by Irvine Welsh
Frank Begbie is extremely disinclined to let Melanie out of his sight. But she is urging him to go, and if Power had been intending to harm her, he reasons, he had ample opportunity to do so earlier. He nods and descends the stairs. In departure he can hear David ‘Tyrone’ Power pompously extol the virtues of Murdo Mathieson Tait.
The basement is a huge, rambling space. It’s largely open-plan, apart from the shower and laundry rooms, which lie off a connecting corridor linking a substantial gym to the rear of the house, with a large workshop to the front. Frank Begbie removes his clothes, bundling his jeans, T-shirt and socks into the washer, everything bar his underpants, pouring in the lime-scented detergent and setting the load. Then he heads to the shower, turns on the taps, and washes his son right out of his hair. He thinks of Michael as he scrubs with Power’s peach-scented exfoliating gel. Bearing witness to his son’s brutal, animal rage was like being shown a 3D movie of his younger self in action. History repeated itself. The ‘don’t do the things I did’ mantra was tiresome pish. The best way to make sure your children don’t grow up as cunts is not to be one yourself – or not to let them see you being one. This is easier as a sober artist in Santa Barbara than as an alcoholic jailbird in Leith.
Leaving the shower and drying himself off, Frank Begbie pulls on his underpants and gets into Tyrone’s silk robe. It hangs so farcically on him he laughs out loud. Then he turns to look around the rest of the vast basement.
The gym confirms that Tyrone obviously pumps iron in bouncer fashion, turning a massive calorie intake into not just fat but ludicrous amounts of chest, shoulder and arm muscle. The Falstaffian figure was a renowned street fighter back in his day, and still reputedly enjoys the occasional busting of chops, but generally leaves the real dirty work to hired hands.
It’s the workshop, though, that gives away the darker side of Power’s character. Most of it is taken up by two benches, full of all sorts of machine and hand tools. Franco has never taken David ‘Tyrone’ Power for a DIY enthusiast. The pliers, screwdrivers, but most of all the copious knives – including a throwing set in a box – make Franco decide to get Melanie away as soon as possible.
Frank is relieved to return to her, despite the forty minutes left on the wash cycle. He climbs the stairs, feeling preposterously self-conscious in the outsize silk kimono, wondering if this has been Tyrone’s idea all along: to render him vulnerable. Approaching Melanie and David Power, he listens to their chatter about dead painters. Then he gratefully embraces her, this time without any toxic stench, drinking in Melanie’s familiar scent, yet aware of Power’s sly, rapacious eyes on them. Pulling apart, he looks her in the eye. — Listen, I’ve a couple of things to straighten out with Davie, he urges, — you should go to the hotel and pack. I’ll meet you there as soon as my clothes are dry.
— No way. I’m not leaving you again!
— Ah really owe my old mate an apology, Frank implores, glimpsing Tyrone puffing up in entitlement. — Go and pack. Phone your mum. Find out how Grace and Eve are doing.
Melanie softens at that. Checks her phone for the time. — Will you be okay?
— Well, Frank Begbie laughs, — if I’m not at the hotel within ninety minutes, this time you do have my express permission to phone the police.
David ‘Tyrone’ Power looks hurt, responding with a sour pout.
It doesn’t go past Begbie. — Look, he appeals to Melanie, — I want to catch up a bit with my old mate and, as I’ve said, there are apologies due on my part. I was a wee bit rude the last time I enjoyed his hospitality, he concedes, turning to Tyrone. — What’s that auld phrase, Davie? You’d best enjoy my hospitality, because you won’t enjoy my hospitalisation.
As Power grins, Melanie looks at them in contempt. Jim seldom talks like this, but whenever he does, coldness locks around her. She shimmies a few inches from him. From Frank, as he’s called here. — You know, I think I will go, and leave you two with your fucking gangster bullshit.
— Sorry, babe. Franco’s brows raise and his mouth tightens in exasperation. — Can I borrow your phone?
Melanie unceremoniously slaps it into his hand, and settles back on the couch, regarding the paintings on the walls. Franco calls Terry, requesting his services. As Tyrone starts talking about one of Murdo Mathieson Tait’s compositions, Frank Begbie sits in silence until a call comes back fifteen minutes later. It’s followed by a cab pulling up outside. Melanie rises to leave.
— I’ll be with you soon, Franco urges.
