by Irvine Welsh
— Right! Fit for action? Larry grins, breaking the silence.
Franco is relieved to climb into Larry’s van, and doesn’t look back as it tears down the street.
They aren’t gone long when DI Ally Notman arrives at Elspeth’s to investigate. It is immediately clear to her that he isn’t concerned with the window, obviously tipped off by colleagues that Frank was staying in the house. — He’s not here any longer, Elspeth informs him. She’s done with cops, and isn’t for asking him in.
Notman stands on the front step, regarding the formidable cross-armed force in the doorway. — You say your brother went away with Larry Wylie?
— It’s Frank who was attacked! Elspeth’s loyalty both shocks and confuses her.
— You know, I can believe it, Notman says. —When the old neighbourhood psychopath is the good guy, then the city really does have problems.
— I’m sorry, Elspeth retorts in pompous authority, now embracing the role she’s been strangely cast in, — but you do not know my brother. He’s worked hard to turn his life around and make a go of things, but some people won’t let him be!
Greg can scarcely believe what he’s hearing.
— Your brother, Notman begins, — has been a running sore on this city –
— Get away fae here! Elspeth cuts him off, her face contorted in rage, to the extent that Notman stands back off the doorstep. — My nephew was murdered, and what have youse done about it? Nowt! Just go. She points to his car, parked in the street.
— Look, Notman adopts a reasoned tone, — I don’t want to –
— You’ve got aw that DNA stuff, Elspeth hisses, looking him up and down in contempt, — you must have a forensic team tae gather the information and match it against your records!
— That’s right, Greg, who has materialised at his wife’s shoulder, sings, — we’re not asking for the world, officer.
— When I hear a member of the public use the term ‘DNA’ I squirm inside. Notman shakes his head contemptuously at them. — Everybody that’s watched a CSI: Miami is now an expert in polis work. It isnae like that –
— What’s it like then? Elspeth’s chin juts out, as Bill and Stella Maitland, the next-door neighbours, appear, lingering in support. — What you’re saying is you’re no going to tell us who was there by the physical evidence, or who you’ve hauled in for questioning, if anybody, or if ye found the knife or murder weapon. That you’re gaunny dae nowt! Well, our Frank’ll find oot whae did this!
— That would be a big mistake on his part, Notman says, turning and heading to his car.
Greg swallows hard, and says to his wife, — Frank would be proud of you.
It’s the wrong thing to say. As it sinks home, Elpseth bursts into angry, frustrated tears, to be comforted by the advancing Stella, who leads her into the house.
24
THE DANCE PARTNER 3
Melanie was surprised to see Martin, Jim’s agent, who had driven up yesterday evening from LA. He was desperate to get in touch with her incommunicado husband. She issued him with the UK number, with a warning about inherent transmission difficulties, citing her own fruitless attempts to contact Jim. — Sometimes it works, she told him over coffee.
— There’s another reason I came, Martin confessed. — I had a visit from a cop, a detective in the Santa Barbara PD, name of Harry Pallister, he said, not stalling on her reaction. — He told me he was investigating a complaint you made about a couple of guys harassing you on the beach. He asked about Jim. I didn’t like his tone, so I challenged him, and asked him if Jim was a suspect in anything. He said no. Then he was on his way. Something about all this just didn’t quite sit right, so I thought you should know.
Melanie expressed her gratitude to Martin, telling him as much as she felt able, which was just about everything she knew. He appreciated her candour, offering any assistance he could, and then left to head back to Los Angeles.
She is therefore expecting another visit from Harry, yet when it comes, it still causes real discomfort. She has only just got Grace and Eve strapped into the car, when he arrives. Melanie knows that her skittish, distracted behaviour has been noticed by her daughters. It has taken them much longer to get ready than usual. The girls have been acting up, and Eve has bitten Grace’s finger. It isn’t acceptable, but her older daughter is determined to make an issue of it. They have just settled down, when Harry pulls up, with that suffering expression on his face. He is out the car and asking her, — Mel . . . sorry to trouble you, just wondered if anything else had popped into your head about those guys?
