Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

— Where else would he be? Melanie says brusquely. Harry looks heavy-eyed, still focused, but as if at the cost of great mental effort. There is a whiff on his breath. Alcohol. For a second she considers confronting him about his visit to Jim’s agent in LA, but decides against this. It’s preferable that he remains unaware of her knowledge of this line of enquiry. She recalls Jim’s — or Frank’s — mantra regarding the cops: tell them fuck all .

Harry nods slowly, cagily taking a step back, as if understanding that he’s overstepped the mark. He is a policeman first and foremost, and he hasn’t mentioned the burnt-out car. Jim was right; a cop couldn’t be trusted socially with people, in the same way an alcoholic couldn’t be around a cabinet full of liquor. He would always have to open it up, to see what was inside. Now it seems like he already has. What sort of cop stank of alcohol at this hour of the morning? And on some deep psychological level (which is now starting to openly manifest) Melanie knows that Harry wants to replace Jim, which first means having Jim out of the way. Melanie realises she has made a decision there and then: Harry cannot be allowed to break up this family.

The cop has embarked on a game of silence, which she is in no mood to play.

— I really have to get the girls off, she states. Melanie now knows that she isn’t taking them to the school and kindergarten, but she’s not going to tell Harry that.

— Of course. . but, Melanie, you know you can talk to me, Harry says earnestly. His words are slurring a little and she can see, in the sunlight, the puffiness around his eyes and cheeks. — Off the record. As a friend.

— Right, she nods.

— You do have friends, Melanie. People who care about you. . remember that, Harry says, leaking desperation.

— I appreciate your concern, Harry, she says blithely, almost laughing in nervous tension. The incongruity of it burns her, and she knows he isn’t fooled for a second. Melanie isn’t sticking around though; she heads to the car and climbs in. He will need to do the same, or block her in her driveway. Whatever Jim has done, it has been for her and the girls. He’d always said that their protection was the only thing he believed in. But it went further than that. She knows that he also, on a very deep level, believes in vengeance.

Melanie is relieved to see Harry, after taking a lingering look at the car, turn away and get into his own vehicle. — What did the man want, Mommy? Grace asks.

— Nothing, honey, Melanie says, delighted to hear the sound of Harry’s engine starting up, and to watch his car pull away. — Now, I got a big surprise, she announces in the same fake upbeat tone she’d used on Harry. — You guys are gonna stay at Grandma’s for a few days!

The kids see through it in much the same way the sauced-up cop had. — Why? Grace asks.

— I need to go to Scotland to see Daddy. He’s quite sad because his friend is very sick, she explains, starting up the car and edging into the street.

— Daddy! Will you bring him back? Eve asks.

— Of course I will! Daddy said that he had too many presents from Scotland for two special little girls. He needs me to help him carry them.

Grace is unconvinced. — Is Daddy okay?

— Of course he is.

— Are people nice to him in Scotland? Eve asks, with a frown.

— Yes, they are!

Melanie watches Eve scowl in the mirror. Her face, so like her father’s, says: they’d better be nice to my daddy, or else. She calls Jim again, but can still get nothing. Follows it with an imploring text. When she gets the girls down to her mother’s, Melanie tells Jane Francis that she needs her to look after her granddaughters for a few days. She explains she really has to go to the funeral (even though it has passed) in order to support Jim. Jane loves the girls, and is delighted to do this, offering only a half-hearted interrogation in response. Then Melanie heads for LAX to get a flight to London.

When she learns she’s been allocated one of the stand-by seats, Melanie relaxes, feeling in control. However, this soon turns to helpless despair as she sits in a cramped economy class, a fat man almost shoehorned in on her left, a wan, tense-faced woman on her right, and a screaming and sobbing pair of very small children in front of her. Melanie will have eleven hours of this till London. She closes her eyes, tries to blot it all out. Thinks about meeting Jim for the first time, back in the prison. That picture he had painted, The Dance Partner . How far they have come since then, and how it had been his idea that they joined the salsa club together.

Unlike Elspeth’s view of the van, Franco considers, the flat in Marchmont certainly isn’t very Larry. This time he pauses to really take in the large, bright, bay-windowed, second-storey affair; its wooden sealed-and-sanded floors and tasteful furnishings suggest that his old friend hadn’t been involved in the decoration project. — Nice gaff, Franco observes, looking at several framed pictures that give it a homely touch. They are all portraits of the same boy, ranging from a baby to around seven years old. The boy has Larry’s mischievous smile, without the undercurrent of malevolence that Franco assumes might develop with age. Or perhaps not. It’s obvious that there has been some judicious editing, removing all traces of the mother from the shots. That relationship hadn’t ended well, he evaluates.

— Aye, it’s awright, Larry agrees, picking up a computer game console, and switching on the large flat-screen TV it’s hooked up to.

— Business must be good, Franco says.

Larry turns to face him, briefly looks as if he’s thinking of lying, then seems to decide that the truth is more fun. — I won a million and a half quid on the lottery, he grins and, for the first time, Franco realises from his electric smile that Larry’s teeth are capped. — Never thought I’d tell any cunt, but there’s a few ay them that ken. Thought you’d appreciate it. A lot ay them say ‘why you?’, and they go on aboot aw the things ah’m meant tae huv done.

Franco responds with a nonchalant shrug. — Ye get what ye get, no what ye deserve.

— Thoat you’d see it that wey, and Larry flashes those big, white teeth, incongrous in his weak, skinny frame. — Ah’m on borrowed time wi the cowie, but ah’ve pit maist ay it intae a trust for the wee man. He glances to the pictures on the sideboard and the wall.

— Sound, Franco says. — Ye still see the laddie’s ma?

Larry swivels round to face him. — That fuckin hoor? She wanted ays back when she heard aboot the Lotto win. Telt her tae fuckin bolt! Said she shouldnae listen tae fuckin gossip aboot me huvin money, n any thit ah did huv, the wee man would get the lot when he was aulder. She’ll see fuck all, he scoffs, his smile widening. — Telt her if she made any bother, she’d get fuckin plenty ay it back. Explained tae her that thaire wis younger birds in the picture, and he points to the storage system under the TV, which is full of DVD cases, a solitary female name on each spine. — Make ma ain scud vids, he beams, — like that Juice Terry cunt!

— Terry’s a proper star these days, Franco says, — but this looks a wee bit dodgy.

— Aye, Larry agrees, but he’s swiftly re-engrossed in his game, only interrupting it when his phone rings in his jacket pocket. He extracts it and heads into the kitchen. — Hi. . Right. .

Franco can barely hear Larry’s low voice as he watches the images on the television. He can never see the attraction in those games. He recalls an echo of violence past, pasting a guy’s face against the glass of an Asteroids machine in a Rose Street pub. That was a while back. He tries to recall why he’d done this, but nothing comes to mind. He picks up the console, as the scene changes to HIGHEST SCORES.