The Blade Artist

by Irvine Welsh

  — Telt ye, ah dinnae drink.

  Frances pulls his glass over and starts on it, even though she has an almost-full one alongside it. — You’re gaunny tell me that ah shouldnae be daein this, she suddenly giggles.

  — Dae what the fuck ye like, he responds, — ah dinnae care.

  — Ah ken ye dinnae, she cackles in scorn. — But at least ye dinnae pretend tae. No like the rest ay them. At least you’re fuckin honest.

  Franco raises his eyebrows. The charge of wine has now put her in a place beyond fear. This girl is doomed. — One other thing. Whae do you think came in and chibbed him?

  — Ah dinnae ken.

  — Anton Miller?

  — Nup . . . she says, and he is wrong about the wine’s effect, as Frances is incapacitated by terror, even through the emboldening drink, — ah dinnae ken. Honest, ah wis wasted. Ah really dinnae ken, and she starts to cry, her face swelling with drink and tears. — Sean was ma friend, eh wis the best friend that ah ever had!

  And Frank Begbie leaves Frances Flanagan with her wine, and the sense that everything she has told him is the absolute truth.

  19

  THE TEXTS

  The breeze has stiffened a little and fog has blown down from the north of the state. On the back decking Melanie Francis stretches out, then pumps her arms with the 3lb weights wrapped round her fists in Velcro, completing a burning set of exercises. On finishing her routine, she goes into the kitchen, looking to her phone for signs of incoming calls. One from her mom, but still nothing from Jim. Panic bolts are starting to surge in her chest.

  Melanie feels that she let Jim down badly by calling the police. If she had elaborated on how Paula’s rape ordeal weighed on her, he would perhaps have understood. But it proved to be an error, and now she has allowed Harry, with his barely suppressed age-old agenda, into their lives. He doesn’t belong. Only the girls and Jim do.

  Her mind rushes back to the opening night of that show in Edinburgh’s Fruitmarket Gallery. They were all euphoric after its success, sipping wine and chatting. Suddenly she realised that Jim, whose work had taken most of the accolades, was nowhere to be seen. For a horrible second, she thought, in spite of the ankle bracelet he wore, that he’d used the show as a front to run away. But then she went out to the fire escape, and he was standing there on the stairs.

  When she’d asked what he was doing, alone in that draughty spot in the semi-dark, he’d looked at her, as if to say I was waiting for you. But what he said, with hushed conviction, was that this was the very best day of his life. Then his gaze was both searching and acute as he whispered, — It’s probably asking too much, but there’s only one thing that would make it even better, and he’d closed his eyes.

  It was then that Melanie had kissed him on the mouth. It was all she could do. He was all she’d been thinking about. It was the most intimate kiss she’d ever had: simple, delicious and trippy. His eyes remained shut and hers did too. When they heard a noise from the gallery and broke off, he’d smiled and said, — Thank you.

  — My pleasure, she’d insisted, and they squeezed hands and headed back into the party.

  The Dance Partner, the picture of a serene, Jesus-like Craig Liddel, had been sold. She listened to him talking to the wealthy collectors who paid big money for it. They were a youngish husband-and-wife team. The woman wore a sparkling blue cocktail dress. — This man you killed, how do you know he would have turned into this saintly figure?

  — I don’t, but it’s not about what he might or might not have done. By killing him, I rendered that question a matter of speculation. It’s about what I do now. In order to take his life, I had to dehumanise him, and myself. In order to save my own, I now have to rehumanise us both. It’s not an easy thing to do, he’d said, calm and sincere, — it’s a battle I have to fight every day.

  Francis James Begbie.

  She goes to hunt for Elspeth’s number, but there is nothing written down on the pad, he must have punched it straight into his iPhone. Then, just as Melanie is about to lower the cellphone to the coffee table, a series of texts flood onto the display, or rather the same three, on repeat:

  This is my new number.

  Lost my iPhone.

  At funeral – love you – call me when you get this.

  Melanie calls the number. He picks up straight away. — Jim . . . I was getting a bit worried . . . These texts all came in at once . . . How did the funeral go?

  — So good to hear your voice! This fucking phone! Jim gasps down the line in delight. — Funeral was okay . . . It’s just great to get it out the way. I’m not going to stay too long now. Just want to see a few people . . .

