I Am Max Lamm (7 page)

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How many millions of fifteen-year-old boys had stared gape-mouthed at Lamm groaning atop that glistening Salvodorian sculpture of ideal female proportions, at his tongue wrapped lasciviously around her insides like the serpent guarding Eve’s apple, and gasped not merely at the masturbatory impulse but the insurmountable pleasures of adulthood incarnate on their laptop screens! Lamm mirrored their adolescent desperation, sucking the call-girl dry like a desert explorer at an oasis. Not for five years, since Lewinsky’s testimony to the grand jury, had the quality newspapers reported such useful material for truck drivers alone in the restroom. She
was
hypnotic, this hourglass of a girl pirouetting upon Lamm’s cock; slow, wet, engrossing. Her golden body so narrow, she’d break in two if he went any harder. Of course, he never knew he was being filmed.

It often takes a lifetime to become famous through the honourable means – such as painting great paintings, writing literature worth reading, doing innovative science or charitable public works – but three days of a sex scandal makes you better known than most Nobel laureates put together. Thirty years henceforth Lamm would be remembered, at least by tennis aficionados and men in raincoats. Already, millions of internet voyeurs had enjoyed his thirst for that graceful Salvadorian girl; they savoured his desperation, the moist catharsis he pursued unapologetically. Onscreen, Lamm’s obvious drive for fucking was temporarily quenched by this Latino whose beauty far exceeded the requirements of her profession, unforgettable for her green eyes and a lilting voice unsuited to the sterility of the Queen’s English yet exercising otherworldly power when she cooed in Spanish mid-blowjob.

The disgrace burnt mercilessly, rendering Lamm a charred shell long after his heart and balls had melted in the witch hunt’s flames. To the endangered species of upstanding American unswayed by perky young flesh, he was irredeemably abhorrent. Max Lamm, the degenerate slavemaster to a penniless Salvadorian girl, patron to an exploitative pimp, a precociously depraved disappointment who, on the popular online video, spent thirteen mesmerising minutes massaging his prick between her greased breasts.

Lamm’s loudest critics – the right-wing radio Rottweilers led by Rush Limbaugh and the Norman Rockwell revivalists at the American Family Association –
loved
tying him to a stake, a quintessentially American stake usually reserved for important men (Bill Clinton, Gary Condit, Gary Hart), then burning him alive on Fox News. Lamm was condemned with editorial vehemence usually reserved for OJ Simpson, the Taliban and the French.

Beneath Hyde Park, Lamm was interred in charcoal and sausage fat, but, he recognized, the burying alive had commenced the year before. In Brooklyn, when the dirt clods were shovelled in by his tormenters. The vicious ringleaders: his conniving doubles partner, Grey Pierce III. His mercenary turncoat of a coach, Sid Einfeld. And once the scandal broke, the popular columnist Anna Cunningham, a rakish blonde Medusa known for her Prada knee-boots and an
ubermenschen
profile that would’ve made the womanizer Goebbels blush. She’d most recently made news by advocating an electric fence and moat along the Mexican–American border. In a syndicated tirade published by the
Wall Street Journal
,
she compared Max Lamm’s sexual depravity to Clinton’s and his vegetarianism to Hitler’s, then she strung him up, condemned his oft-downloaded crimes against womankind, sportsmanship, Reagan’s legacy and civilization in general, and cut off his fists and balls with the blunt scalpel named family values. She left Lamm hanging there, a gruesome example to the oversexed Hollywood liberals, so he’d bleed to death from his wrists and amputated dick.

Hopeless, anchorless Lamm! He hadn’t seen enough? What Hyde Park’s underworld might teach him, he didn’t want! He’d suffered the classic creative triptych of depression, alcoholism, attempted suicide. The three-pronged affliction of genius endured by Goya, Van Gogh, Pollock, Francis Bacon, Rothko . . . yet what masterpieces had Lamm painted? He was nothing. Hadn’t touched a brush in seven months. The great artists suffered for their art; Lamm’s art was to suffer. Disgrace, despair, near-death, banishment . . . that was supposed to lead up the frayed rope ladder of self-improvement, resilience, artistic inspiration . . . not to
this
! Not Lamm’s newest worst incarnation: murderer. More than murderer: hate killer, lucrative bounty, white-supremacist bogeyman, psychopathic death-mask.

New York was enough!

Underground, he turned over in his jacket.

Sleep! Please!

Lamm smelt the beer staining his sleeve. Exhibit A: a trace of the murder weapon.

