The Blade Artist

by Irvine Welsh

But that night I did something ah’d never done before, and would vow never tae do again. I went doon tae the phone box and called the bizzies.

  29

  THE YOUNG WARLORD

  In some ways the silence on the drive suits him. In others it’s worrying, indicating that he’s subject to a chilling restraint and professionalism. Power’s wankers wouldn’t have the discipline to maintain such a hushed silence. At the very least, they would have been compelled to scoff at his Tesco mobile phone. He estimates three men, one driving, two in the back with him. But instead of trying to work out where he’s going, he focuses on his breathing, slowly, through the hood, warm on his face, and he lets his thoughts drift off, away from the unwelcome interventions of his grandad, to his wife and daughters. If he was finished, he was going to bow out thinking about them.

  Under that dark hood, he is lifting Eve high over the sand dunes, then holding up an aggressive, pinching rock crab for Grace’s attentions. She is laughing, dancing in front of it with delight. Then Melanie is in his arms, as they salsa across the floor, to the girls’ enchantment. He wants to show his daughters that this is what real men do with their sweethearts – that this rapture, beauty and fun is what they are entitled to expect of love. He is breathing evenly, he is at peace. The constant stopping at the lights tells him he’s still in the city, but they might be taking him anywhere. Then, suddenly, he feels familiar cobblestoned bumps under the SUV, knows the sequence of them. This is followed by the rumbling of a grid.

  They are at Leith Docks.

  They stop the car and help him out. They handle him firmly, but not over-aggressively. As the hood is pulled from him and he blinks into a fading light, a dark, short-haired, flinty-eyed man in his early twenties comes into focus, facing him. The man is well dressed, not in casual or gangster fashions, but like a young professional. His face is fresh and unblemished, apart from a thin scar above his top lip. Franco thinks of the person who gave him that scar. Was he gone for good, or perhaps strutting around a different town with impunity? — You must be Anton.

  The young man nods. There are two other men with Anton, almost flanking him, maybe a step behind. In clothing and bearing they look like cheaper, inferior versions. Frank Begbie is instantly less impressed. He now reads their silence as deference to a disciplined leader, rather than inherent competence.

  — A wee bit ay advice, Franco says nonchalantly, — get yourself checked oot. The STD clinic.

  Anton Miller’s face is still impassive, though one eyebrow slightly raises. His henchmen bristle, the chunkier one stepping forward. — What was that? he says, his fists balling.

  — The lassie Flanagan, Frank Begbie says, completely ignoring the other man, never taking his eyes off Anton Miller. — Decent pussy, but pits it aboot too much. Larry’s been thaire, n he wis ey a bareback man. Doubt that’s changed.

  Anton Miller nods slowly, in mild appreciation. It’s as if Frank Begbie has passed a test, or maybe two: of insight and bottle. — I’ve no brought ye doon here tae discuss my health. Ah wanted tae look you in the eye and tell ye something straight.

  — Ah think ah ken what it is, Franco says, — that ye had nowt tae dae wi Sean’s death. Well, ah’d figured that oot for masel.

  Anton lets both his brows rise. — Aw aye, n how did ye come tae that conclusion?

  — Too many bams aw singin fae the same song sheet. Orchestrated by a cunt who ey does that sort ay thing. Whae’s been daein it since the year dot.

  — Power, Anton scoffs.

  He notes the stockier henchman, the one who’d come forward, exchange a look with the other guy; thinner, hook-nosed. — Golden rule: that fat cunt says sugar, I think shite, Franco half smirks. — Never had that many rules that stood me in good stead. Wish ah’d remembered that yin mair.

  Anton smiles, allowing Franco to feel the younger man’s cool charisma. What sort of education he’s received is neither here nor there: his intelligence is obviously formidable. Then a focused gleam comes into his eyes. — You dinnae seem tae be that upset for a man who’s just lost his son.

  — Ah was never close tae him, Franco shrugs. — Nae sense in lyin aboot it, or playin oot some fucked-up drama tae suit other people. Of course ah want tae know what happened, but that’s aboot it. He looks around, taking in the overhanging cranes, glancing across to the factory units, over the top of the new-build casino. — I’ve nae emotional investment in this place. Besides, times change. Franco nods at Anton and his associates with a half-grin. — I’m oot ay my depth here.