So Melanie moves out of the kids’ earshot, away from the driveway, up onto the stoop, compelling him to follow. — Nothing that I haven’t already mentioned, she says stiffly. Martin’s news from last night has put her on edge. She hasn’t talked to Frank properly for a couple of days; the time differences and this awful phone he bought have made it awkward. Now Harry’s limpet-like presence, with the same insinuating tones, going over old ground. Here, on her front porch, and so early in the morning.
— When you came back, you’re sure Jim was with you?
— Where else would he be? Melanie says brusquely. Harry looks heavy-eyed, still focused, but as if at the cost of great mental effort. There is a whiff on his breath. Alcohol. For a second she considers confronting him about his visit to Jim’s agent in LA, but decides against this. It’s preferable that he remains unaware of her knowledge of this line of enquiry. She recalls Jim’s – or Frank’s – mantra regarding the cops: tell them fuck all.
Harry nods slowly, cagily taking a step back, as if understanding that he’s overstepped the mark. He is a policeman first and foremost, and he hasn’t mentioned the burnt-out car. Jim was right; a cop couldn’t be trusted socially with people, in the same way an alcoholic couldn’t be around a cabinet full of liquor. He would always have to open it up, to see what was inside. Now it seems like he already has. What sort of cop stank of alcohol at this hour of the morning? And on some deep psychological level (which is now starting to openly manifest) Melanie knows that Harry wants to replace Jim, which first means having Jim out of the way. Melanie realises she has made a decision there and then: Harry cannot be allowed to break up this family.
The cop has embarked on a game of silence, which she is in no mood to play.
— I really have to get the girls off, she states. Melanie now knows that she isn’t taking them to the school and kindergarten, but she’s not going to tell Harry that.
— Of course . . . but, Melanie, you know you can talk to me, Harry says earnestly. His words are slurring a little and she can see, in the sunlight, the puffiness around his eyes and cheeks. — Off the record. As a friend.
— Right, she nods.
— You do have friends, Melanie. People who care about you . . . remember that, Harry says, leaking desperation.
— I appreciate your concern, Harry, she says blithely, almost laughing in nervous tension. The incongruity of it burns her, and she knows he isn’t fooled for a second. Melanie isn’t sticking around though; she heads to the car and climbs in. He will need to do the same, or block her in her driveway. Whatever Jim has done, it has been for her and the girls. He’d always said that their protection was the only thing he believed in. But it went further than that. She knows that he also, on a very deep level, believes in vengeance.
Melanie is relieved to see Harry, after taking a lingering look at the car, turn away and get into his own vehicle. — What did the man want, Mommy? Grace asks.
— Nothing, honey, Melanie says, delighted to hear the sound of Harry’s engine starting up, and to watch his car pull away. — Now, I got a big surprise, she announces in the same fake upbeat tone she’d used on Harry. — You guys are gonna stay at Grandma’s for a few days!
The kids see through it in much the same way the sauced-up cop had. — Why? Grace asks.
— I need to go to Scotland to see Daddy. He’s quite sad because his friend is very sick, she explains,
starting up the car and edging into the street.
— Daddy! Will you bring him back? Eve asks.
— Of course I will! Daddy said that he had too many presents from Scotland for two special little girls. He needs me to help him carry them.
Grace is unconvinced. — Is Daddy okay?
— Of course he is.
— Are people nice to him in Scotland? Eve asks, with a frown.
— Yes, they are!
Melanie watches Eve scowl in the mirror. Her face, so like her father’s, says: they’d better be nice to my daddy, or else. She calls Jim again, but can still get nothing. Follows it with an imploring text. When she gets the girls down to her mother’s, Melanie tells Jane Francis that she needs her to look after her granddaughters for a few days. She explains she really has to go to the funeral (even though it has passed) in order to support Jim. Jane loves the girls, and is delighted to do this, offering only a half-hearted interrogation in response. Then Melanie heads for LAX to get a flight to London.
