And now Britney is Tianna and he can’t look. But he has to look. He can’t
It’s different. Horsburgh is Dearing. It’s well shot; there is even a soft elevator-music soundtrack. The pan pipes. He thinks about the car ride.
Lennox stops the machine. Rage grips his throat like a vice. He feels something in his chest going in and out of spasm. He rises unsteadily, removing the DVD, looking at the simple unmarked silver disc, seemingly so innocuous. Over the buzz of the engines, he can hear shouting coming from the other bedroom. This cuts out abruptly when its source sees Ray Lennox in the doorway. — Carry on, please. I actually want you to keep shouting, he says to Juan Castiliano. — To just say one more fucking word. Cause that’s all it would take for me to cut your fuckin heid off, and his cold, murderous black eyes hold the paedophile, who shrinks back in fear.
Bologna draws close as Lennox appears on the bridge behind Chet. The marina, as they pull ashore and tie up the boat, is almost deserted though the Lobster bar is still open. They go back to the stateroom, where Lennox shows Chet in fast-forward a selection of Johnnie’s discs, though not the Tianna one, which he’s kept. There are three other young girls: from their soon-to-be-removed clothes they look poor, mostly, he suspects, Central American immigrants.
Chet is dazed and zombie-like as he carries the box of tapes into the Volkswagen. They drive for two blocks, stopping at a building announced by a backlit white-and-blue sign as the Bologna Police Department.
— You made me drive to an Internet cafe when you had all those facilities on board, Lennox said.
— It’s very expensive at sea. Johnnie was bleeding me dry.
— Any Scottish blood?
Chet bends his mouth a little as Lennox’s fingers drum at the box on his lap. — Take all this into the station. Tell them the lot. How you got to know Robyn. How Lance and Johnnie were blackmailing you. Take them to the boat; they’ll ID Johnnie from some of the videos. A good cop’ll break him down in seconds.
A flexing of his shoulders shows Chet’s relief that his terrible burden has been lifted, but the uncertainty in his eyes betrays the knowledge of a new ordeal, of uncertain outcome, yet to be faced. — You’ll come in and vouch for me, Lennox? Tell them I was being blackmailed?
— I’ll be happy to do that, Chet, but not right now. I have to go.
— What are you going to do?
— I have to get Robyn away from Starry and Dearing before the police get there. She needs a fighting chance to keep Tianna and get her life together. She deserves it, on that evidence you have here. He waves a copy of the lists. — I didn’t think so before, but I do now. The courts and child welfare people, however, might take a different view. The paedophiles are meeting at the Embassy Hotel right now. You can direct the police there.
— Okay, Chet frets. — But you
— You have my word.
Chet rubs his salt-and-pepper dome. — She had no chance, Lennox. They targeted her: right across the state line from Alabama.
— I know. Lennox pats his shoulder. — And Chet, he produces a strained smile, — my first name is Ray. Raymond Lennox.
— Is it? Oh… I beg your pardon… Ray… he stammers, as he climbs out the car with the box. Then he regards Lennox as if remembering something. — Your magazine; the bridal one. I think you left it on the boat.
— I’ll pick up another copy. That one got a bit messed up.
— Right…
— Good luck, Lennox shouts as he watches the spectral-looking sailor making his way to the steps of the police station like he is walking the plank.
Lennox starts up the Volkswagen. Robyn can wait. He’s going to bring them down first. His hands tingle on the wheel, as he recalls why he hates those bullies, and why he does what he does.
19 Edinburgh: Two Dark Summers
1981
NOBODY LIKES BULLIES. Even other bullies – often especially – feel obliged to at least profess a hatred of them. Yet we’ve all been bullied and bullied others. It’s in all of us; with nations we call it imperialism. You start to wonder about yourself.
Who are you? Your name is Raymond Lennox and you’re eleven years old. It’s summer, and you’re excited because you’ve got your new birthday bike, and your football team, Hearts, have been promoted to the top division. You’re looking forward to the new season, and you’ve been studying hard for a scholarship to a good secondary school.
Although it had rained a lot, the summer had, with customary Scottish reluctance, finally yielded to a heatwave. It was a bright July Sunday afternoon, two days after your birthday, 07.07.70, which Curtis Park, your Hibs-supporting pal, was prone to rubbing in the significance of, as Hibs had once beaten Hearts by seven–nil in a famous Edinburgh derby. The wooded Water of Leith walkway at Colinton Dell was lush with all shades of green as you and your best pal, Les Brodie, clad in T-shirts and khaki shorts, pushed your bikes along. You still couldn’t take your eyes off the sleek beauty of the blue Raleigh as you grip its handlebars. Les had earlier picked up a flat tyre, hampering your progress, but you’d gone a greater distance than usual, seduced by tales of a spectacular new ‘Tarzan’ swing further up the river. Now the long, dark tunnel loomed ahead, not that far from the main road above you, but the submerged nature of the valley and the dense cover of trees hid the noise of the traffic, though you could hear the swoosh of the river below.
But you are Ray Lennox.
And who is he? Was he always scared? Always angry? No, but maybe Ray was just a wee bit fretful as a boy. Certainly, he was nervous of the big tunnel. He knew it from old Sunday walks with his father John and sister Jackie. That spot in the middle where it kinked, plunging him into total darkness; no light visible from either the exit ahead or the entrance behind him. He always panicked at that point, as if the omnipresent gloom could swallow him up. His dad and sister liked to stop there, enjoy the silence of it all, also sensing Ray’s apprehension, and dallying to tease him. He soon realised that with just a few steps forward or back – depending on where the sun was – he could rejoin the light and break the tenebrous spell.
At the mouth of the tunnel, Ray and Les looked up at the tendrils of ivy that dangled above them. — The Tarzan on the other side’s meant tae be barry, Les said with enthusiasm, although the sun had now sloped behind a manky cloud. Then they heard dirty voices and laughter coming from within. The boys looked at each other, first in apprehension, then ball-bearing resolve as they continued; neither willing to cede their fear. Ray wanted to say: let’s just go back and check your pigeon loft. But Les would know he’d bottled it. He knew Ray didn’t like the pigeons he and his dad kept. Then the growls from inside rose a little, obviously all male; he wondered how many there were, and their ages.
How quickly, how terribly he’d learn the answer. On registering their tentative approach, the voices dropped to ominous silence. Ray Lennox looked at the overhead lights, set about thirty feet apart, giving a weak, orangey- yellow glow which showed up the wet, gravelly ground under their feet. As they approached the dead black zone, they could make out the dark shapes in the shadows. Three men: early thirties, late and early twenties. At first Ray had been relieved that they were adults rather than older boys. He could hear the mechanical click of his bike’s gears turning over on the wheel as he pushed it along. A quick, nervous glance revealed that the trio stood smoking cigarettes and drinking from a small bottle of whisky. Not that badly dressed, certainly not destitute. But then one of them, he had a hooked nose and wispy, thinning hair, gave the boys an abominable grin from his big,
