by Irvine Welsh
So you went to the bar you used to frequent with Robbo and several other burned-out dissaffected cops. Met a few of the boys there and drank a lot of vodka, before being felled by a sick joke.
18
Decked
LENNOX DRIVES BACK towards the Gulf Coast at a steady eighty; air con off and windows down, taking in the scent of the night, as he vacates the freeway for the connecting fork to Highway 41, passing on to the curving slip road for Bologna.
At thirty-five he feels suddenly older, sensing the seasons quickly chasing him down. Twenty-eight to thirty-four seemed static, a welcome hiatus after two decades of almost overwhelming volatility, but then his thirty-fifth year had delivered a quantum leap into middle age. Smitten by angst, he wonders about his next cataclysmic anniversary, and the urge to savour almost overwhelms. Lennox feels he should be looking at the eminence of the flickering stars through the dark, naked treetops, but he’s too intent on steering down this winding drive, treacherous after America’s breezy highways and waiting to claim him for its own. His need to concentrate is a response to his fatigue, but also because he feels an uneasy seduction lurking in those heavens; the stars seem closer down here, frozen detonated fireworks clustering in the air with a judging, perilous aspect.
The air at ground level is still almost gossamer in its humidity, but the swishing palm trees overhead signal a building wind as the road snakes even more keenly. Then, to his right, lights of varying intensity shimmer through the trees as the town rises out from the mangrove swamp.
As he drives towards the harbour, the marina is on the left: moon-globe street lamps beam in ripples over the water, the stars now a pallid glimmer in the inky sky above, and he can see thunderhead clouds glowing ominously through the mottled darkness to the north. Passing over the swamplands, they draw winds from the mangrove bushes as they loom in menacing approach.
Pulling into the near empty lot, he sees Chet’s boat moored under a burning lamp. As he exits the car, a solitary figure emerges from the office on the brokerage strip. — You’re sure lucky to catch ol Chet. Don Wynter twirls a set of keys, glancing to the berthed boat. — Reckon he’s plannin on takin a long trip. Down to the Keys, or maybe even the Bahamas. Plenty supplies; I know that cause I sell em to him, the old boy laughs. — Pretty tight-lipped about it all. Reckon he got some sweet thing tucked away.
— Anybody else on the boat? Lennox asks.
— Don’t reckon so, the loquacious harbour master says, and begins to expand, but Lennox has turned abruptly and stolen off towards the vessel. Stepping on to the gangplank, he looks down at the oily water before hopping on to the pristine craft. It’s dark, but light emanates from the cabin below. However, Chet is on the bridge, and both men are startled by the unexpected presence of the other. — Lennox. What … what are you doing here?
— I left something, he says gruffly and heads without invitation downstairs to the galley kitchen and dining area. The dog-eared Perfect Bride lies on the table where Tianna left it; apparently untouched. He picks it up, the beaming visage of the model bride strangely welcoming. Then he notes that the door of the larger bedroom is shut. He opens it and looks inside. Empty. So he heads up the four oak steps and back to the rear deck of the boat.
Chet stands trembling in front of him, but although a breeze is mounting, it hasn’t yet shifted the humidity from the air and it isn’t cold. He regards the magazine in Lennox’s hand. — Must be valuable, for you to come back for it.
— Aye, Lennox acknowledges, — it is. Then he looks up at the sky. — Weather’s turned a wee bit.
— Forecast isn’t too bad though. The rain clouds should blow over us, Chet says, distractedly. — Tianna nice and safe?
Lennox’s antenna tingles. Tianna’s safety has become an afterthought. — Aye. She’s with friends of mine.
— Good, Chet says uneasily.
Lennox feels something spike his arm. He lashes out with the magazine in his other hand, slapping sunburn, but crumpling the mosquito that has bloated on his blood. — Bastard, he snaps.
— You become immune and they don’t carry malaria here.
— I don’t intend to stick around long enough to become immune, Lennox says. — Just one question, although he knows, in cop tradition, that others will follow, — has Lance Dearing ever been on this boat?
