by Irvine Welsh
Jim rummaged through the bundle of clothes in his lap, pulled out two wallets, one a decent leather accessory, the other a cheap affair. That was the one with the cash, around three hundred dollars, which he pocketed, along with a novelty cigarette lighter emblazoned with L FUCKING A. He examined the ID, thinking of the movie The Exorcist as he read the name DAMIEN COOVER, waiting till he heard the group of youths pass, three boys, three girls, before scrambling down through shrub and walking along by the side of the lagoon.
When he got to the vehicles, he placed the clothes in the Silverado, soaking them and it with gasoline from the spare can in the trunk of his Grand Cherokee, before chucking in the lighter.
He got into his truck, pulled off, and was almost on the road that headed to the freeway before he heard the petrol tank of the other vehicle explode, in a strangely hollow, petulant gasp. It would probably register more dramatically with the students on the beach, but by the time they scrambled up to investigate, he would be well gone.
23
THE AGENT
Leaving the Canonmills pub, and his old friend and colleague bleeding heavily on its floor, Franco jumps on a passing number 8 bus. At the east end of Princes Street, he alights and switches to a tram, heading west to Murrayfield.
Sinking into the padded seat, he appreciates the sleek vehicle’s smooth glide along the track. Franco rests his head against the window and concentrates on his breathing. Soon he is in a semi-daydream, thinking again about his schooldays. He remembers saying to Renton, as they sat on the wall by the steps outside Leith Town Hall, that he wasn’t taking it. His friend obviously thought he meant the belt, but his concern was more general. He recalls Bobby Halcrow, another troubled dyslexic reader, and a victim of the bullies; a nervous, shambling, fearful figure in the corner of the playground, too scared to make eye contact with anybody. Bobby took it from them all: the laughter, the scorn, the abuse, the humiliation. In his mind’s eye, Frank Begbie sees Phillip McDougal, a persistent tormentor, with his gang surrounding Bobby in the playground. — What’s yir name? Say yir name.
Gentle Bobby Halcrow, blinking fearfully, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. — Baw-baw-baw . . .
— That’s yir baws, McDougal said, raising his knee sharply into Halcrow’s groin. As the terrified boy jackknifed to sycophantic guffaws, McDougal turned to see Francis Begbie staring at him.
— Whae are you fuckin lookin at, daftie? Phillip McDougal shouted, as his cohorts snickered. — You want yir erse kicked tae?
Franco remained silent, but maintained his stare. The voice came from another quarter. — Fuckin beat it, ya mongol, Mark Renton said. Renton was one of those kids who wasn’t known as hard, but he had an older brother who was, a factor he ruthlessly milked.
— And you’re gaunny make ays, like, Renton? McDougal challenged.
— Mibbe, Renton said, with less confidence.
McDougal moved forward, obviously ready to punch the skinny Renton out and take his chances with the big brother, when Francis Begbie said to him, — A square go. You’re gaunny die.
McDougal looked incredulously at Begbie. Before, Frank Begbie might have lowered his gaze to his feet. Now he was holding an even stare. In his mind’s eye: a vision of a house brick smashing repeatedly over McDougal’s head. Then the bell was ringing. — Eftir school, McDougal hissed. — We’ll see whae’s fuckin deid then, and he headed off, laughing with his mates, making wanker signs at Begbie and Renton.
— Ye really gaunny fight um? Renton asked, in the excited awe of somebody who realises they’d just got a massive reprieve.
Frank Begbie shook his head. — Nup. Ah’m gaunny fuckin kill um.
Renton would normally have laughed at this, but the other week he had seen the state of Joe Begbie’s face. Nobody knew what had happened, although rumours abounded. However, he perceived that something was going on with Joe’s younger brother. There had been a distracted air about his friend Francis Begbie, and a brooding silence had settled on him.
In the Begbie household, Franco had once again been getting it from Joe. After a while, he realised, pain was nothing. It was just there. He’d actually begun to enjoy it, simply through savouring the moment he would stop it. Then he did, for good, with one violent action.
Later that day, Franco saw McDougal again, in the corridor, between classes, and the brawny boy ran a finger down his cheek in a slash simulation, pointing at him, just in case there was any ambiguity.
