Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

Carmie and Lozy would sit at opposite ends of the Marksman Bar. After the dispute they reputedly never spoke another word to each other or Grandad Jock again, though that might be bullshit. People need myths; they desperately embrace them tae gie their empty lives significance. But what nae cunt could dispute was that the close friendship between them was over under the strain of the persistent polis hassle. The Marksman is a very small bar and there were plenty of other pubs a stone’s throw away that they could’ve drunk in. I suppose neither wanted tae back down.

Pride.

So when the charges were brought, only Carmie was to be done for Johnnie’s murder. I don’t remember the details of the case but they accused each other in court of accidentally pushing Johnnie into the dock after a drunken argument over cards money. Jock and Lozy were done for reckless behaviour and failing to report the crime or to assist Johnnie. The court proceedings were wild, dissolving into a shouting match. It was back in the time when the Scotsman Publications would cover working-class violence in the city with glee, through their court columns. Now they have a policy of ignoring it, in case it frightens suburbanites or tourists. But the trial was messy. They were all given prison sentences. Not long ones in the case of Jock and Lozy, but they were still very old men to go to the jail. In some ways this was worse for the two of them, as on release they were ostracised as scum: failing to report a friend dying, and probably grassing up another mate, those things could never be forgiven.

Old Jock suffered a stroke in jail, and he was set free early. But his younger second wife, a dirty big hoor we were asked to call ‘Aunt Maureen’ rather than ‘Gran’ or ‘Nan’, had left him for a younger guy. Lozy did his stretch, but Carmie, doing the real time, would eventually die in prison.

I went to see Jock a couple of times, in the sheltered housing complex at Gordon Court, where he lived his last years. His face was twisted in the same lopsided grin, which, thanks to the stroke, was now a permanent fixture — with spazziness and drooling thrown in for good measure. There were no friends left. It was as if now that he was vulnerable, people could openly acknowledge what a cunt he was. Lozy and him, despite, or possibly because of, their scheming treachery to Carmie, they never talked to each other.

The last time I visited him at Gordon Court, I knew he was on his way out. Notwithstanding the attentions of the care staff, the place was minging. He smelt of pish and disgusted me. It was then I decided to tell the cunt the whole story. — Mind when you heard that Johnnie had got his heid mashed in? You aw blamed it on each other; you, Carmie and Lozy. But youse always wondered, who was it that really finished him, that smashed his heid in?

There was a stunned reaction. Jock couldn’t speak but it seemed like he was on the verge of another massive stroke. His face flushed crimson as he wheezily struggled to suck in air.

— It was me, ah telt him, as ah stood ower him. Ah wis about eighteen then, and ah couldnae believe that I’d ever been scared ay that auld vegetable. — Aye, ah finished him off. Dropped a big boulder on his heid. Of course, that was a warning sign for the bizzies. They tagged it as a murder rather than the suicide ay another docker peyed off and pit on the scrapheap. So they investigated. Of course, ah called them masel, telt them it was youse, ah explained, as Grandad Jock went aw spazzy on me. The fear and hate in his cunty auld eyes! — Aye, it fair landed yis right in it! That wis when yis aw turned on each other; it wis barry tae watch, ah laughed in his wheezing puss. — So it wis me. Ah fucked yis up, ah goat yis aw pit away!

Why? I could see him ask with his eyes, with every fibre of his being.

— Johnnie asked ays, I telt him, — and I’d always really liked Johnnie. Aw that work ah did for youse, it wis Johnnie that ey saw ays awright, oan the QT like. Nae other cunt gied a fuck. That wis one reason. The other yin wis that it was a barry laugh!

Eh pilled ehsel tae ehs climbin frame n yanked ehsel up. Tried tae come at ays! It wis ridic! Ah booted it oot fae under him and watched him crash tae the flair. — Beat it, ya fuckin auld muppet, ah laughed at um. For some reason ah mind ay gaun tae Methuen’s chippy in Junction Street eftir, for a mince-pie supper.

A couple ay weeks later eh was deid. Ah went tae the funeral. Never planned tae go, cause ah ended up in the cells eftir a pagger up the toon the night before. By the time ah got back hame, ah jist wanted tae get some proper kip in. But the auld man and muh ma, n even Joe, they aw sterted tae make a fuss, so ah went along. Nae Lozy present, hardly any other cunt thaire. A waste ay fuckin time. The thing is, he was fuckin well hated aw along.

As he takes Anton’s green jacket from the bonnet of the van, and hangs it on the handle of the howf door, Franco can hear Larry’s screams tearing out, caterwauling inside his brick prison. Anton is silent, but his blade is certainly doing the talking. Franco is tempted to open the heavy wooden door, to better appreciate the younger man’s style. However, Larry’s wails mean Anton can’t hear Frank Begbie getting into the van and reversing it up against the door, leaving a gap of about five inches.

Immersed in his barbaric duties, Anton only registers something untoward happening when he hears a splashing sound on the concrete floor. He turns to see the nozzle of a petrol can poking through the gap, spilling its contents into the howf. It is soaking his trainers and has got as far as the jeans of the wretched, blood-saturated figure slumped in the corner, only vaguely recognisable as Lawrence Thomas Wylie.

— What the fuck — Frank Begbie hears Anton suddenly shout from inside the howf, as he slams the door repeatedly against the back of the van. — FRANCO! WHAT THE FUCK! So you. . you’re gaunny call the polis, catch ays here — Anton gasps, almost hopefully. In his panic he pushes an arm and part of his face through the gap in the door, which only gives Franco the opportunity to douse him with petrol. He steps back into the howf, spitting and pleading, — WHAT?! WHAT’S AW THIS ABOOT?!

— Dae ah look like a cunt that calls the polis? Frank Begbie says, grimacing at a memory, as he opens the front door of the van, reaching in the back, sticking the empty petrol can there and picking up a full one. He hears the heavy door banging against the vehicle in a rhythm that reminds him of sex. Climbing out, he states, — Now yuv went n hurt ma feelins, as he splashes more petrol inside the howf.

Anton, now again at the door space, doesn’t even move back, he just lets the petrol soak him. — What is this. .? Ah thoat we wir. . ah thoat we. . ah telt ye ah nivir touched Sean!

— N ah awready telt ye, ah ken that ye hud nowt tae dae wi Sean’s death, Franco says. He can hear soft mutterings and gasps, coming from inside. Some kind of penitent recitation; it has to be Larry. — And ah do appreciate ye hurtin that cunt, so thanks for that.

— This isnae thanks, Anton chokes. — But how? What fir? he pleads, trying to bolt down the panic in his voice.

— Well, ye mentioned the death ay the missus n the bairns, Franco takes a step back from the door, — tae whom I’ve become a wee bitty attached. That was an awfay daft thing tae say. Ah wis disappointed; thought ye would have picked up by now that ye dinnae threaten some people, it’s just counterproductive. That wis the first reason –

Anton’s face crushes forward into the space at the slightly ajar door. — AH DIDNAE MEAN IT!!!