— 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.
— 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.
The airport is deserted at the early hour, bar a couple of package flights, with nothing open except one Costa Coffee chain. He’d read that they were one of the companies who had issued dire warnings of what would have happened had the most unbendingly pro-austerity party failed to win the election. He listens to the dull, slithering clatter of cups and saucers on veneered tables, his head throbbing with excitement and fatigue as if hung-over. A red-eye full of worn-out, desperate-looking business travellers takes them to London, with little more than an hour layover before they board the connecting flight to LAX.
37
THE FLIGHT
The incongruence of fine tailoring matched with ruddy dishevelment and a stumbling gait indicates an archetypal amateur airport drinker: the nervous flyer who can’t manage to get on a plane unless totally wrecked. He returns unsteadily to his seat, from the rear of the London to Los Angeles British Airways flight, clutching the small bottles of red wine he’s secured from a sympathetic stewardess who knows his type. As he frantically opens one on the way to his seat, the top slips through his fingers onto the floor. It rolls under a chair, so he presses on, burping, trying to keep down a sudden reflux, stumbling right into a passenger seated on the aisle: Frank Begbie. The claret from the bottle splashes over Begbie’s white T-shirt like an opened wound. — Oh my God, I’m so sorry . . .
Franco looks at the mess, then to the drunk. — Sorry isnae gaunny git ma –
He feels Melanie’s grip on his wrist, and he draws in a breath as he smiles first at her then the terrified drunk. — No worries. Accidents will happen.
— I’m really sorry, the drunk repeats.
— No worries, bud, Franco insists, as another stewardess materialises, already assisting the man to his seat.
— Ah wisnae gaunny touch the guy, Frank says to Melanie.
She gives him a doubtful look. — So you were in control?
— Of course, he declares. Her eyes widen, to indicate that this response isn’t sufficient. — Look, as I’ve said, the most important thing is us and the kids. I’m never going to compromise that.
Melanie’s voice, when it comes, is hushed by incredulity. — I love you, Frank, I really do. But you live in a parallel moral universe to the rest of us. It’s one where everything you do is justified in some way or another.
— Yes, he nods, in that disarmingly heartfelt way of his, — and I want out of it. I’m working hard to get out. Every day. For us. If you still think there can be an us?
Melanie knows the answer, and it isn’t an unambiguous one. In Scotland’s and California’s prisons she’s seen all those pathetic women who stood by their damaged men, and vowed she would never be one. But you had to put children first and, more dauntingly, you had to allow that when you committed to a person, you did it because, on some level, it was what you required. And rather than dig up the psychological roots of her own needs for self-examination, Melanie Francis accepted this. Facts are bigger in the dark. But there are still things she needs to know. And to say.
So she tells her own story. The tale of her betrayal of him with that call to the police, Harry Pallister’s disturbing intervention, and the dead man, Marcello Santiago. Only for a very brief moment does she detect a flash of anger in his eyes, when she mentions Harry’s troubled phone calls. Then it’s gone. — I was wrong, she concedes. — It wasn’t the best thing to do. I’m sorry.
— It’s okay. He squeezes her hand. — I know you did it with the best of motives. You were right, we should have gone tae the police straight away. Me and my jailbird nonsense, he attempts to admonish them both, — I feel bad that you had to face that Harry creep on your own.
Melanie is not looking for his absolution, though. She has bigger concerns. — Those men on the beach. Did you hurt them?
Breathe, breathe, breathe . . . Franco regards his wife, his lip turned down. — As I told you, I did their van. I would have loved for them to have been in it, but they werenae. So I got out of there, as it would have been unwise to stick around, for all sorts ay reasons. I knew those guys wouldnae be far away, but I didn’t trust myself to go after them. If they didnae kill me, I would have smashed them to pieces. They would have been found mashed on that beach, and students would have been filming it on their phones and putting it on YouTube.
