The Blade Artist (17 page)

The tram stops to the pnuematic hiss of the doors, jolting Frank Begbie out of his daydream. When he gets to Elspeth’s he calls Melanie, but it goes straight to her voicemail. He does it a second time, just so that he can hear her answering-phone voice. So tranquil and non-abrasive, so different to many of the tones he knew over here.

Elspeth had been at the shops, and returned wearing what he’d come to think of as her spoiling-for-a-fight expression. This involved her scraping her top teeth against her bottom lip, and narrowing her eyes. She’d done that since she was a child; a domineering, self-centred force that neither he nor Joe had been quite able to work out how to deal with, when, as young boys, she’d come into their lives. Franco is thus relieved when a call with a USA number manifests on his Tesco phone. Reasoning that it could be something to do with Melanie or the kids, he picks up.

— Jim, it’s Martin. Mel gave me this number.

Franco feels a crashing despondency on hearing his agent’s voice. — Right. Hi, he says, heading through to his room, looking out the window.

— Couldn’t get you on the other line. Haven’t been enjoying a whole heap of luck with this one. Mel said there’s been problems with it.

— Aye, Franco concedes, — it’s not the best of phones.

— How are things in Edinboro?

— Good, he says, instantly feeling an ironic smile twist on his lips. — Got a new tram system, what we’d call light rail in America. Very impressive, he declares, as, from behind the net curtains, he watches his nephews enter the house.

— Great . . . Look, I’m sorry to harass you, but I need to know when you’re due back.

— Soon.

Martin lets out a sigh of exasperation at the meagre information proferred by his client. — We’ve still got a couple of loose ends to tie up. I really need you back here by next week at the latest.

— Just tying up some loose ends myself, Franco says, switching to a transatlantic accent, as he looks outside, to see Greg, who greets him with a wave, coming down the path. — How are things going your end?

— Rod Stewart can’t make it, unfortunately. I think he’s on tour.

— Too bad, Franco muses, thinking about the Rod Stewart song ‘Young Turks’ and how it brings Anton Miller to mind, as he leaves the bedroom and starts to move back into the lounge. He has a vision of Miller as a squat, chunky, wisecracking wee guy, perhaps with a bow-legged gunfighter walk like Nelly’s.

— But Nicole wants a bust of Tom, with a very specific mutilation, strictly confidential. Martin sounds breezy. — And Aniston’s people want to know when the Angelina will be ready.

— No word from the Axl Rose boy out of Guns n’ Roses? Franco asks, as he gets into the front room. He tips George
a wink, which Elpseth registers with as much dismay as her son’s reciprocal glee.

— Haven’t heard from Axl’s people . . . I’ll chase them up.

— Sound. I can’t see myself being here much longer, a few days at the most, he says, looking at Elspeth’s tightening face. Maybe it was time to fuck off to a hotel. To tell Elspeth: good luck to you if you’ve found a nice wee shelter to hide from the chaos and pain the world dishes out. Just don’t pretend that it isn’t happening to others. And don’t kid yourself on that it won’t happen to you. But now is not the time. The boys are sitting in front of the TV. Greg has settled down on the settee with a book he’s reading about women who had been kidnapped by the Mexican drug cartels. Martin’s soft voice on the phone, trying to pin down exactly what a
few
days means. — It means a few days, he says emphatically. — I’ll get back to you if that changes.

— Right. Martin’s tones dip in weary concession. — Much obliged, Jim.

— Great, cheers, Martin.

Franco clicks the phone off and is preparing for his sister to unload, glad that Greg and the boys are present. This means that any attack will be limited to barbed asides. Then there is a shattering explosion, as the front window caves in, glass flying all over the room. A shard flies into George’s arm, drawing blood which spills onto the shagpile. Greg drops his book as Elspeth screams.

It is all but drowned out by a roar from outside. — YOU’RE FUCKIN DEID, BEGBIE!!

Franco runs straight for the door, aware of the leg holding him back, like it was stuck in treacle. Once he gets going, he can’t feel it, but it has cut his acceleration.
Fuckin Renton. Fuckin radge.

He gets out into the small front garden, to see three youths in the street. One he vaguely recognises from the funeral. Leaping over the small wall and striding towards them, he knows by their stock ‘come on’ gesticulations that they don’t intend to engage with him. This is another set-up, and the play soon comes into his peripheral vision on the right-hand side, in the form of two guys who get out of a car.