— Right, she says, heading outside. Franco watches her departure from the window, sees her step into Terry’s cab.
— She’s no happy, Tyrone observes.
— She’ll come round. Franco turns to him. — I’m more worried aboot the driver she’s got intae the cab wi!
— Aye?
— Mind ay Juice Terry?
— Business Birrell’s mate? The fanny merchant?
— Aye.
Tyrone smiles briefly, then Franco registers his expression hardening. — We need tae have a fuckin chat. A chat we should have had a few days ago, he barks, pointing at the empty space on the couch opposite him.
Frank Begbie raises his arms in a surrender gesture and sits down. — Ah wis out ay order on the last visit, he says, shaking his head sadly. — Aw that stuff wi Sean . . . it hit me harder than I thought . . . and that thing wi Nelly. How is he?
— Still in the Infirmary, Tyrone says. — You hit his liver. It was touch-and-go for a while, but he’ll live.
Franco lets the concern drain out of his tightening limbs. — So ah decided tae make ma peace by taking care ay your wee problem, he remarks, watching Tyrone’s face open up like sunrise on a cold morning.
Then Power’s heavy brow furrows, briefly reminding Franco of Chang, the Chinese Shar-Pei dog that belongs to his neighbours in Santa Barbara. — What are ye saying, Frank?
— Anton is no more, Francis Begbie reveals with an understated flourish, enjoying Power’s intense absorption of this information. — Aye, poor Larry was collateral damage, but, well . . . he grins and shrugs minimally.
— You’ve done him? Miller? He’s gone? You’re joking!
— Your boys should take a discreet wee drive doon the docks. The old dry dock by the abandoned factory units. Anton’s in there, and Larry’s in the brick howf by the side ay it. His van should still be parked there too.
— How did ye . . . what happened?
— Let’s just say they played wi fire and got burnt.
Tyrone starts up a flurry of eager texting as Franco delineates the story, omitting only the details about Michael. His son and former employer are quite able to enter each other’s orbits without his assistance. As he listens, Tyrone can’t fight the euphoric smile ripping open his face. — Well done, Franco my son! I knew ye’d come roond!
— When I thought it through, I realised it could only have been him, Franco lies easily. — Listen, I was a bit rude with that last drink you offered, he concedes, — but maybe I should have one now, with the missus being away. Californians. He rolls his eyes. — It is a wee bit ay a celebration, after all, and he stands up and moves over to the marble cocktail bar. — Do ye mind?
— Not at all, you’ve earned it, count me in too! You’re a dark horse these days, Franco, Tyrone nods guilefully. — Ah underestimated ye. And as for Melanie . . . well done, he smiles. Then, as he watches Begbie pour the whisky into the gleaming crystal tumblers, Tyrone’s tone takes on a peevish hue. — That’s where I went wrong; going for the dumber lassies, who ye either get nothing out of, or they just talk boring pish about clathes and families. I always thought that was what I wanted, but when they’ve nothing of consequence to say, life gets so tiresome.
— Did she like the paintings? Begbie asks, replacing the top on the whisky bottle and settling it down gently on the flecked marble. — She kens a lot mair aboot that sort ay thing than me.
— Oh yes. Tyrone looks around the walls with pride. — She was certainly ver
y knowledgeable about Murdo Mathieson Tait’s work; I was impressed. Aye, ye did well for yourself there, Franco.
Francis Begbie beams back at David Power. — You know, you fairly sussed me oot, Davie; that I hadnae really changed. I used to think I was scared that somebody would try and dae something bad tae Mel and the kids. Then I realised that was a lie. Franco hands him the malt whisky. — What I was really scared ay was that naebody would try, because ah was desperate for somebody tae. See, ah still enjoy the buzz, but now ah need a proper excuse tae kick off. Like family, he says, moving back over to the chair and placing his own glass on the coffee table, then taking one of David Power’s cigars from the box on the bar, waving it at his ex-boss. — This okay?
— Of course it is, Tyrone purrs, nursing his own whisky appreciatively. — Spark up a couple.
— Aye, they call it IED in America: intermittent explosive disorder. Aw the transactional analysis, assertion training, anger management, cognitive therapy, and even the art, it hasnae stopped my urge tae violence. He sticks the cigar in the mini-guillotine and beheads it. Then he lights it up, expelling a plume of blue smoke.
