The Blade Artist Page 5

  But Harry’s mute longing had always grated on her. Like he was just hanging around, waiting on Melanie to validate his life with a smile or a ‘hello’ or even an ‘I love you’. Now he is silent again.

  Melanie urges him to speak. — Harry?

  — You said they were threatening, he coughs, taking out a small notebook from his trouser pocket.

  She is getting it now. Harmless Harry with the notebook. They’re never harmless, ‘the polis’, Frank, no, Jim called them, commenting in glacial reserve after the first time she had introduced them, at an opening of her work. Harry had come along, as a guest of a mutual high school friend whom she resolved to have a quiet word with. What had Harry smelt off Jim? The criminality? The danger? Or even the art? Whenever she’d caught sight of him that evening, he wasn’t stealing the usual disconcerting glances at her. He was scrutinising Jim. Perhaps trying to fathom the attraction for women like Melanie, good-looking, intelligent and rich, of men whom he obviously reckoned were programmed to disappoint. Trying to discern their advantage over ones such as him, the loyal foot soldiers who only wanted to look after a woman. To provide for her. To save her. Melanie pondered how scary in their own way such men could be, without even knowing it. Often more so than many criminal psychopaths. Now Harry’s slow stare, his slightly awkward, goofy demeanour, as he asks her about the confrontation with those two troubling, troubled souls. — And Jim, how did he react?

  — He was very calm, Melanie says, stretching out the word to relax herself. — He got me to take the kids to the car. Then he kinda faced those guys down, and followed us.

  After some more scribbling, and another silence, Harry asks, drumming his pen on his notebook, — What did he say to them?

  Melanie knows that this isn’t about those guys. She draws in a breath and feels the friction slip into her voice. — I don’t think he said a goddamn thing to those assholes. Why would he? Who were they?

  Harry fastens his bottom lip over his top one, makes a smacking sound with his mouth. — A body was fished out of the sea. It got snagged on the rigging of Holly, the offshore oil platform, and was found by a maintenance worker. Otherwise the current would have taken it right out into the ocean. It was this guy, Marcello Santiago, a gang member and career criminal. He passes over one of the photographs again. The darker man, the one with the muscles, who had chillingly wanted to apply her suntan lotion. — He had a bad record, multiple felonies, including violence and rape. His associate, Damien Coover, with whom he was recently seen, and who is currently missing, is a known paedophile. You were lucky Jim was with you and the girls. Those guys are bad news. Well, in Santiago’s case, used to be.

  Melanie gazes at Santiago’s picture. Her blood is gelid in her veins. The air-conditioning thermostat clicks on, blasting cool air into the room. She shudders. — He’s . . . dead, she gasps. It was a silly thing to say, given that Harry has just explained that his body had been washed out to sea, but she is in shock.

  But through that, Melanie is aware that she’s handed over some power to the police officer. To his credit, Harry pretends that he didn’t hear her stupid, inane remark. Instead, he looks down at his notebook. — Jim came back with you and the girls, yes?

  — Yes, Melanie says, flinching. Then she goes into a shivering spasm, just as Harry looks up.

  — Are you okay?

  Melanie takes a deep breath and nods. — It’s scary to think that they were so close to the girls . . . She looks back at the pictures on the table, regaining her composure. — What do you think happened?

  — Well, we don’t have the official pathologist’s report yet, but initial examinations indicate multiple stab wounds.

  — Oh my God, Melanie says, then maybe too quickly asks, — Do you think this guy’s murder was gang-related?

  — Santiago’s dead, Coover’s vanished. Perhaps Coover killed him after some petty dispute and tried to make it look gang-related by taking him out to sea, but he never figured on Holly . . . but you never really know with those guys, though. Harry tapped the pen on his notebook again. — They might have been high, had an argument, hell, whatever . . . that strip of the beach is normally busy, but after Independence Day . . . The full forensics report is due soon, he offers, then his tone changes. — But listen, Mel, it’s obviously not my job to jump to conclusions. I’m telling you this in confidence as a friend, he says, then pauses, looking hopefully at her.

  Melanie is grateful, without knowing just how indebted he expects her to be. — I appreciate it, Harry.