They aren’t the youthful men he expects: probably mid-thirties, seasoned bouncer types. Ignoring the younger lads, he walks slowly towards them. One of them, heavily muscled in a blue T-shirt, but with thin legs, shouts, — Miller wants tae see ye!

There is plenty about this that isn’t sitting right with Frank Begbie. It is important to breathe steadily, even as he coldly visualises deep lacerations on the faces of the men. — Aye? Miller? Franco laughs. — Ye mean Tyrone!

The two men look at each other. They haven’t anticipated this.

— Is that the best Tyrone can dae these days? He looks them up and down in disdain, envisioning the stomping, raking heel that will destroy the thin-legged man’s kneecap, leaving him sprawled helpless on the pavement. — Two muppets whae probably work the door at Baby Busters? Cannae git staff, right enough, he bellows.

— We dinnae ken any Tyrone, Thin Legs feebly protests.

— So youse boys are gaunny take ays tae Miller then?

The two bouncers look at each other, as if in realisation that this is no longer such a good idea. Thin Legs is particularly nervous, one eye visibly twitching. — Aye . . . you’ve to come wi us . . .

Frank Begbie cracks a smile. — What happens if ah dinnae come?

— Wir giein ye a message that if ye dinnae come thaire’s gaunny be trouble . . .

— Well, here’s a wee message fae me tae yir boss: he’s a fat, baldy cunt. Does that sound like Anton Miller? Franco steps forward, as sirens rip through the air. — Saved by the bell. Youse, obviously, he scoffs as the two men back away and climb into the car, hastily driving off.

Franco looks around for the three younger guys. That they’d fled does not surprise him.

The main cop, a veteran whom Franco recognises as a career cunt who would never get out of uniform and would probably never fully understand why, takes statements from Elspeth and Greg. Then he interviews Franco, who tells him nothing, other than he was on the phone when a brick came through the window, and went out to investigate.

When he’s done, the old cop fixes him a chopsy smile. — I know what you’re really like, you might be able to fool them . . .

Franco dismissively waves him away with a backward sweep of the hand, imitating the cop’s own expression and tone. — Aw, is that so? You know, everybody gies me the same speech: cops, family, friends, reporters, villains. And the weird
thing is that they aw think they’re blessed wi this unique insight in making that very same observation. He watches the cop’s features slacken. — That can mean two things: either they’re probably right, or they’re fuckin simpletons.

The veteran cop’s face reignites in a defiant sneer. — Aw aye, is that so? What do you think it is?

— I think one doesn’t have tae exclude the other.

The cop looks disparagingly at him. Franco can tell that he feels short-changed. They’d dashed out to Murrayfield, expecting to protect suburbanites, only to be cheated by stumbling on a nest of Begbies infesting the place. They don’t stick around for long.

Elspeth calling them was understandable in the circumstances. However, as she is a Begbie from Leith, Franco is wrong-footed by the deep sense of betrayal he feels burn him. You’d think that George had been decapitated from the fuss they’re making. He looks across at his pouting, bandaged nephew with a smile. — Cut masel shavin worse, he states, instantly realising, from Elspeth’s expression, that it is the wrong gambit.

— WE’VE BEEN ATTACKED, VIOLATED IN OUR AIN HOUSE, BECAUSE AY YOU, AND YOU’VE GOT THE NERVE TO COME OUT WI FLIPPANT REMARKS!

— They were just kids. If they’d wanted to send heavies doon –

— No,
these
are just kids, and she points to Thomas and George. — Get out! GET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR HOME!

— I was going tae suggest ah left, Franco agrees. — I don’t want you getting caught up in this.

— A bit bloody late for that!

— Sweetheart . . . Greg coos, placing an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

Franco retrieves the Tesco phone from his pocket and dials Larry. — I’ll sort something oot now, he nods to them, as he walks outside through the French windows into the garden. Larry won’t be pleased, as with the van, but he extended the invite, and he has a spare room.

After a few rings, Larry picks up. — Of course, Franco, anything for an auld mucker, he sings down the line. — You git packin n ah’ll swing by n pick ye up pronto.

Franco feels the overwhelming whiff of performance, yet expresses gratitude and moves back inside. — Sorted, he says. — Larry’s comin tae pick ays up.