As the words leave his lips, he becomes aware that Chet is actually looking over his shoulder. And then he hears a scrambling on the steps behind him. But Lennox can’t react in time as he feels something collide with him at force and it’s as if his teeth are being pushed out of his face from behind. He stumbles forward, fighting to stay conscious, but an explosion of orange in his head is fading to black. Fight through this shite. Fight. He feels no sensation but sees a mess of mashed-up red snapper and fries sloshing from him on to the deck. Then somebody is on him, forcing him down into his own vomit. He can’t resist; he’s a puppet with the strings cut. Immediately he thinks Dearing and Johnnie, as he feels his wrists being bound with something – he suspects fishing twine – followed by his ankles. Lennox slams his eyelids shut and grinds his teeth together. He’s aware of a spasm in his gullet now, and counts silently, hoping for a lull that will enable him to either swallow or expel his partial regurgitations. Then he seems to be breathing cool air through a hole in his chest.
As his vision clears, he draws up his knees and examines his ankles, confirming his suspicion as to the nature of his bondage. Then a pole dancer in silhouette and a slogan I SUPPORT SINGLE MOMS comes into vision, and Johnnie is crouching over him. As well as the T-shirt he wears a pair of polyester slacks. Lennox’s bleary eyes pan in jagged survey: no sign of Dearing. He sees the blue logo of Perfect Bride as the magazine lies face up in his vomit.
Johnnie holds a big, rusty shifting wrench, and he’s barking something at Chet. Lennox can’t make out the words. His skull throbs and the stink of his own vomit lodges in his nose and throat. His breaths have gathered the velocity of a steam locomotive. Each one demands attention. Resting his head on the deck, he shuts his eyes and lies in a stupor for what might have been hours, but on opening them the distance from the harbour lights indicates the passage of only a few minutes.
He tries to swallow. Saliva won’t come together in his arid mouth and throat. His head bangs, his eardrums pop, the acrid stench of his own puke rises from his shirt. The tendons in his neck are strained, as if his skull is lead. The tight binding on his wrists prevents him wiping the stinging sweat from his eyes. He considers his location, propped up against the deck seating at the rear of the craft. He can see Chet at the helm as the boat surges forward. The old taxman can’t look at Lennox, as if witnessing his humiliation is too big a cross to bear.
A deep fear grips him. Dealing with people who had been murdered in suspicious circumstances has made him even less disposed to joining their ranks. Cops wanted to know what the dead person on the table ate, what they wore, drank, read, who they knew, who they fucked, and how they liked to do it. They’d poke around under your fingernails, in your mouth, up your arse, around your genitals and inside your stomach. Then they’d pore over your mail, diary, emails, bank accounts and investments, till they knew you better than you’d known yourself. Lennox has always been tormented by the mortifying sense that his spirit self would be compelled to bear witness to the ignominious abuse of his worldly remains.
The last thing he wants is to be touched but it’s strangely comforting as a hand under his armpit yanks him upright. Then his skull hurts so bad, he envisions his head as physically split open, brains pouring from the back of it, slopping across the slick, white fibreglass of the boat into the sea. Sickness sinks through his body like a dropped anchor. He digs in his trainered soles, trying to get traction on a deck made slippery by his own puke. — It’s okay, a voice says in his ear. His arse feels the moulded seat and he swivels his hips to assist the force guiding him on to it. — You okay? Johnnie asks, the genuine concern in his voice surprising Lennox.
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— I think you fractured my skull. He stares at the thick stubble on Johnnie’s chin. — I need to go to a hospital.
— If you’re sharp enough to talk like that, then you don’t need no hospital. Johnnie’s manner is now contrary and childlike.
— So you’re a doctor, then?
Johnnie has lost the wrench, but Lennox sees a sheathed diving knife attached to his belt, incongrous against the polyester leg. — I didn’t wanna hurt you, he says, shaking his head, — but why you gotta go poking your big fucking nose into other people’s business?
— It goes with the territory, he says, flexing against his bounds. The unyielding nature of the constraints induces a panic he struggles to fight. He’s going to drown. To be cast overboard. To have his breath crushed from his lungs by the force of the sea. He can picture the last air he will expel, a bubble rendered tangible and measurable by the water around it. See it explode in liberation to the surface, while his lifeless body floats below.
