The Blade Artist

by Irvine Welsh

  — Ah wonder how much we really change, Franco drily retorts. He’s recalling how Anton and his friends left him at the docks yesterday evening. When they’d departed, anger had got the better of him, and he’d cathartically crushed that source of his misery, the Tesco mobile, under his heel, kicking its ruins into the River Forth. Now he wants to ask Larry to borrow his phone, in order to call Melanie.

  But not yet.

  — Well, you’ve no anywey. Larry nods at the bag, the edges of his eyes crinkling. — So whae ye giein the message tae, ya dirty bastard?

  — Ye cannae kiss and tell.

  — It’ll be that Frances! A fuckin rampant wee pump . . . pack a few voddies intae her n it’s fill-hoose time! Bet ye hud a sly look at ma tape, Larry ventures, glancing from the road to Franco.

  — Ye inspired ays, Larry, Franco smiles, — but it’s no her, ah’m huntin bigger game.

  Larry laughs, delighted that he’s properly bonding with his old pal again. Franco had been out all day yesterday, and hadn’t got back till late. Larry had tried to pry as to his whereabouts, but as usual no information was forthcoming. So he contents himself with platitudes. — Aye, the auld days . . . good times, Franco.

  But Franco is shaking his head. No, he doesn’t want to use Larry’s phone to call Melanie, as even this far away he doesn’t like the idea of her digits being stored in it. — Were they really, but, Larry? Ah’m just no feelin it, he says, recalling slivers of alcohol-fuelled violence, bonhomie and shagging. Then the long periods in between, of being stuck in a cell. Coming out. A fresh start. A new bird. Big plans. Resolutions made.

  Then another wide cunt. Another incident.

  The same depressing pattern that had eaten away his youth. All the smells and sneers and hollow laughter of other men like him, veterans in the prison system. Often defiant but essentially beaten; besieged by the horrible truth that they’d never figured out how to stay away from those dreary, spirit-crushing places.

  Then the mentor. The dyslexia treatment. The lifeline. The books; those windows on alternative worlds.

  And finally, the physical embodiment of those worlds. The art therapist.

  The real Dancing Partner.

  — Mibbe we should take a wee trip doon tae Leith, Franco says. — Auld times’ sake.

  Larry’s face cracks open in a grin. — Set controls for the Port ay Leith it is, he sings, pulling off a slick lane change in Waterloo Place, cutting ahead of an SUV, to set them hurtling down Leith Walk.

  — Go straight doon Constitution Street, Franco suggests. — Let’s take a wee hurl doon tae the docks.

  — Huvnae been there in donks, Larry says, but a short time later he is pulling up outside the dockyard gates.

  — Just drive through, urges Franco, — it’ll probably pish doon in a bit.

  — It looks awright tae me, blue skies, ay, Larry says doubtfully, then points to a sign: NO UNAUTHORISED VEHICLES PERMITTED.

  Franco’s eyes narrow. His voice drops, almost to the point where it approximates that intense but chilling burr Larry knows so well: recognisable, now, following its absence. — Since when did we need authorisation fae any cunt tae go anywhere in Leith?

  Larry smirks in complicity, gratified to see Franco getting back to being his old self. He drives the van across the cobblestones and the grid, and under Franco’s instructions, they park by an old brick outbuilding. It’s deserted: no security around. Franco looks about; how strange it feels to see it properly in the cold light of day. They get out of the van, walking to the edge of the dry dock. Franco looks over. — Did ah ever tell ye the story aboot ma auld Grandad Jock and Handsome Johnnie Tweed?

  — Nup.

  Franco is still looking down. It’s a long way to the bottom, not the pit of hell it seemed to him as a kid, but far enough. The subsidence in the crumbling walls has gathered pace; more boulders lie strewn over the bottom of the dock, despite some angled wooden buttresses on the far side trying to shore it up. His head starts to spin a little. He steps back and turns to his friend. — We were big mates, ay, Larry.

  — Aye, still are, but, Franco, ay, Larry says slyly, but with wary concern.

  — Big mates, but no mates, Franco considers in a cold monotone. — Mates ay a kind, but at heart despising each other.

  Larry regards him in flinty-eyed aggression, briefly taken aback. He seems about to protest, but something reconfigures internally, and instead he breaks into a smile. — So it’s aw comin oot now, then, ay?