  Melanie has internally debated whether or not to tell him about Harry, and the washed-up body of Santiago. Jim has a right to know, but it is her mess and her imposition. It is unfair to add to his stress levels right now. As she listens to the regenerated Scottish burr in his voice, she thinks she can hear a knock at the door, then is aware of a rustling noise coming from outside, just as the line goes dead. She calls Jim’s new number again, as she heads to the door. This time there is only a loud, continuous beep from the phone as she opens up and looks outside.

  Nobody is there.

  Then, over by the garage, trying to look in Jim’s workshop, is the figure of a man, his back turned to her in the failing light. He first thought: it’s Harry . . . and her heart sinks.

  Then he turns and stares at her.

  It isn’t Harry, it’s Martin, Jim’s agent. — Hi, Melanie, he says.

  20

  THE LANDLORD

  Frank Begbie had left Frances Flanagan and walked up to York Place to catch a tram. He had just got on and settled down, when the Tesco mobile went off. It was so good to hear Melanie’s voice, but to his rage, it cut off almost immediately. He’d shouted out: — FUCKER, drawing the attention of a sour-looking elderly woman, before he’d sucked in air, and forced a wan smile at her.

  He’d started to take the phone apart, realising that the battery must be loose in its mountings. Removing it, he placed the device in his mouth and bit under one of the pins, pulling it out. He felt enamel chip on the underside of his tooth, but when he eased up, the pin was sitting further out, and the reinserted battery seemed held more securely.

  When he got to Elspeth’s, he opted to go to his room after dinner, and put the phone back on charge. He picked up his Kindle and started to read A Clockwork Orange. Sleep quickly took him, and he had the most peaceful and restful night he’d enjoyed since his return to Scotland.

  He rises early the next day, blinking into a weak morning light filtering through the thin curtains. The room is cold; the temperature has dropped in the night. The Tesco mobile is charged, flashing at him in a green ‘come-hither’ wink. He grabs it and calls Melanie, thinking that she’ll probably still be up, enjoying some work or relaxation time with the girls asleep. A voice immediately tells him that he needs to top up the phone in order to make a transatlantic call. — Fuck yir transatlantic call, ya cunt, he replies to the unmoved robot voice. However, he has enough credit to phone Larry. — Need tae borrow the van. Like you sais at the funeral.

  Larry’s silence indicates to Franco that he’s trying to conceal his annoyance that he’s been taken up on an offer he’d made under alcohol’s costly latitude. Eventually he coughs out a reluctant, — Sure . . . come roond, and tells him the address. Franco slings his sports bag over his shoulder, as he hopes to get to the boxing club later, and heads for his friend’s place at Marchmont.

  The biggest shock is Larry’s flat. It is spacious and luxurious. There must have been more money in the Edinburgh drug trade than he thought. Larry is hung-over, but grumblingly hands Franco the keys. — Right . . . look eftir it but . . . nae drivin oan the wrong side ay the road, he says in forced cheer.

  It’s liberating to have wheels again, and Franco’s first port of call is Leith. Driving past Leith Academy, he once again recalls his torturous dyslexic days there. Hetherington soo
n gave up on him, bar the odd ridiculing disdainful comment such as ‘We won’t ask Francis to read. After all, we only have two periods, not two days’; the laughter would echo in his ears and he felt the fury rising inside him, while he fought down its eruption. His mind drifts to the time the teacher had asked Mark Renton to do the honours. — No, Renton had said.

  — What? What do you mean ‘no’, Renton?

  — I’m no reading it.

  — Why not?

  — Cannae be bothered, he said, as chuckles broke out in the class.

  — Well, I’ll give you something to be bothered about. Hetherington’s voice went high, and he pulled out the tawse from his top drawer. — Read the passage, Renton, he commanded.

  Mark Renton kept his eyes focused on his desk. — Nup.

  — Right, come out here!

  Renton rose and came forward, extending his hands, one on top of the other, to receive four of the belt. At every lash, Frank Begbie watched, gritting his teeth. Renton wore a half-smile, one which admitted to the intense pain, yet made it clear that he found the whole thing comedic and ludicrous. He sat down on his stinging hands. — Wanker, he whispered, so that only Franco could hear. Frank Begbie knew that Mark Renton’s gesture was one of solidarity with him. He loved Renton after that, and would have done anything for him. They were inseparable friends. Yet it had gone so bad between them. Drugs. They got Renton, just like they got Sean.

