by Irvine Welsh
It was time to call Matt Flynn.
43
THE MIAMI BEACH TRUTH AND RECONCILIATION COMMITTEE
I’M SEETHING IN silent rage at that fucking rancid old pig, feeling his words hit me like shattering blows. I see Mona glance at me in my peripheral vision, as I grip the hard edge of the seat. FUCKING ASSHOLE! I need to get him alone and ask him what that fucking public humiliation was all about, and in front of a bitch I work beside! The gig ends in polite ovation, the old bastard smugly declaring during the audience questions, — I think every writer uses their own experience. That’s inevitable.
What is inevitable is that I’m going to give this asshole a piece of my mind. He has no fucking business using me like that! He doesn’t even know the real story! But as he finishes up, Mona follows me to the side of the signing table where a huge line has formed. — He was sooo good!
My prick of a father sees me, flashing a grinning apology at a woman in the front of the line, before turning back to me. — Honey! Great to see you! Then he fixes Mona with a wolfish gaze. — And who is this treasure?
I’m sucking down my blazing anger, trying to remember that revenge really is a dish best served cold. — This is Mona, she works with me.
— Another trainer! I thought as much. You kinda radiate it, that health and vitality.
— Thank you. Mona pseudo-blushes and touches her hair, as my guts flip over.
— The restaurant options here in the hotel are very good, but I booked us into a place over in Miami Beach, he lowers his voice and cups a hand over his mouth, — so I can get away from my adoring public. So please excuse me for a while, ladies, but, Mona, I do hope you’ll be joining us for dinner?
Before I can react, she says, — I’d love to!
So there we are, sitting at the bar, waiting on that reptilian old bastard getting through the signing line. It’s as crass as you can imagine as the bartender asks Mona for her ID. — Always happens to me, she says, her smile lupine, caused by a new Botox strain stronger than liquid nitrogen. She produces a state driver’s license, the image stamped on it less laminated than her actual face.
The bartender raises his brows. — Well, you had me fooled, he smiles, turning away.
Mona touches her hair again but it’s because she thinks she sees a guy on the Miami Heat roster. I follow her line of vision but as it isn’t LeBron, Dwyane Wade, or Bosh, there’s no point whatsoever in even checking them out. My brain is in a riot, and I’m thinking, in spite of what she said, what if Mom and Lieb stop off at the apartment and discover Sorenson? I’m besieged by the memory of that horrible time in the park . . . I’m fucking over that now . . . can’t let the weak and sick rule your life . . . and that old bastard knows fucking nothing! And Mona is chattering some more fucking nonsense in my ear, — . . . I’m not sleeping with Trent again. He thinks he can just call me like that, she snaps her fingers, — and I’ll come running. It’s okay saying “it’s just sex,” and she makes the quotation marks sign, — but it gnaws away at your self-esteem when you constantly find yourself going back to a thirty-year-old child, who can’t commit to anything . . .
It takes about the longest fucking hour of my life for my father to finish and dispense with the hangers-on. Then we’re outside and Dad, shaking off a stalking, dotty housewife who is asking him all sorts of jackass shit about Matt Flynn, says to me, — Let’s just get into your car, he points at the Cadillac DeVille in the lot, it looks like a sorry drunk who’s gatecrashed a society bash, — or we’ll never get out of here.
So the three of us pile into the Caddy, heading over to SoBe. It’s a silent drive for me and a chatty one for them: Dad craning around to Mona in the back seat, full of cheerful tittle-tattle about the tour. As the inanity spills from their mouths, ricocheting around the car, my wrath incubates. I pick up speed and think of ripping off his seat belt and shoving the treacherous old fuck out onto the asphalt. I’m relieved when we’re back over in SoBe and into this French joint on Collins. As the waiter seats us and brings cocktails, Mona is looking so intensely at Dad that her bulging eyes suggest a rabbit being fucked by a fox. — I just love the way that Matt Flynn is never vulnerable. He’s always in control. A real man. I mean, one who’d just like, take a woman.
— I think they call that rape, I hear my words hissing out from between my tight jaws as if they were being spoken by somebody else. A low buzz plays in my head and the lights in this restaurant seem suddenly overpowering. I can’t stop my jaw clicking. Sort yourself out.
