Irvine Welsh - The Blade Artist

— Stop. . Power groans in misery, and turns his head from his sundered wrist and hand, electing to shut his eyes rather than contemplate the puddling of his own wet, warm blood, running from the wooden block onto the table, the metal scent of it thick in his nostrils.

— Why would ah fuckin well stoap? Cause it’s wrong tae hurt another human bein? You dinnae believe that. Cause you’ve goat money? Aw the mair reason.

— Frank. . we were mates. . Tyrone lashes pitifully against the bonds. His eyes are rolled back to twitching, vein-threaded whites. — What the fuck are you doing. .? He hears his voice reduced to a hysterical fluting, his eyes now closed, trying to block out everything.

Franco ignores him, pulling out a lighter. Shines the flame against a canvas on the wall above a walnut sideboard. He recalls Tyrone saying it was Murdo Mathieson Tait’s finest work, The Woods Above Garvoch Bay. — Oil paint, and probably made fae quite combustible materials, he speculates. — Aye, ah’ll wager this boy’ll go up, be a fat congealed heap ay shite before long, and he looks at Tyrone maliciously. — Especially as ah’ve soaked the cunt, and the rest ay this room, in petrol.

But the sense that several more of his paintings have been removed from the walls compels Tyrone to open his eyes and look around, confirming his ghastly fear. — Naw! Dae what you like tae me. . he gasps, his chest convulsing and hiccuping in acid reflux, — but no the paintings. . no these works. . they have tae be enjoyed by future generations! You’re an artist, he pleads, — ye surely huv tae get that!

— Naw, Franco’s eyes are coloured stones, — the fun is in the daein ay them. Ye dinnae really care what happens eftir they’re done, you’re already workin on the next yin, ay.

— YOU FUCKIN –

Davie Power never gets to finish the sentence as Frank Begbie replaces the ball gag, and watches his old boss’s bloodstained face redden and bloat further. The stump is still bleeding; oozing thick claret onto the table, gathering and dripping down onto the polished floorboards in a steady trickle. — Breathe easy. . through the nose, he advises. — Mibbe too much ching up the hooter, mate. Anywey, the air’s gaunny git a bit thin in here soon. Mind ay Mousetrap? A bairns’ game? Played it recently, pit ays in mind ay it. Couldnae be too elaborate, time constraints, ay, but no a bad wee effort under the circumstances, Franco explains brightly, moving over and digging out some of the nails that pinned Power’s leg, lifting it up and wedging it under a small stool he puts on the table, as he tightens the string around his foot. — Be still, Franco instructs, coming back round, pointing behind Tyrone. — You cannae see it but there’s a string attached tae your big tae. If you move it. . Tyrone — bilious vomit rising from his gut, hitting the gag and heading back down in a burning trail — follows Franco’s gaze to a series of eye hooks screwed into the wall. The string seems to be going through them all. The other end is tied to a burning candle, which sits in a dish of petrol. It is placed on the sideboard, directly underneath The Woods Above Garvoch Bay . — Dinnae move.

But that is impossible: David Power’s leg is uncomfortably raised at forty-five degrees. He has to keep his foot awkwardly bent to hold the stool in place. But he can feel it sliding away by the angle of his leg pushing on it, the pain and stiffness growing exponentially. He could never keep it there. Power wriggles and flexes his prone upper body against his restraints, glimpsing in horror his dribbling wrist and pinned hand, though they are partially obscured from his view by the chisel handle that juts out from his face. He emits a groan — a miserable, muffled sound somewhere between a plea and a curse — to the receding back of Frank Begbie, who is putting a CD of Chinese Democracy into Power’s expensive sound system. It blasts out at full rattle. — A wee pressie, he smiles. — Dinnae say ah’m no good tae ye!

Then Frank Begbie removes the ball gag, to the relief of David Power, but this is short-lived as he replaces it with a long, broad knife, plunging this into Davie Power’s mouth, hearing a tooth cracking. Power squeals: a sharp, concentrated whine, mostly seeming to Begbie to be coming through his nose.

— Workin wi clay, fuckin shite, Franco says. — This is gaunny hurt, but stey wi ays, buddy, he urges, ripping the knife upwards, tearing Power’s face like it’s paper, as his other hand pushes and twists at the embedded chisel. — Thaire’s the grand finale, he says, in the tone of a host about to offer his guest a quality dessert.

No more sound comes from the fat man, but Frank Begbie can see that his eyes are screwed tight shut. He looks at Power’s shoeless foot, and it’s still unwavering, remaining propped up on the stool. — Good on ye, Davie, Franco says in brisk sincerity. — Ah’m no sure it’s that much consolation tae ye, but you’ve went up in ma estimation, mate. And ah lied aboot no liking ye: never really hud that much against ye, ay-no, he concedes.

With that, Frank Begbie turns and exits, just as the exhausted, mutilated and deranged Davie Power feels the stool slide out from under his leg. And a few painful seconds of fearful anticipation elapse before the patron of the arts witnesses, through a curtain of his own blood, the candle drop and The Woods Above Garvoch Bay explode into flame as loud rock music fills the air.

Outside, Franco calmly watches through the bay window, breathing steadily, the flames licking around Tyrone’s paintings, the blaze gathering force, spreading through the lounge. He can see his former boss, and remembers that old office in George Street, and the safe that Power would fill with the collections from the fruit machines. The way his eyes swivelled in his head as he made the deposits, like a bloated squirrel furtively hoarding nuts for winter. Now he observes the sweating, grimacing, fat man straining against his bonds, the flames lapping up around him on the pyre of the mahogany table, the missing paintings stacked underneath. Then Power’s eyes flitter and spin into his head. His tongue spills out from his face, like a fatigued slug escaping from a cracked wall. When the fire finally obscures the wreckage of Power’s body from his sight, it’s time for Frank Begbie to slip off down the driveway and along the quiet, darkened, tree-lined street.

Marching in the shadows, his leg holding up, Begbie enjoys the scent of apple blossom in the air, strangely complementing the synthetic lime aroma of Tyrone’s detergent, which still emanates from his clothes.

It isn’t till he’s worked his way onto the main Dalkeith Road some ten minutes later that Franco can hear the fire engines blaring, in all probability bound for David ‘Tyrone’ Power’s red sandstone mansion.

He elects to walk to the hotel, where he finds Melanie waiting for him in reception. It’s dark inside, apart from a warm, pastel-green light coming from a lamp on a bureau. The chubby night receptionist emerges from the darkness to give him a lingering accusatory stare.

Terry, who has been loitering in the cab, drives them both to the airport. Franco asks him to make the journey via the town rather than the city bypass. Oblivious to the cabbie’s constant chat, but aware that the conversation is directed largely towards Melanie, Franco looks out at the city in the darkness and the uplit castle, realising, without sentiment, that this might be the last time he’ll ever see it. Of course, there was the likelihood of his exhibition coming here, but in spite of the promises he’d made to John Dick, he might have to throw a sicky for that.

They are both so tired from being up all night, but happy to beat the morning traffic. — Ye might be gittin a wee visit soon, Terry advances mischievously as he drops them off. — Goat offered a wee bit ay work oot in the San Fernando Valley, he chortles, shaking Franco’s hand and tipping Melanie the wink.