The Blade Artist

  Fuck all, Franco thinks. You cease to exist, that’s it. He is about to say something, but considers it might not be his place.

  — Never mind that, Elspeth barks, — finish your breakfast.

  — But it’s just so strange to think we’ll never see Sean again, George says. — Never ever.

  — Nobody knows, Franco offers.

  — Do you think you go to heaven or hell? Thomas asks him.

  — Maybe both, Franco says. — Maybe there’s some kind ay transit between the two, when you get bored with one, you can mix it up a bit, and head to the other.

  — Like on holiday? Thomas wonders.

  — Like a bus between two airport terminals, George volunteers.

  — Aye, Franco considers, — why not? If nobody knows, what happens after could be anything we imagine, or maybe nothing at all.

  Thomas is still in holiday mode. — Holidays in hell, he says dreamily.

  — Been there, done that. Frank Begbie looks at his sister. — Mind the time we went to Butlins at Ayr? He turns to the boys. — Nah, your mum won’t, she was just a wee baby.

  The boys seem to look at their mother in an almost mystical light, trying to envisage this. — I can’t imagine Mum as a baby, George says, half shutting his eyes as if to conjure up the image.

  Elspeth turns to her sons. — Right, you two, jildy.

  — Ah’ve no heard that word in years, Franco says.

  —What does it mean? George asks.

  — It means hurry up, Elspeth says briskly, — so less talk, more rock.

  As his nephews depart, Franco leans back in his chair. — Who was it that said that? Was it old Grandad Jock?

  — Like Butlins at Ayr, that was before my time, Elspeth says snootily. — What have you got on today?

  — I’m meeting an old friend.

  — Another auld lag fae the nick, I expect. Elspeth crunches on a slice of toast.

  — Aye, Franco grabs the teapot and tops his mug up, — and he’s done even more time than I have.

  Elspeth shakes her head in contempt. — You’re such a loser, Frank. You just cannae help yirsel –

  Franco raises his hand to silence her. — He’s a screw. A prison officer. The guy who got me into reading, writing, painting.

  — Aw, right . . . Elspeth says, and she looks genuinely ashamed and penitent.

  Franco decides to quit while he is ahead, gulping down his tea and going to his room to get ready. The Tesco phone has, to his astonishment, shot into some kind of life. It glows a radioactive lime green. He tries to type in Melanie’s number, but the zero key sticks to send 0000000 flying across the screen. — Fuck, he curses, drawing air down deep, filling his lungs.

  Of course he’d see John Dick. Before Melanie there was John, the man who believed in him, despite Franco being determined to present all the evidence to the contrary. The radical prison officer, who went against everything established, from the narrow, reductivist government economic and social policy, the institution’s petty rules and procedures, to the self-defeating fatalism of the cons themselves. Dick brought in the writers, poets and artists, to see if anything would gel. Saw a spark ignite in a few, Frank Begbie being the most unlikely.

  They meet in the Elephant House cafe on George IV Bridge, close to where he’d started out yesterday, at the Central Library. His impression is that John Dick looks well; longish face, dark-framed glasses, black hair cut short, a permanent five-o’clock shadow, and baggy clothes which conceal a wiry but muscular build. Franco recalls that when they first met, Dick had the relaxed bearing around him that he knew came from possessing a physical confidence. Amid all the other chunky, aggressive screws, John Dick seemed like a prisoner whisperer, his soft voice having the gift of turning down the volume in others. With the exception of Melanie, he probably listened to nobody in his life like he did to this prison officer.

  John immediately expresses his regret that he won’t be attending Sean’s funeral. Franco nods, not needing to ask why. The notion of the screw and con as friends would have had the hysterical and embittered on both sides screaming ‘grass’ or ‘compromised’ within seconds.

  John Dick elicits a promise from Frank Begbie that he’ll return to the city to talk to the prisoners when his exhibition hits Edinburgh. While agreeing, the con-turned-artist insists on no press; he won’t be a rehabilitation poster boy. Being feted by the ‘isn’t he marvellous?’ artsy ponces of the left, or sneered at by the bitter ‘he’ll never change’ cynics of the right, holds zero attraction for him. Those are the narratives of pygmies, and they will continue to steadfastly pursue them without his help. He has a life to get on with.