— Sorry it’s come to this, Frank, Greg mutters sadly. — Enjoyed having you around. But the kids . . .

— Totally understand, Franco replies. It feels inadequate, but it’s all he can stretch to. He goes to his room and gathers up his belongings. He calls Melanie on the Tesco mobile. Nothing at all. Maybe he needs to put even more credit on it. He doesn’t want to ask Elspeth if he can use her phone. He’ll wait till he gets to Larry’s.

Larry is as good as his word, arriving within the half-hour. The shifty-eyed, jittery-looking emergency glazier is already replacing the window, his presence enforcing a strained civility.

Elspeth, who had studiously avoided him at the funeral, blushes a little at Larry’s presence, as she follows Frank outside. In her teens she had nursed a devastating crush on
her brother’s friend, and had once made a drunken pass at him. Larry shoots her a crocodile grin, indicating that he remembers the occasion only too well. — Elspeth . . . been a long time, doll, he says, as Franco puts his red case into the back of the white van. — Nice house. He surveys the home, hands on hips. — Very you.

Gazing from him to the van, Elspeth retorts, — Nice van. Very you.

Larry bursts out his most appreciative touché smile.

Greg has joined them outside, and is still half-apologising to Franco. — Really sorry we have to part this way. Good luck.

What the fuck does this cunt want fae me?
Franco gives him a stony nod of acknowledgement. Yet when he turns to his baleful-looking sister, an uncharacteristic word slips from him. — Sorry . . .

The uniqueness, to say nothing of the obvious heartfelt nature of the apology, seems to shake them both. They look at each other in blank stasis.

— Right! Fit for action? Larry grins, breaking the silence.

Franco is relieved to climb into Larry’s van, and doesn’t look back as it tears down the street.

They aren’t gone long when DI Ally Notman arrives at Elspeth’s to investigate. It is immediately clear to her that he isn’t concerned with the window, obviously tipped off by colleagues that Frank was staying in the house. — He’s not here any longer, Elspeth informs him. She’s done with cops, and isn’t for asking him in.

Notman stands on the front step, regarding the formidable cross-armed force in the doorway. — You say your brother went away with Larry Wylie?

— It’s Frank who was attacked! Elspeth’s loyalty both shocks and confuses her.

— You know, I can believe it, Notman says. —When the old neighbourhood psychopath is the good guy, then the city really does have problems.

— I’m sorry, Elspeth retorts in pompous authority, now embracing the role she’s been strangely cast in, — but you
do
not
know
my brother. He’s worked hard to turn his life around and make a go of things, but some people won’t let him be!

Greg can scarcely believe what he’s hearing.

— Your brother, Notman begins, — has been a running sore on this city –

— Get away fae here! Elspeth cuts him off, her face contorted in rage, to the extent that Notman stands back off the doorstep. — My nephew was murdered, and what have youse done about it? Nowt! Just go. She points to his car, parked in the street.

— Look, Notman adopts a reasoned tone, — I don’t want to –

— You’ve got aw that DNA stuff, Elspeth hisses, looking him up and down in contempt, — you must have a forensic team tae gather the information and match it against your records!

— That’s right, Greg, who has materialised at his wife’s shoulder, sings, — we’re not asking for the world, officer.

— When I hear a member of the public use the term ‘DNA’ I squirm inside. Notman shakes his head contemptuously at them. — Everybody that’s watched a
CSI: Miami
is now an expert in polis work. It isnae like that –

— What’s it like then? Elspeth’s chin juts out, as Bill and Stella Maitland, the next-door neighbours, appear, lingering in support. — What you’re saying is you’re no going to tell us who was there by the physical evidence, or who you’ve hauled in for questioning, if anybody, or if ye found the knife or murder weapon. That you’re gaunny dae nowt! Well, our Frank’ll find oot whae did this!

— That would be a big mistake on his part, Notman says, turning and heading to his car.

Greg swallows hard, and says to his wife, — Frank would be proud of you.

It’s the wrong thing to say. As it sinks home, Elpseth bursts into angry, frustrated tears, to be comforted by the advancing Stella, who leads her into the house.

Melanie was surprised to see Martin, Jim’s agent, who had driven up yesterday evening from LA. He was desperate to get in touch with her incommunicado husband. She issued him with the UK number, with a warning about inherent transmission difficulties, citing her own fruitless attempts to contact Jim. — Sometimes it works, she told him over coffee.