  — You ey kent how tae play me, Franco continues, looking across to the cranes, as seagulls flap and squawk in the distance, probably at the rubbish in the tip beyond the corrugated-iron walls to the east of the yards. To his left, the sun is going down across the silver-grey river, a flaming red, as if poised to burn Fife off the map. — Kent how tae instigate trouble. Makin the snowballs for me tae fling. Probably did a lot ay jail time cause ay you, he declares, without animosity. — My real mates, the likes ay Rents, Tommy, Sick Boy, Spud n that, they were ey wide for ye.

  — They fuckin junkies! What aboot me? Larry sneers, pointing to a scar above his eye and a burn mark on the side of his face. — Who gied ays them? Whae bullied me, and every other cunt, and made our lives fuckin hell? Saint Francis James Begbie! Aye, yir mates, Renton, Sick Boy, Spud n that, whaire the fuck are they now?

  Franco’s lips tighten, and his brows rise. It was a good question.

  But Larry is on a roll. It is indeed all coming out now. — Well, thir no wi you! No wi the fuckin bully!

  — Takes one tae ken one, Larry. Look at you, since way back at school –

  — Nivir in your league, pal, Larry snaps. — Even yir ain mates wirnae safe! Every cunt gied ye a wide berth, and Larry taps his own skull, — cause ye wir a fuckin psycho, he grins, stepping closer to Frank Begbie, pushing his face out, as if inviting a blow. — Now look at ye! A fuckin pussy! Ye willnae even go eftir that wee cunt Miller!

  Breathe slowly . . . in through the nose, out through the mouth . . . — Ah ken you’ve been in wi Tyrone, you n Nelly, the auld Leith boys, tryin tae set ays up, ay, Franco says, in relaxed tones. — Tryin tae blame it aw oan that Anton Miller boy.

  — Aye, Larry spits, his stare blazing defiantly at Franco, his eyes seeming to be framing something in a corner of his mind. — N it disnae matter now cause ah’ve no goat that long, wi the cowie n that. But thaire’s one thing ah want ye tae ken!

  — Aye? What’s that?

  — Ah fuckin topped your Sean! Larry rocks back on his heels, almost intoxicated by his statement, and deeply savouring it, as his gaze devours Frank Begbie for a reaction.

  Franco merely nods, as if Larry has confessed to getting a parking ticket.

  Larry looks at him aghast, his expression tumbling in crushing disappointment. — Did ye hear me? Ah killed that poofy wee cunt, and ken how? Because he beat me at that fuckin poxy computer game! No just cause ay that, but because he couldnae shut his fuckin mooth aboot it! Couldnae stop playin the wide erse. The smart cunt. But he wisnae you, Franco. He wis jist a smart-ersed wee poofter n a junky. Aye, ah went back that night tae that flat n fuckin pummelled the cunt. That Frances wis thaire, but she wis oot ay it n aw. But ye ken the real reason ah wasted um? Tae git back at you! Fir aw the shite ah took offay ye aw they years!

  Franco seems to consider this. — Suppose that’s just the way it goes, but, ay.

  — Is that aw ye can say?! Larry’s mouth puckers in sweetie-wife disgust. — So yir no even gaunny dae nowt? You’ve loast it, awright! Ye widnae take on that wee Anton cunt, try as ah might tae steer ye tae him –

  — You always were a snidey bastard, Frank Begbie acknowledges. — Frances talked, put ays in touch wi Arbie. He telt me how ye were playin Sean and Anton for mugs. Ah know Sean was shiftin loads for him. You were n aw. Ye tax it?

  — Too fuckin right! That wee skank Frances’ll dae anything ah say. Larry throws back his head, exposing the brilliantly capped teeth. — Another thing that mug Anton cannae
control, the big superstar gangster! A dozy bit ay fanny! Ken how? Tiny wee fuckin welt oan um, she sais! Aye, that wee cunt is next on ma list, he declares, thrashing a fist against his own chest. — Think ah’m feart ay you or him now? Larry rolls up his jumper exposing the lesions on his torso. — You gaunny dae something tae me? Go ahead, ah dinnae gie a fuck! Tae the people ah love? Ah think you’re a wee bit too warm-blooded tae hurt bairns, Larry declares, turning in a flourish, as if addressing an invisible but appreciative audience.

  Franco bobs his head slowly. — You’re right about that. Problem is, though, it’s no really me ye need tae worry aboot. He looks to the howf.

  The heavy wooden door swings open with a creaking sound, as Anton Miller steps out. — Hiya, Larry.