  Franco recounts the genesis of his fame. — That actor wanker who came to our art project, the one you and Mel set up, tae get inspiration for this hard-man part he was up for. Said we would be big mates, he winced at his own naivety, — but he never returned my calls when I got out. I had made a bust of him. I mutilated it in rage. Then the others. I exhibited them like that as a joke. That’s when it took off. They wrote that review, mind, I keep it here, and Frank Begbie goes into his wallet and pulls out a folded newspaper article. Hands it to John Dick, who opens it up and reads:

  The exhibition, featuring the efforts of three inmates from Edinburgh’s Saughton Prison, contains some forceful and realised works of art, devised under the tutelage and supervision of art therapist Melanie Francis. The California native has worked with violent prisoners in her own country, and believes that the mission of art in such environments ‘is, put simply, about the re-channelling of energy that, in turn, leads to the reassessing of personal behaviours and life objectives. There is so much raw talent here, which has never had the opportunity to shine.’

  None more so than repeat offender Francis Begbie. His striking portraits and sculptures of Hollywood and British television stars, complete with vicious mutilations, taps into our subconscious desire as a public to build up and then destroy the celebrity . . . .

  — Then his ex-wife, that actress he’d been cheating on, Franco laughs, — she pays way over the odds for the piece. It starts that Schadenfreude art movement, he says, a sour contempt creeping into his tone. — Bring me your celebs. I’ll hurt them, age them, degrade them, envision their first child being delivered by Fred and Rosemary West. Etch the pain on their pretty faces. Show everybody that they’re just like us.

  — It doesn’t matter where it came from. John Dick hands him back the paper cutting. Franco recognises how John has risen in the prison service, hacking out a space from which to undertake his progressive experiments. His canny, couthie style is a front that conceals a devastatingly sharp mind. People will always underestimate him, then never be quite sure how it is that this self-effacing smiler invariably gets his way. — Art only has the value people are prepared to pay. You tapped into a mood. You have talent.

  — My talent was for hurting people. That’s what I was venting, the desire to hurt another human being. Frank lifts the coffee to his lips. It is hot and stings him, so he blows on it. — Society is fucked, I just give messed-up people what they want. It doesn’t make me a talent, unless it’s for spotting the weakness and twisted desires in others.

  — We all have these impulses, but only losers and psychos indulge them. John Dick smiles, thin-lipped. — Others sublimate it into art and business. And make loads of money. You just saw sense, learned a bit of self-control and moved into a more profitable club.

  — Here’s to self-control and profitable clubs. Frank Begbie deftly raises his cup.

  John Dick joins the sober toast, then checks his watch. — I should be getting back to work. Can I drop you off somewhere?

  — No, I’m going to take a wee walk down by the docks. All that new stuff down there; Ocean Terminal, the casino . . .

  — Aye, John Dick nods, — it’s certainly all change in that neck of the woods.

  15

  THE DELIVERY BOY 3

  The fresh fruit and veg were never that f
resh, as the orders were usually made up a day in advance. I grabbed a box that said: Forth Ports Authority, Leith Docks, Jock Begbie. The ticket on it looked like 3 November, but for some reason it was a smudged mess, and I wasn’t big on reading anyway. It was actually for 4 November, but I mistakenly loaded it onto the delivery bike.

  When I got down to the docks, it was 4.20 p.m. on the cheapo digital watch I’d bought from the garage, but dark, drizzly and shite, the way Scotland often is at that time of the year. The orange sodium lamps were already on and splashing their reflections across the wet pavements and streets. The first weird thing was that the security bam, John, wasn’t on the gate. I cycled right through, over that jarring strip of cobblestone, then across the iron rails of the cattle grid. I pedalled in the near-dark, heading for that imposing brick bothy. The old dry dock was barely lit by the overhead lamps. As I drew closer I heard voices; urgent, threatening sounds, carrying in the still night. I stopped and carefully climbed off the bike, and pushed it slowly and silently forward, resting it against the back of the bothy. At first it seemed as if the voices were coming from inside, but then I worked out that their source was the front of the howf.

