contemplating some of the men he knows; men he calls friends, a few who had been abusive in relationships, others who’d went with prostitutes, who’d flown out to places like Prague and Kiev and Bangkok for sex holidays. What would they have done if they’d been in his shoes?

  A sudden deluge of inky darkness smothers the light in seconds, followed by a crackling yellow vein in the sky ahead. Then an explosion of thunder rumbles in his ears, causing him to start and click on the headlights. Now the rain’s thrashing down, beating a frantic, dread tattoo on the roof of the car. The wipers can’t keep up; Lennox is about to pull over in desperation when it stops like a faucet being turned off, and the pinky-blue sky reappears.

  There’s no telling when Chet’s boat will come in, but it might not be for a while. Breakfast is on the agenda, and the 107 Intersection delivers them to yet another suburban mall full of fast-food outlets. The International House of Pancakes is Tianna’s breakfast choice, Lennox agreeing that it seems the least offensive of the franchise hell village they pull into.

  The waitress approaches, a middle-aged, portly Latina woman, brisk and efficient. — Can I take your order?

  — I’d like orange juice, two eggs over easy with hash browns, bacon and some coffee, Lennox says with a tight smile and a glaze in his eyes. The woman has given him the horn. He looks at her strong thighs and wonders what rubbish might spill from his lips if he were between them.

  — You gat it, the waitress snaps sassily, scenting something in his aura. — What about you, Miss? She turns to Tianna.

  — I’ll have the same.

  The waitress departs, soon to return with two big pint glasses of orange juice. — Enjoy, she threatens.

  Lennox does. He has never tasted orange juice like it. The Florida sunshine explodes in his taste buds and a small glass would never have been enough. The food is a mass of congealed, saturated gunge; it’s standard obesity fodder and he picks at it. — They don’t do freshly ground pepper in the States, just this powdery stuff. There’s no spicy food culture here.

  — Stop complaining, Ray Lennox, Tianna says, the use of his full name reminding him of Trudi, — at least your Skarrish cold sounds better!

  Lennox succumbs to a grin. It’s good to see her happy, to find the kid back after the twisted nymphet of last night and the troubled old soul of earlier this morning. — The Florida sunshine is working its magic, he says, rising. — Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to visit the boys’ room.

  As he departs, he wonders exactly how much she knows. How many ‘Scottish colds’ has Robyn suffered from over the years?

  Inside the men’s room: sink, toilet and urinal with plastic grate in it emblazoned with the slogan SAY NO TO DRUGS. Now people could line up and piss on the message. His urine is looking clearer; free from the drugs prescribed by self and others. The action of peeing, though, has made him realise he needs a more extensive toilet, so he sits down on the pan, finally relieved to be able to execute that business. He reads some graffiti above the toilet-paper dispenser:

  HERE I SIT, CHEEKS A’ FLEXIN,

  GIVIN BIRTH TO ANOTHER TEXAN.

  He feels satisfaction tighten his lips as they leave the diner and get back on to the road. They pass a pickup truck with a yellow ribbon and a ‘Honk If You Support Our Troops’ sticker.

  — Ain’tcha gonna honk? Tianna asks, as sunlight showers like sulphur grains across her face.

  — No. What business have American and British troops got being in Iraq? I haven’t seen any Iraqi troops in our countries, dropping bombs on us, he says.

  Tianna contemplates this for a few seconds. Then she looks evenly at Lennox and says, — I guess it’s jus plain wrong to interfere with somebody smaller than you, jus cause you’re bigger and stronger than them … and can try and trick em with words.

  — Yes, he replies, feeling himself croaking up again. So he glances to the window at a banner fluttering outside a church: NO HIGH LIKE THE MOST HIGH.

  His eyes are drawn upwards to more white fluffy clouds in the pale blue sky. Lennox’s sinuses are clearing. His hangover is definitely receding. The long sleep has helped him. He doesn’t crave cocaine any more, or even a drink. The sun is doing it all for him.

  They listen to a country station as they pass a long strip of used-car dealerships on the way back to Bologna. Once more Brad Paisley’s ‘Alcohol’ comes on the radio.

