The Blade Artist (25 page)

— Well, you git back tae whaire ye fuckin well came fae, Michael growls. — If ah see ye here again, yir fuckin deid. Stepmammy as well. Would’ve cut your throat n rammed yir fuckin missus eftir the funeral if ye hudnae taken oot they two cunts, especially Anton. Makes life easier for me, but, ay. So go. Michael thumbs over his shoulder. — If ah ever fuckin see ye back here, he repeats.

— Suits me, Franco says, realising that the worst thing he can do to Michael is simply leave him with the burden of being his unreconstructed himself. He’ll cause misery, then he’ll either die or spend most of his life in jail. A real chip off the old block, and it is, he concedes, largely his father’s fault. It would be nice, though, if he brought this torment to the right people. Or person.

He goes to Larry’s van. Michael looks at him in raw aggression, takes a step forward, but sees that Franco is only retrieving a bag.

— Okay. Ah’m off. Francis Begbie nods at his son. Then he stops and says, — Ah ken ah huvnae been much ay a faither tae ye . . . but ah couldnae let Morrison say those things.

Michael’s jaw drops. — What are ye talkin aboot? What did that jakey cunt say tae ye at the funeral?

— It was aboot Sean mainly. How he was an arse bandit . . . and how you were the same.

— What?!

— What we say aboot each other is neither here nor there. But ah couldnae have him sayin those things about you. Franco shakes his head. — That’s what family is. You might have nowt tae dae with each other, you might even hate each other, but naebody else gets tae say things against ye.

— AH’M NO A FUCKIN QUEER! Michael roars, then gasps, — That fuckin jakey Morrison . . . eh said
what
?

— That you were a bentshot like Sean, a
cock-sucking arse bandit
wir his exact words, Franco calmly says to his incandescent son. — That you’d git the same treatment he did, and he stares at Michael, who seems to be almost imploding with rage. — But leave him tae me. This is aw aboot him and me. Always was. Ah’ll get him sorted.

— WILL YOU FUCK! Michael howls, then lowers his voice to a snake-like hiss. — He’s mine! Ah’m tellin ye! N if you git in the wey, you’ll fuckin well git it n aw, he rasps. — NOW FUCK OFF OOTAY MA FACE!

So Franco, carrying his bag, nods, turns and limps away from the dry dock, the howf and Larry’s van. At the gates he
stops and looks round to see the silhouette of his second son, standing, hands by his sides, under the lamp.

It really is time to leave, perhaps just one thing to take care of, he considers, as he walks out through the dockyard gates, his leg again strengthening with the blood flow that movement engenders. He heads along the Shore by the Water of Leith to Constitution Street, and up Leith Walk. The familiar gradient is beginning to assert itself, when Franco is aware that a car is tailing him. He turns to see a black limo. It moves slowly up to the kerb ahead of him. Stops. It has to be Tyrone. He prepares himself for violence, and it will probably be his last stand, here in Leith. The breathing won’t help him now. Jim Francis won’t help him now. Frank Begbie’s pulse rises and a red mist swamps his brain. Letting the bag drop to the pavement, he spreads his palms and leans back, screaming at the vehicle, — C’MOAN THEN, YA FUCKIN BAMS!!

The limo door opens and Melanie steps out.

Swelling with emotion at the sight of her, Frank Begbie finds it hard not to embrace his oncoming wife. — Melanie, he gasps, but then holds up his hands, urging: — Don’t touch me, honey . . . The panic in his gesture and the waft of stagnant urine rising in her nostrils derails Melanie’s instinct to hold him and she freezes. — . . . I’m covered in pish . . .

— What the fuck, Jim! Melanie’s eyes and nose scrunch up, and she even takes a backward step, as her voice leaps several octaves. — What happened?

He struggles to fight back the annoyance digging into him.
What the fuck is she doing here?
— It’s a long story . . . he protests, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Davie ‘Tyrone’ Power emerging from the car.

Power’s face, half lit by the street lamp, has a look of paternal disdain. He reaches back into the vehicle, producing a packet of sanitary hand wipes. He lays it on the bonnet of the limo in front of Frank Begbie. — Do what you can.

Begbie nods, and starts wiping at his hands, face and hair. He feels clean enough to kiss his wife and squeeze her hand. — I got into a wee scuffle wi some bam in the toilets of a pub, and we both landed in the overflowing latrine. He
gives a hollow laugh. Then he asks Melanie, while glancing at Power, — You okay?

— I’m fine, she says with reassuring calm, picking up on his reticence in discussing this further in the present company. — What about you?

— I’m okay. I got upset . . . about what happened to Sean. Coming back over here, it really hit me for the first time, he says, and now he isn’t lying.

Melanie touches Frank’s forearm tentatively. They climb into the back of the limo. As Power starts it up, she looks at the chunky dome and broad back of the man in front of them. Even though he has reunited her with her husband, Melanie is still unable to work out why he fills her with revulsion.

— We’ve been searching high and wide, haven’t we, Melanie? Power sings slyly, as if to help her in her quest, putting on music. As the limo surges up a dark, empty Leith Walk, ‘California Dreamin’ by the Mamas and the Papas fills the air. — This one is for the California Mama and Papa in the back who’ll be dreamin’ ay getting hame to their wee yins, he swivels, to display capped teeth. — Three and five, Melanie was saying, eh, Frank?

— Aye, Begbie warily concedes. — So how did you two hook up?

— I was looking for you, Melanie begins, quickly faltering, the look in Frank Begbie’s eye again indicating that this story is best told when they are alone.

— As was I, Power continues on her behalf. — A young American lassie asking for you in Leith grot holes, well, that’s
never going to be off my radar for long. So we pooled our resources, he chuckles, his sturdy shoulders rocking.

Frank and Melanie grip hands in tense silence. In spite of his best efforts with the wipes, the heat in the limo is whipping up a rank smell from him, with Michael’s piss drying into his hair and the California flag T-shirt, complete with bear. Power wrinkles his nose in distaste a few times, but only breaks the silence to wax lyrical about the empty roads. —Wish it could be like this aw the time. Driving would be a pleasure.

They reach the approach to the red sandstone mansion, the gravel popping under the wheels. When they step inside the house, Power announces, — I’m going to make a pot of camomile tea for Melanie and myself. Frank, don’t take this the wrong way, but not to make too fine a point of it, you are fucking minging, and he hands Begbie a silk robe. — I suggest you go to the basement and put your clothes through the laundry and dryer. There’s a shower down there.

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?