Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

He struggles to fight back the annoyance digging into him. What the fuck is she doing here? — It’s a long story. . he protests, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Davie ‘Tyrone’ Power emerging from the car.

Power’s face, half lit by the street lamp, has a look of paternal disdain. He reaches back into the vehicle, producing a packet of sanitary hand wipes. He lays it on the bonnet of the limo in front of Frank Begbie. — Do what you can.

Begbie nods, and starts wiping at his hands, face and hair. He feels clean enough to kiss his wife and squeeze her hand. — I got into a wee scuffle wi some bam in the toilets of a pub, and we both landed in the overflowing latrine. He gives a hollow laugh. Then he asks Melanie, while glancing at Power, — You okay?

— I’m fine, she says with reassuring calm, picking up on his reticence in discussing this further in the present company. — What about you?

— I’m okay. I got upset. . about what happened to Sean. Coming back over here, it really hit me for the first time, he says, and now he isn’t lying.

Melanie touches Frank’s forearm tentatively. They climb into the back of the limo. As Power starts it up, she looks at the chunky dome and broad back of the man in front of them. Even though he has reunited her with her husband, Melanie is still unable to work out why he fills her with revulsion.

— We’ve been searching high and wide, haven’t we, Melanie? Power sings slyly, as if to help her in her quest, putting on music. As the limo surges up a dark, empty Leith Walk, ‘California Dreamin’ by the Mamas and the Papas fills the air. — This one is for the California Mama and Papa in the back who’ll be dreamin’ ay getting hame to their wee yins, he swivels, to display capped teeth. — Three and five, Melanie was saying, eh, Frank?

— Aye, Begbie warily concedes. — So how did you two hook up?

— I was looking for you, Melanie begins, quickly faltering, the look in Frank Begbie’s eye again indicating that this story is best told when they are alone.

— As was I, Power continues on her behalf. — A young American lassie asking for you in Leith grot holes, well, that’s never going to be off my radar for long. So we pooled our resources, he chuckles, his sturdy shoulders rocking.

Frank and Melanie grip hands in tense silence. In spite of his best efforts with the wipes, the heat in the limo is whipping up a rank smell from him, with Michael’s piss drying into his hair and the California flag T-shirt, complete with bear. Power wrinkles his nose in distaste a few times, but only breaks the silence to wax lyrical about the empty roads. — Wish it could be like this aw the time. Driving would be a pleasure.

They reach the approach to the red sandstone mansion, the gravel popping under the wheels. When they step inside the house, Power announces, — I’m going to make a pot of camomile tea for Melanie and myself. Frank, don’t take this the wrong way, but not to make too fine a point of it, you are fucking minging, and he hands Begbie a silk robe. — I suggest you go to the basement and put your clothes through the laundry and dryer. There’s a shower down there.

Frank Begbie is extremely disinclined to let Melanie out of his sight. But she is urging him to go, and if Power had been intending to harm her, he reasons, he had ample opportunity to do so earlier. He nods and descends the stairs. In departure he can hear David ‘Tyrone’ Power pompously extol the virtues of Murdo Mathieson Tait.

The basement is a huge, rambling space. It’s largely open-plan, apart from the shower and laundry rooms, which lie off a connecting corridor linking a substantial gym to the rear of the house, with a large workshop to the front. Frank Begbie removes his clothes, bundling his jeans, T-shirt and socks into the washer, everything bar his underpants, pouring in the lime-scented detergent and setting the load. Then he heads to the shower, turns on the taps, and washes his son right out of his hair. He thinks of Michael as he scrubs with Power’s peach-scented exfoliating gel. Bearing witness to his son’s brutal, animal rage was like being shown a 3D movie of his younger self in action. History repeated itself. The ‘don’t do the things I did’ mantra was tiresome pish. The best way to make sure your children don’t grow up as cunts is not to be one yourself — or not to let them see you being one. This is easier as a sober artist in Santa Barbara than as an alcoholic jailbird in Leith.

Leaving the shower and drying himself off, Frank Begbie pulls on his underpants and gets into Tyrone’s silk robe. It hangs so farcically on him he laughs out loud. Then he turns to look around the rest of the vast basement.

The gym confirms that Tyrone obviously pumps iron in bouncer fashion, turning a massive calorie intake into not just fat but ludicrous amounts of chest, shoulder and arm muscle. The Falstaffian figure was a renowned street fighter back in his day, and still reputedly enjoys the occasional busting of chops, but generally leaves the real dirty work to hired hands.

It’s the workshop, though, that gives away the darker side of Power’s character. Most of it is taken up by two benches, full of all sorts of machine and hand tools. Franco has never taken David ‘Tyrone’ Power for a DIY enthusiast. The pliers, screwdrivers, but most of all the copious knives — including a throwing set in a box — make Franco decide to get Melanie away as soon as possible.

Frank is relieved to return to her, despite the forty minutes left on the wash cycle. He climbs the stairs, feeling preposterously self-conscious in the outsize silk kimono, wondering if this has been Tyrone’s idea all along: to render him vulnerable. Approaching Melanie and David Power, he listens to their chatter about dead painters. Then he gratefully embraces her, this time without any toxic stench, drinking in Melanie’s familiar scent, yet aware of Power’s sly, rapacious eyes on them. Pulling apart, he looks her in the eye. — Listen, I’ve a couple of things to straighten out with Davie, he urges, — you should go to the hotel and pack. I’ll meet you there as soon as my clothes are dry.

— No way. I’m not leaving you again!

— Ah really owe my old mate an apology, Frank implores, glimpsing Tyrone puffing up in entitlement. — Go and pack. Phone your mum. Find out how Grace and Eve are doing.

Melanie softens at that. Checks her phone for the time. — Will you be okay?

— Well, Frank Begbie laughs, — if I’m not at the hotel within ninety minutes, this time you do have my express permission to phone the police.

David ‘Tyrone’ Power looks hurt, responding with a sour pout.

It doesn’t go past Begbie. — Look, he appeals to Melanie, — I want to catch up a bit with my old mate and, as I’ve said, there are apologies due on my part. I was a wee bit rude the last time I enjoyed his hospitality, he concedes, turning to Tyrone. — What’s that auld phrase, Davie? You’d best enjoy my hospitality, because you won’t enjoy my hospitalisation.

As Power grins, Melanie looks at them in contempt. Jim seldom talks like this, but whenever he does, coldness locks around her. She shimmies a few inches from him. From Frank , as he’s called here. — You know, I think I will go, and leave you two with your fucking gangster bullshit.

— Sorry, babe. Franco’s brows raise and his mouth tightens in exasperation. — Can I borrow your phone?

Melanie unceremoniously slaps it into his hand, and settles back on the couch, regarding the paintings on the walls. Franco calls Terry, requesting his services. As Tyrone starts talking about one of Murdo Mathieson Tait’s compositions , Frank Begbie sits in silence until a call comes back fifteen minutes later. It’s followed by a cab pulling up outside. Melanie rises to leave.