  — But I’m also being candid because I know that I can discuss this rationally with you, given your experience of men like those . . . and he pauses again, as Melanie feels a ringing in her ears, — . . . through your work.

  — Thanks . . .

  — Anyway, those guys are no great loss, Harry says cheerfully, folding up the documents, — two very dangerous individuals, and he rises to his feet.

  Melanie stands up too. — Yes, that was apparant by their behaviour.

  — There’s another theory, he nods, scrutinising her reaction, — that Coover might be dead as well. So while these guys are dangerous, they were maybe not as dangerous as whoever took them out. If anybody did.

  — Right, Melanie says. She can feel her mind starting to tumble, and knows that Harry is trying to read her again. She attempts to switch her thoughts to Devereux Slough, the marine life and those nesting terns that so interested Jim.

  — So how is Jim? Harry sings breezily.

  — Back in Scotland. A family bereavement, and she heads through the hall to the front porch, compelling him to follow. Hoping, for once, that he would be distracted with his eyes on her ass.

  — Sorry to hear it. Anybody close? She hears his disembodied voice behind her, thin and metallic.

  Melanie opens the front door and turns to face him. — Thankfully, no, she says, unflinchingly. It was easier to say than it should have been. But she has told Harry more than enough. — Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to pick the kids up.

  — Of course, he smiles, sauntering out. — Good to see you. I’ll keep you posted, and he gives her a little salute before he heads off down the driveway.

  10

  THE BROTHER

  The best way to go to Leith is on foot, right down the Walk from the city centre. Franco had been determined to savour every step of the descending trek, but stopped at a couple of cut-price electrical stores. Neither had a UK-to-US power adaptor, or a UK lead for the iPhone. Instead they had tried to sell him almost every other electrical or phone-related product or service imaginable. He’d declined, and headed back outside.

  The rain has started to fall, so he jumps on a bus down Leith Walk. By the time he gets to Pilrig it has eased off, so he disembarks after a couple of stops, striding to the Foot of the Walk, along Junction Street, down Ferry Road, to Fort House. The imposing building, a monument to sixties muni-cipal architecture, is now eerily empty, but they haven’t yet pulled it down. He looks at the huge walls that surround the scheme, and casts an eye over the flats. There was the Rentons’ old house, Keasbo’s, Matty’s . . . but there really is nothing left any more. A melancholia descends upon him, and he heads towards the Firth, following the cries of the gulls. He soon finds himself traversing through a saturated new-build housing development at Newhaven. It has rendered the area unrecognisable to him.

  Elspeth had no number for their brother Joe, just an address he’d left her when he’d turned up around a fortnight past, drunk and looking to borrow cash. It seemed a long shot that he’d still be at the same place. Joe was an established couch-surfing jakey, staggering from one insecure Housing Association tenancy or the beneficence of an old pal on to the next, burning down organisations and friendships as he went.

  This area had been designated part of the new Leith for urban professionals, but the flats had been constructed with poor building materials, and with no social amenities around the recession had rendered them unsaleable. The developers c
ut their losses and handed them over to the Housing Association who rented them to breadline council tenants, often those evicted from the big schemes for antisocial behaviour. So the few young professionals who had been misguided enough to purchase such properties found themselves trapped in an embryonic ghetto.

  To Franco’s astonishment, Joe is still at the address and answers almost immediately, cheerlessly opening the door, then going back inside, urging him to follow. His brother regarded him in such a perfunctory manner, it was as if Franco had just nipped out for a packet of cigarettes, rather than to California for six years. Joe Begbie, wearing a parka, slumps onto the couch, and swigs at a plastic litre bottle of flat-looking cider, seeming relieved when Franco refuses a slug.

  Franco casts his eyes around the small, barren room. The walls are painted white, and are grubby around the light switches. The beige carpet, sticky under his feet, is discoloured with different spillage. The place is littered with empty food cartons, beverage cans and overflowing ashtrays. It seems an advertisement for how a middle-aged man shouldn’t be living.

  — That Sandra, Frank, ye were right aboot her. You had that cow sussed, Joe offers, eyes red and sunken, as he augments his cider consumption with a nip of whisky from a bottle of Grouse.

