He recalls Jock’s horror and bemusement, and his tearful, oval-eyed mother trying to cough out some words, but breaking down instead, to be comforted by Trudi and Jackie. Even at the time he knew it was petty and inappropriate to call Jock by the nickname they’d given to the murdering paedophile Horsburgh. ‘Uncle Jocky’ had never been employed in this way, nor did he have a sweet tooth. Even Horsburgh hadn’t used candy to lure his prey, just fire and Sprite.
Then Stuart was over, chameleon face and gait trying to assume the shape of nightclub bouncer. — What’s the story?
— You love this, he’d sniped at his young brother. — Well, you can bond with stepdaddy here, I’m offski.
Stuart had rounded on him. He recalls his brother balling his fists up, standing on his toes, his whisky breath an inch from him. — You think that because ye work with shite in yir fascist job that ye ken everything about human nature? You’re a fuckin novice, Raymie. You dinnae have a clue what Mum needs or wants oot ay life!
And Avril Lennox repeating a closed-eyed prayer, — It’s ma fault, it’s ma fault, it’s ma fault…
Lennox had calmly planted his hand on Stuart’s chest, pushed him back a couple of feet. — I’m sure
After a while there was the sound of gravel crunching underfoot, and a thin shadow passed over Lennox, making him aware that somebody had joined him on the bench, parked a respectable distance away. Les Brodie, cigarette in hand, was staring ahead, squinting in the weak sun that was trying to reassert itself. Lennox was going to ask to be left alone, but Les was saying nothing, just looking up into the murky sky.
Lennox could feel the cold air on his neck now, which throbbed with his pulse.
Les eventually spoke. — Cauld yin, El Mondo.
His childhood nickname. Used only by the immediate family and Les. That’s how close we were, he’d thought. — Things are as fucked up as they can be, Lennox moaned, looking round.
— They can always be fucked up mair. Les Brodie shook his head. Then a smile played across his lips and he turned to Lennox, meeting his gaze. — But they can be made better as well.
— That cunt, and my old lady, shagging him, bringing him there while my old man’s still warm in his grave.
— Jock was his mate, Raymie.
— Aye, some fucking mate, eh, shagging his wife. And that wee cunt Stuart—
— Aye, folk can be a bit strange. Les Brodie nodded in the way people do on such occasions; banal and vacuous in the face of the insolvable riddle of mortality.
— Tell me about it.
— But you’ve got to let go, Raymie.
— How? How the fuck, Lennox began, and his mind shot back to the tunnel and a broken Les emerging into the light with his bike, — how can
Les cleared his throat. — You know what those cunts did to me, Raymie? They raped me. Two of them, one after the other. Never told you that, did I? Never came right out and said it. Two of them, he said again, his eyes creasing around the laughter lines. — Just when I thought it was over, the other started. I was waiting on the third, the young guy, but he bottled out.
— Fuck sake, Les, I – He couldn’t say any more. He’d gotten away. Should he have stayed, fought, screamed and taken his punishment – as they might say, like a man – by Les’s side? That question had tormented him all his adult life.
— I could go into more detail, but I won’t. Les fished out some smokes and offered one to Lennox, who declined. — I’ll tell ye about how angry I was though, how I was looking for people tae hurt for what happened to me, and lookin tae hurt myself. I went way, way off the rails, he smiled in bitter reminiscence. — All that hate, naewhere to go. I even hated you, for getting the fuck out ay there.
— I hated myself for that, Les. I tried tae get help, tae raise the alarm. I got those people tae come, but it was too late.
Les took a deep drag on his fag. — Have to pack these in, he said. — Naw, mate, you did right. If you hadnae got away they’d have taken their time, and the other boy might have, he raised his brows, — you know.
Lennox dipped his head a few degrees. He realised that his closeness with Les had never been compromised, that the years apart had only incubated it. Les hadn’t rejected him, they were just at different ends of that long, black tunnel that stretched between them. — Did ye ken that was the reason I became a cop? I wanted those bastards, Les. I still fuckin well do. If you knew how many mugshots I’ve looked at in my spare time since I joined the force. Every sex offender on our files, UK-wide. Nothing. That was why I got into Serious Crimes, to get that kind of access to those cunts. Tae hunt the bastards doon. But zilch. He shook his head. — Maybe they just vanished into thin air.
Les Brodie’s smile grew wider. — Yeah, maybe they did.
Lennox stared at him, agog. The cop in him rose to the surface, before he could stop it. — What! You’re saying that you—
His old friend let out a long, hollow laugh, dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it into the gravel under his heel. — Nope, I fuckin wish. For a long time I’d have given anything to have found them. But they’re no in ma life now. Dinnae get ays wrong, I hope they’re in a place where they cannae harm any other kids, but I made the decision tae wash my hands of it all.
— But how could ye?
— Because I have tae, Les said, reaching into his jacket, pulling out a wallet and a family photograph of his wife and children. — I’ve other people to worry about. I don’t want ma wife’s husband and ma children’s faither tae be a fucked-up bam. I need tae be there for them, no obsessed wi auld vendettas. Your girl, Ray, she’s a cracker. Dinnae lose her. No tae a bunch ay fuckin nonces, that would be the
You could hear words like those a million times and understand the sense of them, but until you were emotionally ready to embrace them, it was trying to sow seeds on a motorway. After another silence Lennox rose from the bench like a football substitute in injury time, no role but to run down the clock, and shook his old friend’s hand. Les stood up and pulled him close, but Lennox was stiff in his embrace, managing only a cursory pat on the back. — I need tae get a wee walk, Les, clear the heid, he’d said, breaking the hold.
— Want company?
— Naw, I’m awright.
— Ray? Les Brodie paused. — Let it go, mate.
— See ye, Les.
Lennox walked without realising where he was going; mud and gravel under his feet, the water roaring below him, the river visible through the threadbare winter trees. The tunnel ahead, now so small and benign to his adult stature. He walked into it, headed to the dead zone in the middle, wanted it to work its magic and transform him again. Change him back. Then he craved their reappearance, the three very human monsters who had changed the boy, to come back and face the man. Willing something to happen. Voices to start up. Anybody. Anything. — C’MOAN THEN! he roared. — COME OAN THEN, YA CUNTS! His right hand jabbed out, pummelling the big, unforgiving stone bricks of the wall. There was a halting charge of pain but he smashed through it, then could feel nothing but a sick throb in his chest, his hiccup-convulsive breathing, and watch the blood from his pulped fist drip on to the harsh ground.
He had no idea how long he sat in that tunnel, head resting on his knees, lost in psychotic ramblings, but Trudi and Ally Notman found him there. — Ray… oh my Ray, my baby… Les said you’d be here… Trudi began, before seeing the state of his hand, her gaping mouth freezing in the egg of horror.
But Les had known he’d be there.
