This Edinburgh businessman and former prospective Conservative parliamentary candidate (which in Scotland meant little more than no-hoper status) had been further tarnished since then. Not that the corpulent individual tucking into his food in Valvona & Crolla looks uncomfortable, with his gourmet pasta and glass of white wine. Frances Flanagan’s information about his brunching modus operandi was spot on.
Frank Begbie positions himself at a nearby table, watching Fallon shovel back his food. He can’t believe the aromas and range of produce in this wonderful place, which he has passed a million times and never set foot in. How it was assumed that it wasn’t for the likes of him. He speculates as to how different his native city might seem for somebody who habitually shops at Valvona & Crolla, rather than Scotmid.
When the waitress approaches, Franco enquires as to the possibility of an egg-white omelette, and she looks at him as if he has two heads. He settles for a vegetarian verdure breakfast, which he greatly enjoys, dispatching it swiftly as he sits behind the Scotsman. He’d heard Greg mention that the paper has decanted from its showcase, custom-built headquarters by the Scottish Parliament to a broom cupboard out at Orchard Brae. Sure enough, it has the shabby, beaten, depressive tone and content of a publication on its last legs. Every article seems either half-hearted and ill-considered or desperately overreaching, as if the journal is drowning in its own pointlessness, occasionally gripped by sudden, panicky bouts of awareness. He goes to the sports pages, but the exploits of Edinburgh’s senior clubs fail to excite. Fallon sits for a long time, himself reading a Financial Times. Do those cunts no have anything tae dae? he wonders, realising that he’s badly missing his studio. It dawns on him just how much he likes to get on with stuff.
Finally Fallon shifts his bulk and creakingly rises to settle his bill. Frank Begbie does the same, following him out to his car, then jumping into the van. As he pursues the landlord, it isn’t so much the driving on the left-hand side of the road that he finds strange, but the act of sitting there in the vehicle. Fallon heads out of town, Franco tailing him as far as a large villa, just outside Haddington. Watching him vanish down the driveway, Franco lets him go inside, before striding down the path and knocking at the door. When Fallon answers, Frank Begbie booms, — Fallon, landlord, and pushes past him into the house. — You rented a flat to Sean Begbie, ay?
— Who the fuck, Fallon protests, — you can’t come in here –
— I’m in already, so your statement makes nae fuckin sense, Franco says, heading into the front room.
— Get out, or I’ll call the police!
— Feel free. Franco picks up a heavy glass ashtray from a coffee table.
He sees Fallon hesitate. His instincts are correct: this guy doesn’t want the cops involved in his business. — You no gaunny call the polis then? he taunts.
— Who the fuck are you?
Franco swivels and holds the ashtray up to the light. He seems at pains to see something through the blue glass. — The weight in these things. His eyes swivel round at Fallon.
Fallon gasps, looking at the ashtray, then into Frank Begbie’s 200-yard stare. — Please. . I don’t want any trouble. . what do you want. .?
— You rented a flat to Sean Begbie, Franco repeats, slapping the ashtray against his open palm.
— No. . no. . I rented to Arbie. . I didn’t know he sublet to Sean or anybody else!
Another name. Arbie. — So you knew Sean?
— Vaguely. . through Arbie and a few others. . they hung around together.
Franco’s eyes blaze, but to Ross Fallon they seem set deep in cavernous slits. It’s like two oncoming trains in adjacent railway tunnels. Then Begbie’s voice drops, almost to a whisper. — Were ye shaggin him?
Fallon looks scandalised. — No, he yelps, then slips into a confessional tone. — I’ve had boys here, for parties. Mostly it was harmless, but they took the piss, stealing and stuff. I was stupid. . I was lonely –
— Ah couldnae gie a fuck how lonely ye wir!
— Sean and I never — honestly!
Franco considers this. There is probably no real reason for him to lie. — Frances Flanagan, she was here, aye?
— Yes.
— Anton Miller?
Fallon visibly trembles at the mention of that name.
— Okay, I’ll take that as a yes, Franco spits, — What about this Arbie gadge, where does he live?
— Gorgie. He just got out of prison.
— Give me his address. Dinnae even think aboot tippin him off or I’ll be back here. Franco lowers the ashtray onto the table. He looks out the window, then rubs the curtains between thumb and finger, talking in detached, matter-of-fact tones, as if he’s addressing the material in his hand. — They will be able to put your face back together again after I’m done, he suddenly whips his neck round, his cold eyes evaluating the landlord, — but it’ll be a long and painful process and it’ll never look quite the same again, and his brows raise skyward, as if actually estimating the extent of the task the surgeon will have.
Fallon’s trembling hand picks up a pen and scratches out the address in capital letters on a notepad. He tears off the page and hands it to Frank Begbie. The address seems familiar.
It takes Franco over an hour to get to Gorgie, through the heavy traffic. Then he is astonished to find himself knocking on the door of a second-floor flat off Gorgie Road, in the same street and the next stair to the one where Sean met his end. Fallon had been easy to intimidate. He’d thought this would be the case as soon as he’d seen the obese, watery-eyed man. He isn’t sure that the same tactics will yield such impressive results with this Arbie guy, whoever he is.
A second heavy knock, and a white-haired man with a beard answers the door. With his porridge-coloured, fibrous skin, he looks like a prison fixture. Franco can’t place the name or the face, but Arbie looks like he has some recognition of him. — Aye?
— Hi, Arbie.
— Dae I know you? Arbie’s face contorts in a threatening sneer.
Franco’s own features remain glacial. — Do you know who your family are?
— Aye. . Arbie says hesitantly.
A familiar scenario unfolds for Frank Begbie. It’s the type of dominance he has always found seductive; the way he feels himself drawing the power and certainty out of other hard men. Something in his core blazes in affirmation. But it’s important not to succumb to this emotion. Not to raise your voice. Psychotherapists had trained him, not to eliminate this mindset — as he’d led many of them to believe — but simply to channel it. One. . two. . three. . He breathes in steadily through his nose. — Do you know who your good mates are?
— Aye. . bit. .
— Well, you’ll ken I’m no one, so if you do know me, we’re no gaunny be close, Franco says, watching the man’s resistance crumble. — I want tae know about Sean Begbie.
Arbie looks over his shoulder into the stair. — You’d best come in then.
Unless he was in a blind rage, Frank Begbie usually picked on bullies. Not because he was some kind of protector or avenger. In fact he hated the sappy cunts who never stood up to them more than he hated the oppressors themselves. He recalls one occasion, when after battering a tormentor, the excitement of the victim indicated he believed that Begbie’s violence was undertaken on his behalf, or for some abstract notion of justice. So Begbie then rammed the nut on the biscuit-erse, in order to ensure he knew that the brutality had been purely for his own satisfaction. That he just preferred to ferociously assault tyrants because it changed them more. In his eyes, the sap was already defeated by terror, so there was no real buzz in smashing them. But seeing the bully’s confidence and power evaporate, and bearing witness to that change: that was unfailingly enjoyable.