The Blade Artist

  Then the lights flicker on, but Melanie keeps her eyes shut, trying to force herself back into the satisfying stew of memory and dream. It isn’t working; Jim’s face fades under the glow burning through her lids and she blinks awake to note that, thankfully, she’s missed breakfast. The remains of a croissant are visible down the front of the fat man.

  Disembarking at Terminal 5 in Heathrow, she heads to the Plane Food restaurant, orders some eggs and checks her phone. There is a call from a Santa Barbara number she doesn’t recognise, and a message on her voicemail. She plays it and her blood runs cold.

  — I’ve been drinking. I may even have a problem. Harry’s voice is sullied by bitterness. — So now maybe I’ll be interesting enough for you to acknowledge that I fucking exist. Wouldn’t that be something? People like you . . . women like you . . . you know nothing. Nothing!

  Melanie can feel the noise of the fork in her hand rattling involuntarily against the plate. She wants to erase the message, obliterate those dumb, sneering tones. But she doesn’t, she plays it again, empowered by the fact that he has compromised himself. She calls Jim, but there’s still nothing except a strange tone that’s meaningless to her. Boarding the connecting flight to Edinburgh, Melanie has only a vague idea as to where Elspeth’s place is, having been there with Jim several years ago, before Grace was born.

  Landing at her destination, her neck and spine sore after all the flying, she finds herself almost hallucinating from the combination of jet lag, exhaustion and the curious exhilaration of being back. She had never planned to go to Edinburgh to work, it had been an exchange programme for a year between the Scottish prison service and the California correctional system. But Melanie had taken to it. Yes, the city is as cold and grey as she remembers, but it is also breathtakingly beautiful. Sitting in the taxi, listening to the driver’s banter, she recalls why she loved the place; the majestic vistas, the fresh air, but most of all the militant, almost paradoxically dramatic, unpretentiousness of the locals.

  She has to find Frank, and curses herself for not getting the number for Elspeth, or even his exes. The mothers of his sons. It still astonishes Melanie, given the strong, warm, gentle and exclusive way he is with her and the girls, that there are other women with whom he had children. That he’d previously led a different, more desperate life was something she had known from them meeting in prison; this had been intellectually and emotionally absorbed. But the hardest bit is acknowledging the existence of, and dealing with, those who had shared that life.

  Checking in to the familiar small hotel on Dalkeith Road, Melanie hasn’t asked specifically for room 8, but that’s the one she’s allocated. Lying down on the bed, she recognises that this was the scene of their first time together as lovers, and memories come flooding back. This was where she and Jim went every Monday, when he was given day release from prison on the Training for Freedom project. — I could fuck you senseless, he said. — But I’d really like you to show me how to make love.

  — I’m happy to do that, Melanie replied, — provided you agree that we fuck each other senseless after.

  The deal was struck, and had to be honoured. It was so straightforward, because Jim couldn’t have fucked her senseless. He was lost, rendered impotent in all but mind, useless among real people, like so many men who had undergone long-term prison sentences or were compulsive viewers of pornography. Melanie was patient, and in her hands his sexuality was carefully restored. It seemed to her that he was keen, even relieved, to be able to start from scratch.

  But now she is here, alone. Where would she find him? It has to be Leith. The old bars. Tracers blazing behind her retina, she resolves: I’m not going back without him.

  But she can’t do anything without proper sleep.

  27

  THE COUPLE

  The pub is in a narrow south-side backstreet, close to Holyrood Park. It has avoided the slow gentrification of the neighbourhood, still managing to feel smoky, even though no cigarettes have been burned in there since the ban many years back. Franco instantly thinks of June’s lungs as he heads to the battered wooden bar and orders a drink.

  Turning to scan the hostelry, he spies John Dick sat in the corner, waiting for him. Dick has a pint of Guinness in front of him, but notes with approval the glass of orange juice Franco brings to the table. — Still off the sauce, I see.

  — Choose life, Franco says, sinking into the padded seating next to the prison service man.

  — You’ve made a pretty decent yin for yourself!