After nightfall, the park’s bushes again became living Rorschach blots. Lamm crawled through the scrub without his route muddied by the voices, hallucinations and tremors of sleeplessness. Nevertheless, when he looked into the moonlight’s glint or a streetlight’s glare, Lamm saw Mr Lewski’s ghost rematerialize. A hallucination? A warning of worse to come? He remembered the CCTV cameras, so he wore his hood as the hoodlums do. Pulled over his forehead, a phantom. One of millions.

Lamm felt dizzy from hunger. At the 24-7 convenience store on Great Cumberland Place, he paid £16.65 for three microwaved pumpkin pies, two litres of water, three bananas, two flapjacks, four chocolate bars, a keyring flashlight, a few razors, a toothbrush, toothpaste, batteries, and a £3 Chinese pocket radio imported from a bargain-basement cornucopia by the Yangtze . . . all purchased without a credit card, from his last £50 cash, thereby evading another electronic eye. A fast efficient spree until Lamm glanced at the magazine rack, at the latest edition of the
Evening Standard
.

A remarkable headline. A headline that, to Lamm, was no less stunning than the tasers the police used to electrocute the rioters. Beneath the sickening scarlet letters was an unforgettable triptych of three images: a Pakistani grocery engulfed by an arsonist’s flames, seven hundred Muslims rallying outside their MP’s office, and a bystander’s cameraphone photograph of Malik Massawi collapsed on the Camden pavement while the paramedics took his pulse. His body draped in a grey ambulance blanket – a child’s blanket, too short for the six foot three inches of this lanky teenage goalie – that left his feet sticking out one end. The boy’s white Nike trainers pointing skywards.

Those sneakers spoke to Lamm:

I should be playing football with my friends.

In a photo on page two, the bus shelter was examined by two forensic investigators wearing white plastic jumpsuits, collecting glass fragments, traces of blood, saliva, hairs. The murderer’s genetic cipher was, perhaps, encoiled within a stray strand’s innumerable double helixes.

If these people only knew a little about the culprit! That unsensationally, he wasn’t an Islamist fanatic deliberately catalysing ethnic discord, nor a bottle-wielding waxwork of Oswald Mosely the aristocratic pre-war fascist. Malik Massawi’s killer was merely an exiled Jewish failure pickled in limestone and barbeque grease. A squandered sporting prodigy, wasted scholarly talent, unfulfilled painter, libidinous disgrace, whose insatiable thirst for transgression (until yesterday the central force of his being) had suddenly dissolved like sugar cubes in boiling water.

Lamm stood motionless, staring at the front page. The photos – especially Malik’s basketball boots protruding from the body bag – were unforgettably
real.
Obscenely real. Wait until they identify you, until they know that you’re a Jew. You’ll be on the same accursed page of Jewish infamy as Yitzhak Rabin’s assassin and that nutcase Goldstein who attacked the Hebron mosque with a machine gun.

The microwave beeped.

‘Today is a bad day,’ remarked the man at the register. London’s typical convenience store attendant: a skinny moustached guy over from Bangalore to study software engineering.

‘The murder, the riot. It is a
very
bad day.’

The microwave beeped again. The attendant’s eyebrows arched at his bewildered customer.

‘Sir! Your pie is ready!’

Lamm read the front page. Couldn’t help himself. These riots he never anticipated! A colossal manhunt? The PM’s condemnation?
That
he expected. The vengeance of Pakistani vigilantes? Terrifying yet unsurprising. The boy was dead, so Lamm predicted his lynch mobs the way a ruined man envisages his bank balance. Of course the tabloids were incendiary. Hysterical, so dangerously sensationalist that Lamm would have agreed to whatever Faustian bargain that Murdoch as Mephistopheles might demand in exchange for averting the journalists’ hangman impulses. Give them half a chance, the redtop hacks would re-erect the Tyburn gallows, on the traffic island where two hundred years ago they stood at Marble Arch, and swing Lamm the unconvicted suspect from a noose.

What
was
shocking was the burning drycleaners on Bethnal Green’s high street, the BBC van battered by fence posts, the Bangladeshi bystander crushed by a toppled barrier. The proof that what had happened had happened. The East End riots were Britain’s most destructive civil disturbance since Saturday 11 April, 1981, when Operation Swamp 81, the Metropolitan Police’s clumsy crackdown on black street-crime in Brixton, provoked the night of fiery violence indelibly associated with the hard heel of South London. Brixton had petrol bombs, fire engines trashed, more than 300 police injuries, thirty buildings burned . . . but the East End riots wrought all that
and
one bystander in a coma, another paralysed, East Aldgate on police lockdown and a fifteen-year-old murdered the night before. Had a morsel occupied his stomach, Lamm would’ve thrown up, right there in the 24-7 convenience store on Great Cumberland Place. Hold it in until you’ve eaten something.