  I crept round the building and I could see them, standing over by the edge of the wharf. Handsome Johnnie was a bit away from Grandad Jock and the other two, Carmie and Lozy. An overhead lamplight was bathing them in a meagre glow, their breath dragon-like in the cold air as their shadows spilled over the cobblestones. I could tell Johnnie was scared. His palms were extended in appeal. — C’mon, boys . . . Jock . . . it’s me . . .

  — If ye jump, and go feet first, you’ll brek yir legs, my grandad said, looking down into the dock. — But you’ve got a chance ay surviving. Well worth a punt!

  Carmie had a length of rope in his hands, and moved towards Johnnie. — That wey or oor wey, Johnnie boy!

  I crouched down against the side of the bothy. I was shiteing myself. I mind that the left side of my face went into a twitching spasm.

  — Wir giein ye that chance, Grandad Jock sneered, his head cocked to one side. — Wi owe ye that, and he turned to Carmie and Lozy. — Ah’d be right in sayin that we owe Johnnie that, ay, boys?

  —Ah reckon so, Jock, Lozy said.

  — Carmie’s no sae sure, but, ay-no, Carmie? my grandad smiled.

  Carmie’s big heid looked distorted under the bleary light. — Ah’d say that a pilferin, double-crossin grass is entitled tae nowt. A grass whae betrays his ain mates.

  — Auld lang syne, but, Carmie, auld lang syne, Jock said sagely. — So what’s it tae be, Johnnie?

  — But ah cannae . . . boys . . . it’s me . . . Johnnie pleaded.

  — Aw, we ken it’s you awright! We ken that! Carmie chuckled darkly, like Johnnie was a kid who had been rumbled stealing sweeties from the local confectioner’s.

  — If we tie ye n then fling ye in yir done, Johnnie. Or hing ye ower thaire fae yon crane like Carmie wants. See sense, Grandad Jock implored. — What’s it tae be? Thoat ye were a gambling man. Thoat that wis how this mess aw sterted. The gambler’s instinct deserted ye? Shame . . .

  Johnnie stepped slowly to the edge and looked down. I took a hunkered step back further into the shadows, and felt my heart thrashing in my chest. I still half believed, wanted to believe, that he would be okay, that they were just ‘putting the frighteners’ on him (a favourite phrase of Jock’s) and that they’d all soon be in the Marksman pub, laughing and joking, Johnnie suffering from nothing more than soiled keks. But there was something strange about them; it was their scary stillness.

  — If ah wis you ah’d just dae it. Just turn n jump, my grandad Jock said, and he pulled out a long blade. I could see its silvery glint under the overhead light.

  Then Johnnie closed his eyes and he just vanished into the darkness. Maybe I shut mine too. It’s freakish, the way your memory deceives you, because I know I saw his face with only his lids exposed, but I never witnessed, or had no recollection of, him actually jumping. And there was no sound of his screaming or hitting the bottom. But then I couldnae see him with them any more, on the edge of that dry dock, and there was nowhere else he could have gone. My grandad nodded at Carmie and Lozy and they went to the wharf’s edge and looked down. — It’s done. Better jildy, he said.

  — Is eh away? Lozy asked.

  — Eh’s potted heid awright. Jildy, Grandad Jock repeated, then turned and walked towards the bothy. If they’d gone to the right, they would have seen me, but they went left, and it gave me time to wheel my bike round to the other side of the brick building.

  I heard them laughing in the dark as they walked away. It was like they were finishing a shift or walking home fae the pub or the football.

  I went over to the edge of the dry dock and looked down. The light from the lamp above dissipated over the lip of the berth and nothing at the bottom was visible through the pitch black. I could hear no noises from below.

  So I climbed down the iron rungs into the dock. I could hear my heart thrashing in my chest. I was shiteing it though at the same time I mind of feeling excited and alive. But I was concerned because it was so dark. I couldn’t see the bottom till I felt it under the sole of my trainers. I looked up; I’d come a long way and had a longer way to go back. Then behind me I heard those soft moans, and the sound of somebody whispering words that made no sense.

  I saw a dark, crumpled heap, with thin weak breaths coming from it. It looked like a wounded beast waiting to expire. The bizarre monologue continued. Perhaps, I minded thinking, Johnnie was asking all the women he’d wronged to forgive him, to help him, but he was beyond assistance. When I got closer his glazed eyes looked up at me as he repeated, — Please . . . Frank . . . please . . .

