Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

Franco is silent.

— So aboot a week later, ah thoat ah’d go roond tae the Gorgie flat n see if thaire wis anything worth chorin. Maybe some collies or dosh, seeken that poof’s faggot puss by droapin um in the shit wi Anton. Michael’s smile flashes in noxious delight. — Ah bangs oan the door, thoat the place wis empty, ay, but whin ah lit masel in, he wis passed oot in a chair. That Frances wis thaire wi him, baith ay them wasted. Ah tries tae wake her up, but she’s fucked, ay. That cunt ay a brother ay mine, that fuckin poof ay a son ay yours, Michael asserts, — he sortay comes to but. Starts goadin ays, takin the pish wi that smart fuckin gob ay his, like eh ey did, wi that queer, cock-suckin mooth, that nivir shut the fuck up. Eh looks at Frances, aw passed oot, n goes, now’s yir chance, n laughs at ays! In ma face! That fuckin sick queer!

Franco feels flimsy and evanescent. It is like everything has been ripped out of him bar a pervasive nausea, spreading through him like hemlock. — It wis how eh wis. .

Michael screams in his face, — DINNAE GIES THAT SHITE! YOU TAUGHT AYS THAT! YOU! You said that they wir aw sick, diseased perverts!

And Franco recalls taking the boys out one warm summer’s day. They had gone for a walk up to the multiplex cinema, and saw two young men holding hands at a table outside one of the bars at the Top of the Walk. It had disgusted him then: men doing that, in full view of his young sons. Hatred seared him. He had been sent packages of explicit gay pornography by an anonymous tormenting rival during his prison stretches. This had sparked innuendo that had to be dealt with. He’d considered homosexuals to be perverts and paedophiles, and yelled at them, spilling his roaring, demented bile in the street’s full daylight. The terrifed men quickly sought refuge in the bar. He remembers that the boys were scared too, or rather Michael was.

Why? Why had he done that? Why had he been so twisted with poison? Why was it what strangers did mattered so much to him? Now in California, he and Melanie have gay colleagues and neighbours, and there’s Ralph and Juan, who have become close friends. They come to dinner, they joke, chat, dance, play with the kids, engage in jocular flirtation with both him and Melanie; it just isn’t an issue at all. It was ludicrous. It was madness, the way he’d needed that sort of stuff back then, nonsense that now means nothing, just in order to rage against something that was in some way different. — Well, that wisnae right. . Franco can feel his words flop lamely out of his mouth. He is aware that he is soaked, stinking of piss, and that he needs to be home. California. Melanie.

— Ah loat ay things you did wirnae fuckin right! Michael snarls, his eyes suddenly widening as another recollection pops into his mind. — Mind what else ye sais tae me? When the bastard cut ays wi that wire, acroass ma chin?

Franco once again sees his grandfather in his son’s face, fees the macabre, spectral revenge of the old man, here in the docks. Indeed, under the thin light from above, Michael looks an incorporeal force, and Frank Begbie is stunned into silence.

— Ye telt me tae smash the bullyin cunt, wi a brick ower his heid, like you did wi auld jakey Uncle Joe. Ah didnae though, Michael laughs, savouring his father’s passive distress, — ah baseball-batted the cunt. Leathered his puss in wi it. That goat um oot ay ma face, right enough, he cackles with a dry, humourless laugh.

Franco recalls that time, the discussion with the frightened boy. Yes, it had been Michael who was originally the sweet wee lad, while Sean was the terror. Sean had bullied his younger sibling in much the same way Joe had with him, and Franco had been moved to dispense the traditional Begbie advice. But now Michael has taken this retribution to a new level. Francis Begbie pulls air into his lungs, regards his creation. — So where does that leave us?

— Well, you git back tae whaire ye fuckin well came fae, Michael growls. — If ah see ye here again, yir fuckin deid. Stepmammy as well. Would’ve cut your throat n rammed yir fuckin missus eftir the funeral if ye hudnae taken oot they two cunts, especially Anton. Makes life easier for me, but, ay. So go. Michael thumbs over his shoulder. — If ah ever fuckin see ye back here, he repeats.

— Suits me, Franco says, realising that the worst thing he can do to Michael is simply leave him with the burden of being his unreconstructed himself. He’ll cause misery, then he’ll either die or spend most of his life in jail. A real chip off the old block, and it is, he concedes, largely his father’s fault. It would be nice, though, if he brought this torment to the right people. Or person.

He goes to Larry’s van. Michael looks at him in raw aggression, takes a step forward, but sees that Franco is only retrieving a bag.

— Okay. Ah’m off. Francis Begbie nods at his son. Then he stops and says, — Ah ken ah huvnae been much ay a faither tae ye. . but ah couldnae let Morrison say those things.

Michael’s jaw drops. — What are ye talkin aboot? What did that jakey cunt say tae ye at the funeral?

— It was aboot Sean mainly. How he was an arse bandit. . and how you were the same.

— What?!

— What we say aboot each other is neither here nor there. But ah couldnae have him sayin those things about you. Franco shakes his head. — That’s what family is. You might have nowt tae dae with each other, you might even hate each other, but naebody else gets tae say things against ye.

— AH’M NO A FUCKIN QUEER! Michael roars, then gasps, — That fuckin jakey Morrison. . eh said what ?

— That you were a bentshot like Sean, a cock-sucking arse bandit wir his exact words, Franco calmly says to his incandescent son. — That you’d git the same treatment he did, and he stares at Michael, who seems to be almost imploding with rage. — But leave him tae me. This is aw aboot him and me. Always was. Ah’ll get him sorted.

— WILL YOU FUCK! Michael howls, then lowers his voice to a snake-like hiss. — He’s mine! Ah’m tellin ye! N if you git in the wey, you’ll fuckin well git it n aw, he rasps. — NOW FUCK OFF OOTAY MA FACE!

So Franco, carrying his bag, nods, turns and limps away from the dry dock, the howf and Larry’s van. At the gates he stops and looks round to see the silhouette of his second son, standing, hands by his sides, under the lamp.

It really is time to leave, perhaps just one thing to take care of, he considers, as he walks out through the dockyard gates, his leg again strengthening with the blood flow that movement engenders. He heads along the Shore by the Water of Leith to Constitution Street, and up Leith Walk. The familiar gradient is beginning to assert itself, when Franco is aware that a car is tailing him. He turns to see a black limo. It moves slowly up to the kerb ahead of him. Stops. It has to be Tyrone. He prepares himself for violence, and it will probably be his last stand, here in Leith. The breathing won’t help him now. Jim Francis won’t help him now. Frank Begbie’s pulse rises and a red mist swamps his brain. Letting the bag drop to the pavement, he spreads his palms and leans back, screaming at the vehicle, — C’MOAN THEN, YA FUCKIN BAMS!!

The limo door opens and Melanie steps out.

Swelling with emotion at the sight of her, Frank Begbie finds it hard not to embrace his oncoming wife. — Melanie, he gasps, but then holds up his hands, urging: — Don’t touch me, honey. . The panic in his gesture and the waft of stagnant urine rising in her nostrils derails Melanie’s instinct to hold him and she freezes. — . . I’m covered in pish. .

— What the fuck, Jim! Melanie’s eyes and nose scrunch up, and she even takes a backward step, as her voice leaps several octaves. — What happened?