  — Franco Begbie, ootay his depth. Anton seems to toy with this idea. — You had some rep in this toon.

  — Mibbee once. But you type ay guys were always better than me; the likes ay you and Power. Ah wis never in that league. Ah wis jist a thug. A good thug, but that was it, and he thinks about Davie ‘Tyrone’ Power’s statement. — I never hud you boys’ entrepreneurial zest.

  A slight smile that might have been a reaction to flattery plays across Anton’s lips, but his tombstone-grey eyes stay glacial. — Heard you’ve done awright for yourself. An artist, oot in California.

  — No bad, Franco concedes, — but that’s aw hype and fashion. They buy ma stuff cause it’s in vogue, so ah make tons ay it and flog it while ah can. Some day soon, they’ll lose interest. Till then, make hay while the sun shines.

  — You’re a smart man.

  Frank Begbie shakes his head. — Spent too much time in jail tae ever be called that.

  Anton looks to his associates, then back to Begbie. — Let’s go for a wee walk, just the two ay us.

  Franco nods, thinking that whatever is going to happen, one versus one is better odds than one versus three. They stroll together along the edge of the old dock, heading out to the jetty and the breakwater. The wind is cold and biting as they stop, leaning on a railing, looking out to the dank, dull waters of the Forth Estuary. Frank Begbie thinks of the Pacific Ocean by his home, all those hues of blue. What is he doing here, with all those shades of grey? Does Anton want a square go, or is he planning to shoot him and push his body into the sea?

  Or maybe he just wants to talk. Certain types of success can be isolating, and make people lonely. — Ah’ve made money. But it’s aw overseas. In banks. Anton is staring out to the horizon, but with intent, as if he sees something out there.

  — So ah’ve heard, Franco says. — And I won’t kid on that ah’m no impressed. Even the likes ay Power, it took him twenty-odd years tae get the sense you’ve got now.

  Anton turns to face him, with an impatient, almost mocking leer. — Do you ken how easy it is tae go tae Switzerland and open a business account in a bank? Or even the Cayman Islands? Ye jump on a fuckin plane, n walk intae a bank wi your passport and a bag full ay cash. Tell them you want to open a business account. That’s it. Tougher tae open one wi the RBS or Clydesdale.

  Begbie remains impassive.

  — The point ah’m makin is that schemies have an aversion tae walkin ontae a fuckin plane that isnae gaun tae Amsterdam, or Ibiza or Thailand or some fitba game. Somewhere they’re told they can go. They’d rather stuff their money under a mattress.

  — I trust my bank in California, Frank Begbie states. — Of course, they’re ripping me off, but the money isnae gaun anywhere.

  Anton suddenly looks at Franco in a different way, as if he considers he might be being played. — You wake up in the sun every morning, nice wife, kids, looking oot tae the ocean. Not a worry or a care. That’s gaunny be me a couple ay years fae now.

  Franco tries to hold his poker face but he can feel doubt creeping into his expression.

  This isn’t lost on Anton, who responds with a grin that briefly makes him look boyish, but somehow more dangerous. — Aw aye, you’re right tae be cynical. Talk’s cheap, every bam says that, but ah’ve gied masel a target. The amount’s written doon in black and white. Ah’m almost there. Then ah go. Dunno where, but somewhere warm and sunny.

  Franco thinks of himself at that age, a mere pri
mitive in comparison. It’s so strange for such a young man to be able to converse like this. But how much has he really considered? — What will ye dae when ye get there? he asks.

  Franco can see by the slight narrowing of his eyes that this question has cut Anton. — That’s the part ah still need tae figure oot, he concedes, turning back to the sea. — But ah ken what ah’m no gaunny dae. Ma auld man worked hard aw his life. He was a welder tae trade. Then that dried up, the yards shut. So he worked abroad for a bit. Then he came back, and took a job on the TV detector vans. See, he was a straightpeg, did fuck all wrong his whole life. Anton turns back to Frank Begbie. — Fuckin mug.

  — Don’t think I know the boy, Franco responds, deadpan.

  — Take it fae me, Anton jeers. — You’ve got tae set the world on fire, and his eyes suddenly blaze, as if in illustra-tion. — And see your Sean, ah always liked that boy. He was awright, a good laugh. And whatever cunts are puttin aboot, he never, ever ripped me off.

