— 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!