by Irvine Welsh
Melanie can say little to dispute this contention. — You mentioned dodgy characters . . . this Larry . . .
— Oh, Larry Wylie was a nasty piece of work back in the day, but he’s harmless now. Quite sickly, I hear. But I’m thinking specifically about a young guy called Anton Miller. I can’t prove it yet, Tyrone slams his fist into his palm, — but I’m almost certain that young Sean was skimming from him . . . drug money . . . so Miller made an example of him. Sean had that ‘I’m Frank Begbie’s boy so I’m untouchable’ thing going on . . . an unfortunate conceit of youth . . . so I believe that Anton Miller wanted to make a statement.
— And Frank . . .
— Well, quite understandably, Tyrone further volunteers, — I think it’s more than likely that Frank’s gone after Miller looking for some answers.
— Frank’s changed . . . Melanie says, feeling the conviction ebb from her voice. — He wouldn’t do anything that would . . .
Tyrone fixes her in a gaze of intent. — However much he loves you and your daughters, his son has been murdered. He tilts his head slowly. — That could send anybody crazy, and he ogles the tight swell of panic in her eyes as she starts to take this in. — I know they werenae close, but it’s still his firstborn child.
— Oh my God, we need to call the p— As the word police forms on her lips, Melanie thinks of Harry, and immediately halts.
— I don’t think the police are going to be much help, Tyrone shrugs. — They don’t . . . well, let’s just say that we have a bit of a reputation in this town, Frank and I, and they’ve never been particularly well disposed towards us.
Melanie frowns, grinding her teeth together. — I just want to find him and get him home.
— Of course you do. And as I’ve said, we’re out looking for him. We’ll find him, unless . . . Tyrone’s tone is deep and grave, — well, we have to acknowledge the possibility that Miller could get there first.
— I can’t sit here. Melanie patently exhales. — I’m sick with worry.
— Well, go back to your hotel if you wish, and I’ll call you as soon as I get any news. I guarantee that I will be the very first to hear, he says, his tone smug and assured, — and you’ll be the next, seconds after.
— In that case, I’d like to stay a while longer.
— Certainly. A text buzzes through on Tyrone’s phone. — Excuse me. He rises, pacing across the room, obviously not recognising the number. She watches as the back of his neck glows red.
— Was that Frank?
— No, just family stuff, Tyrone says, turning and putting the phone into his pocket. He heads across to the marble bar and fills a glass with red wine, offering one to Melanie, who, although tempted, declines. — You know, I thought that Frank had done well for himself in the art world, but I can see that he’s really hit the jackpot by having such an amazingly smart and beautiful young woman in his corner.
His grin makes her wish she’d gone to the hotel.
35
THE PISH
His son Michael is standing over him, penis out, pishing in his face. And Franco is exhausted, ready to let go of the rungs and fall in beside the still-smouldering body of Anton. He can barely move his head; feels the stagnant jet bouncing off his skull as the urine seems to cloak his neck and shoulders. It’s as if a warm shower could be a creeping gateway to hell. — Michael . . . what the fuck –
— Shut it, ya mingin auld cunt, Michael sneers, as he slowly shakes out his cock and replaces it in his pants. Franco then realises where he has seen that lopsided, sly grin before. His son’s youth had obscured the fact that the boy is a double for Grandad Jock. At that moment, Franco is utterly convinced it’s over, but Michael bends forward and extends his arm. — Gies yir fuckin hand, then.
All Frank Begbie can do is raise his arm up. His life is literally in Michael’s hands, and he’s surprised when his son grasps his mitt, helping to haul him up onto firm terrain. He stands, bent over, hands on his hips, struggling to get air into his lungs. The bad leg is so sore, it feels fractured. — Why . . . what did ye pish on ays fir . . . then save ays?
— Ah pished on ye cause yir a fuckin wide auld cunt. Saved ye cause yir ma fuckin faither, Michael says, — . . . and . . . cause ye took they cunts oot. He points back to the bothy, then behind Franco to the dock.
— Well, thanks for the second yin, Frank Begbie says, gathering his breath. He tries to stretch out his sore leg, as he looks at the T-shirt, dark with piss, the Californian bear on his chest saturated.
— So you’ll be off then, ay. Michael intones it as a statement. — Ah’m happy tae take credit for Anton n Larry. Mibbe ye owe ays that.