In massive relief, Melanie sucks in the dry, recycled cabin air. Frank had stayed out of bother because he had managed to control his darker impulses. Santiago had been found snagged on the oil platform; Coover was still missing: Melanie has no doubt about her husband’s capacity to be violent towards those men. However, disposing of their bodies in that manner was way too premeditated. It was simply beyond him. — I had to ask. Harry made all sorts of inferences.
Francis Begbie strokes her arm. — Polis are the same everywhere; it’s all about clearing the books, he smiles grimly. — I wouldn’t worry about him, with his mentality and skill set. He seems to have got obsessed with you and made a bit of a cunt of himself. Not that I can blame him. He raises an eyebrow.
His trivialising flattery doesn’t sit well with Melanie. She keeps a pointed gaze on him. Her husband is composed and seems genuine, but she can’t shake off the dark sense that he’s done something terrible.
He reads the dreadful concern in her eyes. — Look, I don’t want to hurt anybody, good or bad, Franco stresses. — I just want us to get on with our lives. I’ve the exhibition coming up –
— Fuck your exhibition, Melanie snaps, to the extent he almost flinches. — Bottom line: I need to know, first and foremost, that I and the kids and my friends and family are not only protected by you, but also safe from you. Because if you can’t look me in the eye and really guarantee that, then we are done.
Frank Begbie doesn’t think. He doesn’t even breathe. He lets his instincts operate, because part of him knows that if he can’t be honest here, for the sake of the ones he loves, then he will have to walk away. — Of course you are. I would die before I’d hurt any of you. I’d treat myself in exactly the same way as anybody else who tried to harm you.
He sees a tear rolling down Melanie’s cheek. But her breathing stays even, as he feels her great strength and is nourished by it, as he always was. In her absence, he’d let himself get weak again, get drawn into old feuds. But it had served a purpose. Then Melanie’s hand goes to his face. He feels a hot wetness on the side of it. It astonishes him. — So I’m not living with a monster, she smiles, a lift in her eyes, and kisses his wet cheek.
— Nope. Franco finds his breath catching. — A human being. Quite a fucked-up one, but one who’s trying to be better.
Melanie shakes her head and gazes deeply into his eyes. — Well, maybe you gotta try a whole lot harder.
Her tone makes him feel like a rescued pit bull, a much-loved but dangerous family pet. And, he realises, that’s exactly what he is, and he has to earn the right to be more. — For you and the girls I will. I’ll do whatever it t
akes.
— I must be as crazy as you, but I believe you, she says, and they share an embrace.
When they pull apart, he looks at Melanie gravely, punching anxiety back into her frame. — There’s something I need to tell you.
Melanie Francis can scarcely breathe. She feels her shoulders sag. He has done something terrible. I knew it.
— I know who killed Sean.
— David Power told me. It was that young guy, Anton.
— It wisnae him. Power tried to set me up against Anton.
— You have to go to the police this time!
— I can’t.
— You promised you would! Why the fuck can’t you –
He grabs both her hands in his. Lowers his voice. — It was Michael, he tells her. — My other boy. He killed his big brother, and she sits in silent horror, agog, as he tells her the story. — So I can’t go to the cops.
— No. Of course, she agrees, feeling exhaustion eroding her at the edges.
And then he explains to her why he believes Michael did this, and how he can never absolve himself, because of all his contributions to his son’s bad education. Melanie listens patiently, until he’s done. Then she curls into him and, emotionally drained, falls almost instantly into a deep, grateful slumber on his shoulder.
Frank wipes his face with his sleeve, opens his laptop, puts his headphones on and lets Mahler flood into his brain, relaxing him. He can feel his breathing regulating deliciously, slow and even.
One . . . two . . . three . . . who . . . are . . . we . . .
His thoughts drift off into the realm of half-dream, half-memory. A boy at the bottom of that old dock with broken Johnnie Tweed looking up at him, as young Francis James Begbie holds the boulder, ready to execute the deliverance. What was that one word Johnnie had mouthed again? It might have been ‘wait’, but he couldn’t be sure.