Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

— I trust my bank in California, Frank Begbie states. — Of course, they’re ripping me off, but the money isnae gaun anywhere.

Anton suddenly looks at Franco in a different way, as if he considers he might be being played. — You wake up in the sun every morning, nice wife, kids, looking oot tae the ocean. Not a worry or a care. That’s gaunny be me a couple ay years fae now.

Franco tries to hold his poker face but he can feel doubt creeping into his expression.

This isn’t lost on Anton, who responds with a grin that briefly makes him look boyish, but somehow more dangerous. — Aw aye, you’re right tae be cynical. Talk’s cheap, every bam says that, but ah’ve gied masel a target. The amount’s written doon in black and white. Ah’m almost there. Then ah go. Dunno where, but somewhere warm and sunny.

Franco thinks of himself at that age, a mere primitive in comparison. It’s so strange for such a young man to be able to converse like this. But how much has he really considered? — What will ye dae when ye get there? he asks.

Franco can see by the slight narrowing of his eyes that this question has cut Anton. — That’s the part ah still need tae figure oot, he concedes, turning back to the sea. — But ah ken what ah’m no gaunny dae. Ma auld man worked hard aw his life. He was a welder tae trade. Then that dried up, the yards shut. So he worked abroad for a bit. Then he came back, and took a job on the TV detector vans. See, he was a straightpeg, did fuck all wrong his whole life. Anton turns back to Frank Begbie. — Fuckin mug.

— Don’t think I know the boy, Franco responds, deadpan.

— Take it fae me, Anton jeers. — You’ve got tae set the world on fire, and his eyes suddenly blaze, as if in illustra-tion. — And see your Sean, ah always liked that boy. He was awright, a good laugh. And whatever cunts are puttin aboot, he never, ever ripped me off.

— That’s good, Franco says, — you have tae be able tae trust people.

— But eh wis a waster. Anton shakes his head. — Drugs got him. Drugs ah sold, drugs he sold. Ah used tae tell him: Sell drugs, get rich. Take drugs, fuck yirsel. Tae me that’s always the ultimate no-brainer. Sean should have got that. He wisnae a daftie. Till he was wasted.

— Ah never knew him that well. Ah was either in jail, or kipped up wi some other bird when he was growing up. Heard he was a drug addict, though. That’s disappointing tae me. Franco arches his brow. — These people always disappoint.

Frank Begbie’s voice has dropped ominously, but Anton now seems lost in his own dark thoughts. — Ma auld man; ah bought him n ma auld girl a hoose on a nice estate at Barnton, oot ay the scheme. Took them roond there in the car. A big surprise. Drove them ootside this nice walled-and-gated development, landscaped gairdins, the lot, and handed them the keys. He telt me tae stuff it; refused tae even get oot the motor. My ma greetin her eyes oot, her dream hoose, and this prick wouldnae even get oot the fuckin car tae have a look at it. And he wouldnae let her get oot either. Said he didnae want anything that was peyed for by misery money . That was what he says: misery money . Can ye fuckin believe that?

Franco is silent, looking out to sea. The light is fading. It’s getting really cold. — People are hard tae figure oot sometimes, he states, then looks at Anton. — Who do you think murdered Sean?

Anton stares him coldly in the eye. — The easiest thing tae say would be Power, or one ay his mob. But that would be a lie. The truth is, ah’ve no got a clue. But if you find oot, let me know. As I say: he had his faults, but I liked Sean.

— No enough tae go tae his funeral.

— There isnae much ye can dae for somebody when thir deid, Anton shrugs mildly. — You think half the bams who were there, those fuckin ghouls, really wanted tae pey respects tae Sean? If ah’d turned up, there would’ve been an atmosphere, wi Power and a few others. Ah showed ma respect by stayin away.

Franco thinks about this, and his confrontation with Cha Morrison. — Fair enough.

— You know. . we’ve got something in common, Anton ventures, a slight wistfulness creeping into his tone. — Sean wisnae the son you wanted. Ma auld man wisnae the faither ah wanted.

— We’re baith too auld tae bother aboot adoption papers now.

Anton laughs loudly at that. — You know, it’s nice tae meet somebody who isnae scared ay me.

— How d’ye ken ah’m no just frontin it?

— Ah ken, Anton says. — N ah also know that you’ve got nothing against me.

Franco smiles at that. — And if ah did have?

— Oh, you’d be deid by now, Anton tells him, — and your wife and bairns, and he holds up the Tesco phone. There is a text from Melanie displayed on the luminous yellow-green screen.

Call me as soon as you get this. It’s urgent. Love you. X

— You should, Anton Miller says impassively, and hands over the phone. As he takes it, Franco Begbie tries to see whether the younger man is breathing in. He can discern nothing.

The salsa class at the Santa Barbara Dance Center was busy, and all the participants were couples. Melanie had seen the two gay men in the group, and registered Jim looking intently at the very flamboyant pair. Then he’d studied the other couples, and noting everybody was unconcerned, seemed to lose interest in them. At the end of the session, Melanie got chatting with the men, Ralph and Juan, discovering both also worked at the University of Santa Barbara. The quartet decided to go for a drink together in the wine bar across the street.

This became a habit, often with Sula and other class members joining them. Jim was one of the few present who never drank alcohol. The evenings weren’t riotous affairs; there was probably only one occasion when they all got really drunk and Jim had watched them in semi-detached amusement.

Melanie had woken up twice, first just before 2 a.m., then again just after five, but both times she’d managed to bury herself back in the domain of sleep. When she next bats into consciousness, she is horrified that it’s almost ten and she feels more exhausted than ever. Nonetheless, she forces herself up and into the shower, getting dressed as some strange British television show plays in the background. For breakfast she locates a cafe on South Clerk Street, relieved to find its offerings more than acceptable to her Californian palate. Two espressos help her into the day.

There is another message from Harry, now sober and penitent. — Melanie, it’s Harry, Harry Pallister. I see from my caller ID that I called you yesterday. I can only vaguely remember. I was very drunk, and I apologise. I’ve been having issues with depression and I’ve taken sick leave to get treatment, and I’ve joined AA. Please forgive me. It’s Harry Pallister, he repeats. — Bye for now.

— Fuck you and your bullshit, Melanie says out loud to her phone.

As the data-roving facility on her cell will prove disastrously expensive, she locates an Internet cafe, where she finds Elspeth’s address from an old email. It dates back to the funeral of Jim’s mother, which she hadn’t been able to attend as Grace had only been weeks old. She traces the address on Google Maps and sets off for the west side of the city. Edinburgh has suddenly, unpredictably, gotten very warm, and she quickly feels overdressed in her tracksuit top, tying it around her waist.

Mindful of her only previous visit to her sister-in-law’s, Melanie anticipates a hostile reception. It had been a Christmas affair, ending in calamity, during which both Elspeth and Jim’s. . no, Frank’s brother Joe had gotten drunk and made a terrible scene. This weighs heavily on her mind, as she disembarks from the tram and comes upon the house.