— What territory is that? Johnnie asks.
Lennox can’t think of what to say. Then Chet stalls the boat, cutting the engine to slow cruising speed. Thinking of the moth, Lennox shudders. As terror dances behind his eyes, he realises his notions of a dignified death were fanciful.
How did I get here?
— Mr Confectioner, he was the one that fucked my heid. Every time Lennox encountered Horsburgh, he wanted the world to swallow one of them up. Afterwards, he’d repair to the pub; drinking to try and obliterate the stuff he’d heard spill from this man’s mouth. A line of cocaine helped. Was it Horsey, Mr Confectioner, who’d led him here?
— What’s the fucking hold-up? Johnnie roars at Chet. — We ain’t here to look at no fuckin dolphins!
A seabird squawks, and Lennox feels the spray made by the boat cleaning his face. An astonishing calm descends on him, his thoughts seeming to become abstract. A strange but urgent consideration hits him: the missing piece in the jigsaw has to be a twenty-plus-goals-a-season striker. At present there was far too big a goal-scoring burden on Skacel and Hartley in the midfield. Then he sees that Chet is losing it, giving Johnnie the fear-of-running-aground routine. — We are in the goddamn shallows and this boat weighs twenty-three thousand pounds, and that was before your lardy ass stepped on to it. Unless you want me to run aground and have the coastguard out to us, I suggest we proceed with fucking caution!
Johnnie aims a sulky gape at Chet; he goes to say something then stops. Instead, holding the boat’s peripheral rail, he turns to Lennox. — Right, asshole. Who the fuck are you?
Lennox still thinks of Mr Confectioner, Gareth Horsburgh. The arrogance of the taunting beast: like it was an act he’d run through on many private occasions. He recalls asking Stuart how he prepared for his acting roles; the corrupt young solicitor in Taggart, the intern vet in Take the High Road, the drug-addled ned in The Vice.
Find the character’s essence. Become one with it, harness it.
What would Horsburgh do if he were the captive? He would be derisive, sneering his contempt at those insects. The supercilious civil servant, with his briefcase and sandwiches, would delight in being the biggest, brightest, most evil beast in this jungle.
— I never intended to get involved in all this, Johnnie. He hears his tones clipped and precise. — Now I’m going to ask you to do something for me.
— What … what the fuck do you want me to do for you?
— I’m going to ask you to get rid of me.
And Ray Lennox, Mr Confectioner, tries to rise. His arse gets an inch from the seat, before the boat’s motion thumps him back, jarring his spine.
— Hold it right there or that is exactly what I will do, Johnnie says, — throw your miserable interfering ass overboard!
— But I want you to. I want to make it easy for you, Lennox the Confectioner urges, trying to thrust himself up again. — Just help me up and I’ll jump.
— Not from my boat you won’t, Chet blusters above the engine’s growl. — I’ve never lost anybody at sea yet and I don’t intend –
— Shut the fuck up! Johnnie bellows, then pushes Lennox back on to the seat with one hand, gripping the handrail with the other. — I’m warning you, asshole!
Lennox looks at Johnnie with his now deliciously half-shut eyes, feeling the throb of power in his constrained limbs. — You know what I want. Because you know that I’m like you and there’s only room for one of us.
Chet’s shoulders bristle and his back stiffens as he grips the wheel. When he turns, his eyes have the protrusion and burn of the death’s head. — What in hell’s name are you saying …?
Johnnie gazes in stupefaction at Lennox, then there’s a spark of interest.
— When I stumbled on your little nest of vipers I was so excited, Lennox expounds in a low lisp, his senses now merely a conduit to the voice of another: someone hated. — You see, I’d been emailing back home to my own organisation, trying to get in contact with like-minded souls in America. But no luck. I was prowling freelance when I met her, by accident. The mother. I could smell it off her; you always can. And the girl. You know what they called me back in Britain, Johnnie? Mr Confectioner. But I never tempted a child with candy. Their mothers though, oh, they could be bought off with a few drinks and some sweet talk.
He can see his own ugliness reflected back in Johnnie’s eyes. Like he did looking at Horsburgh.
How he’s marked me, how they always mark you.
