By way of reply, some bloody gob flew into McDougal’s face from Francis Begbie’s burst mouth. McDougal resumed the brutal pounding until police sirens and cries of ‘shoatie’ filled the air, as a panda squad car pulled up on the road, and the kids quickly started to disperse.
McDougal arose, hailed as victor, but through his triumph there was a disquiet, as he looked back and saw Mark Renton help the battered but unbowed Begbie to his feet. — He’s a fuckin dirty animal, McDougal protested to a cohort, as he used the sleeve of his Fair Isle sweater to wipe the bloody saliva from his face.
Frank Begbie didn’t show up at school the following day, and there was talk that McDougal had hospitalised him. Feeling pleased with himself as he headed home, Phillip McDougal suddenly felt somebody jump on his back. He saw the horror on the faces of his two friends. Frank Begbie was on top of him, battering him with a half-brick. A dazed McDougal threw Begbie off, and quickly overpowered his adversary, beating him senseless again. He said to the battered, exhausted boy on the ground, — That’s enough, ah’m fuckin warnin ye, but there was a fear and uncertainty in his voice that he couldn’t hide.
The next day Frank Begbie, two black eyes, one barely open, marched up to McDougal in the playground at the lunchtime break. He smashed his brow into a static McDougal’s nose, shattering it, the school bully’s blood dripping onto the tarmac. To the shock of almost everybody present, McDougal lay down and took the humiliating, savage kicking, which he knew, even at those tender years, possibly saved his life. When he was done, Begbie turned to McDougal’s silent cohorts. — WHAE’S FUCKIN NEXT? he roared. None of them could look him in those slits in the bulbous purple that were his eyes, and his reading skills would never be publicly mocked again.
The tram stops to the pnuematic hiss of the doors, jolting Frank Begbie out of his daydream. When he gets to Elspeth’s he calls Melanie, but it goes straight to her voicemail. He does it a second time, just so that he can hear her answering-phone voice. So tranquil and non-abrasive, so different to many of the tones he knew over here.
Elspeth had been at the shops, and returned wearing what he’d come to think of as her spoiling-for-a-fight expression. This involved her scraping her top teeth against her bottom lip, and narrowing her eyes. She’d done that since she was a child; a domineering, self-centred force that neither he nor Joe had been quite able to work out how to deal with, when, as young boys, she’d come into their lives. Franco is thus relieved when a call with a USA number manifests on his Tesco phone. Reasoning that it could be something to do with Melanie or the kids, he picks up.
— Jim, it’s Martin. Mel gave me this number.
Franco feels a crashing despondency on hearing his agent’s voice. — Right. Hi, he says, heading through to his room, looking out the window.
— Couldn’t get you on the other line. Haven’t been enjoying a whole heap of luck with this one. Mel said there’s been problems with it.
— Aye, Franco concedes, — it’s not the best of phones.
— How are things in Edinboro?
— Good, he says, instantly feeling an ironic smile twist on his lips. — Got a new tram system, what we’d call light rail in America. Very impressive, he declares, as, from behind the net curtains, he watches his nephews enter the house.
— Great. . Look, I’m sorry to harass you, but I need to know when you’re due back.
— Soon.
Martin lets out a sigh of exasperation at the meagre information proferred by his client. — We’ve still got a couple of loose ends to tie up. I really need you back here by next week at the latest.
— Just tying up some loose ends myself, Franco says, switching to a transatlantic accent, as he looks outside, to see Greg, who greets him with a wave, coming down the path. — How are things going your end?
— Rod Stewart can’t make it, unfortunately. I think he’s on tour.
— Too bad, Franco muses, thinking about the Rod Stewart song ‘Young Turks’ and how it brings Anton Miller to mind, as he leaves the bedroom and starts to move back into the lounge. He has a vision of Miller as a squat, chunky, wisecracking wee guy, perhaps with a bow-legged gunfighter walk like Nelly’s.
— But Nicole wants a bust of Tom, with a very specific mutilation, strictly confidential. Martin sounds breezy. — And Aniston’s people want to know when the Angelina will be ready.
— No word from the Axl Rose boy out of Guns n’ Roses? Franco asks, as he gets into the front room. He tips George a wink, which Elpseth registers with as much dismay as her son’s reciprocal glee.
— Haven’t heard from Axl’s people. . I’ll chase them up.
— Sound. I can’t see myself being here much longer, a few days at the most, he says, looking at Elspeth’s tightening face. Maybe it was time to fuck off to a hotel. To tell Elspeth: good luck to you if you’ve found a nice wee shelter to hide from the chaos and pain the world dishes out. Just don’t pretend that it isn’t happening to others. And don’t kid yourself on that it won’t happen to you. But now is not the time. The boys are sitting in front of the TV. Greg has settled down on the settee with a book he’s reading about women who had been kidnapped by the Mexican drug cartels. Martin’s soft voice on the phone, trying to pin down exactly what a few days means. — It means a few days, he says emphatically. — I’ll get back to you if that changes.
— Right. Martin’s tones dip in weary concession. — Much obliged, Jim.
— Great, cheers, Martin.
Franco clicks the phone off and is preparing for his sister to unload, glad that Greg and the boys are present. This means that any attack will be limited to barbed asides. Then there is a shattering explosion, as the front window caves in, glass flying all over the room. A shard flies into George’s arm, drawing blood which spills onto the shagpile. Greg drops his book as Elspeth screams.
It is all but drowned out by a roar from outside. — YOU’RE FUCKIN DEID, BEGBIE!!
Franco runs straight for the door, aware of the leg holding him back, like it was stuck in treacle. Once he gets going, he can’t feel it, but it has cut his acceleration. Fuckin Renton. Fuckin radge.
He gets out into the small front garden, to see three youths in the street. One he vaguely recognises from the funeral. Leaping over the small wall and striding towards them, he knows by their stock ‘come on’ gesticulations that they don’t intend to engage with him. This is another set-up, and the play soon comes into his peripheral vision on the right-hand side, in the form of two guys who get out of a car.
They aren’t the youthful men he expects: probably mid-thirties, seasoned bouncer types. Ignoring the younger lads, he walks slowly towards them. One of them, heavily muscled in a blue T-shirt, but with thin legs, shouts, — Miller wants tae see ye!
There is plenty about this that isn’t sitting right with Frank Begbie. It is important to breathe steadily, even as he coldly visualises deep lacerations on the faces of the men. — Aye? Miller? Franco laughs. — Ye mean Tyrone!
The two men look at each other. They haven’t anticipated this.
— Is that the best Tyrone can dae these days? He looks them up and down in disdain, envisioning the stomping, raking heel that will destroy the thin-legged man’s kneecap, leaving him sprawled helpless on the pavement. — Two muppets whae probably work the door at Baby Busters? Cannae git staff, right enough, he bellows.
— We dinnae ken any Tyrone, Thin Legs feebly protests.
— So youse boys are gaunny take ays tae Miller then?