Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

— I also did big time for it. I’m done wi that shite.

— Like the polis will give a fuck about anybody taking out Anton, Tyrone scoffs, lifting the whisky bottle.

— I’m a reformed character, Franco says, his face as immobile as a block of stone.

Tyrone, again, seems not to hear him. — This is a twenty-two-year-old malt, he explains, pouring two generous measures of the whisky into thick Edinburgh crystal glasses. At a miniature guillotine on the bar, he decapitates then lights up a couple of Havana cigars. He hands a glass and smoke to Franco, who looks at them, then at Tyrone. — You’ve still got a taste for violence, I can see it in your eyes. Drink up, Tyrone instructs, toasting him.

Frank Begbie regards him with a cursory smile. — Like I said, reformed character, he repeats, dropping the cigar into the glass, hearing it hiss, and rising out of the couch.

He watches Tyrone stare incredulously, first at the defilement of his hospitality, then right at him.

— Ah kin see masel out, Franco says, lowering the glass to the coffee table, turning and leaving the room, aware that the neck of the man behind him is burning. Not many would turn their back on an angry David ‘Tyrone’ Power, but Francis Begbie just sucks in some air and smiles to himself as he walks down the hallway and out the front door.

The rain has stopped and the sun comes blinking out from behind smoky clouds, like an old lag adjusting to freedom. A subsonic starting pistol seems to fire, its invisible pitch opening up new possibilities for Edinburgh’s rejuvenated citizenry. But for Frank Begbie, it is about closing old chapters; tomorrow they are to cremate his son. The funeral will be a big day; he senses that in the fractured grief- and alcohol-fuelled narratives that will besiege him, a certain truth and understanding might emerge. After rising early he decides to go for a run, starting off at a slow, ungainly trot, picking up speed, until his tight leg loosens up.

Suddenly, he feels, then sees, the iPhone pop out of the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms, bounce on his thigh, and as he stops and turns, watches it hit the grille of a drain inlet, flip on its side and slide down into it. It seems to sink in slow motion into the filthy black water. Anger rises in Franco, and he grips the bars of the heavy iron drain cover. As it rises, the veins in his arm pop to the surface. But he can’t rummage in that filth, can he? One. . two. . three. . it was fucked anyway. . get a new one. . He lets it fall back in place, shaking his hands to get rid of the muck, and moves forward, heading for a converted factory unit that houses an old friend’s boxing club.

Inside, the gym buzzes with activity. Fighters go through their rituals under the supervision of coaches, three of the four rings full of sparring trios or duets working on pads. Around a cluster of heavy bags, office workers do boxing circuit training comprising bag work, sparring, and strength and conditioning exercises, to set them up for a desk-bound day.

Franco nods to his old pal Mickey Hopkins, who sits behind the reception desk, talking into a mobile phone. He receives an acknowledging wink in exchange. Then he begins stretching out, before working up a nice, satisfying rhythm on the speedball. One. . two. . three. . one. . two. . three. . He feels the righteous eyes of strong men glaring in stoic approval, some of whom he knows have danced with the devil and stepped back from the edge of the cliff. There are such men in gyms all over the world, including his local one in California. He likes being around them; most of them have the sense to know that the wisest of human beings are students, forever learning how to deal with life, continuously readjusting in the face of the shifting opportunities and threats it presents.

Frank Begbie wraps up his hands as Mickey Hopkins finishes his call, picking up some pads as he nods to the ring. The men climb through the ropes. It is all about breathing, and Franco draws in an even pull, expelling as he launches each punch combo, shouted out by Mickey, into the silver dot on the trainer’s pads. — Double jab, cross, left hook, double right hook, left uppercut, jab. .

Franco finds himself in that glorious tempo, which opens up into trancendence, as some onlookers stop their own activity to acknowledge the dance the men are undertaking. After the session he is sweating and blowing hard, and he lets his breathing slow, become regular. Sitting around with some of the boys, he is careful not to ask questions about Anton Miller, content to let people volunteer information. Whether they are Miller’s friends or foes, they have to live with him in this town. The overall impression he garners is of a genuine respect for the young man, as well as an obvious fear. These qualities would make him very dangerous to Tyrone.

Mickey and some of the boys take him to lunch, roast chicken at a nearby cafe, and they catch up over old times. It strikes him that the men present around the table have been keeping him at arm’s length for years, and are now welcoming him into the ‘he used to be a bam but he’s alright now’ club. He realises that they all discovered how to obtain membership to that fraternity years ago, and, conversely, how long it has taken him. For the first time since he stepped off the plane, he feels at ease back in his home city.

When he returns to Murrayfield later that afternoon, Frank picks up the phone on the sideboard and dials Melanie’s number. He longs to be in Santa Barbara with her, dawn sweeping through their bedroom windows, her sleeping naked on her stomach, hair magnesium in the sunlight, the room cooled by Pacific air. He feels a bit self-conscious as Elspeth is sitting on the couch drinking gin and watching daytime TV. It goes to voicemail, and Frank tries to explain the situation with the Tesco phone, before the beep goes, cutting off his message. Elspeth looks sour, and he wonders if he should have asked her first about making a long-distance call. Some folk could be funny about that sort of thing. So Franco sits in the chair opposite her, and they exchange some banalities. Then he looks at a picture of the boys on the sideboard, in their matching maroon Hearts tops. — Good lads, he offers.

— Aye, never had any problems wi them at all. . Elspeth says, then hesitates. Franco knows that she is thinking of his kids, perhaps realising it might not have been the best thing to say.

He decides to keep it light. — How come ye brought them up tae be Jambos?

Elspeth looks at him in mild dismay. — Greg’s dad takes them to Tynecastle.

— Our family was eywis Hibs. Tradition, ay.

Elspeth openly scoffs at him. — You can fuckin sit there wi a straight face and talk about our family? Aboot traditions? You, whae spent maist ay yir life in the jail, then just ran away tae California. She ramps up her anger. He looks at the glass in her hand. Wagers it isn’t the first of the day. — Where were you to take your nephews, or even your ain sons, where were you to take them anywhere ? Elspeth’s bile spills from her. — Did their uncle Frank ever take them to Hibs?

— Fair comment, Franco concedes, picking at a lace on his trainers. — I just thought that with us having a Hibs background you might have dug your heels in a bit, that’s aw.

— What? Like ah gie a fuck about any ay that pish. She scowls at him. — I see what you’re daein, Frank. I see what you’ve become. You’re the same evil bastard but you’ve just learned to control your anger. I can see it in your eyes, the same murderous, selfish killer’s eyes –

Breathe. .

Franco finds himself bristling, as a volcanic rage wells up in him. That same shite Tyrone had come out wi, the nonsense about ma eyes. One. . two. . three. . — What are you talking about? He shakes his head, lets himself fall back into the chair. — Your eyes are your eyes! Relax and enjoy the joust. If you lose your cool first, you lose. — How can I change my eyes? Ye want me to wear zombie contact lenses or something?