  He makes to pass it to Franco who again waves it away, as he thinks of Sandra and chips. He’s always associated the two after a teenage sex incident up the old goods yard. — Kick ye oot, aye?

  — Fuckin evil bitch, Joe hisses, his eyes burning. — Poisoned the kids against ays n everything. He shakes his head, then his face suddenly fills with cheer. — Still, good tae see you again. Kent you’d be back!

  — Just for the funeral. Then ah bolt.

  Joe’s face crumples into a scowl as he lowers the whisky onto a wooden coffee table, the periphery of which is discoloured by cigarette burns. — Dinnae tell ays yir no lookin for the cunt that did Sean! Ah’ve been lookin!

  — Aye, fae that couch?

  — Ah’ve been lookin! Joe protests. — It’s no that easy . . . you dinnae ken what it’s like roond here now . . .

  — Aye, life kin be hard, Franco blandly concedes.

  — Ah’ve nae snout.

  — A tragedy. You have my apathy.

  — You stoaped?

  — Aye.

  — Snout?

  — Aye.

  — Yuv stoaped smokin?

  Franco shakes his head. — How many weys dae ye want ays tae say it?

  — Hmmph. Joe fixes his brother in a piercing stare. — Any money in this art game, then?

  — Ah dae awright.

  — Aye, ah read aw aboot that, right enough. Aye, you’re daein fine! Shoes, Joe says bitterly, nodding at the polished black leather on Franco’s feet. It seems to set him off as he suddenly explodes, — You cannae say thit ye didnae make mistakes, Frank!

  Frank Begbie retains his composure, hauls in an even, steady breath. — Mistakes are what other people make. People that tried tae fuck ays aboot. They made mistakes. Usually, they peyed for them n aw.

  This is enough to turn his brother’s volume down. — California. How’s that workin oot for ye, Frank?

  — Fine enough.

  — Ah’ll bet it is. Joe’s eyes dance, or rather something behind them does. — How’s it the likes ay you git tae go tae California? he slurs, then snaps suddenly, — Big hoose, ay?

  — Five bedrooms. A big outbuilding converted intae a workshop, or studio, as I like tae call it, Franco almost sings, as a sweet taste fills his mouth.

  — Near the sea?

  — Naw. Well, about three-quarters ay a mile away.

  — Big hoose, but, Joe’s accusatory tone continues.

  — Aye, though there’s a lot in the neighbourhood that’s bigger. N you? Still livin oan other people’s couches, mate?

  — Aye, this is ma mate Darren’s place, ay.

  — Cannae be much fun, Franco nods, looking again around the room, the walls of which seem to close in a little more each time he regards them. — Mibbe ah’m just no pickin up on the glamorous side.

  Joe is irate, looking at Frank in fury. — Come back ower here tae lord it ower everybody –

  — When you’re slumming it, I suppose it must look like the rest ay the world’s lordin it, Franco says.

  — Ye goat a sub? Joe asks, in a completely different tone. Franco had realised early into the conversation that external kindness or scorn made zero difference to Joe’s mood. It was purely determined by the units of alcohol flowing through his system, and the fractured, internal narrative his fuddled brain was jumping through.

  Franco rises, fishes out a crisp tenner from his pocket. Places it on the table. — See ye behind the goals.

  11

  THE SECOND SON

  He had walked past the old Leith Academy school in Duke Street, now converted into flats, recalling sitting beside skinny, ginger-headed Mark Renton in the English class. How he struggled to understand the words on the page, and he knew that the teacher, Hetherington, a bullish, rugby-playing man with a beard, and leather elbow patches on his checked jacket, would ask him to read again. In his mind’s eye he saw the teacher scanning the room, making his eyes big, as young Frank Begbie’s insides packed densely and seemed to fall through him. — Francis, if you could read next . . .

  The anticipatory glee of his humiliation filled the room. Then, next to him, Mark Renton, whispering, — Julie visited the cinema with Alice.

  — Julie visited the cinema with Alice . . . Franco repeated.

  — Very good, Francis Begbie. But I’d appreciate it more if Mark Renton would keep his mouth shut. The next line, Francis.