He passes the cigar to David Power, who rises and goes to a small white panel on the wall, pushing a few beeping buttons. — Best pit those smoke detectors off, he explains, as Frank Begbie follows his line of vision to a disc on the ceiling with a blinking green light. Power sits back in his chair, sips at his Scotch appreciatively, as Begbie blazes up a second cigar for himself.
— It just quelled the IED, and made me need that valid reason tae get involved, he continues. — Only family are worth it, even the ones ye dinnae really like that much.
— For sure, Tyrone agrees.
— Funny how a prime minister can condemn a whole generation ay bairns tae a future ay poverty, or gie the order tae wipe out Iraqi women and children in a phoney war, and they cunts get described as great men ay history, Begbie muses. Then he laughs. — The likes ay you or me, we take oot a few radges that naebody misses, just fuckin pests tae their ain community, and we’re the big villains!
Tyrone looks thoughtful. — Sometimes ah think ah should have gone intae politics. Local, like. That fuckin council. Is it the same where you are in California?
— Dinnae get me wrong, Begbie nods, — ah’m no a social service, any cunt ah’ve done is only been for ma ain satisfaction. But it jist goes tae show, ay.
— Slàinte, Tyrone raises his glass, as Begbie watches him sip at his drink, once, twice, three times.
Slàinte, Frank Begbie toasts, letting the whisky tickle his lips. It is horrible. He realises he never really liked the taste of alcohol, just its effects. Then he smiles across at the fat man, watching him slip into disbelief, then apoplexy, as Franco’s cigar again drops into his glass with a dull sizzle.
— What’s the fuckin . . . Rage swamps Tyrone, and he tries to stand up, determined to tear Frank Begbie apart with his bare hands.
But he never makes it. Instead he tumbles across the couch. He looks up at Francis Begbie, attempting to speak, but no words will come and only drool spills from the corner of his mouth, as the darkness takes him.
When David ‘Tyrone’ Power awakens, movement remains beyond him. This time, unlike the effects of Larry’s Rohypnol, his bands are external; he can feel his wrists manacled behind his back, and knows that the metal digging into them has to be heavy-duty police handcuffs. Worse, he can’t speak, can barely breathe, a ball-and-chain gag having been stuffed into his mouth. To his astonishment, he realises that he is tied down, flat on his stomach on his dining-room table, his head forced upwards by what feels like a block of wood under his chin.
Franco is standing over him, dressed in his freshly washed clothes. He pulls up the gag, another article expropriated from Larry, used for the sex tapes made with Frances Flanagan, and probably the other girls. It allows a sweaty Tyrone to say, with insect coldness, — You’ve fuckin crossed the line now!
— A line has certainly been crossed, Frank Begbie nods in agreement. — But a wee bit ay appreciation would be good.
— What the fuck dae ye want?
— You’re no nice, Begbie says, in faux dismay. — Getting you up on that table was a three-man job. Ah deserve a fuckin medal. Ah nailed yir jaykit and troosers tae it. He flashes a radiant smile, holding up a nail gun, procured from Tyrone’s basement, and his prisoner can feel the extent of his restraints. His head movement is minimal as there are two knives stapled by their handles to the wooden block under his chin, on either side of his neck, their sharp edges facing inwards to his flesh.
Then Tyrone sees that Begbie has something in the flat of his hand. It is attached by a length of twine to one of the chandeliers on the ceiling. Begbie holds it suspended in front of David Power’s face: a small 5lb lead barbell, taken from downstairs. — This is wee, but it’s aw aboot speed. Mind you, ah modifed it a bit. Franco shows him the fattest part, where the weight appears to have cut-up shards of razor blade soldered onto it. He lets it dangle at rest an inch in front of Power’s face. The stark blackness of the cast iron and its glinting razors fascinate and terrify the captive gangster. — That’s the thing aboot bein an artist, ye get . . . creative.
— What the fuck are you –
Tyrone is silenced by a measured jab to his face, framed between the two knives, which cracks his nose. — Shhh . . . Frank Begbie puts a finger to his mouth. — Speed, see. The power comes fae speed. Keep that heid moving, he instructs, and walks away from Tyrone, taking the bladed weight with him. Getting part of the way across the hall, he spins the device on its twisting flex, then turns with a malicious grin, raising it forty-five degrees before opening his palm to unleash it.
