Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

— What the fuck dae ye want?

— You’re no nice, Begbie says, in faux dismay. — Getting you up on that table was a three-man job. Ah deserve a fuckin medal. Ah nailed yir jaykit and troosers tae it. He flashes a radiant smile, holding up a nail gun, procured from Tyrone’s basement, and his prisoner can feel the extent of his restraints. His head movement is minimal as there are two knives stapled by their handles to the wooden block under his chin, on either side of his neck, their sharp edges facing inwards to his flesh.

Then Tyrone sees that Begbie has something in the flat of his hand. It is attached by a length of twine to one of the chandeliers on the ceiling. Begbie holds it suspended in front of David Power’s face: a small 5lb lead barbell, taken from downstairs. — This is wee, but it’s aw aboot speed. Mind you, ah modifed it a bit. Franco shows him the fattest part, where the weight appears to have cut-up shards of razor blade soldered onto it. He lets it dangle at rest an inch in front of Power’s face. The stark blackness of the cast iron and its glinting razors fascinate and terrify the captive gangster. — That’s the thing aboot bein an artist, ye get. . creative .

— What the fuck are you –

Tyrone is silenced by a measured jab to his face, framed between the two knives, which cracks his nose. — Shhh. . Frank Begbie puts a finger to his mouth. — Speed, see. The power comes fae speed. Keep that heid moving, he instructs, and walks away from Tyrone, taking the bladed weight with him. Getting part of the way across the hall, he spins the device on its twisting flex, then turns with a malicious grin, raising it forty-five degrees before opening his palm to unleash it.

Tyrone screams out, — FRRAAANNK, as the barbell hurtles towards him. He tries to move his head but the edges of the knife blades slice into his neck, drawing blood. The twisting iron weight crashes into the side of his face with a dull thud, tearing at the flesh around his cheek. — WHAT ARE YE FUCKIN — Tyrone yelps, then notes that Begbie, rather than preparing to release the barbell again, is detaching it. A flicker of hope in his chest as he briefly imagines that the hideous trial is now over, that Begbie has made his point .

But as he removes the load, letting it fall to the hardwood floor with a clunk, Begbie begins attaching something else to the twine: a chisel, weighted at the handle by heavy bolts he’s wrapped around it with electrical tape. — This one’s different, he explains.

A high screech of dread goes through David Power. — Wait. . he says.

Frank Begbie looks back at him, snaps his fingers in excited acknowledgement. — Ah was waitin oan that fuckin wurd! Mind we used tae say that, when we talked aboot the debt collection? The part where we got rough, they ey said wait . Mind we laughed like fuck at that? No laughin now but, ay-no, mate, Begbie smirks, his mocking lecture sending a shiver through Power’s bones, as he walks away before suddenly turning and raising the chisel at forty-five degrees again, like the cocking position an American baseball pitcher would adopt to threaten an opponent trying to steal a base. However, he simply lets it go and watches it fly towards the target.

Tyrone manages to twist his head away, into the blade on his right-hand side, and it sears into his neck, drawing a deep wound. Meanwhile, the chisel misses his eye, spearing into his face under his cheekbone, penetrating the flesh an inch deep and sticking fast. As blood oozes from both wounds he screams out in panic, — FRAANKK!!

— That’s ma name, Begbie admits, with a dry chortle. Jim has a nice life, he considers, but sometimes Frank has a hell of a lot more fun.

Tyrone struggles with the agonising pain in his face, trying to fill his lungs with air. — What. . what the fuck dae ye want?

— This, Begbie says coldly. — Ah dinnae want money. Ah dinnae want favours. Ah want this: you on the table, me wi these blades, and he takes one of the Murdo Mathieson Tait pictures, a smaller study, down from the wall. — Tell me aboot this picture.

— What. .?

— Tell ays aboot it.

— Ah no fuckin. . Power starts, only to scream out in horror, — NO, as Begbie’s blade slices through the canvas. He slashes the picture up and tosses the torn remnants under the table.

He then picks another painting off the wall. — Ye might remember mair aboot this yin?

Tyrone focuses, neck straining upwards to see, trying to fight down a new mounting wave of terror. This art collection: it is his true legacy. He looks at the picture, then at Franco. — It’s the early. . the early Murdo Mathieson Tait, he says, the digging chisel in his face giving every word a twist of pain, — he’d just graduated fae Glasgow College ay Art. . then he went away tae Italy. . Tuscany. . Umbria. .

— Fuckin good for him, ay.

— What ah dinnae get, Power pleads, — is why? Ah helped you! At the funeral, wi Morrison!

— He’s fuckin nowt. Ye tried tae set me up against Anton. But ah did what ye wanted, cause it suited me. Now this suits me, Frank Begbie declares. — See, ah nivir really liked you that much.

Rage swirls through Tyrone like a venomous tide, overwhelming the creeping fear and the sickening pain. — Ah fuckin took you on! Gave ye work, when ye were just a brainless clown.

— You hud ma missus here. That was an error, bringing her intae it.

— Ah helped her! Ah never touched her!

— Disnae matter whether ye helped her or no. Begbie holds the picture at arm’s length, screwing up his eyes. Something in his gesture reignites the foreboding in Tyrone. — When ye brought her here, ye brought her intae it. Ah cannae huv that.

— Ah tried tae help her find you! The lassie was in distress! Ah treated her right, Frank, he begs.

To his relief, Begbie lowers the picture, placing it underneath the table. — See the worst thing in life? When ye git accused ay something ye didnae dae. Ye did that wi perr wee Anton. Ye did it tae me.

— Whaaa. . ah nivir, Power blubbers, the blood dripping from his neck and face onto the table below him, pooling dark and sticky on the polished mahogany surface. He now seems diminished by terror: regressing, Begbie realises, to the fat kid who was a victim of bullies, probably, before he became one himself.

— You said that ah cut off somebody’s hand; that cunt Seeker’s. It wis just a fuckin bit ay finger, he stroppily advises. — And you fuckin set us up, oan that job in Newcastle. Ye kent we’d hud a run-in.

Power’s overheated brain feverishly grasps the opportunity to correct Begbie’s misapprehension about this old affair. — Did ah fuck. . that wis Donny Laing organised that. .

— He’s no here, though, and naebody kens what happened tae um, Begbie says, unclipping Power’s hands, grabbing his right one and pushing it palm-down onto the table.

— You’ve goat it wrong, Power roars, fighting for leverage, but before the big man can make a fist, Begbie wrenches out one of the blades by the side of his neck and slams it through the back of his hand, pinning it to the wood.

David Power feels no pain in his hand, only a storm of broken glass blowing through his chest. He tries to react, swinging vaguely at Frank Begbie with his other hand, but his mobility is constrained by the nails fastening him, chest-down to the table.

Begbie has picked up a huge cleaver and brandishes it above Tyrone’s head.

— NAW. . FRANK. . PLEASE. .

He smashes it down into Power’s wrist, severing it; the stump flies upwards, now detached from the hand pinned to the table, and a scarlet rope of blood shivers across the room. Begbie manages to jump back to avoid its trajectory. He moves behind David Power, who then feels his right leg being lifted up and his shoe and his sock being removed.