Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

— I’ll be with you soon, Franco urges.

— Right, she says, heading outside. Franco watches her departure from the window, sees her step into Terry’s cab.

— She’s no happy, Tyrone observes.

— She’ll come round. Franco turns to him. — I’m more worried aboot the driver she’s got intae the cab wi!

— Aye?

— Mind ay Juice Terry?

— Business Birrell’s mate? The fanny merchant?

— Aye.

Tyrone smiles briefly, then Franco registers his expression hardening. — We need tae have a fuckin chat. A chat we should have had a few days ago, he barks, pointing at the empty space on the couch opposite him.

Frank Begbie raises his arms in a surrender gesture and sits down. — Ah wis out ay order on the last visit, he says, shaking his head sadly. — Aw that stuff wi Sean. . it hit me harder than I thought. . and that thing wi Nelly. How is he?

— Still in the Infirmary, Tyrone says. — You hit his liver. It was touch-and-go for a while, but he’ll live.

Franco lets the concern drain out of his tightening limbs. — So ah decided tae make ma peace by taking care ay your wee problem, he remarks, watching Tyrone’s face open up like sunrise on a cold morning.

Then Power’s heavy brow furrows, briefly reminding Franco of Chang, the Chinese Shar-Pei dog that belongs to his neighbours in Santa Barbara. — What are ye saying, Frank?

— Anton is no more, Francis Begbie reveals with an understated flourish, enjoying Power’s intense absorption of this information. — Aye, poor Larry was collateral damage, but, well. . he grins and shrugs minimally.

— You’ve done him? Miller? He’s gone? You’re joking!

— Your boys should take a discreet wee drive doon the docks. The old dry dock by the abandoned factory units. Anton’s in there, and Larry’s in the brick howf by the side ay it. His van should still be parked there too.

— How did ye. . what happened?

— Let’s just say they played wi fire and got burnt.

Tyrone starts up a flurry of eager texting as Franco delineates the story, omitting only the details about Michael. His son and former employer are quite able to enter each other’s orbits without his assistance. As he listens, Tyrone can’t fight the euphoric smile ripping open his face. — Well done, Franco my son! I knew ye’d come roond!

— When I thought it through, I realised it could only have been him, Franco lies easily. — Listen, I was a bit rude with that last drink you offered, he concedes, — but maybe I should have one now, with the missus being away. Californians. He rolls his eyes. — It is a wee bit ay a celebration, after all, and he stands up and moves over to the marble cocktail bar. — Do ye mind?

— Not at all, you’ve earned it, count me in too! You’re a dark horse these days, Franco, Tyrone nods guilefully. — Ah underestimated ye. And as for Melanie. . well done, he smiles. Then, as he watches Begbie pour the whisky into the gleaming crystal tumblers, Tyrone’s tone takes on a peevish hue. — That’s where I went wrong; going for the dumber lassies, who ye either get nothing out of, or they just talk boring pish about clathes and families. I always thought that was what I wanted, but when they’ve nothing of consequence to say, life gets so tiresome.

— Did she like the paintings? Begbie asks, replacing the top on the whisky bottle and settling it down gently on the flecked marble. — She kens a lot mair aboot that sort ay thing than me.

— Oh yes. Tyrone looks around the walls with pride. — She was certainly very knowledgeable about Murdo Mathieson Tait’s work; I was impressed. Aye, ye did well for yourself there, Franco.

Francis Begbie beams back at David Power. — You know, you fairly sussed me oot, Davie; that I hadnae really changed. I used to think I was scared that somebody would try and dae something bad tae Mel and the kids. Then I realised that was a lie. Franco hands him the malt whisky. — What I was really scared ay was that naebody would try, because ah was desperate for somebody tae. See, ah still enjoy the buzz, but now ah need a proper excuse tae kick off. Like family, he says, moving back over to the chair and placing his own glass on the coffee table, then taking one of David Power’s cigars from the box on the bar, waving it at his ex-boss. — This okay?

— Of course it is, Tyrone purrs, nursing his own whisky appreciatively. — Spark up a couple.

— Aye, they call it IED in America: intermittent explosive disorder. Aw the transactional analysis, assertion training, anger management, cognitive therapy, and even the art, it hasnae stopped my urge tae violence. He sticks the cigar in the mini-guillotine and beheads it. Then he lights it up, expelling a plume of blue smoke.

He passes the cigar to David Power, who rises and goes to a small white panel on the wall, pushing a few beeping buttons. — Best pit those smoke detectors off, he explains, as Frank Begbie follows his line of vision to a disc on the ceiling with a blinking green light. Power sits back in his chair, sips at his Scotch appreciatively, as Begbie blazes up a second cigar for himself.

— It just quelled the IED, and made me need that valid reason tae get involved, he continues. — Only family are worth it, even the ones ye dinnae really like that much.

— For sure, Tyrone agrees.

— Funny how a prime minister can condemn a whole generation ay bairns tae a future ay poverty, or gie the order tae wipe out Iraqi women and children in a phoney war, and they cunts get described as great men ay history , Begbie muses. Then he laughs. — The likes ay you or me, we take oot a few radges that naebody misses, just fuckin pests tae their ain community, and we’re the big villains!

Tyrone looks thoughtful. — Sometimes ah think ah should have gone intae politics. Local, like. That fuckin council. Is it the same where you are in California?

— Dinnae get me wrong, Begbie nods, — ah’m no a social service, any cunt ah’ve done is only been for ma ain satisfaction. But it jist goes tae show, ay.

— Slàinte , Tyrone raises his glass, as Begbie watches him sip at his drink, once, twice, three times.

Slàinte , Frank Begbie toasts, letting the whisky tickle his lips. It is horrible. He realises he never really liked the taste of alcohol, just its effects. Then he smiles across at the fat man, watching him slip into disbelief, then apoplexy, as Franco’s cigar again drops into his glass with a dull sizzle.

— What’s the fuckin. . Rage swamps Tyrone, and he tries to stand up, determined to tear Frank Begbie apart with his bare hands.

But he never makes it. Instead he tumbles across the couch. He looks up at Francis Begbie, attempting to speak, but no words will come and only drool spills from the corner of his mouth, as the darkness takes him.

When David ‘Tyrone’ Power awakens, movement remains beyond him. This time, unlike the effects of Larry’s Rohypnol, his bands are external; he can feel his wrists manacled behind his back, and knows that the metal digging into them has to be heavy-duty police handcuffs. Worse, he can’t speak, can barely breathe, a ball-and-chain gag having been stuffed into his mouth. To his astonishment, he realises that he is tied down, flat on his stomach on his dining-room table, his head forced upwards by what feels like a block of wood under his chin.

Franco is standing over him, dressed in his freshly washed clothes. He pulls up the gag, another article expropriated from Larry, used for the sex tapes made with Frances Flanagan, and probably the other girls. It allows a sweaty Tyrone to say, with insect coldness, — You’ve fuckin crossed the line now!

— A line has certainly been crossed, Frank Begbie nods in agreement. — But a wee bit ay appreciation would be good.