  A couple sitting across from them, by the dartboard and a jukebox with an OUT OF ORDER sign, are having a heated quarrel. — You ken how! the woman, squat frame, dark curly hair and pinched face, challenges.

  — Thanks to you, Franco says to John, glancing over at the couple.

  — Thanks to you, John points at him, — having the intelligence and the courage to see that the other one was going nowhere and rebuilding it. He takes a sip of his pint. Then his voice goes low in reprisal. — Now you’re going to throw it all away, and for rubbish that’s jail-bound anyway.

  — Think so? Franco says, hearing the defiance flood into his voice, knowing that his prison mentor will perceive it as empty as he does.

  — Frank, I thought that making bad decisions in life was a habit you’d got out off. John’s tongue darts out to remove the foam from his top lip. — Now you’re getting back in the gutter with a wee creep like Anton Miller.

  Feeling himself regressing to a sullen teenager, Franco decides that it’s time to get a grip. — I’ve never seen the boy, he explains patiently. — Wouldnae ken him if he walked in here right now.

  — But you’ve been asking around for him. And I hear he wants to see you, John fixes him in that owl-like stare. — Why are you doing this?

  — Daein what?

  — Sticking around. Sean’s gone, John says coolly, — There’s nothing for you here. Nothing but Miller and other trouble. He looks over at the screeching couple. Knows they are on Frank Begbie’s radar. — Go back home to Melanie and the kids, Frank. That’s your life now.

  Franco draws in a deep breath, and looks intently at John. — I dunno who you’ve been talking to, he calmly protests, — But the fact is that I’ve not asked one single thing about Miller. It’s other people that’s been dropping his name here, there and everywhere, saying that he was involved with Sean.

  They are disturbed by a roar from across the bar. — CAUSE YIR FUCKIN STUPIT! YOU’VE EY BEEN FUCKIN STUPIT! the man shouts at the woman, who seems to shrink into herself, then seethe in a silent rage.

  — Whether he was or wasn’t, it’s not your battle. John Dick shakes Frank Begbie’s wrist gently, to get his attention back from the couple. — He’ll exterminate you, Frank. You’re just an obstacle. He’s cold-blooded, there’s no ego at work there, just superpowered insect brain. It’ll be a bullet in the head from a drive-by, you won’t even see it.

  — Cheer me up some more, Franco says, looking at his orange juice on the table. He has no intention of drinking that shite, any more than he has of taking alcohol. Scotland? They’ve never fuckin seen real orange juice.

  — CHEAT!!!

  They are again diverted by the warring couple. The woman has got to her feet. — YIR A FUCKIN CHEAT, JIM MULGREW! A FUCKIN TWO-FACED LIAR! She turns and appeals to the rest of the bar, including Franco and John.

  The man, Jim Mulgrew, waves her away with the back of his hand. — Aye, so you say!

  Frank Begbie looks away. He knows the type. Wankers, who want to suck the world into their pathetic and tedious orbit. Jakeys are always fucking drama queens. Look at me. I’m hurting. Feel my pain.

  Naw. Fuck off.

  And now John Dick, a person whom he greatly respects (and such individuals are thin on the ground), is reading him the riot act. — The only person you’re damaging now is yourself. And Melanie and the kids, they’re the real ones you’re waging war on.

  — Who said anything about a war? Franco asks, then
realises that he did, back at the funeral. — I just want to know what happened to my son.

  — War is what Anton Miller does, Frank. John lets out a long sigh. — Keep out his road.

  — Sound advice.

  — But?

  — There is no but. It’s sound advice, end of, Franco states emphatically. — John, every cunt has been nipping my heid, giving it Anton this, Anton that. He did your laddie, aw that shite. I’m no interested. He shakes his head and he looks over at the feuding couple. The woman has turned pointedly away from the man, but is still sat at the same table. He finds himself willing her: just fuckin go.

  — Mind the boy that stole that money from you, down in London? That old pal you used to tell me about? John Dick asks. — That you were so mad when you saw him years later, you charged across the road, so consumed with rage, you never even noticed this oncoming car that smashed ye tae pieces?

  Renton.