  As they get back down by the marina, a large boat is sailing in. It has a black-and-white fibreglass hull and carries the name Ocean Dawn. It isn’t the biggest vessel in the harbour, but it’s substantial enough, about forty foot, Lennox estimates. Then a man waves from the bridge and Tianna starts fervently gesticulating back at him. — Uncle Chet!

  — Why, hey there, Tianna Marie! the sailor booms. — What are you up to? He looks suspiciously at Lennox, then back at her. — Where’s that crazy momma of yours?

  — She’s kinda sick, I guess.

  — Now, that’s too bad, Chet says, as he backs the boat in. Don Wynter, who has emerged from his office, helps him to tie it securely to the mooring posts. As the younger, and presumably fitter, man, Lennox feels it appropriate to offer a hand. Takes a step forward but then hesitates; they seem to know what they’re doing. Don slaps Chet on the back and they exchange brief pleasantries before he heads back to the office, explaining that he has some calls to make.

  Thank fuck for that, Lennox thinks, as Tianna and Chet embrace. He feels the genuine warmth in it; there is no stoat-the-baw sleaze coming from Chet Lewis. So he looks out across the harbour. A white-chested osprey swoops and soars off with a struggling fish in its claws. But there is no sense of human threat here. Chet is benign decency personified. It is over, and Tianna is now in safe hands.

  Those hands belong to a man in his sixties, with a strong, fine face under a long-billed fishing cap, which he removes to reveal a salt-and-pepper crew cut. Some slight jowling is evident in his close-shaven face, but there is a youthful enigmatic spark in his blue-grey eyes. He has a casual, easy manner and a gentle strength that Lennox associates with the small-town America of the movies, though an undercurrent of dynamism seems to fuse his frame, packed around his strong shoulders. He’s a contradiction; his accent and bearing suggest money, but his muscular build and flat stomach seem to indicate that he’s no stranger to physical work. Wearing a tropical shirt, white flannels and sneakers, he sticks his hand out. — Chet Lewis.

  As Lennox coughs out his title, another sabotaging frog jams in his throat.

  — Pleased to know you, Lennox, Chet says, obviously failing to pick up on the given name.

  Chet stares at Lennox. Normally he wouldn’t take kindly to anybody evaluating him in such a blatant manner, but in the circumstances it seems entirely appropriate. He tells Chet the story, omitting once again his true occupational status. The old insurance tale does the trick.

  The sailor listens patiently. He seems on the level and Tianna likes him, but Lennox needs to be one hundred per cent certain so he is happy to accept when Chet invites them aboard. As they climb on to the rear deck, the host says, — Thank you so much for looking after this young lady, as Tianna explores, going down into the cabins. His voice drops, to remove her from earshot. — I’m not sure I know this Lance character, although I think I may have heard Robyn mention him. He and his cohorts seem very unsavoury. Robyn’s a nice girl, but she does have … issues.

  Lennox’s expression accedes that irrefutable truth. — So how do you know her and Tianna?

  — I have my granddaughter, Amy, to thank for that. Last summer she was staying with me for a week and we met Robyn and Tianna, who’s the same age as Amy, at the Parrot World in Miami. The kids hit it off, but Robyn seemed a little distressed. So I invited them on to the boat the next day. We had a fine time and they were good company. The friendship just blossomed, Chet beams, before his jaw abruptly moves south. — But I have to say that she seems to attract a rather dubious sort of male companion. I’ve had
a few tearful calls from her on that subject.

  Lennox nods in agreement.

  — So I’m sorry if I might appear a little suspicious.

  — Perfectly understandable. I met those guys.

  — Tianna will be safe here until I can find out what’s happened to her mother. But now I have to check on some crab pots and lobster creels I put out a few days ago, which I stupidly forgot to pick up, so please, join us for a short trip out to sea.

  — I’d love to, but I’ve got to get back to Miami Beach.

  Tianna comes back up the steps and stands in the doorway. — Please stay a while, she begs. — You gotta come for a sail in Chet’s boat, hasn’t he, Chet?

  — I think Lennox is busy, honey.

  — How long will it take?

  — Oh, about an hour, Chet says.

