Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

Now Franco is getting irritated with John’s badgering. The way he challenges him constantly, like he did in prison, talking to him like nobody else ever had. Because I see what you are, John had once said to him. This had enraged, challenged and then ultimately helped Frank Begbie so much. Because he knew that John saw past what he had been prepared to show to the world. But then again, things change. Now maybe John Dick has become just another person in this town he needs to get away from. — Of course I do, Franco states. — If you get obsessed with losers and associate with them, ye become one ay them. That’s been the point of everything , recognising that. My life wasted on these useless vendettas; Cha Morrison, the Sutherlands, Donnelly, Seeker. . I’m no adding this Anton boy tae the list.

John seems satisfied with this response, and his mood becomes more playful. — So what would you dae if he walked in here right now, Renton, this old mate who ripped you off?

— Fuck knows, probably buy him a drink and tell him he owes me a few grand with twenty years’ interest on it, he laughs.

John now chuckles along with him. — I watched you reprogramme yourself painstakingly, through those books you read. And I know how much of a struggle that was, with the dyslexia, and his mentor is looking at him in unbridled admiration. This always used to make Franco feel like a kid, eager to do better. He hadn’t felt that way since his old Grandad Jock had taken that interest in him. It would have been good to have had somebody like John back then, instead of Jock and his mates. He might have had different options. — Don’t throw all that away. Don’t go back down into the black hole, Frank.

Frank Begbie considers this. — Sometimes I wonder if I’ve ever really left it, John.

John Dick is about to protest, when the man named Jim Mulgrew rises and punches his female associate in the face. She lets out a yelp and sits with her head in her hands. This draws gasps and cries of derision from the other drinkers. Frank Begbie remains still, looking over at Jim Mulgrew who bristles indignantly in his chair. The barman approaches the assailant. — Right, you, get the fuck ootay here!

— Ah’m gaun, Mulgrew says, rising to exit the bar.

The woman is rubbing her jaw. It hadn’t been such a hard punch but there will be some swelling. There is something horrible in her eyes, alongside the fear and pain, a kind of satisfied vindication. — He’ll be back, she addresses the assembled drinkers.

— No in here he’ll no, and neither will you, the barman announces. — Gie him a few minutes tae git doon the road, then you’re ootay here n aw.

— Ah never did nowt, what did ah dae?

— On that, time to depart, Frank Begbie says to John Dick, realising that, before, he would have got involved in this incident, to everyone’s detriment. He recalls one such time when an aggressive domestic argument was taking place in a bar in Leith. He’d gone over and wrapped an arm around the shoulder of each party, pulling them towards him in a gesture of conciliation. Then he’d rammed the nut on the both of them, one after the other.

— Okay, Frank, sorry to get on your case. John Dick stretches out his hand. — I know you’re going through a rough time.

Frank Begbie grabs it and shakes it. — If ye didnae gie a fuck, ye wouldnae have said anything. But don’t worry, John, I’m in a good place, and he taps his head and winks at his mentor. It is important to say the right things, express the correct sentiment. A prime minister could quietly protect rich paedophiles using the Official Secrets Act provided he publicly proclaimed that he would leave no stone unturned to bring such people to justice. It was the expression of the contrary action that gave you the licence. People generally wanted to believe that you meant well; the consequences of thinking otherwise were too grim to contemplate.

— A better place than those wastes ay space. John nods over to the woman and Jim Mulgrew’s empty chair.

Franco looks across at her, now muttering perceived injustices under her breath. — They should learn the salsa, he ventures to John, — that whole lifestyle, it would stop them from gettin at each other’s throats.

And Frank Begbie feels deeply pleased with himself as he bids John Dick farewell, almost skipping out of the bar to the van. Then, as he opens it up, he feels something hard pressing hard against his temple. Knows it to be the barrel of a gun. — Don’t fucking move or I’ll blow yir heid off, a voice calmly says. Then a hand reaches into his jacket pocket, removing the Tesco phone, and at the same time a hood is placed over his head. As this act shuts out the world’s light, he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs like a reverse sigh.

He can see nothing, except some feet and grey flagstones, as he is pushed into the back of a vehicle. From the step and size of it, he envisions some kind of large SUV. Then he feels his seatbelt being snugly fastened across him, like he would do with Grace and Eve. Not a single glimpse of the faces of any of the men who have taken him, just the awareness that there is one on each side of him in the back seat, as the vehicle accelerates away.

It was the day after the incident with Johnnie when I next saw them. I was walking home from school and I looked in the windae of the Marksman Bar in Duke Street. There they were, through a fug of blue cigarette smoke, sitting drinking, full of cheer. It was that euphoria that always came from gloating at the suffering brought down on some rival. I sensed it in others as I grew to feel it in myself: that arrogant, showboating impulse, where you feel invincible and revel in your own power.

Grandad Jock saw me as he looked up from his pint, his snidey eyes locking onto mine. I could tell that he caught something in them. He smiled, and I was scared.

Johnnie’s body was found two days later. A security guard had seen an unusually big flock of seagulls around the dry dock, fighting, squawking, attracted by the corpse. The rats had also been busy, so the identification took a while or so some locals said. A lot of cunts would probably have been delighted to envision Johnnie’s handsome face eaten off by scavengers. That grinning face that would have hovered over many of their wives and girlfriends, as they moaned in pleasure beneath him.

It was in the Evening News and on Scotland Today. When Grandad Jock came round with Carmie and Lozy for the card school, I asked them about it. Jock tippled that I knew more than I was letting on. — Good riddance tae bad rubbish, he said softly, not looking up from his hand of cards.

— I thought Johnnie wis yir pal!

There was a silence around the table. Then my dad looked at ays with a drunkard’s mean scowl. — Keep your neb oot, son. Ah’m telling ye. . he slurred, — keep it oot ay things you ken nowt aboot!

But he was the cunt that kent nowt. My grandad raised his head and winked at me. — Naw. . it’s okay, he said to my dad, and he rose, gesturing me to follow him oot intae the hall. We went through the kitchen oot to the wee paved backcourt where the bins were. It was cold. He seemed not to feel it. He lit up a fag, gave me one.

— Mind that dug yir faither came hame wi, ages ago?

Ah minded ay Viking, the German shepherd dug ma dad brought hame one time fae the pound when he was pished. A barry dug, but he bit everybody n we hud tae get him destroyed. — Aye.

— Ye loved that dug, mind? But it bit ye. Dug couldnae help it. Eh loved ye, but eh still betrayed ye.

I nodded. Viking sank his teeth into my ankle for no reason. We’d been running in Pilrig Park and he just turned oan ays and bit me. Probably got too excited and couldnae control himself.