  — That’s good, Franco says, — you have tae be able tae trust people.

  — But eh wis a waster. Anton shakes his head. — Drugs got him. Drugs ah sold, drugs he sold. Ah used tae tell him: Sell drugs, get rich. Take drugs, fuck yirsel. Tae me that’s always the ultimate no-brainer. Sean should have got that. He wisnae a daftie. Till he was wasted.

  — Ah never knew him that well. Ah was either in jail, or kipped up wi some other bird when he was growing up. Heard he was a drug addict, though. That’s disappointing tae me. Franco arches his brow. — These people always disappoint.

  Frank Begbie’s voice has dropped ominously, but Anton now seems lost in his own dark thoughts. — Ma auld man; ah bought him n ma auld girl a hoose on a nice estate at Barnton, oot ay the scheme. Took them roond there in the car. A big surprise. Drove them ootside this nice walled-and-gated development, landscaped gairdins, the lot, and handed them the keys. He telt me tae stuff it; refused tae even get oot the motor. My ma greetin her eyes oot, her dream hoose, and this prick wouldnae even get oot the fuckin car tae have a look at it. And he wouldnae let her get oot either. Said he didnae want anything that was peyed for by misery money. That was what he says: misery money. Can ye fuckin believe that?

  Franco is silent, looking out to sea. The light is fading. It’s getting really cold. — People are hard tae figure oot sometimes, he states, then looks at Anton. — Who do you think murdered Sean?

  Anton stares him coldly in the eye. — The easiest thing tae say would be Power, or one ay his mob. But that would be a lie. The truth is, ah’ve no got a clue. But if you find oot, let me know. As I say: he had his faults, but I liked Sean.

  — No enough tae go tae his funeral.

  — There isnae much ye can dae for somebody when thir deid, Anton shrugs mildly. — You think half the bams who were there, those fuckin ghouls, really wanted tae pey respects tae Sean? If ah’d turned up, there would’ve been an atmosphere, wi Power and a few others. Ah showed ma respect by stayin away.

  Franco thinks about this, and his confrontation with Cha Morrison. — Fair enough.

  — You know . . . we’ve got something in common, Anton ventures, a slight wistfulness creeping into his tone. — Sean wisnae the son you wanted. Ma auld man wisnae the faither ah wanted.

  — We’re baith too auld tae bother aboot adoption papers now.

  Anton laughs loudly at that. — You know, it’s nice tae meet somebody who isnae scared ay me.

  — How d’ye ken ah’m no just frontin it?

  — Ah ken, Anton says. — N ah also know that you’ve got nothing against me.

  Franco smiles at that. — And if ah did have?

  — Oh, you’d be deid by now, Anton tells him, — and your wife and bairns, and he holds up the Tesco phone. There is a text from Melanie displayed on the luminous yellow-green screen.

  Call me as soon as you get this. It’s urgent. Love you. X

  — You should, Anton Miller says impassively, and hands over the phone. As he takes it, Franco Begbie tries to see whether the younger man is breathing in. He can discern nothing.

  30

  THE DANCE PARTNER 5

  The salsa class at the Santa Barbara Dance Center was busy, and all the participants were couples. Melanie had seen the two gay men in the group, and registered Jim looking intently at the very flamboyant pair. Then he’d studied the other couples, and noting everybody was unconcerned, seemed to lose interest in them. At the end of the session, Melanie got chatting with the men, Ralph and Juan, discovering both also worked at the University of Santa Barbara. The quartet decided to go for a drink together in the wine bar across the street.

  This became a habit, often with Sula and other class members joining them. Jim was one of the few present who never drank alcohol. The evenings weren’t riotous affairs; there was probably only one occasion when they all got really drunk and Jim had watched them in semi-detached amusement.

  Melanie had woken up twice, first just before 2 a.m., then again just after five, but both times she’d managed to bury herself back in the domain of sleep. When she next bats into consciousness, she is horrified that it’s almost ten and she feels more exhausted than ever. Nonetheless, she forces herself up and into the shower, getting dressed as some strange British television show plays in the background. For breakfast she locates a cafe on South Clerk Street, relieved to find its offerings more than acceptable to her Californian palate. Two espressos help her into the day.