Next on the rack. Frighteningly on the loose, announced the
Sun
to its four million readers, was a bigoted murderer worthy of the UK’s abominable tradition of bigoted murderers. Murderers like the white thugs who stabbed eighteen-year-old Stephen Lawrence, a Jamaican architecture student, at an Eltham bus stop in April 1993. Or the five British-Pakistani hooligans who, on a grey Glasgow afternoon in March 2004, kidnapped a white fifteen-year-old named Kriss Donald, took him on a 200 mile joyride, and then, in a deserted walkway near the Celtic Football Club, stabbed the boy thirteen times, doused him in petrol, set him alight and left him to die. Or the London Nailbomber, a deranged neo-Nazi named David Copeland, who in 1999 planted homemade bombs at a supermarket on Brixton’s Electric Avenue (to kill blacks), on Brick Lane (to kill Muslims) and in a pub on Soho’s Old Compton Street (to kill gays). Or the Gay Slayer, Colin Ireland, who strangled five men mid-coitus following his 1993 New Year’s resolution to become a serial killer.

Britain’s despised, deranged criminals recently joined – in publicity if not intention – by the Racist Camden Killer, and look at how we’ll catch
that
bastard! Lamm ticked off the ways on his cold fingers; one little piggy’s the forensic pathologists, two little piggies is the DNA analysis, three little piggies is the elite Homicide Command Unit at New Scotland Yard, four little piggies is the £10,000 public reward for information leading to the culprit’s arrest . . . in a few minutes he ran out of fingers.

Already on the steps of Number 10, the prime minister had vowed to catch the murderer, showcasing the same tight-lipped, little-eyed affectation of tragedy that did wonders for him in the days following Princess Di’s demise. And after the mandatory intermission for topless Lucy the Lovely Lass on page three of the
Sun
, worse news awaited on page four:

Mr Paul Fedorcio, the Metropolitan Police spokesman, confirmed that several British-Muslim vigilante gangs are attempting to avenge Mr Massawi’s murder. Mr Fedorcio urged Muslim communities not to ‘take the law into their own hands’.

Your death sentence. Has the Ayatollah pronounced a
fatwa
? If so, Lamm wouldn’t expect a cheer squad the calibre of Rushdie’s – PEN International, N Mailer, M Kundera, S Sontag, E L Doctorow – to lobby the Iranian foreign ministry on his behalf. Grumpy hairy Khomeini sentenced Salman Rushdie to death, but
that
apostate is a famous writer. He’s written quality novels that some people in the street have heard of. No small achievement. Whereas beneath an extinct Hyde Park barbeque hides a carnal disgrace. A libidinous exile from America
and
Australia, guilty of murder unless the jury believes it was self-defence. Which it was and they wouldn’t. The lack of intention doesn’t abrogate the crime.

Munching two hot pumpkin pies beneath the warm pipes, Lamm read the newspapers in the spill of his Chinese flashlight. He would keep these front pages, for the same reason that some cancer survivors want their tumours preserved in a jar. To credulous, irreprehensible readers out there in ordinaryland, to the non-murderers of Britain, the headlines
were
terrifying.
RACIST RIOT MURDERER ON THE LOOSE
. What right-minded parent wouldn’t fear that?
HATE KILLER STALKS NORTH LONDON
. Max Lamm: the capital’s reincarnated combo of Heinrich Himmler, Andre the Giant and the villain who assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand and triggered World War I.

The LA riots were worse
, Lamm told himself. Correct. Over four days in central Los Angeles during late April 1992, there were fifty-three casualties, two thousand injuries and nearly a thousand buildings destroyed. But those white cops didn’t kill Rodney King.

Already Lamm wore the timeless
shmutz of
the vagrant. Hair matted with oil, dust, charcoal. Blackened fingernails. Dirt encrusted his one set of
clothes: the maroon rain jacket that saw his worst moments in New York (including the East River’s frigid depths); a woollen Navy jumper purchased for ten pounds at an army surplus shop in the Camden Market; black Levi’s too damp to keep his legs warm; Hexalite tennis shoes courtesy of the Reebok sponsorship that ceased the day his dick made the
New York Times
sports pages.