Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

As the drinks kick in, so the procession of old lags from all over town sidling up to him, full of conspiratorial talk in jailbird whispers, grows exponentially. The inanities and the exhortations to violence, most regarding vengeance against Anton Miller, are almost overwhelming. He feels the bleakness crawling into his skull. Franco breathes in steadily, trying to tune it all out. That pressure on your brain. Eroding focus. Diverting the flow of thought down old, ruinous neural canals. He is thinking of his heads of actors, and specific mutilations on them. Of his canvases, those attic versions of Dorian Gray, drenched in blood red. He keeps his eye on Frances Flanagan, and is almost pleased when Elspeth and Greg come over to rescue him. — There’s a boy from the local paper here, a crime reporter, Elspeth informs him.

— Disgusting that they won’t leave a family alone to grieve, Greg muses, looking at the reporter, ruddy of face and grubby of dress, who stands alone in a corner. Then he turns to a group of youths, who have been stealing glances at Franco.

Frank Begbie has registered this too, deciding that at least some of them had to be mobbed up with Anton Miller. He might not be here but he would still see everything that went on. — Aye, he agrees.

— Hmm. Greg takes another glimpse at the young team. — Do you think there’s a danger that you might be seen as a hero by some young kids around here?

Franco gives a matter-of-fact shake of his shoulders. — I am a hero to some young kids around here, he says, pausing to look at Elspeth. — I was a hero to my son and I was never there for him. Now he’s in a grave at twenty-one. And I’ll no be here for anybody else’s son either.

Greg sees his wife’s eyebrows arch towards the ceiling in dismay.

Terry is chatting to some members of the young team. Franco watches as he jokes easily with them, all the time drawing their girlfriends into the conversation, eliciting giggles as he then ignores the boys. The young team are keeping away from Tyrone, who stands at the bar, a brooding vengeful aspect hanging around his big shoulders like a cloak. And he is with Nelly, Franco’s old buddy, who studiously avoids him. He is about to go over and say hello, and perhaps offer some kind of apology to Tyrone, when suddenly Larry is back in his face. — So, Franco, what’s changed about Scotland, then?

— Cunts still have bad teeth, drink too much, take too many drugs. . he looks over at Tyrone, — they’ve got fatter. That’s what’s changed.

Larry’s face creases in a grin. — Like they’ve no goat fat cunts in the States? It was thaim that started aw this fat-cunt shite!

— Aye, it’s a global problem now, Franco smiles, noting that one thing about Larry was that people avoided him. Elspeth and Greg, for example, who have sloped off across the room. He has his uses.

— Too right, Larry argues. — They say three hundred million Chinkies are obese these days. That’s nearly mair obese Chinkies than Americans ay aw sizes. That means a lot ay shite grub’s gittin scranned. Ye dinnae git that wey on a handfay ay rice!

— Heard Chinese Democracy ?

— Thaire’s nae democracy in China.

— Naw, it’s an album, Guns n’ Roses.

— Nup.

— Check it oot. Comes highly recommended.

— Right. . So how’s life in California then, Frank?

Frank Begbie looks over at a couple of old adversaries. One is Cha Morrison from Lochend, who originated from the stair next to the one June now lives in. With a fistful of sovies closing round a beer glass, he looks like the cat that got the cream. It is, he reflects, something of a result for Cha; he gets to laugh at Sean’s demise while drinking the booze his father, a long-term rival, has paid for. — Been enjoying it, but there’s something missing, he considers. — Like a war.

— Funny wee temperature in this room, Larry acknowledges.

Frank Begbie remembers that Larry was once a victim of Cha Morrison’s blade; his assailant did time for it. He feels his pulse starting to race. He makes himself breathe slowly and evenly, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Even. Stay even . The best time to hit somebody is when they are drawing in a breath.

— Awright, Frank? Larry asks.

There follows an ominous lull in energy, like on the dance floor of a busy nightclub, just before the DJ is about to drop that track that will send the floor crazy. And he realises that he is the DJ. They are all looking to him to drop the tune. To swing the fist or boot, to throw the glass, to launch the headbutt, or even the blood-curdling scream across the room, that will set the place alight. — They always say ‘listen tae your gut reaction’, Franco says softly. — If I listened tae my gut reaction, not one cunt in this room would be breathing, he smiles cheerfully. — And that wouldnae be good, he says, looking across at Frances Flanagan.

— It’s Miller, that Anton Miller, Frank, Larry declares. Franco scents the fumes of drink on his breath, reckons that he is approaching that jakey loop, where he will make the same point over and over again. — He was in and oot ay that flat. Sean owed him, and he didnae like him hinging aboot wi wee hairy there. He nods over at Frances, who stares at a row of full wine glasses on the table. — Mark ma words, Miller’s the one.

— So I keep hearing, Begbie says.

Then Cha Morrison bounds over, a big grin etched across his face. He stinks of drink, obviously from a celebration that pre-dates this one. — Better crematin that rubbish. Soas the disease cannae spread, ay-no.

Franco had thought that he would experience a violent psychonosema at those words, but there is nothing. He is breathing smoothly, and even smiles at Morrison.

Cha Morrison hasn’t envisaged this reaction, and seems genuinely upset by it. — Ken whae eh took aw that queer stuff offay? The poofy artist, Cha sneers, bending his wrist and puckering his lips, as bodies start to close in around the two men. — Ye gaunny paint ays a picture then, sweethert? Oooh, ducky, how’s the weather treatin ye in California?

— I was a bit fed up wi aw this, Franco laughs, — but you’ve fair cheered me up, with the drunken jakey act. Ah’ve kind ay missed aw that. The weather in California is very, very good, n thank you for askin. What are you daein these days? Stacking shelves at Tesco wi bairns fae the school?

— You’re a fuckin shiter. Morrison steps forward, only to feel a firm grip on his shoulder, yanking him back. He turns round to see not only Tyrone but Nelly and the boxing club boys. — I suggest you get tae fuck, while ye still can, Tyrone offers. Cha mutters something, but the boxers and Nelly are already ushering him outside, with Franco being led in the opposite direction by Elspeth. He glimpses Michael, who has moved close to the source of the commotion. — Proud ay ye, Frank, his sister is saying, — the wey ye didnae react tae that spiteful drunk. Ah never thought I’d say it, but I am.

— A little self-control goes a long way, he smiles, but never takes his eyes from the door.

He sees Tyrone come back in first, heading to the bar, followed by Nelly, a few steps behind him.

— Lucky ah didnae fuckin well go oot thaire. Joe is at his shoulder, then looking to Elspeth, — Ah’d huv fuckin well kilt the cunt. .

— Aw aye, by breathin on um? Elspeth challenges, and they start to bicker.

Fortunately, Mickey and some of the boys have come back in, and Franco gratefully heads over to meet them. Mickey tells him what happened, that they just kept the peace. Nelly cracked Cha on the jaw, but then he staggered off down the road, and a brutal stomping was averted. — He was swearing revenge on everybody, but it was aw just drunkard’s talk.