— A dopey, negligent woman with low self-esteem, and a delightful little nymphet, taught how to give pleasure and say nothing. I was making my move when you, Johnnie, he tersely nods at him, — you almost ruined everything with your ham-fisted approach. But really I should thank you. It was your action that delivered her into my care. I had a wonderful night in that hotel room, Johnnie. That was a result, and much appreciated.
— You’re full of bullshit, Johnnie says, both hands white on the rail, but his weak sneer can’t conceal his entrancement.
— Shut up, Chet barks. — Shut up, you fucking perverts, and he disintegrates into an agonised howl. — I’ve had enough of this. All your fucking blackmail! IT ENDS NOW!
Johnnie looks from Lennox to Chet. — If I tell Dearing about this, you are fucking finished, old man!
— So to the victor the spoils, Lennox gasps, pulling Johnnie’s attention back to him. — She’s yours and I’ll never know the beauty of a hairless minge again.
— We saw her first, you fuck: we staked that dumb-ass bitch of a mother out for months … you think I enjoyed balling that stretch-marked hag? He points at the pole dancer on his chest. — I’m into young pussy, is all. I did the fucking dirty work and then Dearing breezes in … Johnnie stops, as if realising he’s said too much.
— Fair enough, Lennox says as Chet moans something he can’t make out. — So fuck it: throw me to the fishes. I like young pussy too; in fact, I can’t live without it. It was a good run while it lasted!
Johnnie’s head wobbles with vigour. — Nobody’s goin to no freakin fishes –
— But Lance is calling the shots. He’ll want rid of me, then he’ll destroy you, long before you need to go down, Johnnie.
— You know nuthin about us –
— I know from what you’re saying that you’re doing the dirty work and he’s getting the pay-off.
Johnnie stiffens, puts one hand on his hip. — Damn straight, he acknowledges.
— And I know that I could give you more options than this. Lennox looks out over the dark, still waters. — America’s finished, Johnnie. It’s crawling with Feds and DEA agents. Drugs, terrorism, illegals: all this crippling paranoia about borders. Over my way, we bring in some really beautiful girls: East European, Asian. The border controls are limited, the terror alerts almost zero. Most of them can’t even speak English. Those Thai girls, Johnnie, he says as his adversary licks his lips, — they are something else. They come from nothing so they’re happy to get anything. Not MTV-saturated brats who expect stuff
; they’re silent and obedient, just the way we like em, right?
A hatchet grin cleaves Johnnie’s doughy face in two.
Lennox fights to return the complicit smirk. — I could get you sorted out, Johnnie.
— Sounds finger-fuckin good to me, Johnnie says. Then his face tightens again. — But Dearing –
— Forget Dearing. He’s a cop. If you start getting rid of bodies, and it looks like this whole thing is going to shit, then who’s going to carry the can? The cop or the stooges? He shouts over at Chet: — What about you, Lewis? You aren’t a killer. Are you going to let Dearing lead you up the garden path?
— SHUT UP! SHUT UP, YOU FUCKING TWISTED PERVERTS!
Johnnie turns and looks at Chet. — Fuck you!
— Get onside with me, Johnnie! Lennox shouts, — and I won’t let you down!
Johnnie nods in dim complicity, and Lennox can’t believe it. The fucking simpleton. And now he’s reaching behind Lennox and is cutting at his twine bounds with a serrated knife. He’s no right in the heid. As his face is squashed into Johnnie’s flabby breast, he almost feels sorry for Dearing, stuck with such a blundering sidekick.
— I could sure use a little help, Ray. Things have gotten a bit out of control. Dearing thinks he knows it all but –
Johnnie gasps as his eyes expand then roll in his head and he slumps forward, crushing Lennox, who vainly tries to slide out from under him. Standing above, holding a fire extinguisher, is Chet. Lennox is immobilised with Johnnie’s stunned, heaving bulk on his lap, unable to free his wrists from the last of the twine. Disordered by fury, Chet keeps the extinguisher poised. — You fucking scumbags! I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU ALL! He raises the metal cylinder above his head, as Johnnie slides off Lennox, rolling on to the deck with the slap of a landed fish.
