Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

— Aye, still are, but, Franco, ay, Larry says slyly, but with wary concern.

— Big mates, but no mates, Franco considers in a cold monotone. — Mates ay a kind, but at heart despising each other.

Larry regards him in flinty-eyed aggression, briefly taken aback. He seems about to protest, but something reconfigures internally, and instead he breaks into a smile. — So it’s aw comin oot now, then, ay?

— You ey kent how tae play me, Franco continues, looking across to the cranes, as seagulls flap and squawk in the distance, probably at the rubbish in the tip beyond the corrugated-iron walls to the east of the yards. To his left, the sun is going down across the silver-grey river, a flaming red, as if poised to burn Fife off the map. — Kent how tae instigate trouble. Makin the snowballs for me tae fling. Probably did a lot ay jail time cause ay you, he declares, without animosity. — My real mates, the likes ay Rents, Tommy, Sick Boy, Spud n that, they were ey wide for ye.

— They fuckin junkies! What aboot me? Larry sneers, pointing to a scar above his eye and a burn mark on the side of his face. — Who gied ays them? Whae bullied me, and every other cunt, and made our lives fuckin hell? Saint Francis James Begbie! Aye, yir mates, Renton, Sick Boy, Spud n that, whaire the fuck are they now?

Franco’s lips tighten, and his brows rise. It was a good question.

But Larry is on a roll. It is indeed all coming out now. — Well, thir no wi you! No wi the fuckin bully!

— Takes one tae ken one, Larry. Look at you, since way back at school –

— Nivir in your league, pal, Larry snaps. — Even yir ain mates wirnae safe! Every cunt gied ye a wide berth, and Larry taps his own skull, — cause ye wir a fuckin psycho, he grins, stepping closer to Frank Begbie, pushing his face out, as if inviting a blow. — Now look at ye! A fuckin pussy! Ye willnae even go eftir that wee cunt Miller!

Breathe slowly. . in through the nose, out through the mouth. . — Ah ken you’ve been in wi Tyrone, you n Nelly, the auld Leith boys, tryin tae set ays up, ay, Franco says, in relaxed tones. — Tryin tae blame it aw oan that Anton Miller boy.

— Aye, Larry spits, his stare blazing defiantly at Franco, his eyes seeming to be framing something in a corner of his mind. — N it disnae matter now cause ah’ve no goat that long, wi the cowie n that. But thaire’s one thing ah want ye tae ken!

— Aye? What’s that?

— Ah fuckin topped your Sean! Larry rocks back on his heels, almost intoxicated by his statement, and deeply savouring it, as his gaze devours Frank Begbie for a reaction.

Franco merely nods, as if Larry has confessed to getting a parking ticket.

Larry looks at him aghast, his expression tumbling in crushing disappointment. — Did ye hear me? Ah killed that poofy wee cunt, and ken how? Because he beat me at that fuckin poxy computer game! No just cause ay that, but because he couldnae shut his fuckin mooth aboot it! Couldnae stop playin the wide erse. The smart cunt. But he wisnae you, Franco. He wis jist a smart-ersed wee poofter n a junky. Aye, ah went back that night tae that flat n fuckin pummelled the cunt. That Frances wis thaire, but she wis oot ay it n aw. But ye ken the real reason ah wasted um? Tae git back at you! Fir aw the shite ah took offay ye aw they years!

Franco seems to consider this. — Suppose that’s just the way it goes, but, ay.

— Is that aw ye can say?! Larry’s mouth puckers in sweetie-wife disgust. — So yir no even gaunny dae nowt? You’ve loast it, awright! Ye widnae take on that wee Anton cunt, try as ah might tae steer ye tae him –

— You always were a snidey bastard, Frank Begbie acknowledges. — Frances talked, put ays in touch wi Arbie. He telt me how ye were playin Sean and Anton for mugs. Ah know Sean was shiftin loads for him. You were n aw. Ye tax it?

