Begbie was proving hard to shrug off.
Then Jim stood up and stripped down to his underpants, laying his garments in a neat pile. He hauled first Coover, then Santiago, out by the edge of the jagged rock formation. Almost instantly, he got the knife out of Santiago’s skull by twisting it, but it took an agonising thirty seconds or so before he was was able to rip the Alpha Wolf free from the man’s thigh. Then he removed both men’s clothes, stacking them in a separate pile to his own. The inlet between the two big rocks would provide decisive cover, though what he was about to do next was the riskiest part. Jim climbed back up onto the flat rocks and looked down over the sandy beach, first left, then right. Still eerily deserted, not even a solitary beachcomber. He could see beyond it, to the edge of the town. Jim turned out to sea. Way, way out on the horizon, there was a boat, but he was lucky. It was heading in the other direction, and he watched it melt into the reverberating cloud and shimmering sea.
Jim took the heavier man, Santiago, out to sea first, dragging him, relieved when the incoming tide took him up with its buoyancy, almost grabbing the body like a helping pair of hands. The water was cold, and he felt the air being squeezed from his lungs. He remembered the breathing. Steady. By breathing properly you couldn’t conquer any adversary, but you bought time. You gave yourself a better chance. He swam, pulling Santiago, for what felt like a long distance, but in reality couldn’t have been more than twenty yards out before letting him go. He watched the body float off.
When he returned to do the same for Coover, he was tired and the current was stronger, with the waves hitting his face in provocative slaps, so he dared not go so far out. To his surprise, he heard a faint moaning from the man in his arms; Coover was still alive. This wouldn’t be the case for long. — Shh. . he said, as tenderly as a mother would to an infant, holding him under the water, watching bubbles from his crushed nose and mouth rise to the surface. After letting Coover go, he swam back and put his clothes on over his wet body, then bundled up the dead men’s apparel. The beach was still deserted. In the distance, towards Santa Barbara, he could see a group of people, probably young, by the way they moved, heading down the sands. He ducked into a winding trail, onto the clifftop, where he gathered his breath and looked out to sea. The tide would have carried the bodies away.
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 alclass="underline" 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.