Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

— My fuckin leg. . Coover groaned at Santiago, who kept his eyes on Jim.

Jim pulled the knife out of the crab. Placed the creature on a flat rock, and crushed it under the heel of his boot. Santiago continued to look at him in confusion, trying to evaluate how this might play out.

— Sport, Jim said, reading his thoughts. He placed the gun on top of the rock, by the wreckage of the crab. He looked at the smooth long blade of the knife. — Nice, he said, then took his own weapon from his pocket. — Mine is an Alaskan Alpha Wolf. No quite as long a blade as your boy, but it’s got a great grip on the handle, and that convex edge reduces drag. Let’s do this, and he threw Santiago’s knife onto the sand in front of him, compelling him to move forward.

— No, man, wait –

But Jim was bearing down towards him. Santiago fought through his fear and grabbed the weapon, lifting his head as Jim swept upwards in a blow, opening up his face at the jawline, skin flapping on bone. Santiago swiped at him, but unbalanced himself and Jim barged into him, knocking him over, jumping on him, sinking the blade into his thigh and his teeth into his adversary’s wrist, as blood spurted from two limbs and Santiago dropped his knife. With the Alpha Wolf stuck in the man’s thigh bone, Jim seized the free weapon and smashed it into his combatant’s throat. More blood shot into the air, then Jim’s second stab thrust the blade through the man’s skull. He had to stand on Santiago’s head to try and retrieve the knife for a planned third strike. Again, it wouldn’t come, and he turned to see Coover hopping across the rocks, making towards the gun, and he was over in pursuit. — Gimpy’s comin. . he leered, as he gained on his prey. Crouching, without breaking his stride, he picked up a rock and smashed it over the back of Coover’s head.

Damien Coover fell prone onto the flat stones, dazed, but managing to roll around, holding up his hands as Jim straddled him, the rock raised.

— Please don’t. . he begged, eyes half shut, waiting for the next blow.

— When you hurt some cunt, Jim said, his face set in a grave scowl, nodding at the still figure of Santiago, who was bleeding into the sand, — it’s your duty to enjoy it. Otherwise, you’ve done it for fuck all. It means nothing.

— Please. .

The rock came crashing down onto the bridge of Coover’s nose, shattering it in a crack of bone and an explosion of blood. Coover let out a high-pitched yelp, followed by a long, sad whine.

— Would you have enjoyed hurting my wife and kids? Jim asked, looking above him, up to the top of the small cliff, then glancing to his left, down the beach. — What would you have done tae them? Tell me!

— No, we were. . we were. .

— You were nothing, Jim said coldly, bringing the rock down on Coover’s head with another crack. — WHAT DAE YE FUCKIN SAY, YA BAM?!

— No. . Coover groaned.

— WHAT DAE YE FUCKIN SAY?!

— Please, no. .

He whispered in Coover’s ear: — Begbie’s my name, then he sat up, and roared out to Coover, but above his head, as if addressing the ocean, those crashing waves: — FRANK BEGBIE!! He looked back at Coover. — SAY MA FUCKIN NAME! FRANK BEGBIE!!!

— Frank. . Frank. .

— FUCKIN SAY IT RIGHT! FRANK BEGBIE!

— Frank Begbie. .

He knew it was stupid and could prove costly, but he let himself get lost. It took many blows before he was convinced the man was gone, mashing the bones in his face, obliterating him. It felt so different to when he was fourteen, the very first time, when that one effort had been so decisive. But back then there had been no pleasure in that act, no release, only fear and a sense of mercy which was presently beyond him.

He stood over the pulped face, let his breathing normalise. The rage had been a beautiful treat, but it was self-indulgent, and no good at all to him now. He glanced down the beach, then out to sea. Nothing, bar Holly, looking like a black armchair out where the squally grey-blue sky met the choppy brine. Not even a distant boat. Then a solitary plane thundered above on its descent, heading for the nearby local airport, which lay on the other side of the university. The irony was that if he were to be discovered now, it would most likely be by a lone student, somebody who had stayed behind from the Fourth of July Independence Day celebrations, and who would have possibly ended up raped or murdered, if he hadn’t removed the threats. But there was no one. If he believed in all that shit, he reflected, he would have suspected a higher power was working with him. But the only power guiding him, Jim realised, was Frank Begbie. And now he had to get rid of him.

Jim felt moved to address the pulped head of the corpse. — Ken what I thought, he said, looking down the empty beach. — You know what I thought, he corrected himself. — It would be great if some other cunt had been with youse. Two wisnae enough.

Begbie was proving hard to shrug off.

Then Jim stood up and stripped down to his underpants, laying his garments in a neat pile. He hauled first Coover, then Santiago, out by the edge of the jagged rock formation. Almost instantly, he got the knife out of Santiago’s skull by twisting it, but it took an agonising thirty seconds or so before he was was able to rip the Alpha Wolf free from the man’s thigh. Then he removed both men’s clothes, stacking them in a separate pile to his own. The inlet between the two big rocks would provide decisive cover, though what he was about to do next was the riskiest part. Jim climbed back up onto the flat rocks and looked down over the sandy beach, first left, then right. Still eerily deserted, not even a solitary beachcomber. He could see beyond it, to the edge of the town. Jim turned out to sea. Way, way out on the horizon, there was a boat, but he was lucky. It was heading in the other direction, and he watched it melt into the reverberating cloud and shimmering sea.

Jim took the heavier man, Santiago, out to sea first, dragging him, relieved when the incoming tide took him up with its buoyancy, almost grabbing the body like a helping pair of hands. The water was cold, and he felt the air being squeezed from his lungs. He remembered the breathing. Steady . By breathing properly you couldn’t conquer any adversary, but you bought time. You gave yourself a better chance. He swam, pulling Santiago, for what felt like a long distance, but in reality couldn’t have been more than twenty yards out before letting him go. He watched the body float off.

When he returned to do the same for Coover, he was tired and the current was stronger, with the waves hitting his face in provocative slaps, so he dared not go so far out. To his surprise, he heard a faint moaning from the man in his arms; Coover was still alive. This wouldn’t be the case for long. — Shh. . he said, as tenderly as a mother would to an infant, holding him under the water, watching bubbles from his crushed nose and mouth rise to the surface. After letting Coover go, he swam back and put his clothes on over his wet body, then bundled up the dead men’s apparel. The beach was still deserted. In the distance, towards Santa Barbara, he could see a group of people, probably young, by the way they moved, heading down the sands. He ducked into a winding trail, onto the clifftop, where he gathered his breath and looked out to sea. The tide would have carried the bodies away.

Jim rummaged through the bundle of clothes in his lap, pulled out two wallets, one a decent leather accessory, the other a cheap affair. That was the one with the cash, around three hundred dollars, which he pocketed, along with a novelty cigarette lighter emblazoned with L FUCKING A. He examined the ID, thinking of the movie The Exorcist as he read the name DAMIEN COOVER, waiting till he heard the group of youths pass, three boys, three girls, before scrambling down through shrub and walking along by the side of the lagoon.