The Blade Artist (20 page)

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.

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.

But that night I did something ah’d never done before, and would vow never tae do again. I went doon tae the phone box and called the bizzies.

In some ways the silence on the drive suits him. In others it’s worrying, indicating that he’s subject to a chilling restraint and professionalism. Power’s wankers wouldn’t have the discipline to maintain such a hushed silence. At the very least, they would have been compelled to scoff at his Tesco mobile phone. He estimates three men, one driving, two in the back with him. But instead of trying to work out where he’s going, he focuses on his breathing, slowly, through the hood, warm on his face, and he lets his thoughts drift off, away from the unwelcome interventions of his grandad, to his wife and daughters. If he was finished, he was going to bow out thinking about them.

Under that dark hood, he is lifting Eve high over the sand dunes, then holding up an aggressive, pinching rock crab for Grace’s attentions. She is laughing, dancing in front of it with delight. Then Melanie is in his arms, as they salsa across the floor, to the girls’ enchantment. He wants to show his daughters that this is what real men do with their sweethearts – that this rapture, beauty and fun is what they are entitled to expect of love. He is breathing evenly, he is at peace. The constant stopping at the lights tells him he’s still in the city, but they might be taking him anywhere. Then, suddenly, he feels
familiar cobblestoned bumps under the SUV, knows the sequence of them. This is followed by the rumbling of a grid.

They are at Leith Docks.

They stop the car and help him out. They handle him firmly, but not over-aggressively. As the hood is pulled from him and he blinks into a fading light, a dark, short-haired, flinty-eyed man in his early twenties comes into focus, facing him. The man is well dressed, not in casual or gangster fashions, but like a young professional. His face is fresh and unblemished, apart from a thin scar above his top lip. Franco thinks of the person who gave him that scar. Was he gone for good, or perhaps strutting around a different town with impunity? — You must be Anton.

The young man nods. There are two other men with Anton, almost flanking him, maybe a step behind. In clothing and bearing they look like cheaper, inferior versions. Frank Begbie is instantly less impressed. He now reads their silence as deference to a disciplined leader, rather than inherent competence.

— A wee bit ay advice, Franco says nonchalantly, — get yourself checked oot. The STD clinic.

Anton Miller’s face is still impassive, though one eyebrow slightly raises. His henchmen bristle, the chunkier one stepping forward. — What was that? he says, his fists balling.

— The lassie Flanagan, Frank Begbie says, completely ignoring the other man, never taking his eyes off Anton Miller. — Decent pussy, but pits it aboot too much. Larry’s been thaire, n he wis ey a bareback man. Doubt that’s changed.

Anton Miller nods slowly, in mild appreciation. It’s as if Frank Begbie has passed a test, or maybe two: of insight and
bottle. — I’ve no brought ye doon here tae discuss my health. Ah wanted tae look you in the eye and tell ye something straight.

— Ah think ah ken what it is, Franco says, — that ye had nowt tae dae wi Sean’s death. Well, ah’d figured that oot for masel.

Anton lets both his brows rise. — Aw aye, n how did ye come tae that conclusion?

— Too many bams aw singin fae the same song sheet. Orchestrated by a cunt who ey does that sort ay thing. Whae’s been daein it since the year dot.

— Power, Anton scoffs.

He notes the stockier henchman, the one who’d come forward, exchange a look with the other guy; thinner, hook-nosed. — Golden rule: that fat cunt says
sugar
, I think
shite
, Franco half smirks. — Never had that many rules that stood me in good stead. Wish ah’d remembered that yin mair.

Anton smiles, allowing Franco to feel the younger man’s cool charisma. What sort of education he’s received is neither here nor there: his intelligence is obviously formidable. Then a focused gleam comes into his eyes. — You dinnae seem tae be that upset for a man who’s just lost his son.

— Ah was never close tae him, Franco shrugs. — Nae sense in lyin aboot it, or playin oot some fucked-up drama tae suit other people. Of course ah want tae know what happened, but that’s aboot it. He looks around, taking in the overhanging cranes, glancing across to the factory units, over the top of the new-build casino. — I’ve nae emotional investment in this place. Besides, times change. Franco nods at
Anton and his associates with a half-grin. — I’m oot ay my depth here.

