Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

— Wisnae really the dug’s fault. He took a big drag, blew the smoke oot into the cauld air. — Wis jist his nature. People are like that tae, boy. Thir yir friends. . then he bared his teeth at me, — till thir no. Ye understand that, pal?

— Aye, I told him.

— Good. Let’s get back intae the warm, and we stubbed oot our fags and returned tae the front room, him tae his game ay cairds.

But that night I did something ah’d never done before, and would vow never tae do again. I went doon tae the phone box and called the bizzies.

In some ways the silence on the drive suits him. In others it’s worrying, indicating that he’s subject to a chilling restraint and professionalism. Power’s wankers wouldn’t have the discipline to maintain such a hushed silence. At the very least, they would have been compelled to scoff at his Tesco mobile phone. He estimates three men, one driving, two in the back with him. But instead of trying to work out where he’s going, he focuses on his breathing, slowly, through the hood, warm on his face, and he lets his thoughts drift off, away from the unwelcome interventions of his grandad, to his wife and daughters. If he was finished, he was going to bow out thinking about them.

Under that dark hood, he is lifting Eve high over the sand dunes, then holding up an aggressive, pinching rock crab for Grace’s attentions. She is laughing, dancing in front of it with delight. Then Melanie is in his arms, as they salsa across the floor, to the girls’ enchantment. He wants to show his daughters that this is what real men do with their sweethearts — that this rapture, beauty and fun is what they are entitled to expect of love. He is breathing evenly, he is at peace. The constant stopping at the lights tells him he’s still in the city, but they might be taking him anywhere. Then, suddenly, he feels familiar cobblestoned bumps under the SUV, knows the sequence of them. This is followed by the rumbling of a grid.

They are at Leith Docks.

They stop the car and help him out. They handle him firmly, but not over-aggressively. As the hood is pulled from him and he blinks into a fading light, a dark, short-haired, flinty-eyed man in his early twenties comes into focus, facing him. The man is well dressed, not in casual or gangster fashions, but like a young professional. His face is fresh and unblemished, apart from a thin scar above his top lip. Franco thinks of the person who gave him that scar. Was he gone for good, or perhaps strutting around a different town with impunity? — You must be Anton.

The young man nods. There are two other men with Anton, almost flanking him, maybe a step behind. In clothing and bearing they look like cheaper, inferior versions. Frank Begbie is instantly less impressed. He now reads their silence as deference to a disciplined leader, rather than inherent competence.

— A wee bit ay advice, Franco says nonchalantly, — get yourself checked oot. The STD clinic.

Anton Miller’s face is still impassive, though one eyebrow slightly raises. His henchmen bristle, the chunkier one stepping forward. — What was that? he says, his fists balling.

— The lassie Flanagan, Frank Begbie says, completely ignoring the other man, never taking his eyes off Anton Miller. — Decent pussy, but pits it aboot too much. Larry’s been thaire, n he wis ey a bareback man. Doubt that’s changed.

Anton Miller nods slowly, in mild appreciation. It’s as if Frank Begbie has passed a test, or maybe two: of insight and bottle. — I’ve no brought ye doon here tae discuss my health. Ah wanted tae look you in the eye and tell ye something straight.

— Ah think ah ken what it is, Franco says, — that ye had nowt tae dae wi Sean’s death. Well, ah’d figured that oot for masel.

Anton lets both his brows rise. — Aw aye, n how did ye come tae that conclusion?

— Too many bams aw singin fae the same song sheet. Orchestrated by a cunt who ey does that sort ay thing. Whae’s been daein it since the year dot.

— Power, Anton scoffs.

He notes the stockier henchman, the one who’d come forward, exchange a look with the other guy; thinner, hook-nosed. — Golden rule: that fat cunt says sugar , I think shite , Franco half smirks. — Never had that many rules that stood me in good stead. Wish ah’d remembered that yin mair.

Anton smiles, allowing Franco to feel the younger man’s cool charisma. What sort of education he’s received is neither here nor there: his intelligence is obviously formidable. Then a focused gleam comes into his eyes. — You dinnae seem tae be that upset for a man who’s just lost his son.

— Ah was never close tae him, Franco shrugs. — Nae sense in lyin aboot it, or playin oot some fucked-up drama tae suit other people. Of course ah want tae know what happened, but that’s aboot it. He looks around, taking in the overhanging cranes, glancing across to the factory units, over the top of the new-build casino. — I’ve nae emotional investment in this place. Besides, times change. Franco nods at Anton and his associates with a half-grin. — I’m oot ay my depth here.

— Franco Begbie, ootay his depth. Anton seems to toy with this idea. — You had some rep in this toon.

— Mibbee once. But you type ay guys were always better than me; the likes ay you and Power. Ah wis never in that league. Ah wis jist a thug. A good thug, but that was it, and he thinks about Davie ‘Tyrone’ Power’s statement. — I never hud you boys’ entrepreneurial zest.

A slight smile that might have been a reaction to flattery plays across Anton’s lips, but his tombstone-grey eyes stay glacial. — Heard you’ve done awright for yourself. An artist, oot in California.

— No bad, Franco concedes, — but that’s aw hype and fashion. They buy ma stuff cause it’s in vogue, so ah make tons ay it and flog it while ah can. Some day soon, they’ll lose interest. Till then, make hay while the sun shines.

— You’re a smart man.

Frank Begbie shakes his head. — Spent too much time in jail tae ever be called that.

Anton looks to his associates, then back to Begbie. — Let’s go for a wee walk, just the two ay us.

Franco nods, thinking that whatever is going to happen, one versus one is better odds than one versus three. They stroll together along the edge of the old dock, heading out to the jetty and the breakwater. The wind is cold and biting as they stop, leaning on a railing, looking out to the dank, dull waters of the Forth Estuary. Frank Begbie thinks of the Pacific Ocean by his home, all those hues of blue. What is he doing here, with all those shades of grey? Does Anton want a square go, or is he planning to shoot him and push his body into the sea?

Or maybe he just wants to talk. Certain types of success can be isolating, and make people lonely. — Ah’ve made money. But it’s aw overseas. In banks. Anton is staring out to the horizon, but with intent, as if he sees something out there.

— So ah’ve heard, Franco says. — And I won’t kid on that ah’m no impressed. Even the likes ay Power, it took him twenty-odd years tae get the sense you’ve got now.

Anton turns to face him, with an impatient, almost mocking leer. — Do you ken how easy it is tae go tae Switzerland and open a business account in a bank? Or even the Cayman Islands? Ye jump on a fuckin plane, n walk intae a bank wi your passport and a bag full ay cash. Tell them you want to open a business account. That’s it. Tougher tae open one wi the RBS or Clydesdale.

Begbie remains impassive.

— The point ah’m makin is that schemies have an aversion tae walkin ontae a fuckin plane that isnae gaun tae Amsterdam, or Ibiza or Thailand or some fitba game. Somewhere they’re told they can go. They’d rather stuff their money under a mattress.