Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

I crept round the building and I could see them, standing over by the edge of the wharf. Handsome Johnnie was a bit away from Grandad Jock and the other two, Carmie and Lozy. An overhead lamplight was bathing them in a meagre glow, their breath dragon-like in the cold air as their shadows spilled over the cobblestones. I could tell Johnnie was scared. His palms were extended in appeal. — C’mon, boys. . Jock. . it’s me. .

— If ye jump, and go feet first, you’ll brek yir legs, my grandad said, looking down into the dock. — But you’ve got a chance ay surviving. Well worth a punt!

Carmie had a length of rope in his hands, and moved towards Johnnie. — That wey or oor wey, Johnnie boy!

I crouched down against the side of the bothy. I was shiteing myself. I mind that the left side of my face went into a twitching spasm.

— Wir giein ye that chance, Grandad Jock sneered, his head cocked to one side. — Wi owe ye that, and he turned to Carmie and Lozy. — Ah’d be right in sayin that we owe Johnnie that, ay, boys?

— Ah reckon so, Jock, Lozy said.

— Carmie’s no sae sure, but, ay-no, Carmie? my grandad smiled.

Carmie’s big heid looked distorted under the bleary light. — Ah’d say that a pilferin, double-crossin grass is entitled tae nowt. A grass whae betrays his ain mates.

— Auld lang syne, but, Carmie, auld lang syne, Jock said sagely. — So what’s it tae be, Johnnie?

— But ah cannae. . boys. . it’s me. . Johnnie pleaded.

— Aw, we ken it’s you awright! We ken that! Carmie chuckled darkly, like Johnnie was a kid who had been rumbled stealing sweeties from the local confectioner’s.

— If we tie ye n then fling ye in yir done, Johnnie. Or hing ye ower thaire fae yon crane like Carmie wants. See sense, Grandad Jock implored. — What’s it tae be? Thoat ye were a gambling man. Thoat that wis how this mess aw sterted. The gambler’s instinct deserted ye? Shame. .

Johnnie stepped slowly to the edge and looked down. I took a hunkered step back further into the shadows, and felt my heart thrashing in my chest. I still half believed, wanted to believe, that he would be okay, that they were just ‘putting the frighteners’ on him (a favourite phrase of Jock’s) and that they’d all soon be in the Marksman pub, laughing and joking, Johnnie suffering from nothing more than soiled keks. But there was something strange about them; it was their scary stillness.

— If ah wis you ah’d just dae it. Just turn n jump, my grandad Jock said, and he pulled out a long blade. I could see its silvery glint under the overhead light.

Then Johnnie closed his eyes and he just vanished into the darkness. Maybe I shut mine too. It’s freakish, the way your memory deceives you, because I know I saw his face with only his lids exposed, but I never witnessed, or had no recollection of, him actually jumping. And there was no sound of his screaming or hitting the bottom. But then I couldnae see him with them any more, on the edge of that dry dock, and there was nowhere else he could have gone. My grandad nodded at Carmie and Lozy and they went to the wharf’s edge and looked down. — It’s done. Better jildy, he said.

— Is eh away? Lozy asked.

— Eh’s potted heid awright. Jildy, Grandad Jock repeated, then turned and walked towards the bothy. If they’d gone to the right, they would have seen me, but they went left, and it gave me time to wheel my bike round to the other side of the brick building.

I heard them laughing in the dark as they walked away. It was like they were finishing a shift or walking home fae the pub or the football.

I went over to the edge of the dry dock and looked down. The light from the lamp above dissipated over the lip of the berth and nothing at the bottom was visible through the pitch black. I could hear no noises from below.

So I climbed down the iron rungs into the dock. I could hear my heart thrashing in my chest. I was shiteing it though at the same time I mind of feeling excited and alive. But I was concerned because it was so dark. I couldn’t see the bottom till I felt it under the sole of my trainers. I looked up; I’d come a long way and had a longer way to go back. Then behind me I heard those soft moans, and the sound of somebody whispering words that made no sense.

I saw a dark, crumpled heap, with thin weak breaths coming from it. It looked like a wounded beast waiting to expire. The bizarre monologue continued. Perhaps, I minded thinking, Johnnie was asking all the women he’d wronged to forgive him, to help him, but he was beyond assistance. When I got closer his glazed eyes looked up at me as he repeated, — Please. . Frank. . please. .

The rear of his head was smashed in, and thick blood was oozing from him. I stepped away to avoid getting it on my trainers. His eyes were wild, but fogging over. I knew that he was dying.

And I quickly understood what he wanted me to do.

So I did it, then I backed slowly over to the wall of the dock. I looked up at the rungs leading to the top. I was shaking and I was exhausted. I knew that there was no way I could manage that climb, get out of the dock, and that it would be dangerous to even try.

But I couldnae stay where I was.

The limousine purrs slowly along the kerbside, stopping just in front of him. It seems incongruous on Leith Walk at this time; too early to be a wedding or hen party, no hearse in convoy. Franco tries to look in, but the tinted windows reveal nothing. Then the passenger-side one winds down, and a chunky, gold-ring-encrusted hand appears, followed by a big shorn head. — Get in.

Frank Begbie obliges, instantly beset with the impression that Davie ‘Tyrone’ Power hasn’t changed much. He’d always kept his head shaven, so there has been no visibly dramatic balding and greying effect over the years. And still a fat cunt, Begbie thinks, as he lets the comfortable upholstery suck him into its guts. Argent’s ‘God Gave Rock and Roll to You’ plays at low volume on the car radio.

— Heard ye wir back in toon, Tyrone says, without looking at him. — Sorry for your loss. Losing a kid, that’s a bad yin.

Frank Begbie remains silent. One. . two. . three. . He watches Tyrone’s pattern of breathing. You can tell a lot about somebody from the way they breathe. Power inhales his air evenly through his nose, but then suddenly gulps at a big mouthful, like a shark rising to the surface to swallow prey. Some might see only aggression and strength in that motion, but Frank Begbie registers weakness. It is maybe indicative of an anxiety. Or perhaps just too much coke has gone up his hooter.

He looks at a cable snaking out from Tyrone’s electronic cigarette lighter. His pulse rises. Surely not . — That phone charger, he ventures, pulling out his mobile device, — will it fit ma iPhone here?

— Dinnae see why not. . Tyrone looks at the connection. — Aye, plug it in.

— Barry, Frank says, instantly aware it has been years since he’s used that word, as he snaps the plug into the phone socket with a satisfying click. The device starts to throb, a sliver of red soon visible at the edge of the battery icon.

— So an artist, then, Frank? Tyrone turns to him with a jesting twinkle in his eye. — Ah’m no gaunny bullshit ye wi aw that ah-kent-ye-hud-it-in-ye shite. I’d never have seen that yin coming in a million years!

Frank Begbie responds with a measured smile. — It surprised me tae.

— Heard you moved in wi some American lassie. Art therapist, Tyrone probes.