  There is another message from Harry, now sober and penitent. — Melanie, it’s Harry, Harry Pallister. I see from my caller ID that I called you yesterday. I can only vaguely remember. I was very drunk, and I apologise. I’ve been having issues with depression and I’ve taken sick leave to get treatment, and I’ve joined AA. Please forgive me. It’s Harry Pallister, he repeats. — Bye for now.

  — Fuck you and your bullshit, Melanie says out loud to her phone.

  As the data-roving facility on her cell will prove disastrously expensive, she locates an Internet cafe, where she finds Elspeth’s address from an old email. It dates back to the funeral of Jim’s mother, which she hadn’t been able to attend as Grace had only been weeks old. She traces the address on Google Maps and sets off for the west side of the city. Edinburgh has suddenly, unpredictably, gotten very warm, and she quickly feels overdressed in her tracksuit top, tying it around her waist.

  Mindful of her only previous visit to her sister-in-law’s, Melanie anticipates a hostile reception. It had been a Christmas affair, ending in calamity, during which both Elspeth and Jim’s . . . no, Frank’s brother Joe had gotten drunk and made a terrible scene. This weighs heavily on her mind, as she disembarks from the tram and comes upon the house.

  In the event, she is surprised to be treated with great warmth. Elspeth is tearful, explaining that the house had been attacked by thugs looking for Frank, with George suffering a cut on his hand. Melanie fights down her mounting panic as her sister-in-law tells her the story. Elspeth concludes by saying they all agreed that it would be best if Frank moved out, and he went to stay with an old friend, Larry.

  Melanie can’t recall hearing of Larry before, perhaps in passing, but Frank is generally reticent in talking about old associates. Unlike a lot of dangerous men she’s met, he’s disinclined to talk about his past. She had taken this as a sign that he’d put it behind him. Now she feels a darker undertow.

  Elspeth doesn’t know Larry’s address, and they try Frank’s UK phone again, but it goes straight to voicemail. — It does that aw the time.

  The family attempt to get Melanie to stay with them at Murrayfield, but she refuses. Elspeth insists that she at least has a meal with them. Melanie is happy to do so, and to chat to the boys. George and Thomas are both fascinated by her, beset with hopeless crushes for the exotic American aunt they remember meeting a few years back.

  — You had the baby, and another one, Thomas says.

  — I did!

  — When I get older I’m going to get on the plane and visit you
and Uncle Frank and meet the girls, George advances.

  — That would be so cool. How’s your hand?

  He shakes a bandaged mitt. — I got a fright, but I think that was just with the window being smashed in and all the flying glass. I’ve cut myself worse shaving.

  As Melanie laughs, Elspeth draws in a breath of dismay, and looks to Greg.

  Later, when Melanie rises and announces her intention of going out to find Frank, Elspeth takes her aside. Melanie believes that her sister-in-law is going to try and talk her out of this course of action, but instead she entreats: — Take him back home tae California when ye find him. He doesnae belong here any more. Whatever I think of him, it’s obvious that he does a lot better with you over there than he’s ever done with us over here. I can see that now.

  Melanie recalls Harry’s grim conversations and prays that Elspeth is correct. She leaves, unaware that she is being instantly followed down the street by a man who has been keeping Elspeth’s home under survelliance, in the hope that somebody else might return there.

  Taking a cab down to Leith Walk, Melanie gets out at Pilrig, into a cooling drizzle. The weather has changed again. Her plan involves doing a dry pub crawl, the picture of Frank on her phone to be shown to the inhabitants of every bar until she finds him. And she prays that when she does he will be fine, perhaps a little drunk, having fallen off the wagon, on the tear with some old friends.

  In the event, she only gets to do one fruitless hostelry, when, heading down the Walk, she turns to see a limousine pulling up by the kerb alongside her.

  31

  THE MATE

  Once again, the sun has come up in Edinburgh. Open sesame. The city changes, instantly bright with optimism. Mischief is in the air. Boys swagger and girls strut, underdressed and exchanging devilish half-smiles. Franco is happy that he opted not to bring a jacket, and sports a vintage grey T-shirt with a prowling bear and CALIFORNIA REPUBLIC emblazoned under it. And now he and Larry are driving through town, talking about old faces and old times. Franco has the bag on his lap, containing items he’s borrowed from his friend, which the driver’s eye is straying to. — Ah thought ye were a married man, above aw that, he chides, with a salacious cackle.