The hostilities were scheduled to take place after school on the Links, in the section of the park down towards the allotments, which was sheltered by trees. Franco remembers walking across the grass with Renton, and a couple of others, dwarfed by McDougal’s entourage, and the onlookers who expected a one-sided annihilation. The fight commenced with Francis Begbie springing at Phillip McDougal, shocking everyone with his ferocity. They exchanged punches and boots. McDougal was bigger and stronger and vicious, but Begbie kept on coming. Then they were in a grip and McDougal had him down and was on top of him, battering him senseless. — Had enough? McDougal screamed into his bloodied face, as the oohs and aws of the crowd indicated the extent of Begbie’s beating.
By way of reply, some bloody gob flew into McDougal’s face from Francis Begbie’s burst mouth. McDougal resumed the brutal pounding until police sirens and cries of ‘shoatie’ filled the air, as a panda squad car pulled up on the road, and the kids quickly started to disperse.
McDougal arose, hailed as victor, but through his triumph there was a disquiet, as he looked back and saw Mark Renton help the battered but unbowed Begbie to his feet. — He’s a fuckin dirty animal, McDougal protested to a cohort, as he used the sleeve of his Fair Isle sweater to wipe the bloody saliva from his face.
Frank Begbie didn’t show up at school the following day, and there was talk that McDougal had hospitalised him. Feeling pleased with himself as he headed home, Phillip McDougal suddenly felt somebody jump on his back. He saw the horror on the faces of his two friends. Frank Begbie was on top of him, battering him with a half-brick. A dazed McDougal threw Begbie off, and quickly overpowered his adversary, beating him senseless again. He said to the battered, exhausted boy on the ground, — That’s enough, ah’m fuckin warnin ye, but there was a fear and uncertainty in his voice that he couldn’t hide.
The next day Frank Begbie, two black eyes, one barely open, marched up to McDougal in the playground at the lunchtime break. He smashed his brow into a static McDougal’s nose, shattering it, the school bully’s blood dripping onto the tarmac. To the shock of almost everybody present, McDougal lay down and took the humiliating, savage kicking, which he knew, even at those tender years, possibly saved his life. When he was done, Begbie turned to McDougal’s silent cohorts. — WHAE’S FUCKIN NEXT? he roared. None of them could look him in those slits in the bulbous purple that were his eyes, and his reading skills would never be publicly mocked again.
The tram stops to the pnuematic hiss of the doors, jolting Frank Begbie out of his daydream. When he gets to Elspeth’s he calls Melanie, but it goes straight to her voicemail. He does it a second time, just so that he can hear her answering-phone voice. So tranquil and non-abrasive, so different to many of the tones he knew over here.
Elspeth had been at the shops, and returned wearing what he’d come to think of as her spoiling-for-a-fight expression. This involved her scraping her top teeth against her bottom lip, and narrowing her eyes. She’d done that since she was a child; a domineering, self-centred force that neither he nor Joe had been quite able to work out how to deal with, when, as young boys, she’d come into their lives. Franco is thus relieved when a call with a USA number manifests on his Tesco phone. Reasoning that it could be something to do with Melanie or the kids, he picks up.
— Jim, it’s Martin. Mel gave me this number.
Franco feels a crashing despondency on hearing his agent’s voice. — Right. Hi, he says, heading through to his room, looking out the window.
— Couldn’t get
you on the other line. Haven’t been enjoying a whole heap of luck with this one. Mel said there’s been problems with it.
— Aye, Franco concedes, — it’s not the best of phones.
— How are things in Edinboro?
— Good, he says, instantly feeling an ironic smile twist on his lips. — Got a new tram system, what we’d call light rail in America. Very impressive, he declares, as, from behind the net curtains, he watches his nephews enter the house.
— Great . . . Look, I’m sorry to harass you, but I need to know when you’re due back.
— Soon.
Martin lets out a sigh of exasperation at the meagre information proferred by his client. — We’ve still got a couple of loose ends to tie up. I really need you back here by next week at the latest.
— Just tying up some loose ends myself, Franco says, switching to a transatlantic accent, as he looks outside, to see Greg, who greets him with a wave, coming down the path. — How are things going your end?
