What he was certain of was that it was Johnnie’s last word.
We are the mental Y-L-T . . .
A bump of turbulence. Melanie’s eyes flick open, and she squeezes his hand as the plane rattles a little, before finding smoother air.
Now Frank Begbie sits contentedly, anticipating the sun, as Chinese Democracy, which he can’t remember putting on, segues back into Mahler.
The stewardess approaches and offers them a selection of drinks. — Just water for me thanks, he says. Then he regards Melanie, coming out of her slumber, and kisses her on the cheek. — It’s so good to be with you. You know what I’m really looking forward to right now?
— What?
— You, me and the girls, trekking down the beach. We have to take them right down to Devereux Slough, for the marine wildlife an aw they species ay bird. Those terns are gaunny be nesting soon.
— I’m looking forward to salsa dancing again, Melanie smiles, her tone dropping enigmatically.
Franco’s face creases in a grin. Succumbing to a nag in his bladder, he rises and heads down to the front of the plane. Loitering in the galley, he nods at a middle-aged woman as she vacates the cramped capsule of the lavatory. She turns away, pretending the acknowledgement hadn’t happened. As Frank Begbie pishes precariously he considers the nature of the etiquette of a unisex toilet in the sky. Should he have ignored the woman, spared her obvious embarrassment? A life of jail taught you little about protocol outside it. He’d discuss this with Melanie.
It feels liberating to be heading away from Edinburgh, and all its negative associations. He will never experience any of that nonsense again. When the exhibition comes, he concedes to himself that he will probably go, but just to open it, see John, and possibly Elspeth and her family, and then he’ll get the fuck out of Dodge. He shakes, zips up, washes his hands and examines the red wine stain on his T-shirt. It approximates the shape of Ireland. He weighs up the possibility of tackling it, but it needs more than just water, and he senses that any efforts will be fruitless. Besides, he now finds it amusing.
When he exits, the first thing he sees is the man who spilled the wine, looking fearfully at him. However, Francis Begbie’s stare does not linger on him, but rather on the passenger sitting next to him, on his left, whom he instantly recognises, despite the glasses and the thinner hair. The old Fort boy looks like he’s aged well: wearing a light blue shirt, open at the neck, with navy trousers, reading a magazine called DJ. Frank Begbie looms over the nervous, drunken flyer, then leans across him, as the other man, aware of a lurking presence, lowers his magazine and looks up, his eyes widening in the shock of recognition: facing the dyslexic boy he took that punishment for, years ago, all in the solidarity of teenage friendship. Frank Begbie keeps his breathing slow and even – in through the nose, out through the mouth – as he says, with a smile, — Hello there, my old buddy. Long time no see.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Elizabeth Quinn, Robin Robertson, Katherine Fry, Tom Mullen, Trevor Engleson, Tiffany Ward, Alex Mebed, John Hodge, Danny Boyle, Andrew Macdonald, Robert Carlyle, Grant Fleming and Cely and Cassandra of the Two Hearted Queen coffee shop, Chicago, IL.
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Copyright © Irvine Welsh 2016
Irvine Welsh has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
First published by Jonathan Cape in 2016
First published in the United Kingdom by Random House in 2016
www.vintage-books.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Irvine Welsh, The Blade Artist
(Series: # )
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