  The squiggles danced before his eyes on the page, reverbing. — Sh . . . sh . . . sh . . .

  — What did Julie and Alice – remember them? What did Julie and Alice visit the cinema to see, Begbie? What film did they see?

  The laughter building in slow ripples around him. He could feel Renton, only Renton, sharing his anger.

  — Can anybody help Francis Begbie?

  Can anybody help Francis Begbie?

  — Elaine! You never let us down!

  Then the sooky voice of Elaine Harkins, entitled, impatient. Francis Begbie held everybody back again. — They had decided to see Gone with the Wind, starring Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh. Alice went to purchase some ice cream and popcorn from the refreshments stand.

  The refreshments stand. Paggers at Tyney.

  Frustrated by the local electrical shops, Franco decides that his best bet is to get a UK mobile. He opts to pick up a cheap one on a pay-as-you-go deal, and heads to Tesco’s at the Foot of the Walk, which he remembers being a Scotmid. Hopefully, he considers, he won’t be needing this device for long. Stepping outside, he tests it by calling Terry. It goes straight to voicemail (— Terry here. If yir a lassie, leave a message n ah’ll get back tae ye. If yir a laddie, dinnae bother. Simple as.) but at least he knows it works. Looking across the street to the Marksman Bar, he recalls old associations, then thinks about family.

  As he crosses through the Kirkgate Centre, Franco is aware that a gaunt but wiry young man in a red Harrington jacket is staring right at him. It’s Michael, the younger of his two sons with June, whom he has heard is gaining a reputation.

  As he moves over to the wall by the shuttered store, the boy’s slitted eyes widen slightly. — Aw, it is you, Michael says, dismissively. — My ma said ye were coming back ower.

  Franco wants to retort, no, it’s somebody else. Instead he manages, — Aye. Want tae get a cup ay tea?

  Michael considers this for a second. — Aye. Awright.

  As they head down Junction Street, Franco notes two youths, wide and loud, coming down the road towards them. On spotting their approach, the young men fall abruptly silent and avoid eye contact. Franco is accustomed to inducing such a reaction in Leith, and turns to his son in a half-apology before realising that Michael hasn’t seen the boys and is striding ahead, lost in thought. Franco examine
s his profile, can’t see anything of himself, or for that matter June. The boy seems like a totally discrete entity.

  The Canasta Cafe in Bonnington Road is still hanging in there, albeit as an even more depleted incarnation than when he’d last been in town. They find a booth and settle down and are served the traditional milky coffee, both repulsive and oddly reassuring to him. Franco asks his son, — What’s the story wi Sean?

  Michael starts talking; grudgingly, sparingly and in terse, economical sentences, as he would do with a cop. Franco learns little new. Michael talks about Sean in a general way, revealing nothing about their closeness or otherwise. They could have been bosom buddies, or had a relationship like him and Joe. Both his sons’ backstories, from the meagre info he’s garnered, appear to offer few surprises. It seems Sean was prone to mood swings, his life-and-soul-of-the-party flamboyance followed by June’s brand of broken resignation, which made him an ideal candidate for junk’s levelling ministrations. Michael, on the other hand, looks like he’s picked up some of Franco’s own brooding aggression. It’s hard for him to work out who landed the worst inheritance. One would be bent out of shape, then crushed by the world, offering no resistance to the heroin- and alcohol-soaked streets. The other would attempt to bend it to his will, then be broken by it. Franco feels disappointed, as part of him had hoped that his own rags-to-relative-riches story might have somehow inspired his sons. He realises how paltry and unrealistic this conceit on his part is.

  Michael keeps a searching gaze trained on him, as if demanding some kind of deeper revelation than the super-ficialities his father is prepared to offer. Franco feels like he knows that look from somewhere, and can’t quite place it, but it isn’t the shaving mirror. Wherever its origins, it’s annoying him. So Frank Begbie shrugs, takes a deep breath. —You know, I never changed his nappy. Nor yours. Not once. Left youse full of shit till your ma came back. There’s another couple of kids that are mine, around here somewhere . . . I don’t know them, barely knew their mothers.