The leg, that wrecked limb that hadn’t healed right, not since the accident when he’d been hit by the car, storming after Mark Renton, held him up as he stole along the clifftop towards the rocks at Goleta Point. By approaching them from above and behind, he’d be able to ensure that the coast was clear of both beachcombers and solitary student stragglers before he engaged. Timing was all. They had turned the corner around the stony headland, and the tide was coming in quickly. Jim walked faster; it seemed that the fleeter he got, the less he noticed the leg. From his vantage point on the cliff above he tracked them moving between two of the bigger rocks at the end of the jagged peninsula, which reached out to the Pacific Ocean like a small, broken quay. It provided perfect cover, shielding them from any eyes above, as the sea swirled in.
He hurried down the beach and along the top of the rocks, until he was standing over them. Jim quickly glanced back above him to the cliffs, then down the beach towards Devereux Slough; all clear, and then his attention was fully on the men, as he stepped forward into their view. They were preoccupied as the blond one had a crab on his knife; he had stabbed it through the shell and it wriggled in its death throes. It looked like a red rock crab, with its brick-coloured top and rusty blotchings on the white underside. He’d taken to identifying the different types of marine life on these trips with the kids. — Think it knows it’s going to die? He pointed at the crab.
The two men looked up as one, saw him standing over them on the large rock. Took a step back as Jim jumped down, landing in front of them on the soft sand.
— What the fuck? said the smaller, blond man, Damien Coover. — Look, we don’t want no trouble. .
Jim Francis pulled out the gun. — Too fucking late for that, and he lurched forward and squeezed the trigger. A shot rang out, then a crack, the gulls taking to squawking flight, as Coover toppled over, tumbling to the rocks and sand. He screamed out in agony, against the sound of the sea, the waves dashing on the rocks. Jim gazed out across the ocean; no boats, just Holly, the oil platform, way out on the horizon to his right. The other man, Marcello Santiago, was moving back against the huge black rock face, as the tide swarmed around his shins. — C’mon, man. . look. .
Jim ignored him, glancing briefly behind him, still all clear, then back to the men. Coover was moaning softly, clutching his leg. Jim saw he had managed to shoot him above the kneecap. Blood seeped through denim, onto rock and into sand and salt water.
— Never shot anybody before, Jim Francis said. — It’s as I thought it would be. No pleasure in it. A fucking shiteing cunt’s weapon. He shook his head, looking at Coover in abject disappointment.
— My fuckin leg. . Coover groaned at Santiago, who kept his eyes on Jim.
Jim pulled the knife out of the crab. Placed the creature on a flat rock, and crushed it under the heel of his boot. Santiago continued to look at him in confusion, trying to evaluate how this might play out.
— Sport, Jim said, reading his thoughts. He placed the gun on top of the rock, by the wreckage of the crab. He looked at the smooth long blade of the knife. — Nice, he said, then took his own weapon from his pocket. — Mine is an Alaskan Alpha Wolf. No quite as long a blade as your boy, but it’s got a great grip on the handle, and that convex edge reduces drag. Let’s do this, and he threw Santiago’s knife onto the sand in front of him, compelling him to move forward.
— No, man, wait –
But Jim was bearing down towards him. Santiago fought through his fear and grabbed the weapon, lifting his head as Jim swept upwards in a blow, opening up his face at the jawline, skin flapping on bone. Santiago swiped at him, but unbalanced himself and Jim barged into him, knocking him over, jumping on him, sinking the blade into his thigh and his teeth into his adversary’s wrist, as blood spurted from two limbs and Santiago dropped his knife. With the Alpha Wolf stuck in the man’s thigh bone, Jim seized the free weapon and smashed it into his combatant’s throat. More blood shot into the air, then Jim’s second stab thrust the blade through the man’s skull. He had to stand on Santiago’s head to try and retrieve the knife for a planned third strike. Again, it wouldn’t come, and he turned to see Coover hopping across the rocks, making towards the gun, and he was over in pursuit. — Gimpy’s comin. . he leered, as he gained on his prey. Crouching, without breaking his stride, he picked up a rock and smashed it over the back of Coover’s head.
Damien Coover fell prone onto the flat stones, dazed, but managing to roll around, holding up his hands as Jim straddled him, the rock raised.
— Please don’t. . he begged, eyes half shut, waiting for the next blow.
— When you hurt some cunt, Jim said, his face set in a grave scowl, nodding at the still figure of Santiago, who was bleeding into the sand, — it’s your duty to enjoy it. Otherwise, you’ve done it for fuck all. It means nothing.
— Please. .
The rock came crashing down onto the bridge of Coover’s nose, shattering it in a crack of bone and an explosion of blood. Coover let out a high-pitched yelp, followed by a long, sad whine.
— Would you have enjoyed hurting my wife and kids? Jim asked, looking above him, up to the top of the small cliff, then glancing to his left, down the beach. — What would you have done tae them? Tell me!
— No, we were. . we were. .
— You were nothing, Jim said coldly, bringing the rock down on Coover’s head with another crack. — WHAT DAE YE FUCKIN SAY, YA BAM?!
— No. . Coover groaned.
— WHAT DAE YE FUCKIN SAY?!
— Please, no. .
He whispered in Coover’s ear: — Begbie’s my name, then he sat up, and roared out to Coover, but above his head, as if addressing the ocean, those crashing waves: — FRANK BEGBIE!! He looked back at Coover. — SAY MA FUCKIN NAME! FRANK BEGBIE!!!
— Frank. . Frank. .
— FUCKIN SAY IT RIGHT! FRANK BEGBIE!
— Frank Begbie. .
He knew it was stupid and could prove costly, but he let himself get lost. It took many blows before he was convinced the man was gone, mashing the bones in his face, obliterating him. It felt so different to when he was fourteen, the very first time, when that one effort had been so decisive. But back then there had been no pleasure in that act, no release, only fear and a sense of mercy which was presently beyond him.
He stood over the pulped face, let his breathing normalise. The rage had been a beautiful treat, but it was self-indulgent, and no good at all to him now. He glanced down the beach, then out to sea. Nothing, bar Holly, looking like a black armchair out where the squally grey-blue sky met the choppy brine. Not even a distant boat. Then a solitary plane thundered above on its descent, heading for the nearby local airport, which lay on the other side of the university. The irony was that if he were to be discovered now, it would most likely be by a lone student, somebody who had stayed behind from the Fourth of July Independence Day celebrations, and who would have possibly ended up raped or murdered, if he hadn’t removed the threats. But there was no one. If he believed in all that shit, he reflected, he would have suspected a higher power was working with him. But the only power guiding him, Jim realised, was Frank Begbie. And now he had to get rid of him.
Jim felt moved to address the pulped head of the corpse. — Ken what I thought, he said, looking down the empty beach. — You know what I thought, he corrected himself. — It would be great if some other cunt had been with youse. Two wisnae enough.