  Larry rubbernecks to Franco in desperation. — Dinnae leave me wi him! He’ll kill the bairn!

  — That’s already done and dusted, Anton says.

  — Naw, you’re fuckin lying . . . Larry gasps.

  — The thing is, you’ll never ken for sure one way or the other. Anton pulls out a chef’s knife. His other hand is bolstered by a knuckleduster. He removes his green leather bomber jacket, slinging it over the bonnet of Larry’s white van. Then Anton stretches out, flexing his muscles, solid in a black T-shirt, as if he is getting ready for a workout. — Ah’m giein ye the heads-up n tellin ye here.

  — Naw . . . Larry gasps.

  — Looks like a tool for carvin, rather than plungin, Franco observes, regarding the knife. — This might take some time.

  — Count on it, Anton says, again to Franco’s eye, still breathing easily. — They are gaunny find this stirrin cunt in really, really small pieces. He glowers at Larry. — And I think Frances was just tryin tae make ye feel a wee bit better about yourself. But whoever’s got the bigger cock now, I guarantee it’ll be me by the time we’ve finished, and he brandishes the knife.

  Larry pants, his wild eyes swivelling around, scanning for a way out or a potential weapon. Within two heartbeats, something dies in them, and he leans back against the brick wall of the howf, as if letting it support him. Anton puts the knife into his belt, then springs forward, unloading an impressive volley of punches and kicks at Larry’s defenceless figure. To Franco’s eye they are delivered with the velocity and precision of somebody who has trained as a fighter: perhaps he’d boxed at amateur level or taken several karate belts. Larry stumbles back, and slumps to the ground. Then, as Anton withdraws the knife and prepares to commence carving up the cowed figure, Franco steps forward and says, — As keen as ah am tae see ye in action against this clown, you’d best take him back in there. He points to the old brick howf. — Security still do the odd run through here.

  — Good thinkin . . . Anton seizes the broken, whimpering figure of Larry by the hair and yanks him to his feet, marching him into the howf. There is a cruel focus in the young man’s eyes, movements stiffly executed, but replete with an air of ceremony. Franco can see Anton ten years from now as a family man, living in a smart suburb, wearing the same expression, as he carves up the family Christmas turkey.

  Franco shuts the big wooden door behind them, so that Larry’s screams might be muffled in the highly unlikely event of anybody coming by.

  32

  THE DELIVERY BOY 5

  Things turned bad for my grandfaither and his mates, as the investigation into Johnnie’s death gained momentum. They were surprised at how relentless the cops were; it was as if they had inside information. It seemed tae take forever but eventually they all went to jail for Johnnie’s death. Under pressure, they blamed each other. A flare-up took place, no in the Marksman, but in the Bowler’s Rest pub, a quiet shop tucked away oot ay sight doon Mitchell Street. They probably went there to get their stories straight for the bizzies, but they argued and it got physical. Carmie battered Lozy quite badly that day, and I think Jock took advantage of their fallout, he and Lozy deciding the big man would take the rap for stoving in Johnnie’s heid with the rock.

  Carmie and Lozy would sit at opposite ends of the Marksman Bar. After the dispute they reputedly never spoke another word to each other or Grandad Jock again, though that might be bullshit. People need myths; they desperately embrace them tae gie their empty lives significance. But what nae cunt could dispute was that the close friendship between them was over under the strain of the persistent polis hassle. The Marksman is a very small bar and there were plenty of other pubs a stone’s throw away that they could’ve drunk in. I suppose neither wanted tae back down.

  Pride.

  So when the charges were brought, only Carmie was to be done for Johnnie’s murder. I don’t remember the details of the case but they accused each other in court of accidentally pushing Johnnie into the dock after a drunken argument over cards money. Jock and Lozy were done for reckless behaviour and failing to report the crime or to assist Johnnie. The court proceedings were wild, dissolving into a shouting match. It was back in the time when the Scotsman Publications would cover working-class violence in the city with glee, through their court columns. Now they have a policy of ignoring it, in case it frightens suburbanites or tourists. But the trial was messy. They were all given prison sentences. Not long ones in the case of Jock and Lozy, but they were still very old men to go to the jail. In some ways this was worse for the two of them, as on release they were ostracised as scum: failing to report a friend dying, and probably grassing up another mate, those things could never be forgiven.