  At Tesco’s in Duke Street, he puts thirty pounds on the mobile. The sales assistant, a different one, looks at him as if he is crazy. He dials direct to Melanie, only to have an American voice tell him: — Sorry, it has not been possible to connect you at the moment, please try again later.

  — Fuck you, ya cunt! he again spits down the phone, then, looking to the assistant, stops to perform breathing exercises. Life could get at you through a million cuts as well as one manic plunge.

  Gordon Court is another trip down memory lane. Agnes Duncan is happy to see him, it has been such a long time. The frail old woman expresses her sorrow at the death of Frank’s son, but is delighted when he shows her a photograph of the girls. It’s a little scuffed through being in his wallet, but as the ones on his phone are now in the city drainage system, it’s the only option, as he explains to her. — Aw aye, mair bad news, she says.

  Bad news seems to hunt Ross Fallon down. Several years ago the death of a young man at a party in his house had triggered a tabloid spree, further fuelled by the lurid disclosures of mercenary rent boys. Frank Begbie vaguely remembers reading about it.

  This Edinburgh businessman and former prospective Conservative parliamentary candidate (which in Scotland meant little more than no-hoper status) had been further tarnished since then. Not that the corpulent individual tucking into his food in Valvona & Crolla looks uncomfortable, with his gourmet pasta and glass of white wine. Frances Flanagan’s information about his brunching modus operandi was spot on.

  Frank Begbie positions himself at a nearby table, watching Fallon shovel back his food. He can’t believe the aromas and range of produce in this wonderful place, which he has passed a million times and never set foot in. How it was assumed that it wasn’t for the likes of him. He speculates as to how different his native city might seem for somebody who habitually shops at Valvona & Crolla, rather than Scotmid.

  When the waitress approaches, Franco enquires as to the possibility of an egg-white omelette, and she looks at him as if he has two heads. He settles for a vegetarian verdure breakfast, which he greatly enjoys, dispatching it swiftly as he sits behind the Scotsman. He’d heard Greg mention that the paper has decanted from its showcase, custom-built headquarters by the Scottish Parliament to a broom cupboard out at Orchard Brae. Sure enough, it has the shabby, beaten, depressive tone and content of a publication on its last legs. Every article seems either half-hearted and ill-considered or desperately overreaching, as if the journal is drowning in its own pointlessness, occasionally gripped by sudden, panicky bouts of awareness. He goes to the sports pages, but the exploits of Edinburgh’s senior clubs fail to excite. Fallon sits for a long time, himself reading a Financial Times. Do those cunts no have anything tae dae? he wonders, realising that he’s badly missing his studio. It dawns on him just how much he likes to get on with stuff.

  Finally Fallon shifts his bulk and creakingly rises to settle his bill. Frank Begbie does the same, following him out to his car, then jumping into the van. As he pursues the landlord, it isn’t so much the driving on the left-hand side of the road that he finds strange, but the act of sitting there in the vehicle. Fallon heads out of town, Franco tailing him as far as a large villa, just outside Haddington. Watching him vanish down the driveway, Franco lets him go inside, before striding down the path and knocking at the door. When Fallon answers, Frank Begbie booms, — Fallon, landlord, and pushes past him into the house. — You rented a flat to Sean Begbie, ay?

  — Who the fuck, Fallon protests, — you can’t come in here –

  — I’m in already, so your statement makes nae fuckin sense, Franco says, heading into the front room.

  — Get out, or I’ll call the police!

  — Feel free. Franco picks up a heavy glass ashtray from a coffee table.

  He sees Fallon hesitate. His instincts are correct: this guy doesn’t want the cops involved in his business. — You no gaunny call the polis then? he taunts.

  — Who the fuck are you?

  Franco swivels and holds the ashtray up to the light. He seems at pains to see something through the blue glass. — The weight in these things. His eyes swivel round at Fallon.

  Fallon gasps, looking at the ashtray, then into Frank Begbie’s 200-yard stare. — Please . . . I don’t want any trouble . . . what do you want . . .?