  — Mark Renton. How can I forget? The guy I killed, Craig Liddel, Seeker they called him, we had a long vendetta, and it was one that I started. I got obsessed with the boy, just because he was a mate of Renton’s. I thought he knew where Renton was, Franco laughs sourly, — that they would both be laughing at ays. In reality, Renton would have fuck all to do with the likes of Seeker, he’d only met him in rehab, then sometimes scored drugs offay him. I only got involved with Seeker cause of my obsession with getting Renton. It was pointless. Now he’s deid and I lost eight years of my life. Over nothing, he laments.

  — What do you think of that Renton guy now?

  Frank Begbie seems to consider this, rolls his bottom lip over his top one. — I can see it from his point of view. See that he had to get the fuck out, he acknowledges, his brow furrowed. — It’s funny, but he was probably the only real mate I ever had.

  John Dick runs his finger over the rim of his glass. — Do you see what your obession with getting even with him has cost ye? Something that now means nothing to you? Your obsession with all those people?

  Now Franco is getting irritated with John’s badgering. The way he challenges him constantly, like he did in prison, talking to him like nobody else ever had. Because I see what you are, John had once said to him. This had enraged, challenged and then ultimately helped Frank Begbie so much. Because he knew that John saw past what he had been prepared to show to the world. But then again, things change. Now maybe John Dick has become just another person in this town he needs to get away from. — Of course I do, Franco states. — If you get obsessed with losers and associate with them, ye become one ay them. That’s been the point of everything, recognising that. My life wasted on these useless vendettas; Cha Morrison, the Sutherlands, Donnelly, Seeker . . . I’m no adding this Anton boy tae the list.

  John seems satisfied with this response, and his mood becomes more playful. — So what would you dae if he walked in here right now, Renton, this old mate who ripped you off?

  — Fuck knows, probably buy him a drink and tell him he owes me a few grand with twenty years’ interest on it, he laughs.

  John now chuckles along with him. — I watched you reprogramme yourself painstakingly, through those books you read. And I know how much of a struggle that was, with the dyslexia, and his mentor is looking at him in unbridled admiration. This always used to make Franco feel like a kid, eager to do better. He hadn’t felt that way since his old Grandad Jock had taken that interest in him. It would have been good to have had somebody like John back then, instead of Jock and his mates. He might have had different options. — Don’t throw all that away. Don’t go back down into the black hole, Frank.

  Frank Begbie considers this. — Sometimes I wonder if I’ve ever really left it, John.

  John Dick is about to protest, when the man named Jim Mulgrew rises and punches his female associate in the face. She lets out a yelp and sits with her head in her hands. This draws gasps and cries of derision from the other drinkers. Frank Begbie remains still, looking over at Jim Mulgrew who bristles indignantly in his chair. The barman approaches the assailant. — Right, you, get the fuck ootay here!

  — Ah’m gaun, Mulgrew says, rising to exit the bar.

  The woman is rubbing her jaw. It hadn’t been such a hard punch but there will be some swelling. There is something horrible in her eyes, alongside the fear and pain, a kind of satisfied vindication. — He’ll be back, she addresses the assembled drinkers.

  — No in here he’ll no, and neither will you, the barman announces. — Gie him a few minutes tae git doon the road, then you’re ootay here n aw.

  — Ah never did nowt, what did ah dae?

  — On that, time to depart, Frank Begbie says to John Dick, realising that, before, he would have got involved in this incident, to everyone’s detriment. He recalls one such time when an aggressive domestic argument was taking place in a bar in Leith. He’d gone over and wrapped an arm around the shoulder of each party, pulling them towards him in a gesture of conciliation. Then he’d rammed the nut on the both of them, one after the other.

  — Okay, Frank, sorry to get on your case. John Dick stretches out his hand. — I know you’re going through a rough time.

  Frank Begbie grabs it and shakes it. — If ye didnae gie a fuck, ye wouldnae have said anything. But don’t worry, John, I’m in a good place, and he taps his head and winks at his mentor. It is important to say the right things, express the correct sentiment. A prime minister could quietly protect rich paedophiles using the Official Secrets Act provided he publicly proclaimed that he would leave no stone unturned to bring such people to justice. It was the expression of the contrary action that gave you the licence. People generally wanted to believe that you meant well; the consequences of thinking otherwise were too grim to contemplate.