  Old Jock suffered a stroke in jail, and he was set free early. But his younger second wife, a dirty big hoor we were asked to call ‘Aunt Maureen’ rather than ‘Gran’ or ‘Nan’, had left him for a younger guy. Lozy did his stretch, but Carmie, doing the real time, would eventually die in prison.

  I went to see Jock a couple of times, in the sheltered housing complex at Gordon Court, where he lived his last years. His face was twisted in the same lopsided grin, which, thanks to the stroke, was now a permanent fixture – with spazziness and drooling thrown in for good measure. There were no friends left. It was as if now that he was vulnerable, people could openly acknowledge what a cunt he was. Lozy and him, despite, or possibly because of, their scheming treachery to Carmie, they never talked to each other.

  The last time I visited him at Gordon Court, I knew he was on his way out. Notwithstanding the attentions of the care staff, the place was minging. He smelt of pish and disgusted me. It was then I decided to tell the cunt the whole story. — Mind when you heard that Johnnie had got his heid mashed in? You aw blamed it on each other; you, Carmie and Lozy. But youse always wondered, who was it that really finished him, that smashed his heid in?

  There was a stunned reaction. Jock couldn’t speak but it seemed like he was on the verge of another massive stroke. His face flushed crimson as he wheezily struggled to suck in air.

  — It was me, ah telt him, as ah stood ower him. Ah wis about eighteen then, and ah couldnae believe that I’d ever been scared ay that auld vegetable. — Aye, ah finished him off. Dropped a big boulder on his heid. Of course, that was a warning sign for the bizzies. They tagged it as a murder rather than the suicide ay another docker peyed off and pit on the scrapheap. So they investigated. Of course, ah called them masel, telt them it was youse, ah explained, as Grandad Jock went aw spazzy on me. The fear and hate in his cunty auld eyes! — Aye, it fair landed yis right in it! That wis when yis aw turned on each other; it wis barry tae watch, ah laughed in his wheezing puss. — So it wis me. Ah fucked yis up, ah goat yis aw pit away!

  Why? I could see him ask with his eyes, with every fibre of his being.

  — Johnnie asked ays, I telt him, — and I’d always really liked Johnnie. Aw that work ah did for youse, it wis Johnnie that ey saw ays awright, oan the QT like. Nae other cunt gied a fuck. That wis one reason. The other yin wis that it was a barry laugh!

  Eh pilled ehsel tae ehs climbin frame n yanked ehsel up. Tried tae come at ays! It wis ridic! Ah booted it oot fae under him and watched him crash tae the flair. — Beat it, ya fu
ckin auld muppet, ah laughed at um. For some reason ah mind ay gaun tae Methuen’s chippy in Junction Street eftir, for a mince-pie supper.

  A couple ay weeks later eh was deid. Ah went tae the funeral. Never planned tae go, cause ah ended up in the cells eftir a pagger up the toon the night before. By the time ah got back hame, ah jist wanted tae get some proper kip in. But the auld man and muh ma, n even Joe, they aw sterted tae make a fuss, so ah went along. Nae Lozy present, hardly any other cunt thaire. A waste ay fuckin time. The thing is, he was fuckin well hated aw along.

  33

  THE HOWF

  As he takes Anton’s green jacket from the bonnet of the van, and hangs it on the handle of the howf door, Franco can hear Larry’s screams tearing out, caterwauling inside his brick prison. Anton is silent, but his blade is certainly doing the talking. Franco is tempted to open the heavy wooden door, to better appreciate the younger man’s style. However, Larry’s wails mean Anton can’t hear Frank Begbie getting into the van and reversing it up against the door, leaving a gap of about five inches.

  Immersed in his barbaric duties, Anton only registers something untoward happening when he hears a splashing sound on the concrete floor. He turns to see the nozzle of a petrol can poking through the gap, spilling its contents into the howf. It is soaking his trainers and has got as far as the jeans of the wretched, blood-saturated figure slumped in the corner, only vaguely recognisable as Lawrence Thomas Wylie.

  — What the fuck – Frank Begbie hears Anton suddenly shout from inside the howf, as he slams the door repeatedly against the back of the van. — FRANCO! WHAT THE FUCK! So you . . . you’re gaunny call the polis, catch ays here – Anton gasps, almost hopefully. In his panic he pushes an arm and part of his face through the gap in the door, which only gives Franco the opportunity to douse him with petrol. He steps back into the howf, spitting and pleading, — WHAT?! WHAT’S AW THIS ABOOT?!