  — You rented a flat to Sean Begbie, Franco repeats, slapping the ashtray against his open palm.

  — No . . . no . . . I rented to Arbie . . . I didn’t know he sublet to Sean or anybody else!

  Another name. Arbie. — So you knew Sean?

  — Vaguely . . . through Arbie and a few others . . . they hung around together.

  Franco’s eyes blaze, but to Ross Fallon they seem set deep in cavernous slits. It’s like two oncoming trains in adjacent railway tunnels. Then Begbie’s voice drops, almost to a whisper. — Were ye shaggin him?

  Fallon looks scandalised. — No, he yelps, then slips into a confessional tone. — I’ve had boys here, for parties. Mostly it was harmless, but they took the piss, stealing and stuff. I was stupid . . . I was lonely –

  — Ah couldnae gie a fuck how lonely ye wir!

  — Sean and I never – honestly!

  Franco considers this. There is probably no real reason for him to lie. — Frances Flanagan, she was here, aye?

  — Yes.

  — Anton Miller?

  Fallon visibly trembles at the mention of that name.

  — Okay, I’ll take that as a yes, Franco spits, — What about this Arbie gadge, where does he live?

  — Gorgie. He just got out of prison.

  — Give me his address. Dinnae even think aboot tippin him off or I’ll be back here. Franco lowers the ashtray onto the table. He looks out the window, then rubs the curtains between thumb and finger, talking in detached, matter-of-fact tones, as if he’s addressing the material in his hand. — They will be able to put your face back together again after I’m done, he suddenly whips his neck round, his cold eyes evaluating the landlord, — but it’ll be a long and painful process and it’ll never look quite the same again, and his brows raise skyward, as if actually estimating the extent of the task the surgeon will have.

  Fallon’s trembling hand picks up a pen and scratches out the address in capital letters on a notepad. He tears off the page and hands it to Frank Begbie. The address seems familiar.

  It takes Franco over an hour to get to Gorgie, through the heavy traffic. Then he is astonished to find himself knocking on the door of a second-floor flat off Gorgie Road, in the same street and the next sta
ir to the one where Sean met his end. Fallon had been easy to intimidate. He’d thought this would be the case as soon as he’d seen the obese, watery-eyed man. He isn’t sure that the same tactics will yield such impressive results with this Arbie guy, whoever he is.

  A second heavy knock, and a white-haired man with a beard answers the door. With his porridge-coloured, fibrous skin, he looks like a prison fixture. Franco can’t place the name or the face, but Arbie looks like he has some recognition of him. — Aye?

  — Hi, Arbie.

  — Dae I know you? Arbie’s face contorts in a threatening sneer.

  Franco’s own features remain glacial. — Do you know who your family are?

  — Aye . . . Arbie says hesitantly.

  A familiar scenario unfolds for Frank Begbie. It’s the type of dominance he has always found seductive; the way he feels himself drawing the power and certainty out of other hard men. Something in his core blazes in affirmation. But it’s important not to succumb to this emotion. Not to raise your voice. Psychotherapists had trained him, not to eliminate this mindset – as he’d led many of them to believe – but simply to channel it. One . . . two . . . three . . . He breathes in steadily through his nose. — Do you know who your good mates are?

  — Aye . . . bit . . .

  — Well, you’ll ken I’m no one, so if you do know me, we’re no gaunny be close, Franco says, watching the man’s resistance crumble. — I want tae know about Sean Begbie.

  Arbie looks over his shoulder into the stair. — You’d best come in then.

  Unless he was in a blind rage, Frank Begbie usually picked on bullies. Not because he was some kind of protector or avenger. In fact he hated the sappy cunts who never stood up to them more than he hated the oppressors themselves. He recalls one occasion, when after battering a tormentor, the excitement of the victim indicated he believed that Begbie’s violence was undertaken on his behalf, or for some abstract notion of justice. So Begbie then rammed the nut on the biscuit-erse, in order to ensure he knew that the brutality had been purely for his own satisfaction. That he just preferred to ferociously assault tyrants because it changed them more. In his eyes, the sap was already defeated by terror, so there was no real buzz in smashing them. But seeing the bully’s confidence and power evaporate, and bearing witness to that change: that was unfailingly enjoyable.