— CHEAT!!!
They are again diverted by the warring couple. The woman has got to her feet. — YIR A FUCKIN CHEAT, JIM MULGREW! A FUCKIN TWO-FACED LIAR! She turns and appeals to the rest of the bar, including Franco and John.
The man, Jim Mulgrew, waves her away with the back of his hand. — Aye, so you say!
Frank Begbie looks away. He knows the type. Wankers, who want to suck the world into their pathetic and tedious orbit. Jakeys are always fucking drama queens. Look at me. I’m hurting. Feel my pain.
Naw. Fuck off.
And now John Dick, a person whom he greatly respects (and such individuals are thin on the ground), is reading him the riot act. — The only person you’re damaging now is yourself. And Melanie and the kids, they’re the real ones you’re waging war on.
— Who said anything about a war? Franco asks, then realises that he did, back at the funeral. — I just want to know what happened to my son.
— War is what Anton Miller does, Frank. John lets out a long sigh. — Keep out his road.
— Sound advice.
— But?
— There is no but. It’s sound advice, end of, Franco states emphatically. — John, every cunt has been nipping my heid, giving it Anton this, Anton that. He did your laddie, aw that shite. I’m no interested. He shakes his head and he looks over at the feuding couple. The woman has turned pointedly away from the man, but is still sat at the same table. He finds himself willing her: just fuckin go.
— Mind the boy that stole that money from you, down in London? That old pal you used to tell me about? John Dick asks. — That you were so mad when you saw him years later, you charged across the road, so consumed with rage, you never even noticed this oncoming car that smashed ye tae pieces?
Renton.
— Mark Renton. How can I forget? The guy I killed, Craig Liddel, Seeker they called him, we had a long vendetta, and it was one that I started. I got obsessed with the boy, just because he was a mate of Renton’s. I thought he knew where Renton was, Franco laughs sourly, — that they would both be laughing at ays. In reality, Renton would have fuck all to do with the likes of Seeker, he’d only met him in rehab, then sometimes scored drugs offay him. I only got involved with Seeker cause of my obsession with getting Renton. It was pointless. Now he’s deid and I lost eight years of my life. Over nothing, he laments.
— What do you think of that Renton guy now?
Frank Begbie seems to consider this, rolls his bottom lip over his top one. — I can see it from his point of view. See that he had to get the fuck out, he acknowledges, his brow furrowed. — It’s funny, but he was probably the only real mate I ever had.
John Dick runs his finger over the rim of his glass. — Do you see what your obession with getting even with him has cost ye? Something that now means nothing to you? Your obsession with all those people?
Now Franco is getting irritated with John’s badgering. The way he challenges him constantly, like he did in prison, talking to him like nobody else ever had. Because I see what you are, John had once said to him. This had enraged, challenged and then ultimately helped Frank Begbie so much. Because he knew that John saw past what he had been prepared to show to the world. But then again, things change. Now maybe John Dick has become just another person in this town he needs to get away from. — Of course I do, Franco states. — If you get obsessed with losers and associate with them, ye become one ay them. That’s been the point of everything, recognising that. My life wasted on these useless vendettas; Cha Morrison, the Sutherlands, Donnelly, Seeker. . I’m no adding this Anton boy tae the list.
John seems satisfied with this response, and his mood becomes more playful. — So what would you dae if he walked in here right now, Renton, this old mate who ripped you off?
— Fuck knows, probably buy him a drink and tell him he owes me a few grand with twenty years’ interest on it, he laughs.
John now chuckles along with him. — I watched you reprogramme yourself painstakingly, through those books you read. And I know how much of a struggle that was, with the dyslexia, and his mentor is looking at him in unbridled admiration. This always used to make Franco feel like a kid, eager to do better. He hadn’t felt that way since his old Grandad Jock had taken that interest in him. It would have been good to have had somebody like John back then, instead of Jock and his mates. He might have had different options. — Don’t throw all that away. Don’t go back down into the black hole, Frank.
Frank Begbie considers this. — Sometimes I wonder if I’ve ever really left it, John.
John Dick is about to protest, when the man named Jim Mulgrew rises and punches his female associate in the face. She lets out a yelp and sits with her head in her hands. This draws gasps and cries of derision from the other drinkers. Frank Begbie remains still, looking over at Jim Mulgrew who bristles indignantly in his chair. The barman approaches the assailant. — Right, you, get the fuck ootay here!
— Ah’m gaun, Mulgrew says, rising to exit the bar.
The woman is rubbing her jaw. It hadn’t been such a hard punch but there will be some swelling. There is something horrible in her eyes, alongside the fear and pain, a kind of satisfied vindication. — He’ll be back, she addresses the assembled drinkers.
— No in here he’ll no, and neither will you, the barman announces. — Gie him a few minutes tae git doon the road, then you’re ootay here n aw.
— Ah never did nowt, what did ah dae?
— On that, time to depart, Frank Begbie says to John Dick, realising that, before, he would have got involved in this incident, to everyone’s detriment. He recalls one such time when an aggressive domestic argument was taking place in a bar in Leith. He’d gone over and wrapped an arm around the shoulder of each party, pulling them towards him in a gesture of conciliation. Then he’d rammed the nut on the both of them, one after the other.
— Okay, Frank, sorry to get on your case. John Dick stretches out his hand. — I know you’re going through a rough time.
Frank Begbie grabs it and shakes it. — If ye didnae gie a fuck, ye wouldnae have said anything. But don’t worry, John, I’m in a good place, and he taps his head and winks at his mentor. It is important to say the right things, express the correct sentiment. A prime minister could quietly protect rich paedophiles using the Official Secrets Act provided he publicly proclaimed that he would leave no stone unturned to bring such people to justice. It was the expression of the contrary action that gave you the licence. People generally wanted to believe that you meant well; the consequences of thinking otherwise were too grim to contemplate.
— A better place than those wastes ay space. John nods over to the woman and Jim Mulgrew’s empty chair.
Franco looks across at her, now muttering perceived injustices under her breath. — They should learn the salsa, he ventures to John, — that whole lifestyle, it would stop them from gettin at each other’s throats.
And Frank Begbie feels deeply pleased with himself as he bids John Dick farewell, almost skipping out of the bar to the van. Then, as he opens it up, he feels something hard pressing hard against his temple. Knows it to be the barrel of a gun. — Don’t fucking move or I’ll blow yir heid off, a voice calmly says. Then a hand reaches into his jacket pocket, removing the Tesco phone, and at the same time a hood is placed over his head. As this act shuts out the world’s light, he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs like a reverse sigh.