— Are you okay, Lucy? The words emerge thinly from Mona’s paralyzed face as if from the grille of a car stereo speaker.
I sit back in my seat, forcing some air into my lungs. — I’m good, I spit out, feeling like some teenage goth chick who’s been taken out to meet her dad’s girlfriend—no, her future fucking mother-in-law—this tanned strip of beef jerky, pumped strategically with silicone, who is eight years younger than me.
— Mona’s right, pickle, there’s a crisis of masculinity in contemporary America, and us guys, instead of blaming society and the economy for this emasculation, should just man up, pansy down, and have the balls to admit we’ve done it to ourselves. He raises his cocktail to his lips.
— That is sooo on the money, Tom, she says, with a big smile, as I realize I’m pretty much invisible here.
I wait for the irritating waiter to get out of our faces, then turn on Dad. — What the fuck was all that shit about? The nympho daughter!
— What?
— It was about me! That time in the park!
As Mona’s eyes widen further and she edges forward in her seat, Dad protests, — It was nothing to do with that! Those are fictional characters! This happened in a parking lot, not in a public park—
— Every other detail is pretty much the same! Except, I — I wasn’t — it was . . . I try to clamp my mouth shut cause only shit is coming out. Why can’t I say RAPE, why can’t I look him in the eye and say the fucking word?
— You know what it was, Dad says, and he’s angry, the liver spots flaring on his neck, now making me feel like a kid again, — don’t act like it was just making out, you know what it was, and you were just a damned child—
— Yes, I do know, because it was—
— Let’s not go there, he shouts, and raises his palms to the side of his head, as Mona looks on intently. He takes a long, deep breath and twists his features into a puppet smile. His voice is low and measured. — Anyway, it’s beside the point. It’s fiction, honey, and you’re being waaay too sensitive. Writers make shit up, that’s what we do.
I also take a deep breath and a slug of my martini. My hand is shaking, as I lower it to the table. I focus on that glass—anything other than his grave, sandpaper-skinned face, or that frozen Botoxed ornament.
— You do it so well, Tom, Mona purrs, and she drops her hand onto his wrist, as his teeth flash in a crocodile grin.
— I’ve been lucky, I guess.
— I don’t think luck comes into it, Tom . . .
The hovering waiter returns to take our order as I get control of myself. I can’t be weak and allow a frightened little prick like Austin a seat at this table. I go for a nearly raw steak, with a mixed salad, and order a bottle of red wine. Mona preens and fusses, finally opting for linguine with scallops, shrimps, and clams. Dad, surprisingly, bypasses the steak; he goes instead for some sea bass. — Too much goddamn red meat on this tour, he says, in response to my arched brow. — You see, I do listen to you!
I decide to take the tendered peace offering. I tersely clear my throat. — So how is the Biltmore?
Dad hesitantly turns a weather-beaten smile my way. — The absolute last word in luxury, pickle. I got me one of them poolside cabana suites. It’s surrounded by palms, bougainvillea, and hibiscus. Don’t get me wrong, he swivels back to Mona with a deep grin, — the hotel’s rooms are unbeatable, but when I’m in the tropics I like to feel as if I’m in the tropics, if you catch my drift.
— Oh, totally, Mo
na almost pants. — Is there a spa?
— Not just a spa, the spa, he says, his eyes twinkling. — You should check it out. If you’re a spa aficionado, it’s pretty much essential.
I’ve had enough. It suddenly dawns on me how easily that bitch left her fucking wheels over at the Biltmore parking. Could she make any more of a play if she tried? I slam back my martini and pull myself to my feet. — This is waaay too gross for me, and it’s fucking well creeping me out. You, thanks for the drink, I say to Dad, pointing at the empty glass, — and you, I turn to Mona, — thanks for nothing! Fucking fake!
I spin on my heel and head to the exit, announcing to the other diners as I point back at her, — Bitch is fucking fake! Ain’t never seen a fuckin faker bitch!
As the waiter approaches with the wine, I can hear Mona pleading in a sorry little voice, — What did I do?
