Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

— Couldn’t get you on the other line. Haven’t been enjoying a whole heap of luck with this one. Mel said there’s been problems with it.

— Aye, Franco concedes, — it’s not the best of phones.

— How are things in Edinboro?

— Good, he says, instantly feeling an ironic smile twist on his lips. — Got a new tram system, what we’d call light rail in America. Very impressive, he declares, as, from behind the net curtains, he watches his nephews enter the house.

— Great. . Look, I’m sorry to harass you, but I need to know when you’re due back.

— Soon.

Martin lets out a sigh of exasperation at the meagre information proferred by his client. — We’ve still got a couple of loose ends to tie up. I really need you back here by next week at the latest.

— Just tying up some loose ends myself, Franco says, switching to a transatlantic accent, as he looks outside, to see Greg, who greets him with a wave, coming down the path. — How are things going your end?

— Rod Stewart can’t make it, unfortunately. I think he’s on tour.

— Too bad, Franco muses, thinking about the Rod Stewart song ‘Young Turks’ and how it brings Anton Miller to mind, as he leaves the bedroom and starts to move back into the lounge. He has a vision of Miller as a squat, chunky, wisecracking wee guy, perhaps with a bow-legged gunfighter walk like Nelly’s.

— But Nicole wants a bust of Tom, with a very specific mutilation, strictly confidential. Martin sounds breezy. — And Aniston’s people want to know when the Angelina will be ready.

— No word from the Axl Rose boy out of Guns n’ Roses? Franco asks, as he gets into the front room. He tips George a wink, which Elpseth registers with as much dismay as her son’s reciprocal glee.

— Haven’t heard from Axl’s people. . I’ll chase them up.

— Sound. I can’t see myself being here much longer, a few days at the most, he says, looking at Elspeth’s tightening face. Maybe it was time to fuck off to a hotel. To tell Elspeth: good luck to you if you’ve found a nice wee shelter to hide from the chaos and pain the world dishes out. Just don’t pretend that it isn’t happening to others. And don’t kid yourself on that it won’t happen to you. But now is not the time. The boys are sitting in front of the TV. Greg has settled down on the settee with a book he’s reading about women who had been kidnapped by the Mexican drug cartels. Martin’s soft voice on the phone, trying to pin down exactly what a few days means. — It means a few days, he says emphatically. — I’ll get back to you if that changes.

— Right. Martin’s tones dip in weary concession. — Much obliged, Jim.

— Great, cheers, Martin.

Franco clicks the phone off and is preparing for his sister to unload, glad that Greg and the boys are present. This means that any attack will be limited to barbed asides. Then there is a shattering explosion, as the front window caves in, glass flying all over the room. A shard flies into George’s arm, drawing blood which spills onto the shagpile. Greg drops his book as Elspeth screams.

It is all but drowned out by a roar from outside. — YOU’RE FUCKIN DEID, BEGBIE!!

Franco runs straight for the door, aware of the leg holding him back, like it was stuck in treacle. Once he gets going, he can’t feel it, but it has cut his acceleration. Fuckin Renton. Fuckin radge.

He gets out into the small front garden, to see three youths in the street. One he vaguely recognises from the funeral. Leaping over the small wall and striding towards them, he knows by their stock ‘come on’ gesticulations that they don’t intend to engage with him. This is another set-up, and the play soon comes into his peripheral vision on the right-hand side, in the form of two guys who get out of a car.

They aren’t the youthful men he expects: probably mid-thirties, seasoned bouncer types. Ignoring the younger lads, he walks slowly towards them. One of them, heavily muscled in a blue T-shirt, but with thin legs, shouts, — Miller wants tae see ye!

There is plenty about this that isn’t sitting right with Frank Begbie. It is important to breathe steadily, even as he coldly visualises deep lacerations on the faces of the men. — Aye? Miller? Franco laughs. — Ye mean Tyrone!

The two men look at each other. They haven’t anticipated this.

— Is that the best Tyrone can dae these days? He looks them up and down in disdain, envisioning the stomping, raking heel that will destroy the thin-legged man’s kneecap, leaving him sprawled helpless on the pavement. — Two muppets whae probably work the door at Baby Busters? Cannae git staff, right enough, he bellows.

— We dinnae ken any Tyrone, Thin Legs feebly protests.

— So youse boys are gaunny take ays tae Miller then?

The two bouncers look at each other, as if in realisation that this is no longer such a good idea. Thin Legs is particularly nervous, one eye visibly twitching. — Aye. . you’ve to come wi us. .

Frank Begbie cracks a smile. — What happens if ah dinnae come?

— Wir giein ye a message that if ye dinnae come thaire’s gaunny be trouble. .

— Well, here’s a wee message fae me tae yir boss: he’s a fat, baldy cunt. Does that sound like Anton Miller? Franco steps forward, as sirens rip through the air. — Saved by the bell. Youse, obviously, he scoffs as the two men back away and climb into the car, hastily driving off.

Franco looks around for the three younger guys. That they’d fled does not surprise him.

The main cop, a veteran whom Franco recognises as a career cunt who would never get out of uniform and would probably never fully understand why, takes statements from Elspeth and Greg. Then he interviews Franco, who tells him nothing, other than he was on the phone when a brick came through the window, and went out to investigate.

When he’s done, the old cop fixes him a chopsy smile. — I know what you’re really like, you might be able to fool them. .

Franco dismissively waves him away with a backward sweep of the hand, imitating the cop’s own expression and tone. — Aw, is that so? You know, everybody gies me the same speech: cops, family, friends, reporters, villains. And the weird thing is that they aw think they’re blessed wi this unique insight in making that very same observation. He watches the cop’s features slacken. — That can mean two things: either they’re probably right, or they’re fuckin simpletons.

The veteran cop’s face reignites in a defiant sneer. — Aw aye, is that so? What do you think it is?

— I think one doesn’t have tae exclude the other.

The cop looks disparagingly at him. Franco can tell that he feels short-changed. They’d dashed out to Murrayfield, expecting to protect suburbanites, only to be cheated by stumbling on a nest of Begbies infesting the place. They don’t stick around for long.

Elspeth calling them was understandable in the circumstances. However, as she is a Begbie from Leith, Franco is wrong-footed by the deep sense of betrayal he feels burn him. You’d think that George had been decapitated from the fuss they’re making. He looks across at his pouting, bandaged nephew with a smile. — Cut masel shavin worse, he states, instantly realising, from Elspeth’s expression, that it is the wrong gambit.

— WE’VE BEEN ATTACKED, VIOLATED IN OUR AIN HOUSE, BECAUSE AY YOU, AND YOU’VE GOT THE NERVE TO COME OUT WI FLIPPANT REMARKS!

— They were just kids. If they’d wanted to send heavies doon –

— No, these are just kids, and she points to Thomas and George. — Get out! GET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR HOME!

— I was going tae suggest ah left, Franco agrees. — I don’t want you getting caught up in this.