— Rod Stewart can’t make it, unfortunately. I think he’s on tour.
— Too bad, Franco muses, thinking about the Rod Stewart song ‘Young Turks’ and how it brings Anton Miller to mind, as he leaves the bedroom and starts to move back into the lounge. He has a vision of Miller as a squat, chunky, wisecracking wee guy, perhaps with a bow-legged gunfighter walk like Nelly’s.
— But Nicole wants a bust of Tom, with a very specific mutilation, strictly confidential. Martin sounds breezy. — And Aniston’s people want to know when the Angelina will be ready.
— No word from the Axl Rose boy out of Guns n’ Roses? Franco asks, as he gets into the front room. He tips George a wink, which Elpseth registers with as much dismay as her son’s reciprocal glee.
— Haven’t heard from Axl’s people . . . I’ll chase them up.
— Sound. I can’t see myself being here much longer, a few days at the most, he says, looking at Elspeth’s tightening face. Maybe it was time to fuck off to a hotel. To tell Elspeth: good luck to you if you’ve found a nice wee shelter to hide from the chaos and pain the world dishes out. Just don’t pretend that it isn’t happening to others. And don’t kid yourself on that it won’t happen to you. But now is not the time. The boys are sitting in front of the TV. Greg has settled down on the settee with a book he’s reading about women who had been kidnapped by the Mexican drug cartels. Martin’s soft voice on the phone, trying to pin down exactly what a few days means. — It means a few days, he says emphatically. — I’ll get back to you if that changes.
— Right. Martin’s tones dip in weary concession. — Much obliged, Jim.
— Great, cheers, Martin.
Franco clicks the phone off and is preparing for his sister to unload, glad that Greg and the boys are present. This means that any attack will be limited to barbed asides. Then there is a shattering explosion, as the front window caves in, glass flying all over the room. A shard flies into George’s arm, drawing blood which spills onto the shagpile. Greg drops his book as Elspeth screams.
It is all but drowned out by a roar from outside. — YOU’RE FUCKIN DEID, BEGBIE!!
Franco runs straight for the door, aware of the leg holding him back, like it was stuck in treacle. Once he gets going, he can’t feel it, but it has cut his acceleration. Fuckin Renton. Fuckin radge.
He gets out into the small front garden, to see three youths in the street. One he vaguely recognises from the funeral. Leaping over the small wall and striding towards them, he knows by their stock ‘come on’ gesticulations that they don’t intend to engage with him. This is another set-up, and the play soon comes into his peripheral vision on the right-hand side, in the form of two guys who get out of a car.
They aren’t the youthful men he expects: probably mid-thirties, seasoned bouncer types. Ignoring the younger lads, he walks slowly towards them. One of them, heavily muscled in a blue T-shirt, but with thin legs, shouts, — Miller wants tae see ye!
There is plenty about this that isn’t sitting right with Frank Begbie. It is important to breathe steadily, even as he coldly visualises deep lacerations on the faces of the men. — Aye? Miller? Franco laughs. — Ye mean Tyrone!
The two men look at each other. They haven’t anticipated this.
— Is that the best Tyrone can dae these days? He looks them up and down in disdain, envisioning the stomping, raking heel that will destroy the thin-legged man’s kneecap, leaving him sprawled helpless on the pavement. — Two muppets whae probably work the door at Baby Busters? Cannae git staff, right enough, he bellows.
— We dinnae ken any Tyrone, Thin Legs feebly protests.
— So youse boys are gaunny take ays tae Miller then?
The two bouncers look at each other, as if in realisation that this is no longer such a good idea. Thin Legs is particularly nervous, one eye visibly twitching. — Aye . . . you’ve to come wi us . . .
Frank Begbie cracks a smile. — What happens if ah dinnae come?
— Wir giein ye a message that if ye dinnae come thaire’s gaunny be trouble . . .
— Well, here’s a wee message fae me tae yir boss: he’s a fat, baldy cunt. Does that sound like Anton Miller? Franco steps forward, as sirens rip through the air. — Saved by the bell. Youse, obviously, he scoffs as the two men back away and climb into the car, hastily driving off.
Franco looks around for the three younger guys. That they’d fled does not surprise him.