— Nothing whatsoever, the lying pig says. — She’s been under a little pressure . . . let’s just let her go and blow off some steam . . .
I stop and take a step back toward the table. — Bitch is fake, I again announce to the crowd, — fake ass, fake tits, fake lips, fake hair, fake eyes, fake teeth, fake nose, fake voice . . . she’s a fuckin impostor! My Barbie dolls bled more than that bitch!
— Lucy! Please! Dad snaps, on his feet, as diners gasp in horror, and cluck in outrage.
A maître d’ surges forward: — Miss! You really have to leave!
— Don’t worry, I’m going! Bitch’s fake, and I again jab a finger at the crying Mona. — You fake, bitch. You fuckin fake!
Bitch had to take that to the back of her throat like it was a barbed-wire dildo.
And I’m walking out, pushing through the door, into the warm night air. Standing outside in the street, I shout at the faggot valet to get my car. I’m pacing up and down, waiting for the Caddy to appear, as I anxiously check my phone. No calls but five new emails and I realize I’m on Sorenson’s account. One that makes my fucking blood stew:
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: (no subject)
I am your father!
Asshole! I write back:
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: (no subject)
I AM YOUR FUCKING DAUGHTER!!!
As soon as I press send, a psychic rock immediately thuds down in my gut. Fuck. I had myself signed in as Sorenson on my fucking iPhone! I’ve gotten so used to corresponding with those assholes.
I’m waiting for what feels like hours until my Cadillac arrives, watching the dramas of street drunks as they stagger along the sidewalk to the beat of hip hop and EDM from cruising convertibles. I glance back inside through the restaurant window to see Mona spilling fake-bitch tears as Dad’s hairy, withered tree branch of an arm coils around her bony shoulders. I can’t think which one of the two is the more oily, manipulative scumbag.
I jump in the car, leaving the valet without a tip. — Thank you, he minces bitterly.
— Fuck you, I snarl, giving him the finger and speeding off, taking 14th toward Alton. Asshole should have shown some fucking urgency, then I’d have been spared the sight of that fake-assed bitch hitting on my dad. On Alton I’m passing the liquor store when I notice a sloping, shuffling figure emerge, carrying a bottle in a brown paper bag. Timothy Winter. He heads across the parking lot and I do a sharp right turn into it, eliciting a toot from some asshole behind me. I look back to make sure he hasn’t stopped, as I see Winter’s thin, Hawaiian-shirt-clad back appearing in my dipped headlights. I pull up close to him and stop the Caddy. Even though it’s dark, I put my shades on.
As I jump out the car, he turns to me, looking malevolently curious.
— Listen, buddy, I really need a drink. Gimme a slug of that and I’ll buy another when we’re done and then we can party!
His eyes squint in the mottled darkness. Looks to me, then to my beat-up wheels. Then he smiles, exposing those yellow teeth. — Best offer I had all day!
I’ll make you a fucking offer, pedophile trash. I take the proferred bottle from his extended greasy hand, then pivot, smashing it with force across the side of his head. It shatters, leaving me with the jagged base in my hand. I jab it at him, turning my wrist boxer-style, as the twisting spikes and shards of glass rip into his waxy puppet face.
Winter doesn’t make a sound, just rocks back on his heels. Things seem to freeze, then a deluge of blood falls from his face, splashing onto the asphalt. Then his head jerks up and he seems ready to scream, filling his chest with air, but I spring forward and punch the motherfucker hard with a larnyx-crushing blow to his throat, which produces a muffled, gargling noise. Winter’s blinded by the blood and disoriented by the choking as he staggers off, gasping, making for Alton and safety. No dice, short-eyes. I’m right into the car, starting it up, accelerating at his swaying figure, smashing into him, as he spills over the hood and crumples to the ground in a series of staccato thumps. I wind down my window and shout out at the broken mass on the deck, — JUST FOR OLD TIMES, YOU CHILD-BENDING FUCK!
Then I’m tearing out the lot and heading north up Alton.
After the charge of excitement has dissipated, I find myself shaking and sobbing outside Lena’s house on 46th Street. I was so fucking stupid. I could go to prison. For a fucking pedophile. I’m trying to get a grip of myself, to sort out my short, jagged breathing. Suddenly, there’s a tap on the window. Fear is searing my skin; I’m expecting a uniform to be on the end of the knuckles, but instead two sharp black eyes peer at me from in between a mop of dark hair, and an ironic hipster mustache.