Franco’s dispassionate gaze seems to permit this. Michael can insinuate what he likes. It would only help take any heat off him. — At least ah found oot whae did Sean, that was aw ah wanted. He points to the howf.
Michael laughs loudly, shaking his head. — Larry tell ye it wis him? Ye didnae believe that shite, did ye?
Franco realises right there and then that he didn’t. He shivers. The sun has gone down and the wet urine is chilling on his body.
His second son looks at Frank Begbie as if he is a fool. And why not, Franco thinks, he is the one exhausted, with a gimpy leg and reeking of pish. — He wis jist trying tae get at ye. Kent eh wis on the wey oot, wanted tae mess wi yir heid, Michael scowls. Then his features expand in a cold grin. —Naw, ah topped the fuckin annoyin poofy bastard masel.
Franco feels a force of rage surge through him, but then it seems to exit his body, shooting up into space, leaving him hollow, almost formless. He looks at Michael, realises that words are failing him. Tries to force out the sentence. —What . . . ye what . . . yir ain fuckin brar?
Michael’s pernicious laughter rings in his ears. — Do you ken how fuckin embarrassin it was tae huv that cunt mincin aroond wi fuckin bufties aw the time? he challenges. — Ay?
Franco stays silent. He can feel the burning extent of his son’s rancour, but this time he can’t match it. He is spent. Done. He concentrates on his breathing.
— Eh used tae hing oot wi that ride, that Frances. Seen ye talking tae her at the funeral, Michael half accuses. — Aye, she follayed him aboot like a wee puppy. Slag gied it tae that filthy auld cunt Larry, n Anton wis bangin her n aw. Everybody but me, Michael moans, making no attempt to disguise his self-pitying jealousy. — Ah’d huv fuckin looked eftir her! Kept her away fae aw they druggie cunts, aw they auld pervs whae treated her like shite, hud pictures ay her oan their phones blawin them for fuckin drugs!
Franco remains focused on his breathing. In through the nose, where with every breath he smells his son’s piss on his T-shirt and in his hair, out through the mouth. His calves and arms still burn from the climb, but his leg is settling a little.
— When he was gaunny move intae that place in Gorgie, ah got asked by Arbie tae take the keys doon tae him. So ah thoat, the poofy cunt’ll huv Miller’s gear and cash in thaire, so ah makes masel a spare copy ay the key at that place in St James’s Centre, ay. When ah got doon tae his auld gaff in Trafalgar Street, that Frances was thaire. Widnae even gie ays a good look, but she wis ey aw ower a poof that widnae even fuckin ride her. What’s that aw aboot? Michael challenges his father.
Franco is silent.
— So aboot a week later, ah thoat ah’d go roond tae the Gorgie flat n see if thaire wis anything worth chorin. Maybe some collies or dosh, seeken that poof’s faggot puss by droapin um in the shit wi Anton. Michael’s smile flashes in noxious delight. — Ah bangs oan the door, thoat the place wis empty, ay, but whin ah lit masel in, he wis passed oot in a chair. That Frances wis thaire wi him, baith ay them wasted. Ah tries tae wake her up, but she’s fucked, ay. That cunt ay a brother ay mine, that fuckin poof ay a son ay yours, Michael asserts, — he sortay comes to but. Starts goadin ays, takin the pish wi that smart fuckin gob ay his, like eh ey did, wi that queer, cock-suckin mooth, that nivir shut the fuck up. Eh looks at Frances, aw passed oot, n goes, now’s yir
chance, n laughs at ays! In ma face! That fuckin sick queer!
Franco feels flimsy and evanescent. It is like everything has been ripped out of him bar a pervasive nausea, spreading through him like hemlock. — It wis how eh wis . . .
Michael screams in his face, — DINNAE GIES THAT SHITE! YOU TAUGHT AYS THAT! YOU! You said that they wir aw sick, diseased perverts!
And Franco recalls taking the boys out one warm summer’s day. They had gone for a walk up to the multiplex cinema, and saw two young men holding hands at a table outside one of the bars at the Top of the Walk. It had disgusted him then: men doing that, in full view of his young sons. Hatred seared him. He had been sent packages of explicit gay pornography by an anonymous tormenting rival during his prison stretches. This had sparked innuendo that had to be dealt with. He’d considered homosexuals to be perverts and paedophiles, and yelled at them, spilling his roaring, demented bile in the street’s full daylight. The terrifed men quickly sought refuge in the bar. He remembers that the boys were scared too, or rather Michael was.