  — Okay, he responds breezily, — I’d like to see a bit of the Gulf. He thinks of Trudi. Things seemed fine again. — I’m on holiday, right?

  — Yes! That’s so fucking awesome, Tianna says, then puts her hand to her mouth as Chet winces and moves up to the top deck.

  — Aye, mind the language, Lennox says, — it shows lack of imagination and vocabulary.

  — Sorry …

  — I mean saying ‘awesome’ all the time.

  — You don’t mind me saying ‘F’?

  Lennox looks up towards Chet, then winks at her. — Next time maybe just say SFA. It’s a term of endearment we use back in Scotland. After our much loved Scottish Football Association.

  — SFA … she says before her eyes mercurially luminesce. — Did you really mean what you said about me being a bridesmaid?

  — Aye. He grants with a wink. Another thing to square with Trudi.

  Chet’s distaste at the kid’s expletive was real enough, but he recovers sufficiently to give Lennox a quick tour of the boat. — This is a 410 Express Cruiser. Good for both fishing trips, and cruising longer distances. I occasionally go to the Caribbean islands; and sometimes down to Key West.

  — It’s a fair old size.

  — Forty-four foot.

  Not a bad guess, Lennox considers as they move from the rear deck’s open seating area. It leads to a door on one side, which takes you down to the cabins. Next to the door, a few steps ascend to the boat’s helm. Lennox follows Chet up, and is shown the controls and the craft’s satellite navigation systems. He’s never been on a boat in his life, bar a police launch, which had been taken out to intercept The Lassie of the Forth, an old ferry ship booked for a private party that they’d busted for drugs. He hadn’t enjoyed the experience much, being on a brutal cocaine comedown at the time.

  Stretching out in front of them is the main deck area, bordered with a metal railing. It has three skylights cut in it to provide natural light to the quarters below. Two more skylights are dinted into the canopy above the helm. Lennox notices that on top of this roof there is a radio transmitter-receiver with an aerial, and a box and disc he assumes to be part of the navigation equipment.

  Gripping the handrail in his good fist, he follows Chet on an arse-first descent down a small series of oak steps. The cabin smells of oiled wood and diesel, but it gleams in pristine opulence as they emerge into an oak-panelled kitchen and dining area, fitted with expensive-looking units, appliances and fixtures. The seating area opposite is decked out in white leather.

  — Had the boat long? Lennox enquires.

  — Just four months. A part trade-in on my last one. The broker’s a personal friend, so I got a good deal.

  — Bet it set you back, though.

  — You do not want to know, my friend, Chet laughs.

  Aye I do, Lennox thinks, I’m a nosy cunt of a bizzy. The kitchen is at least as big as the one in his flat back in Leith. It leads to what Chet a little pompously refers to as the formal stateroom, the main sleeping quarters under the front deck. It’s dominated by a king-sized bed and plasma television, and there are more oak-panelled cupboards, done out in the same style as the rest of the boat.

  There’s a smaller bedroom at the other end of the vessel, with a lower ceiling as it lies directly below the decked seating area to the bow. It contains a bed and a long seat that runs the length of the cabin and which could be used as a bunk for a kid or a small adult.

  — Sweet, Lennox says, as he peeks in the toilet with its handbasin, jacks and full shower. — It’s bigger than my flat, eh, apartment, he corrects himself. — Do you live here full-time?

  — Almost. Chet’s aura expands. — I have a small place in a development close by, but it’s a glorified storage place and mailbox. We’re gonna cast off in about half an hour or so, and I gotta refuel and check on some things at the office. As I said, the trip should take about an hour, an hour and a half if we stop for lunch. You sure you can spare the time?

  — Aye, Lennox says, checking a digital clock built into the units. It’s still early, so he decides he’ll call Trudi and let her know that everything is okay, before another thought gatecrashes. — Is there an Internet facility out here?

  — Best bet’s the café a few blocks back from the harbour road.

  Lennox climbs out the boat and heads across the lot towards the car. Tianna comes running after him. — Where you goin, Ray?

  — Just to find an Internet café. I’ll be back in half an hour; then we go sailing and get some lunch. You stay here.

  — Okay, she says, skipping away for a couple of steps, before turning round. — You will come back though, huh, Ray?

