Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

Franco lowers the broken bottle to the table. — What did ye run away fir? How did ye no phone the polis?

— Ye say ye kent ma dad, Frances says, in reprimanding tones.

Franco doesn’t like the taste of that, but is forced to swallow it. — Was the door locked behind youse when you went intae the flat?

— I think so, but ah cannae be sure, she trembles. The way he looks at her, his hand still round the neck of the broken bottle. It’s like he’s going to rip her face apart. Frances reaches slowly for the intact, open bottle, emptying the last of its contents into her glass.

— So if it was locked, either somebody had a key, or Sean came to, and heard them at the door. He knew who it was and he let them in, Franco speculates.

— As ah said, Sean was even mair wrecked than me. Frances laughs bitterly as she looks him in the eye. It is a look of appeal, and it goes to another drink. He places the broken bottle on the table and picks up the corkscrew, opening another for her. — Ah doubt he’d have been able tae get up off the couch.

— Who else had a key?

— Fallon would have one, she says, lifting her glass to her lips.

— Who?

— Fallon. He’s the landlord, Frances says off-handedly, feeling a satisfying thump of the wine’s anaesthetic, — it wis his flat, and she lifts the bottle he’d opened and starts to pour.

— Where does he stey?

— Ah dinnae ken, Frances knocks back a full glass like a shot, — but I ken where he goes for brunch every morning. . tae that Valvona and Crolla place at the top ay the Walk, she says and looks at his glass. — Ye no gaunny take that drink?

— Telt ye, ah dinnae drink.

Frances pulls his glass over and starts on it, even though she has an almost-full one alongside it. — You’re gaunny tell me that ah shouldnae be daein this, she suddenly giggles.

— Dae what the fuck ye like, he responds, — ah dinnae care.

— Ah ken ye dinnae, she cackles in scorn. — But at least ye dinnae pretend tae. No like the rest ay them. At least you’re fuckin honest.

Franco raises his eyebrows. The charge of wine has now put her in a place beyond fear. This girl is doomed. — One other thing. Whae do you think came in and chibbed him?

— Ah dinnae ken.

— Anton Miller?

— Nup. . she says, and he is wrong about the wine’s effect, as Frances is incapacitated by terror, even through the emboldening drink, — ah dinnae ken. Honest, ah wis wasted. Ah really dinnae ken, and she starts to cry, her face swelling with drink and tears. — Sean was ma friend, eh wis the best friend that ah ever had!

And Frank Begbie leaves Frances Flanagan with her wine, and the sense that everything she has told him is the absolute truth.

The breeze has stiffened a little and fog has blown down from the north of the state. On the back decking Melanie Francis stretches out, then pumps her arms with the 3lb weights wrapped round her fists in Velcro, completing a burning set of exercises. On finishing her routine, she goes into the kitchen, looking to her phone for signs of incoming calls. One from her mom, but still nothing from Jim. Panic bolts are starting to surge in her chest.

Melanie feels that she let Jim down badly by calling the police. If she had elaborated on how Paula’s rape ordeal weighed on her, he would perhaps have understood. But it proved to be an error, and now she has allowed Harry, with his barely suppressed age-old agenda, into their lives. He doesn’t belong. Only the girls and Jim do.

Her mind rushes back to the opening night of that show in Edinburgh’s Fruitmarket Gallery. They were all euphoric after its success, sipping wine and chatting. Suddenly she realised that Jim, whose work had taken most of the accolades, was nowhere to be seen. For a horrible second, she thought, in spite of the ankle bracelet he wore, that he’d used the show as a front to run away. But then she went out to the fire escape, and he was standing there on the stairs.

When she’d asked what he was doing, alone in that draughty spot in the semi-dark, he’d looked at her, as if to say I was waiting for you . But what he said, with hushed conviction, was that this was the very best day of his life. Then his gaze was both searching and acute as he whispered, — It’s probably asking too much, but there’s only one thing that would make it even better, and he’d closed his eyes.

It was then that Melanie had kissed him on the mouth. It was all she could do. He was all she’d been thinking about. It was the most intimate kiss she’d ever had: simple, delicious and trippy. His eyes remained shut and hers did too. When they heard a noise from the gallery and broke off, he’d smiled and said, — Thank you.

— My pleasure, she’d insisted, and they squeezed hands and headed back into the party.

The Dance Partner , the picture of a serene, Jesus-like Craig Liddel, had been sold. She listened to him talking to the wealthy collectors who paid big money for it. They were a youngish husband-and-wife team. The woman wore a sparkling blue cocktail dress. — This man you killed, how do you know he would have turned into this saintly figure?

— I don’t, but it’s not about what he might or might not have done. By killing him, I rendered that question a matter of speculation. It’s about what I do now. In order to take his life, I had to dehumanise him, and myself. In order to save my own, I now have to rehumanise us both. It’s not an easy thing to do, he’d said, calm and sincere, — it’s a battle I have to fight every day.

Francis James Begbie.

She goes to hunt for Elspeth’s number, but there is nothing written down on the pad, he must have punched it straight into his iPhone. Then, just as Melanie is about to lower the cellphone to the coffee table, a series of texts flood onto the display, or rather the same three, on repeat:

This is my new number.

Lost my iPhone.

At funeral — love you — call me when you get this.

Melanie calls the number. He picks up straight away. — Jim. . I was getting a bit worried. . These texts all came in at once. . How did the funeral go?

— So good to hear your voice! This fucking phone! Jim gasps down the line in delight. — Funeral was okay. . It’s just great to get it out the way. I’m not going to stay too long now. Just want to see a few people. .

Melanie has internally debated whether or not to tell him about Harry, and the washed-up body of Santiago. Jim has a right to know, but it is her mess and her imposition. It is unfair to add to his stress levels right now. As she listens to the regenerated Scottish burr in his voice, she thinks she can hear a knock at the door, then is aware of a rustling noise coming from outside, just as the line goes dead. She calls Jim’s new number again, as she heads to the door. This time there is only a loud, continuous beep from the phone as she opens up and looks outside.

Nobody is there.

Then, over by the garage, trying to look in Jim’s workshop, is the figure of a man, his back turned to her in the failing light. He first thought: it’s Harry . . and her heart sinks.

Then he turns and stares at her.

It isn’t Harry, it’s Martin, Jim’s agent. — Hi, Melanie, he says.

Frank Begbie had left Frances Flanagan and walked up to York Place to catch a tram. He had just got on and settled down, when the Tesco mobile went off. It was so good to hear Melanie’s voice, but to his rage, it cut off almost immediately. He’d shouted out: — FUCKER, drawing the attention of a sour-looking elderly woman, before he’d sucked in air, and forced a wan smile at her.