Why? Why had he done that? Why had he been so twisted with poison? Why was it what strangers did mattered so much to him? Now in California, he and Melanie have gay colleagues and neighbours, and there’s Ralph and Juan, who have become close friends. They come to dinner, they joke, chat, dance, play with the kids, engage in jocular flirtation with both him and Melanie; it just isn’t an issue at all. It was ludicrous. It was madness, the way he’d needed that sort of stuff back then, nonsense that now means nothing, just in order to rage against something that was in some way different. — Well, that wisnae right . . . Franco can feel his words flop lamely out of his mouth. He is aware that he is soaked, stinking of piss, and that he needs to be home. California. Melanie.
— Ah loat ay things you did wirnae fuckin right! Michael snarls, his eyes suddenly widening as another recollection pops into his mind. — Mind what else ye sais tae me? When the bastard cut ays wi that wire, acroass ma chin?
Franco once again sees his grandfather in his son’s face, fees the macabre, spectral revenge of the old man, here in the docks. Indeed, under the thin light from above, Michael looks an incorporeal force, and Frank Begbie is stunned into silence.
— Ye telt me tae smash the bullyin cunt, wi a brick ower his heid, like you did wi auld jakey Uncle Joe. Ah didnae though, Michael laughs, savouring his father’s passive distress, — ah baseball-batted the cunt. Leathered his puss in wi it. That goat um oot ay ma face, right enough, he cackles with a dry, humourless laugh.
Franco recalls that time, the discussion with the frightened boy. Yes, it had been Michael who was originally the sweet wee lad, while Sean was the terror. Sean had bullied his younger sibling in much the same way Joe had with him, and Franco had been moved to dispense the traditional Begbie advice. But now Michael has taken this retribution to a new level. Francis Begbie pulls air into his lungs, regards his creation. — So where does that leave us?
— Well, you git back tae whaire ye fuckin well came fae, Michael growls. — If ah see ye here again, yir fuckin deid. Stepmammy as well. Would’ve cut your throat n rammed yir fuckin missus eftir the funeral if ye hudnae taken oot they two cunts, especially Anton. Makes life easier for me, but, ay. So go. Michael thumbs over his shoulder. — If ah ever fuckin see ye back here, he repeats.
— Suits me, Franco says, realising that the worst thing he can do to Michael is simply leave him with the burden of being his unreconstructed himself. He’ll cause misery, then he’ll either die or spend most of his life in jail. A real chip off the old block, and it is, he concedes, largely his father’s fault. It would be nice, though, if he brought this torment to the right people. Or person.
He goes to Larry’s van. Michael looks at him in raw aggression, takes a step forward, but sees that Franco is only retrieving a bag.
— Okay. Ah’m off. Francis Begbie nods at his son. Then he stops and says, — Ah ken ah huvnae been much ay a faither tae ye . . . but ah couldnae let Morrison say those things.
Michael’s jaw drops. — What are ye talkin aboot? What did that jakey cunt say tae ye at the funeral?
— It was aboot Sean mainly. How he was an arse bandit . . . and how you were the same.
— What?!
— What we say aboot each other is neither here nor there. But ah couldnae have him sayin those things about you. Franco shakes his head. — That’s what family is. You might have nowt tae dae with each other, you might even hate each other, but naebody else gets tae say things against ye.
— AH’M NO A FUCKIN QUEER! Michael roars, then gasps, — That fuckin jakey Morrison . . . eh said what?
— That you were a bentshot like Sean, a cock-sucking arse bandit wir his exact words, Franco calmly says to his incandescent son. — That you’d git the same treatment he did, and he stares at Michael, who seems to be almost imploding with rage. — But leave him tae me. This is aw aboot him and me. Always was. Ah’ll get him sorted.
— WILL YOU FUCK! Michael howls, then lowers his voice to a snake-like hiss. — He’s mine! Ah’m tellin ye! N if you git in the wey, you’ll fuckin well git it n aw, he rasps. — NOW FUCK OFF OOTAY MA FACE!