  The rear of his head was smashed in, and thick blood was oozing from him. I stepped away to avoid getting it on my trainers. His eyes were wild, but fogging over. I knew that he was dying.

  And I quickly understood what he wanted me to do.

  So I did it, then I backed slowly over to the wall of the dock. I looked up at the rungs leading to the top. I was shaking and I was exhausted. I knew that there was no way I could manage that climb, get out of the dock, and that it would be dangerous to even try.

  But I couldnae stay where I was.

  16

  THE PATRON OF THE ARTS

  The limousine purrs slowly along the kerbside, stopping just in front of him. It seems incongruous on Leith Walk at this time; too early to be a wedding or hen party, no hearse in convoy. Franco tries to look in, but the tinted windows reveal nothing. Then the passenger-side one winds down, and a chunky, gold-ring-encrusted hand appears, followed by a big shorn head. — Get in.

  Frank Begbie obliges, instantly beset with the impression that Davie ‘Tyrone’ Power hasn’t changed much. He’d always kept his head shaven, so there has been no visibly dramatic balding and greying effect over the years. And still a fat cunt, Begbie thinks, as he lets the comfortable upholstery suck him into its guts. Argent’s ‘God Gave Rock and Roll to You’ plays at low volume on the car radio.

  — Heard ye wir back in toon, Tyrone says, without looking at him. — Sorry for your loss. Losing a kid, that’s a bad yin.

  Frank Begbie remains silent. One . . . two . . . three . . . He watches Tyrone’s pattern of breathing. You can tell a lot about somebody from the way they breathe. Power inhales his air evenly through his nose, but then suddenly gulps at a big mouthful, like a shark rising to the surface to swallow prey. Some might see only aggression and strength in that motion, but Frank Begbie registers weakness. It is maybe indicative of an anxiety. Or perhaps just too much coke has gone up his hooter.

  He looks at a cable snaking out from Tyrone’s electronic cigarette lighter. His pulse rises. Surely not. — That phone charger, he ventures, pulling out his mobile device, — will it fit ma iPhone here?

  — Dinnae see why not . . . Tyrone looks at the connection. — Aye, plug it in.

  — Barry, Frank says, instantly aware it has bee
n years since he’s used that word, as he snaps the plug into the phone socket with a satisfying click. The device starts to throb, a sliver of red soon visible at the edge of the battery icon.

  — So an artist, then, Frank? Tyrone turns to him with a jesting twinkle in his eye. — Ah’m no gaunny bullshit ye wi aw that ah-kent-ye-hud-it-in-ye shite. I’d never have seen that yin coming in a million years!

  Frank Begbie responds with a measured smile. — It surprised me tae.

  — Heard you moved in wi some American lassie. Art therapist, Tyrone probes.

  Franco feels his spine stiffen. He sucks in a steady, slow breath. Always the way with these cunts. Ferreting for a weakness. He senses his stomach soft against Melanie’s naked back. One . . . two . . . three . . . — Still at the same place?

  — Naw, new hoose, up the Grange, Tyrone says, cursing a driver in a slow-moving Mini in front of them.

  It is to the Grange they head. Tyrone drives with scowling impatience through the traffic, to the south side, and a leafy neighbourhood, where, behind prodigious stone walls, gravel driveways lead to grand villas. He stops at an enormous sandstone house that exudes wealth. Several cars are parked outside a garage, some covered in custom sheeting, indicating all belong to him. Tyrone was always daft about cars, Frank Begbie recalls.

  Tyrone cuts the engine and unplugs Franco’s phone, which has stopped at 21 per cent charge, the battery icon barely in the green zone. The wallpaper has fired up, showing a picture of a smiling Melanie, with prominent white teeth of the sort almost unknown in Scotland. — Nice, Tyrone smiles, handing the phone back to Franco. — The missus?

  — Aye.

  — So is she still an art therapist, then?

  Melanie is now employed part-time at the university, but mostly works on her own art projects. But this is none of Tyrone’s business. — Aye, Frank Begbie says, following him into a grand hallway that is luxuriously furnished, with paintings adorning most of the wall space. Franco doesn’t recognise the artwork, but can tell from the quality of the frames that what is inside them will have substantial value.