— Was that Frank?
— No, just family stuff, Tyrone says, turning and putting the phone into his pocket. He heads across to the marble bar and fills a glass with red wine, offering one to Melanie, who, although tempted, declines. — You know, I thought that Frank had done well for himself in the art world, but I can see that he’s really hit the jackpot by having such an amazingly smart and beautiful young woman in his corner.
His grin makes her wish she’d gone to the hotel.
35. THE PISH
His son Michael is standing over him, penis out, pishing in his face. And Franco is exhausted, ready to let go of the rungs and fall in beside the still-smouldering body of Anton. He can barely move his head; feels the stagnant jet bouncing off his skull as the urine seems to cloak his neck and shoulders. It’s as if a warm shower could be a creeping gateway to hell. — Michael. . what the fuck –
— Shut it, ya mingin auld cunt, Michael sneers, as he slowly shakes out his cock and replaces it in his pants. Franco then realises where he has seen that lopsided, sly grin before. His son’s youth had obscured the fact that the boy is a double for Grandad Jock. At that moment, Franco is utterly convinced it’s over, but Michael bends forward and extends his arm. — Gies yir fuckin hand, then.
All Frank Begbie can do is raise his arm up. His life is literally in Michael’s hands, and he’s surprised when his son grasps his mitt, helping to haul him up onto firm terrain. He stands, bent over, hands on his hips, struggling to get air into his lungs. The bad leg is so sore, it feels fractured. — Why. . what did ye pish on ays fir. . then save ays?
— Ah pished on ye cause yir a fuckin wide auld cunt. Saved ye cause yir ma fuckin faither, Michael says, — . . and. . cause ye took they cunts oot. He points back to the bothy, then behind Franco to the dock.
— Well, thanks for the second yin, Frank Begbie says, gathering his breath. He tries to stretch out his sore leg, as he looks at the T-shirt, dark with piss, the Californian bear on his chest saturated.
— So you’ll be off then, ay. Michael intones it as a statement. — Ah’m happy tae take credit for Anton n Larry. Mibbe ye owe ays that.
Franco’s dispassionate gaze seems to permit this. Michael can insinuate what he likes. It would only help take any heat off him. — At least ah found oot whae did Sean, that was aw ah wanted. He points to the howf.
Michael laughs loudly, shaking his head. — Larry tell ye it wis him? Ye didnae believe that shite, did ye?
Franco realises right there and then that he didn’t. He shivers. The sun has gone down and the wet urine is chilling on his body.
His second son looks at Frank Begbie as if he is a fool. And why not, Franco thinks, he is the one exhausted, with a gimpy leg and reeking of pish. — He wis jist trying tae get at ye. Kent eh wis on the wey oot, wanted tae mess wi yir heid, Michael scowls. Then his features expand in a cold grin. — Naw, ah topped the fuckin annoyin poofy bastard masel.
Franco feels a force of rage surge through him, but then it seems to exit his body, shooting up into space, leaving him hollow, almost formless. He looks at Michael, realises that words are failing him. Tries to force out the sentence. — What. . ye what. . yir ain fuckin brar?
Michael’s pernicious laughter rings in his ears. — Do you ken how fuckin embarrassin it was tae huv that cunt mincin aroond wi fuckin bufties aw the time? he challenges. — Ay?
Franco stays silent. He can feel the burning extent of his son’s rancour, but this time he can’t match it. He is spent. Done. He concentrates on his breathing.
— Eh used tae hing oot wi that ride, that Frances. Seen ye talking tae her at the funeral, Michael half accuses. — Aye, she follayed him aboot like a wee puppy. Slag gied it tae that filthy auld cunt Larry, n Anton wis bangin her n aw. Everybody but me, Michael moans, making no attempt to disguise his self-pitying jealousy. — Ah’d huv fuckin looked eftir her! Kept her away fae aw they druggie cunts, aw they auld pervs whae treated her like shite, hud pictures ay her oan their phones blawin them for fuckin drugs!
Franco remains focused on his breathing. In through the nose, where with every breath he smells his son’s piss on his T-shirt and in his hair, out through the mouth. His calves and arms still burn from the climb, but his leg is settling a little.
— When he was gaunny move intae that place in Gorgie, ah got asked by Arbie tae take the keys doon tae him. So ah thoat, the poofy cunt’ll huv Miller’s gear and cash in thaire, so ah makes masel a spare copy ay the key at that place in St James’s Centre, ay. When ah got doon tae his auld gaff in Trafalgar Street, that Frances was thaire. Widnae even gie ays a good look, but she wis ey aw ower a poof that widnae even fuckin ride her. What’s that aw aboot? Michael challenges his father.
Franco is silent.
— So aboot a week later, ah thoat ah’d go roond tae the Gorgie flat n see if thaire wis anything worth chorin. Maybe some collies or dosh, seeken that poof’s faggot puss by droapin um in the shit wi Anton. Michael’s smile flashes in noxious delight. — Ah bangs oan the door, thoat the place wis empty, ay, but whin ah lit masel in, he wis passed oot in a chair. That Frances wis thaire wi him, baith ay them wasted. Ah tries tae wake her up, but she’s fucked, ay. That cunt ay a brother ay mine, that fuckin poof ay a son ay yours, Michael asserts, — he sortay comes to but. Starts goadin ays, takin the pish wi that smart fuckin gob ay his, like eh ey did, wi that queer, cock-suckin mooth, that nivir shut the fuck up. Eh looks at Frances, aw passed oot, n goes, now’s yir chance, n laughs at ays! In ma face! That fuckin sick queer!
Franco feels flimsy and evanescent. It is like everything has been ripped out of him bar a pervasive nausea, spreading through him like hemlock. — It wis how eh wis. .
Michael screams in his face, — DINNAE GIES THAT SHITE! YOU TAUGHT AYS THAT! YOU! You said that they wir aw sick, diseased perverts!
And Franco recalls taking the boys out one warm summer’s day. They had gone for a walk up to the multiplex cinema, and saw two young men holding hands at a table outside one of the bars at the Top of the Walk. It had disgusted him then: men doing that, in full view of his young sons. Hatred seared him. He had been sent packages of explicit gay pornography by an anonymous tormenting rival during his prison stretches. This had sparked innuendo that had to be dealt with. He’d considered homosexuals to be perverts and paedophiles, and yelled at them, spilling his roaring, demented bile in the street’s full daylight. The terrifed men quickly sought refuge in the bar. He remembers that the boys were scared too, or rather Michael was.
Why? Why had he done that? Why had he been so twisted with poison? Why was it what strangers did mattered so much to him? Now in California, he and Melanie have gay colleagues and neighbours, and there’s Ralph and Juan, who have become close friends. They come to dinner, they joke, chat, dance, play with the kids, engage in jocular flirtation with both him and Melanie; it just isn’t an issue at all. It was ludicrous. It was madness, the way he’d needed that sort of stuff back then, nonsense that now means nothing, just in order to rage against something that was in some way different. — Well, that wisnae right. . Franco can feel his words flop lamely out of his mouth. He is aware that he is soaked, stinking of piss, and that he needs to be home. California. Melanie.
— Ah loat ay things you did wirnae fuckin right! Michael snarls, his eyes suddenly widening as another recollection pops into his mind. — Mind what else ye sais tae me? When the bastard cut ays wi that wire, acroass ma chin?