When she learns she’s been allocated one of the stand-by seats, Melanie relaxes, feeling in control. However, this soon turns to helpless despair as she sits in a cramped economy class, a fat man almost shoehorned in on her left, a wan, tense-faced woman on her right, and a screaming and sobbing pair of very small children in front of her. Melanie will have eleven hours of this till London. She closes her eyes, tries to blot it all out. Thinks about meeting Jim for the first time, back in the prison. That picture he had painted, The Dance Partner. How far they have come since then, and how it had been his idea that they joined the salsa club together.
25
THE FLAT
Unlike Elspeth’s view of the van, Franco considers, the flat in Marchmont certainly isn’t very Larry. This time he pauses to really take in the large, bright, bay-windowed, second-storey affair; its wooden sealed-and-sanded floors and tasteful furnishings suggest that his old friend hadn’t been involved in the decoration project. — Nice gaff, Franco observes, looking at several framed pictures that give it a homely touch. They are all portraits of the same boy, ranging from a baby to around seven years old. The boy has Larry’s mischievous smile, without the undercurrent of malevolence that Franco assumes might develop with age. Or perhaps not. It’s obvious that there has been some judicious editing, removing all traces of the mother from the shots. That relationship hadn’t ended well, he evaluates.
— Aye, it’s awright, Larry agrees, picking up a computer game console, and switching on the large flat-screen TV it’s hooked up to.
— Business must be good, Franco says.
Larry turns to face him, briefly looks as if he’s thinking of lying, then seems to decide that the truth is more fun. — I won a million and a half quid on the lottery, he grins and, for the first time, Franco realises from his electric smile that Larry’s teeth are capped. — Never thought I’d tell any cunt, but there’s a few ay them that ken. Thought you’d appreciate it. A lot ay them say ‘why you?’, and they go on aboot aw the things ah’m meant tae huv done.
Franco responds with a nonchalant shrug. — Ye get what ye get, no what ye deserve.
— Thoat you’d see it that wey, and Larry flashes those big, white teeth, incongrous in his weak, skinny frame. — Ah’m on borrowed time wi the cowie, but ah’ve pit maist ay it intae a trust for the wee man. He glances to the pictures on the sideboard and the wall.
— Sound, Franco says. — Ye still see the laddie’s ma?
Larry swivels round to face him. — That fuckin hoor? She wanted ays back when she heard aboot the Lotto win. Telt her tae fuckin bolt! Said she shouldnae listen tae fuckin gossip aboot me huvin money, n any thit ah did huv, the wee man would get the lot when he was aulder. She’ll see fuck all, he scoffs, his smile widening. — Telt her if she made any bother, she’d get fuckin plenty ay it back. Explained tae her that thaire wis younger birds in the picture, and he points to the storage system under the TV, which is full of DVD cases, a solitary female name on each spine. — Make ma ain scud vids, he beams, — like that Juice Terry cunt!
— Terry’s a proper star these days, Franco says, — but this looks a wee bit dodgy.
— Aye, Larry agrees, but he’s swiftly re-engrossed in his game, only interrupting it when his phone rings in his jacket pocket. He extracts it and heads into the kitchen. — Hi . . . Right . . .
Franco can barely hear Larry’s low voice as he watches the images on the television. He can never see the attraction in those games. He recalls an echo of violence past, pasting a guy’s face against the glass of an Asteroids machine in a Rose Street pub. That was a while back. He tries to recall why he’d done this, but nothing comes to mind. He picks up the console, as the scene changes to HIGHEST SCORES.
SFB 1338
LARRY 685
FF 593
Despite Larry’s labours in working to get the highest score, he is some way behind the top shooter. SFB had to be Sean Francis Begbie.
Franco rises to the cabinet under the TV, regards the series of home-made DVDs. Scanning the girls’ names on the spines, he picks up the one marked ‘Frances’, extracting the disc and pushing it into the hydraulic slit on the player. The image of the game is replaced by more human action.
