Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

When he got to the vehicles, he placed the clothes in the Silverado, soaking them and it with gasoline from the spare can in the trunk of his Grand Cherokee, before chucking in the lighter.

He got into his truck, pulled off, and was almost on the road that headed to the freeway before he heard the petrol tank of the other vehicle explode, in a strangely hollow, petulant gasp. It would probably register more dramatically with the students on the beach, but by the time they scrambled up to investigate, he would be well gone.

Leaving the Canonmills pub, and his old friend and colleague bleeding heavily on its floor, Franco jumps on a passing number 8 bus. At the east end of Princes Street, he alights and switches to a tram, heading west to Murrayfield.

Sinking into the padded seat, he appreciates the sleek vehicle’s smooth glide along the track. Franco rests his head against the window and concentrates on his breathing. Soon he is in a semi-daydream, thinking again about his schooldays. He remembers saying to Renton, as they sat on the wall by the steps outside Leith Town Hall, that he wasn’t taking it. His friend obviously thought he meant the belt, but his concern was more general. He recalls Bobby Halcrow, another troubled dyslexic reader, and a victim of the bullies; a nervous, shambling, fearful figure in the corner of the playground, too scared to make eye contact with anybody. Bobby took it from them all: the laughter, the scorn, the abuse, the humiliation. In his mind’s eye, Frank Begbie sees Phillip McDougal, a persistent tormentor, with his gang surrounding Bobby in the playground. — What’s yir name? Say yir name.

Gentle Bobby Halcrow, blinking fearfully, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. — Baw-baw-baw. .

— That’s yir baws, McDougal said, raising his knee sharply into Halcrow’s groin. As the terrified boy jackknifed to sycophantic guffaws, McDougal turned to see Francis Begbie staring at him.

— Whae are you fuckin lookin at, daftie? Phillip McDougal shouted, as his cohorts snickered. — You want yir erse kicked tae?

Franco remained silent, but maintained his stare. The voice came from another quarter. — Fuckin beat it, ya mongol, Mark Renton said. Renton was one of those kids who wasn’t known as hard, but he had an older brother who was, a factor he ruthlessly milked.

— And you’re gaunny make ays, like, Renton? McDougal challenged.

— Mibbe, Renton said, with less confidence.

McDougal moved forward, obviously ready to punch the skinny Renton out and take his chances with the big brother, when Francis Begbie said to him, — A square go. You’re gaunny die.

McDougal looked incredulously at Begbie. Before, Frank Begbie might have lowered his gaze to his feet. Now he was holding an even stare. In his mind’s eye: a vision of a house brick smashing repeatedly over McDougal’s head. Then the bell was ringing. — Eftir school, McDougal hissed. — We’ll see whae’s fuckin deid then, and he headed off, laughing with his mates, making wanker signs at Begbie and Renton.

— Ye really gaunny fight um? Renton asked, in the excited awe of somebody who realises they’d just got a massive reprieve.

Frank Begbie shook his head. — Nup. Ah’m gaunny fuckin kill um.

Renton would normally have laughed at this, but the other week he had seen the state of Joe Begbie’s face. Nobody knew what had happened, although rumours abounded. However, he perceived that something was going on with Joe’s younger brother. There had been a distracted air about his friend Francis Begbie, and a brooding silence had settled on him.

In the Begbie household, Franco had once again been getting it from Joe. After a while, he realised, pain was nothing. It was just there. He’d actually begun to enjoy it, simply through savouring the moment he would stop it. Then he did, for good, with one violent action.

Later that day, Franco saw McDougal again, in the corridor, between classes, and the brawny boy ran a finger down his cheek in a slash simulation, pointing at him, just in case there was any ambiguity.

The hostilities were scheduled to take place after school on the Links, in the section of the park down towards the allotments, which was sheltered by trees. Franco remembers walking across the grass with Renton, and a couple of others, dwarfed by McDougal’s entourage, and the onlookers who expected a one-sided annihilation. The fight commenced with Francis Begbie springing at Phillip McDougal, shocking everyone with his ferocity. They exchanged punches and boots. McDougal was bigger and stronger and vicious, but Begbie kept on coming. Then they were in a grip and McDougal had him down and was on top of him, battering him senseless. — Had enough? McDougal screamed into his bloodied face, as the oohs and aws of the crowd indicated the extent of Begbie’s beating.

By way of reply, some bloody gob flew into McDougal’s face from Francis Begbie’s burst mouth. McDougal resumed the brutal pounding until police sirens and cries of ‘shoatie’ filled the air, as a panda squad car pulled up on the road, and the kids quickly started to disperse.

McDougal arose, hailed as victor, but through his triumph there was a disquiet, as he looked back and saw Mark Renton help the battered but unbowed Begbie to his feet. — He’s a fuckin dirty animal, McDougal protested to a cohort, as he used the sleeve of his Fair Isle sweater to wipe the bloody saliva from his face.

Frank Begbie didn’t show up at school the following day, and there was talk that McDougal had hospitalised him. Feeling pleased with himself as he headed home, Phillip McDougal suddenly felt somebody jump on his back. He saw the horror on the faces of his two friends. Frank Begbie was on top of him, battering him with a half-brick. A dazed McDougal threw Begbie off, and quickly overpowered his adversary, beating him senseless again. He said to the battered, exhausted boy on the ground, — That’s enough, ah’m fuckin warnin ye, but there was a fear and uncertainty in his voice that he couldn’t hide.

The next day Frank Begbie, two black eyes, one barely open, marched up to McDougal in the playground at the lunchtime break. He smashed his brow into a static McDougal’s nose, shattering it, the school bully’s blood dripping onto the tarmac. To the shock of almost everybody present, McDougal lay down and took the humiliating, savage kicking, which he knew, even at those tender years, possibly saved his life. When he was done, Begbie turned to McDougal’s silent cohorts. — WHAE’S FUCKIN NEXT? he roared. None of them could look him in those slits in the bulbous purple that were his eyes, and his reading skills would never be publicly mocked again.

The tram stops to the pnuematic hiss of the doors, jolting Frank Begbie out of his daydream. When he gets to Elspeth’s he calls Melanie, but it goes straight to her voicemail. He does it a second time, just so that he can hear her answering-phone voice. So tranquil and non-abrasive, so different to many of the tones he knew over here.

Elspeth had been at the shops, and returned wearing what he’d come to think of as her spoiling-for-a-fight expression. This involved her scraping her top teeth against her bottom lip, and narrowing her eyes. She’d done that since she was a child; a domineering, self-centred force that neither he nor Joe had been quite able to work out how to deal with, when, as young boys, she’d come into their lives. Franco is thus relieved when a call with a USA number manifests on his Tesco phone. Reasoning that it could be something to do with Melanie or the kids, he picks up.

— Jim, it’s Martin. Mel gave me this number.

Franco feels a crashing despondency on hearing his agent’s voice. — Right. Hi, he says, heading through to his room, looking out the window.