— Franco Begbie, ootay his depth. Anton seems to toy with this idea. — You had some rep in this toon.

— Mibbee once. But you type ay guys were always better than me; the likes ay you and Power. Ah wis never in that league. Ah wis jist a thug. A good thug, but that was it, and he thinks about Davie ‘Tyrone’ Power’s statement. — I never hud you boys’ entrepreneurial zest.

A slight smile that might have been a reaction to flattery plays across Anton’s lips, but his tombstone-grey eyes stay glacial. — Heard you’ve done awright for yourself. An artist, oot in California.

— No bad, Franco concedes, — but that’s aw hype and fashion. They buy ma stuff cause it’s in vogue, so ah make tons ay it and flog it while ah can. Some day soon, they’ll lose interest. Till then, make hay while the sun shines.

— You’re a smart man.

Frank Begbie shakes his head. — Spent too much time in jail tae ever be called that.

Anton looks to his associates, then back to Begbie. — Let’s go for a wee walk, just the two ay us.

Franco nods, thinking that whatever is going to happen, one versus one is better odds than one versus three. They stroll together along the edge of the old dock, heading out to the jetty and the breakwater. The wind is cold and biting as they stop, leaning on a railing, looking out to the dank, dull waters of the Forth Estuary. Frank Begbie thinks of the Pacific Ocean by his home, all those hues of blue. What is
he doing here, with all those shades of grey? Does Anton want a square go, or is he planning to shoot him and push his body into the sea?

Or maybe he just wants to talk. Certain types of success can be isolating, and make people lonely. — Ah’ve made money. But it’s aw overseas. In banks. Anton is staring out to the horizon, but with intent, as if he sees something out there.

— So ah’ve heard, Franco says. — And I won’t kid on that ah’m no impressed. Even the likes ay Power, it took him twenty-odd years tae get the sense you’ve got now.

Anton turns to face him, with an impatient, almost mocking leer. — Do you ken how easy it is tae go tae Switzerland and open a business account in a bank? Or even the Cayman Islands? Ye jump on a fuckin plane, n walk intae a bank wi your passport and a bag full ay cash. Tell them you want to open a business account. That’s it. Tougher tae open one wi the RBS or Clydesdale.

Begbie remains impassive.

— The point ah’m makin is that schemies have an aversion tae walkin ontae a fuckin plane that isnae gaun tae Amsterdam, or Ibiza or Thailand or some fitba game. Somewhere they’re
told
they can go. They’d rather stuff their money under a mattress.

— I trust my bank in California, Frank Begbie states. — Of course, they’re ripping me off, but the money isnae gaun anywhere.

Anton suddenly looks at Franco in a different way, as if he considers he might be being played. — You wake up in the sun every morning, nice wife, kids, looking oot tae the
ocean. Not a worry or a care. That’s gaunny be me a couple ay years fae now.

Franco tries to hold his poker face but he can feel doubt creeping into his expression.

This isn’t lost on Anton, who responds with a grin that briefly makes him look boyish, but somehow more dangerous. — Aw aye, you’re right tae be cynical. Talk’s cheap, every bam says that, but ah’ve gied masel a target. The amount’s written doon in black and white. Ah’m almost there. Then ah go. Dunno where, but somewhere warm and sunny.

Franco thinks of himself at that age, a mere primitive in comparison. It’s so strange for such a young man to be able to converse like this. But how much has he really considered? — What will ye dae when ye get there? he asks.

Franco can see by the slight narrowing of his eyes that this question has cut Anton. — That’s the part ah still need tae figure oot, he concedes, turning back to the sea. — But ah ken what ah’m
no
gaunny dae. Ma auld man worked hard aw his life. He was a welder tae trade. Then that dried up, the yards shut. So he worked abroad for a bit. Then he came back, and took a job on the TV detector vans. See, he was a straightpeg, did fuck all wrong his whole life. Anton turns back to Frank Begbie. — Fuckin mug.

— Don’t think I know the boy, Franco responds, deadpan.

— Take it fae me, Anton jeers. — You’ve got tae set the world on fire, and his eyes suddenly blaze, as if in illustra-tion. — And see your Sean, ah always liked that boy. He was awright, a good laugh. And whatever cunts are puttin aboot, he never, ever ripped me off.