It is badly filmed, one camera position, showing two bodies in wide shot, an unedited continuous one of Larry fucking Frances Flanagan. As he winds the action forward at speed, Franco realises that Frances seems to be drugged. He discerns this from the way she is compliantly pulled into different positions by Larry, and fastened up in bondage and a ball gag, before having certain implements inserted into her. Again, he winds on, stopping it when he sees Larry crouched behind her, the lesions visible on his chest. Franco finds it hard to be blasé about the heinous nature of this; he can’t help thinking of his own daughters. Was there a possibility that they could turn out like Frances, becoming victims of men like Larry? He swallows down the bile, and switches off, removing the disc and replacing it back in the case. He wouldn’t have bothered had Larry come in and found him watching this, but it’s probably better that he doesn’t know.
Then Larry returns to the room, only briefly registering Franco’s presence at the TV, as both men sit back on the couch. Larry picks up the console again. — The auld girl, he says.
— How’s she daein? Franco enquires, knowing that he’s lying.
— Still nippin ma heid, so same auld, Larry says, getting back into the game. — You’ll git that Anton cunt, Franco, he announces, as he shoots at an oncoming robot. — A leper never changes his spots. He’s your man.
Franco isn’t thinking of Anton, but his own mother, Val, or rather her funeral, which was the last occasion he was home. She was a good woman, he reflects, but her sons and husband were all Begbies, who brought her nothing but different versions of hell. He recalls how when Elspeth had phoned to inform him of her death, he’d wanted to cry, but couldn’t, and how that desire had strangely been more for the benefit of Melanie, who had squeezed his hand throughout the call. Sometimes it’s hard to fit in with people, he considers, looking at Larry. — Ah’m gaun oot.
Larry glances at him, then points at the DVDs. — That’s some ay the birds ah’ve been ridin. That wee Frances n aw. Set ye up wi any ay them, if ye like.
— Ah’m married, Franco says.
— Nivir stoaped ye before!
— Wisnae married before.
— As good as!
— That was before, ay, and he leaves the flat, Larry’s sly smile buried into his psyche.
Outside, Franco walks the grey streets, sees people heading home from their offices, or on to pubs, theatres and cinemas. The wind starts to bite and clouds loom ominously. He feels isolated, shut out by the city, and is soon bored. Where can you go in Scotland in the evening if you don’t want to have a drink? He’s averse to owning up, but he already misses chatting to his nephews and Greg, and, yes, even Elspeth.
He calls Melanie from the Tesco phone and it goes through, but straight to
her voicemail. He should send a text, or an email, but he hates that method of communication more than any other. His dyslexia means that even now it’s a laboured process, bundled with inherent frustrations. And he feels the relentless magnetism of the pub and alcohol, tugging at him like it never did when he was back in the USA. Who can he call when he experiences this pull?
26
THE DANCE PARTNER 4
The Santa Barbara Dance Center was downtown, on the corner of De La Vina and West Canon Perdido. Jim and Melanie Francis had enrolled to come along for an introductory salsa session. To their surprise, the woman they met there was familiar. She’d been with the dancing couple at the club that memorable evening; they would soon agree that Sula Romario was the sexiest person they had ever met in their lives. The athletic Ecuadorian woman, with the luxuriant tumble of dark curls, had a low, husky voice that stripped layers from your skin, while her luminous ebony eyes burrowed into your soul. Sula had looked them both over, walking around them in that small ballroom, before her pouting, dark-red lips declared, — It’s good. Now we dance, and she taught first Jim, then Melanie, the basic steps on a count of eight; left foot forward, right foot back. Then she let them try it out together.
Jim had never been a dancer, but the steps were not unlike boxing ones, and he took to it quickly. Melanie loved to dance, and soon they were increasing the tempo and moving smoothly across the studio’s polished wooden floor, to Sula Romario’s approval. They mastered the right turn and cross-body lead so slickly that Sula decided to put them immediately into the class. — You dance well, she said to Melanie, and then turned to Jim, — but you . . . you have the fire in your soul!
— Aye, is that right? Jim smiled.