The main cop, a veteran whom Franco recognises as a career cunt who would never get out of uniform and would probably never fully understand why, takes statements from Elspeth and Greg. Then he interviews Franco, who tells him nothing, other than he was on the phone when a brick came through the window, and went out to investigate.
When he’s done, the old cop fixes him a chopsy smile. — I know what you’re really like, you might be able to fool them . . .
Franco dismissively waves him away with a backward sweep of the hand, imitating the cop’s own expression and tone. — Aw, is that so? You know, everybody gies me the same speech: cops, family, friends, reporters, villains. And the weird thing is that they aw think they’re blessed wi this unique insight in making that very same observation. He watches the cop’s features slacken. — That can mean two things: either they’re probably right, or they’re fuckin simpletons.
The veteran cop’s face reignites in a defiant sneer. — Aw aye, is that so? What do you think it is?
— I think one doesn’t have tae exclude the other.
The cop looks disparagingly at him. Franco can tell that he feels short-changed. They’d dashed out to Murrayfield, expecting to protect suburbanites, only to be cheated by stumbling on a nest of Begbies infesting the place. They don’t stick around for long.
Elspeth calling them was understandable in the circumstances. However, as she is a Begbie from Leith, Franco is wrong-footed by the deep sense of betrayal he feels burn him. You’d think that George had been decapitated from the fuss they’re making. He looks across at his pouting, bandaged nephew with a smile. — Cut masel shavin worse, he states, instantly realising, from Elspeth’s expression, that it is the wrong gambit.
— WE’VE BEEN ATTACKED, VIOLATED IN OUR AIN HOUSE, BECAUSE AY YOU, AND YOU’VE GOT THE NERVE TO COME OUT WI FLIPPANT REMARKS!
— They were just kids. If they’d wanted to send heavies doon –
— No, these are just kids, and she points to Thomas and George. — Get out! GET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR HOME!
— I was going tae suggest ah left, Franco agrees. — I don’t want you getting caught up in this.
— A bit bloody late for that!
— Sweetheart . . . Greg coos, placing an arm around his wife’s shoulders.
Franco retrieves the Tesco phone from his pocket and dials Larry. — I’ll sort something oot now, he nods to them, as he walks outside through the French windows into the garden. Larry won’t be pleased, as with the van, but he extended the invite, and he has a spare room.
After a few rings, L
arry picks up. — Of course, Franco, anything for an auld mucker, he sings down the line. — You git packin n ah’ll swing by n pick ye up pronto.
Franco feels the overwhelming whiff of performance, yet expresses gratitude and moves back inside. — Sorted, he says. — Larry’s comin tae pick ays up.
— Sorry it’s come to this, Frank, Greg mutters sadly. — Enjoyed having you around. But the kids . . .
— Totally understand, Franco replies. It feels inadequate, but it’s all he can stretch to. He goes to his room and gathers up his belongings. He calls Melanie on the Tesco mobile. Nothing at all. Maybe he needs to put even more credit on it. He doesn’t want to ask Elspeth if he can use her phone. He’ll wait till he gets to Larry’s.
Larry is as good as his word, arriving within the half-hour. The shifty-eyed, jittery-looking emergency glazier is already replacing the window, his presence enforcing a strained civility.
Elspeth, who had studiously avoided him at the funeral, blushes a little at Larry’s presence, as she follows Frank outside. In her teens she had nursed a devastating crush on her brother’s friend, and had once made a drunken pass at him. Larry shoots her a crocodile grin, indicating that he remembers the occasion only too well. — Elspeth . . . been a long time, doll, he says, as Franco puts his red case into the back of the white van. — Nice house. He surveys the home, hands on hips. — Very you.
Gazing from him to the van, Elspeth retorts, — Nice van. Very you.
Larry bursts out his most appreciative touché smile.
Greg has joined them outside, and is still half-apologising to Franco. — Really sorry we have to part this way. Good luck.
What the fuck does this cunt want fae me? Franco gives him a stony nod of acknowledgement. Yet when he turns to his baleful-looking sister, an uncharacteristic word slips from him. — Sorry . . .
The uniqueness, to say nothing of the obvious heartfelt nature of the apology, seems to shake them both. They look at each other in blank stasis.