Tyrone screams out, — FRRAAANNK, as the barbell hurtles towards him. He tries to move his head but the edges of the knife blades slice into his neck, drawing blood. The twisting iron weight crashes into the side of his face with a dull thud, tearing at the flesh around his cheek. — WHAT ARE YE FUCKIN – Tyrone yelps, then notes that Begbie, rather than preparing to release the barbell again, is detaching it. A flicker of hope in his chest as he briefly imagines that the hideous trial is now over, that Begbie has made his point.
But as he removes the load, letting it fall to the hardwood floor with a clunk, Begbie begins attaching something else to the twine: a chisel, weighted at the handle by heavy bolts he’s wrapped around it with electrical tape. — This one’s different, he explains.
A high screech of dread goes through David Power. — Wait . . . he says.
Frank Begbie looks back at him, snaps his fingers in excited acknowledgement. — Ah was waitin oan that fuckin wurd! Mind we used tae say that, when we talked aboot the debt collection? The part where we got rough, they ey said wait. Mind we laughed like fuck at that? No laughin now but, ay-no, mate, Begbie smirks, his mocking lecture sending a shiver through Power’s bones, as he walks away before suddenly turning and raising the chisel at forty-five degrees again, like the cocking position an American baseball pitcher would adopt to threaten an opponent trying to steal a base. However, he simply lets it go and watches it fly towards the target.
Tyrone manages to twist his head away, into the blade on his right-hand side, and it sears into his neck, drawing a deep wound. Meanwhile, the chisel misses his eye, spearing into his face under his cheekbone, penetrating the flesh an inch deep and sticking fast. As blood oozes from both wounds he screams out in panic, — FRAANKK!!
— That’s ma name, Begbie admits, with a dry chortle. Jim has a nice life, he considers, but sometimes Frank has a hell of a lot more fun.
Tyrone struggles with the agonising pain in his face, trying to fill his lungs with air. — What . . . what the fuck dae ye want?
— This, Begbie says coldly. — Ah dinnae want money. Ah dinnae want favours. Ah want this: you on the table, me wi these blades, and he takes one of the Murdo Mathieson Tait pictures, a smaller study, down from the wall. — Tell me aboot this picture.
— What . . .?
— Ah no fuckin . . . Power starts, only to scream out in horror, — NO, as Begbie’s blade slices through the canvas. He slashes the picture up and tosses the torn remnants under the table.
He then picks another painting off the wall. — Ye might remember mair aboot this yin?
Tyrone focuses, neck straining upwards to see, trying to fight down a new mounting wave of terror. This art collection: it is his true legacy. He looks at the picture, then at Franco. — It’s the early . . . the early Murdo Mathieson Tait, he says, the digging chisel in his face giving every word a twist of pain, — he’d just graduated fae Glasgow College ay Art . . . then he went away tae Italy . . . Tuscany . . . Umbria . . .
— Fuckin good for him, ay.
— What ah dinnae get, Power pleads, — is why? Ah helped you! At the funeral, wi Morrison!
— He’s fuckin nowt. Ye tried tae set me up against Anton. But ah did what ye wanted, cause it suited me. Now this suits me, Frank Begbie declares. — See, ah nivir really liked you that much.
Rage swirls through Tyrone like a venomous tide, overwhelming the creeping fear and the sickening pain. — Ah fuckin took you on! Gave ye work, when ye were just a brainless clown.
— You hud ma missus here. That was an error, bringing her intae it.
— Ah helped her! Ah never touched her!
— Disnae matter whether ye helped her or no. Begbie holds the picture at arm’s length, screwing up his eyes. Something in his gesture reignites the foreboding in Tyrone. — When ye brought her here, ye brought her intae it. Ah cannae huv that.
— Ah tried tae help her find you! The lassie was in distress! Ah treated her right, Frank, he begs.
To his relief, Begbie lowers the picture, placing it underneath the table. — See the worst thing in life? When ye git accused ay something ye didnae dae. Ye did that wi perr wee Anton. Ye did it tae me.
— Whaaa . . . ah nivir, Power blubbers, the blood dripping from his neck and face onto the table below him, pooling dark and sticky on the polished mahogany surface. He now seems diminished by terror: regressing, Begbie realises, to the fat kid who was a victim of bullies, probably, before he became one himself.