He’s garbed in a black T-shirt and jeans; I instinctively know who he is, even though I’ve never met him before. It’s the would-be artist turned photographer. Sorenson’s squeeze. What the fuck did she call the prick? Jeffrey?
— Hey. You okay?
I roll down the window and switch off the ignition. I quickly decide I’m gonna play the dumbass here. — Sorry . . . it’s been one of those days.
— I know those days, this guy says with a glum smile and empathetic nod. His face is cute and bright. God, this guy is fucking good.
— A friend of mine vanished recently, I say. — She’s not answering her calls so I keep coming round here, to her house, just to see if she’s shown up.
— That friend wouldn’t be Lena Sorenson, by any chance?
I’m nodding, as I climb out the car. — Yeah . . . do you know her?
— Well, he smiles and shrugs, — we’re . . . well, I guess we were kind of married, then he fixes me in a fervent, brooding gaze. — I’m Jerry Whittendean. And who might you be?
Jerry: that was it. — I’m a friend of Lena’s.
He looks at me in this searching way, but that’s all he’s getting. I can stare. I can do this shit all fucking night. He concedes, and nods slowly. — Listen, I need to get inside to pick up some stuff of mine. Did Lena leave you a key?
I’m not thinking straight, still partly fixating on the mess I left Winter in, back at that parking lot, wondering if anybody saw me or called it in. So I lamely fucking hand this Jerry the key, instantly regretting it as his strong but manicured fingers close around it.
— I’m glad I met you, he smiles in smug triumph. — I was getting so desperate I was gonna break in. As you say, she isn’t picking up the phone, or replying to her emails, and nobody’s seen her around. I thought I’d figure out where she was if I managed to get inside.
— Right, good thinking . . . I’m saying blankly as I’m following him through the gate, down the path and into the house, — . . . why don’t you have a key?
— We’ve been going through a rough patch, he says, with a charmless smile. — I’ve been up in New York, giving her some space.
By that he means banging that other sorry-headed bitch. This is one smooth asshole. That
Melanie chick called it right in her letter: he’s dangerous to women. But I’m fucking dangerous to men like him. So we’re hunting around in the house, me knowing that he’ll draw a blank as I’ve made sure there’s nothing incriminating lying about, like his fucking notebook.
His frustration soon starts to show. — Do you swing by this place often? Only there’s no sign of any mail, and I know she got sent a package that has my property in it.
— No, I quickly tell him, — a friend of ours, Mona, she picks up the mail.
— Where does she hang out?
— She lives in SoBe or somewhere, but she’s in Atlanta, I lie. — Her boyfriend’s a writer. They’re doing a book tour.
— Yeah? Anybody famous?
— Some asshole who writes crappy crime novels.
— What’s his name?
— Tom Brennan.
Jerry smiles, and points a digit at me in recognition. — The Matt Flynn guy? Man, I love those damn books!
— Yeah, that’s him.
Jerry nods but he’s lost interest and starts going through the bureau in Lena’s office. — Nothing . . . he moans, then his face ignites. — Wait . . . He pulls open another drawer and produces a key. — Jackpot! I think this opens the studio. I’ve a hunch that what I need might just be in there.
I’ve a hunch you’re fucking wrong, asshole. — I don’t feel so good about us going through her shit, especially in her studio.
Jerry seems not to hear and heads off, compelling me to follow him out into the dark backyard. A motion-sensor light shines in his face, and he blinks in annoyance as he thrusts the key into the studio lock and turns it. — Eureka, he says, as he opens the door and I follow him in. He clicks on a light. The big sculpture, still a work-in-progress, dominates the space. This prick barely registers it. Instead he starts going heavily through Lena’s cupboards, pulling shit onto the floor.
— Hey, take it easy! I protest, as he hisses “fuck” every time another drawer or cupboard produces no bounty, but it’s soon evident that there’s nothing there, or nothing this motherfucker wants; the notebook and pictures are at my apartment.