— Too fuckin right! That wee skank Frances’ll dae anything ah say. Larry throws back his head, exposing the brilliantly capped teeth. — Another thing that mug Anton cannae control, the big superstar gangster! A dozy bit ay fanny! Ken how? Tiny wee fuckin welt oan um, she sais! Aye, that wee cunt is next on ma list, he declares, thrashing a fist against his own chest. — Think ah’m feart ay you or him now? Larry rolls up his jumper exposing the lesions on his torso. — You gaunny dae something tae me? Go ahead, ah dinnae gie a fuck! Tae the people ah love? Ah think you’re a wee bit too warm-blooded tae hurt bairns, Larry declares, turning in a flourish, as if addressing an invisible but appreciative audience.

Franco bobs his head slowly. — You’re right about that. Problem is, though, it’s no really me ye need tae worry aboot. He looks to the howf.

The heavy wooden door swings open with a creaking sound, as Anton Miller steps out. — Hiya, Larry.

Larry rubbernecks to Franco in desperation. — Dinnae leave me wi him! He’ll kill the bairn!

— That’s already done and dusted, Anton says.

— Naw, you’re fuckin lying. . Larry gasps.

— The thing is, you’ll never ken for sure one way or the other. Anton pulls out a chef’s knife. His other hand is bolstered by a knuckleduster. He removes his green leather bomber jacket, slinging it over the bonnet of Larry’s white van. Then Anton stretches out, flexing his muscles, solid in a black T-shirt, as if he is getting ready for a workout. — Ah’m giein ye the heads-up n tellin ye here.

— Naw. . Larry gasps.

— Looks like a tool for carvin, rather than plungin, Franco observes, regarding the knife. — This might take some time.

— Count on it, Anton says, again to Franco’s eye, still breathing easily. — They are gaunny find this stirrin cunt in really, really small pieces. He glowers at Larry. — And I think Frances was just tryin tae make ye feel a wee bit better about yourself. But whoever’s got the bigger cock now, I guarantee it’ll be me by the time we’ve finished, and he brandishes the knife.

Larry pants, his wild eyes swivelling around, scanning for a way out or a potential weapon. Within two heartbeats, something dies in them, and he leans back against the brick wall of the howf, as if letting it support him. Anton puts the knife into his belt, then springs forward, unloading an impressive volley of punches and kicks at Larry’s defenceless figure. To Franco’s eye they are delivered with the velocity and precision of somebody who has trained as a fighter: perhaps he’d boxed at amateur level or taken several karate belts. Larry stumbles back, and slumps to the ground. Then, as Anton withdraws the knife and prepares to commence carving up the cowed figure, Franco steps forward and says, — As keen as ah am tae see ye in action against this clown, you’d best take him back in there. He points to the old brick howf. — Security still do the odd run through here.

— Good thinkin. . Anton seizes the broken, whimpering figure of Larry by the hair and yanks him to his feet, marching him into the howf. There is a cruel focus in the young man’s eyes, movements stiffly executed, but replete with an air of ceremony. Franco can see Anton ten years from now as a family man, living in a smart suburb, wearing the same expression, as he carves up the family Christmas turkey.

Franco shuts the big wooden door behind them, so that Larry’s screams might be muffled in the highly unlikely event of anybody coming by.

Things turned bad for my grandfaither and his mates, as the investigation into Johnnie’s death gained momentum. They were surprised at how relentless the cops were; it was as if they had inside information. It seemed tae take forever but eventually they all went to jail for Johnnie’s death. Under pressure, they blamed each other. A flare-up took place, no in the Marksman, but in the Bowler’s Rest pub, a quiet shop tucked away oot ay sight doon Mitchell Street. They probably went there to get their stories straight for the bizzies, but they argued and it got physical. Carmie battered Lozy quite badly that day, and I think Jock took advantage of their fallout, he and Lozy deciding the big man would take the rap for stoving in Johnnie’s heid with the rock.