  — Aye! I’m just going to make a phone call and then get the Scottish Cup draw, ya donut!

  — Aye! She taps her eye with her index finger. — You’re the goddamn donut! she shouts before bounding over to the boat.

  — SFA! he laughs, watching her depart as he climbs back into the Volkswagen. He winces as the hot seat burns his bare arm. As he starts up the motor, maxing up the cold air, he can’t help but think of the contrast with the freezing surveillance van parked outside the cemetery in Edinburgh, only a couple of months ago.

  Lennox finds the Net café easy enough and checks out Jambos’ Kickback. The discussion on one thread is ongoing, now eighteen pages long. It centres around whether it is desirable to have a man who has been convicted of unlawful sex with an underage girl as the coach of Heart of Midlothian FC.

  The club’s board appointed a nonce as team boss. He had a great coaching pedigree, they said.

  Lennox can’t decide. The cunt made a mistake. If she’s fifteen you’re a nonce. If she’s sixteen you’re a lucky bastard. But no, you can say that when you’re twenty but not when you’re forty. He knew the score. He was a predator. But the boy was split from his wife and family. He was lonely. He made a human mistake. Fuck sake fuck sake fuck sake –

  He hits the next thread.

  Did anyone feel, in all honesty, that there was a suspicion of offside at Skacel’s winner against Kilmarnock on Saturday?

  Then he saw that Maroon Mayhem was online. The Craig Gordon thread; a reply to his last point.

  Who do you think you are to criticise my opinion? You should watch what you say, my friend. You’re getting a bit personal. I’d watch that if I were you.

  Who is this cunt?

  Lennox signs in and batters the keys.

  I’m not your friend. You are a ****ing muppet. Is that personal enough?

  Then he switches over to the BBC Sports site. Hearts had drawn Aberdeen at home. Astonishingly, Celtic had lost to Clyde! Hibs had drawn Rangers at Ibrox, so their Scottish Cup nightmare would inevitably continue. It was shaping up nicely. He flicks back to Kickback.

  This cretin had gotten back in touch.

  You don’t know who you are messing with here. I know a lot of the people. Watch yourself. You can be easily found.

  Lennox feels a rage burning inside him; this loser has been known to make threats on the web before.

  I’ll save you the bother, and tell you exactly where I am. Miami. But I’ll be back in Edinburgh on the 21st of January.
On the 22nd I’ll be at the Vodka Bar in Shandwick Place at 1 p.m. wearing a black leather jacket. I’ll even tell you my name: Raymond Lennox. My season ticket number is O52 in the Wheatfield. Please make yourself known to me so that I can rip your head off. I’ll be very surprised if you do. You and anybody else who gets their rocks off acting hard in this way are usually fourteen-year-old virgins or other antisocial retards who live at home with their mothers. But I’d be delighted if you were to prove me wrong. C’mon. Give me your name and where you want to meet up for a quiet little drink. Anywhere. Name it. I’ll be there.

  It takes time to check, send and post his message. Then, as he clicks refresh the board administrator comes on.

  Okay, you two, it’s time to call a halt to all this.

  Lennox suddenly registers the clock in the corner of the screen. He is late. Panic rises in his chest. What if –

  I shouldn’t have left her. Not till I was totally sure. But Chet’s … No, how plausible Confectioner had seemed too! They could be away now, her tied up downstairs, him taking the boat to a secret perverts’ lair. And she’d wanted to come with me and I’ve fucking well left her!

  Ray Lennox slams a twenty-dollar bill on the counter in front of a perplexed sales clerk as he tears out the café.

  15

  Fishing For Friends

  LENNOX SCORCHES THE tyres for the block’s drive, ripping into the marina and parking the Volkswagen as close as he can to the moored vessels. Jumping out, he sprints round the corner to the brokers’ shopfronts, his heart thrashing and the tint of metal in his mouth. Britney … Tianna … I’ve fucked it again … the fucking boat …

  They all look the same, these iridescent symbols of wealth: that opaline glow against the black water of the harbour, the sleek sterility. Then his eyes register a familiar figure and a huge gasp explodes from him as he stops and bends, letting his hands rest on his knees. Chet.