So Franco, carrying his bag, nods, turns and limps away from the dry dock, the howf and Larry’s van. At the gates he stops and looks round to see the silhouette of his second son, standing, hands by his sides, under the lamp.
It really is time to leave, perhaps just one thing to take care of, he considers, as he walks out through the dockyard gates, his leg again strengthening with the blood flow that movement engenders. He heads along the Shore by the Water of Leith to Constitution Street, and up Leith Walk. The familiar gradient is beginning to assert itself, when Franco is aware that a car is tailing him. He turns to see a black limo. It moves slowly up to the kerb ahead of him. Stops. It has to be Tyrone. He prepares himself for violence, and it will probably be his last stand, here in Leith. The breathing won’t help him now. Jim Francis won’t help him now. Frank Begbie’s pulse rises and a red mist swamps his brain. Letting the bag drop to the pavement, he spreads his palms and leans back, screaming at the vehicle, — C’MOAN THEN, YA FUCKIN BAMS!!
The limo door opens and Melanie steps out.
36
THE ARTIST IN THE RESIDENCE
Swelling with emotion at the sight of her, Frank Begbie finds it hard not to embrace his oncoming wife. — Melanie, he gasps, but then holds up his hands, urging: — Don’t touch me, honey . . . The panic in his gesture and the waft of stagnant urine rising in her nostrils derails Melanie’s instinct to hold him and she freezes. — . . . I’m covered in pish . . .
— What the fuck, Jim! Melanie’s eyes and nose scrunch up, and she even takes a backward step, as her voice leaps several octaves. — What happened?
He struggles to fight back the annoyance digging into him. What the fuck is she doing here? — It’s a long story . . . he protests, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Davie ‘Tyrone’ Power emerging from the car.
Power’s face, half lit by the street lamp, has a look of paternal disdain. He reaches back into the vehicle, producing a packet of sanitary hand wipes. He lays it on the bonnet of the limo in front of Frank Begbie. — Do what you can.
Begbie nods, and starts wiping at his hands, face and hair. He feels clean enough to kiss his wife and squeeze her hand. — I got into a wee scuffle wi some bam in the toilets of a pub, and we both landed in the overflowing latrine. He gives a hollow laugh. Then he asks Melanie, while glancing at Power, — You okay?
— I’m fine, she says with reassuring calm, picking up on his reticence in discussing this further in the present company. — What about you?
— I’m okay. I got upset . . . about what happened to Sean. Coming back over here, it really hit me for the first time, he says, and now he isn’t lying.
Melanie touches Frank’s forearm tentatively. They climb into the back of the limo. As Power starts it up, she looks at the chunky dome and broad back of the man in front of them. Even tho
ugh he has reunited her with her husband, Melanie is still unable to work out why he fills her with revulsion.
— We’ve been searching high and wide, haven’t we, Melanie? Power sings slyly, as if to help her in her quest, putting on music. As the limo surges up a dark, empty Leith Walk, ‘California Dreamin’ by the Mamas and the Papas fills the air. — This one is for the California Mama and Papa in the back who’ll be dreamin’ ay getting hame to their wee yins, he swivels, to display capped teeth. — Three and five, Melanie was saying, eh, Frank?
— Aye, Begbie warily concedes. — So how did you two hook up?
— I was looking for you, Melanie begins, quickly faltering, the look in Frank Begbie’s eye again indicating that this story is best told when they are alone.
— As was I, Power continues on her behalf. — A young American lassie asking for you in Leith grot holes, well, that’s never going to be off my radar for long. So we pooled our resources, he chuckles, his sturdy shoulders rocking.
Frank and Melanie grip hands in tense silence. In spite of his best efforts with the wipes, the heat in the limo is whipping up a rank smell from him, with Michael’s piss drying into his hair and the California flag T-shirt, complete with bear. Power wrinkles his nose in distaste a few times, but only breaks the silence to wax lyrical about the empty roads. —Wish it could be like this aw the time. Driving would be a pleasure.
They reach the approach to the red sandstone mansion, the gravel popping under the wheels. When they step inside the house, Power announces, — I’m going to make a pot of camomile tea for Melanie and myself. Frank, don’t take this the wrong way, but not to make too fine a point of it, you are fucking minging, and he hands Begbie a silk robe. — I suggest you go to the basement and put your clothes through the laundry and dryer. There’s a shower down there.