  — A better place than those wastes ay space. John nods over to the woman and Jim Mulgrew’s empty chair.

  Franco looks across at her, now muttering perceived injustices under her breath. — They should learn the salsa, he ventures to John, — that whole lifestyle, it would stop them from gettin at each other’s throats.

  And Frank Begbie feels deeply pleased with himself as he bids John Dick farewell, almost skipping out of the bar to the van. Then, as he opens it up, he feels something hard pressing hard against his temple. Knows it to be the barrel of a gun. — Don’t fucking move or I’ll blow yir heid off, a voice calmly says. Then a hand reaches into his jacket pocket, removing the Tesco phone, and at the same time a hood is placed over his head. As this act shuts out the world’s light, he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs like a reverse sigh.

  He can see nothing, except some feet and grey flagstones, as he is pushed into the back of a vehicle. From the step and size of it, he envisions some kind of large SUV. Then he feels his seatbelt being snugly fastened across him, like he would do with Grace and Eve. Not a single glimpse of the faces of any of the men who have taken him, just the awareness that there is one on each side of him in the back seat, as the vehicle accelerates away.

  28

  THE DELIVERY BOY 4

  It was the day after the incident with Johnnie when I next saw them. I was walking home from school and I looked in the windae of the Marksman Bar in Duke Street. There they were, through a fug of blue cigarette smoke, sitting drinking, full of cheer. It was that euphoria that always came from gloating at the suffering brought down on some rival. I sensed it in others as I grew to feel it in myself: that arrogant, showboating impulse, where you feel invincible and revel in your own power.

  Grandad Jock saw me as he looked up from his pint, his snidey eyes locking onto mine. I could tell that he caught something in them. He smiled, and I was scared.

  Johnnie’s body was found two days later. A security guard had seen an unusually big flock of seagulls around the dry dock, fighting, squawking, attracted by the corpse. The rats had also been busy, so the identification took a while or so some locals said. A lot of cunts would probably have been delighted to envision Johnnie’s handsome face eaten off by scavengers.
That grinning face that would have hovered over many of their wives and girlfriends, as they moaned in pleasure beneath him.

  It was in the Evening News and on Scotland Today. When Grandad Jock came round with Carmie and Lozy for the card school, I asked them about it. Jock tippled that I knew more than I was letting on. — Good riddance tae bad rubbish, he said softly, not looking up from his hand of cards.

  — I thought Johnnie wis yir pal!

  There was a silence around the table. Then my dad looked at ays with a drunkard’s mean scowl. — Keep your neb oot, son. Ah’m telling ye . . . he slurred, — keep it oot ay things you ken nowt aboot!

  But he was the cunt that kent nowt. My grandad raised his head and winked at me. —Naw . . . it’s okay, he said to my dad, and he rose, gesturing me to follow him oot intae the hall. We went through the kitchen oot to the wee paved backcourt where the bins were. It was cold. He seemed not to feel it. He lit up a fag, gave me one.

  — Mind that dug yir faither came hame wi, ages ago?

  Ah minded ay Viking, the German shepherd dug ma dad brought hame one time fae the pound when he was pished. A barry dug, but he bit everybody n we hud tae get him destroyed. — Aye.

  — Ye loved that dug, mind? But it bit ye. Dug couldnae help it. Eh loved ye, but eh still betrayed ye.

  I nodded. Viking sank his teeth into my ankle for no reason. We’d been running in Pilrig Park and he just turned oan ays and bit me. Probably got too excited and couldnae control himself.

  — Wisnae really the dug’s fault. He took a big drag, blew the smoke oot into the cauld air. — Wis jist his nature. People are like that tae, boy. Thir yir friends . . . then he bared his teeth at me, — till thir no. Ye understand that, pal?

  — Aye, I told him.

  — Good. Let’s get back intae the warm, and we stubbed oot our fags and returned tae the front room, him tae his game ay cairds.