Franco once again sees his grandfather in his son’s face, fees the macabre, spectral revenge of the old man, here in the docks. Indeed, under the thin light from above, Michael looks an incorporeal force, and Frank Begbie is stunned into silence.
— Ye telt me tae smash the bullyin cunt, wi a brick ower his heid, like you did wi auld jakey Uncle Joe. Ah didnae though, Michael laughs, savouring his father’s passive distress, — ah baseball-batted the cunt. Leathered his puss in wi it. That goat um oot ay ma face, right enough, he cackles with a dry, humourless laugh.
Franco recalls that time, the discussion with the frightened boy. Yes, it had been Michael who was originally the sweet wee lad, while Sean was the terror. Sean had bullied his younger sibling in much the same way Joe had with him, and Franco had been moved to dispense the traditional Begbie advice. But now Michael has taken this retribution to a new level. Francis Begbie pulls air into his lungs, regards his creation. — So where does that leave us?
— Well, you git back tae whaire ye fuckin well came fae, Michael growls. — If ah see ye here again, yir fuckin deid. Stepmammy as well. Would’ve cut your throat n rammed yir fuckin missus eftir the funeral if ye hudnae taken oot they two cunts, especially Anton. Makes life easier for me, but, ay. So go. Michael thumbs over his shoulder. — If ah ever fuckin see ye back here, he repeats.
— Suits me, Franco says, realising that the worst thing he can do to Michael is simply leave him with the burden of being his unreconstructed himself. He’ll cause misery, then he’ll either die or spend most of his life in jail. A real chip off the old block, and it is, he concedes, largely his father’s fault. It would be nice, though, if he brought this torment to the right people. Or person.
He goes to Larry’s van. Michael looks at him in raw aggression, takes a step forward, but sees that Franco is only retrieving a bag.
— Okay. Ah’m off. Francis Begbie nods at his son. Then he stops and says, — Ah ken ah huvnae been much ay a faither tae ye. . but ah couldnae let Morrison say those things.
Michael’s jaw drops. — What are ye talkin aboot? What did that jakey cunt say tae ye at the funeral?
— It was aboot Sean mainly. How he was an arse bandit. . and how you were the same.
— What?!
— What we say aboot each other is neither here nor there. But ah couldnae have him sayin those things about you. Franco shakes his head. — That’s what family is. You might have nowt tae dae with each other, you might even hate each other, but naebody else gets tae say things against ye.
— AH’M NO A FUCKIN QUEER! Michael roars, then gasps, — That fuckin jakey Morrison. . eh said what?
— That you were a bentshot like Sean, a cock-sucking arse bandit wir his exact words, Franco calmly says to his incandescent son. — That you’d git the same treatment he did, and he stares at Michael, who seems to be almost imploding with rage. — But leave him tae me. This is aw aboot him and me. Always was. Ah’ll get him sorted.
— WILL YOU FUCK! Michael howls, then lowers his voice to a snake-like hiss. — He’s mine! Ah’m tellin ye! N if you git in the wey, you’ll fuckin well git it n aw, he rasps. — NOW FUCK OFF OOTAY MA FACE!
So Franco, carrying his bag, nods, turns and limps away from the dry dock, the howf and Larry’s van. At the gates he stops and looks round to see the silhouette of his second son, standing, hands by his sides, under the lamp.
It really is time to leave, perhaps just one thing to take care of, he considers, as he walks out through the dockyard gates, his leg again strengthening with the blood flow that movement engenders. He heads along the Shore by the Water of Leith to Constitution Street, and up Leith Walk. The familiar gradient is beginning to assert itself, when Franco is aware that a car is tailing him. He turns to see a black limo. It moves slowly up to the kerb ahead of him. Stops. It has to be Tyrone. He prepares himself for violence, and it will probably be his last stand, here in Leith. The breathing won’t help him now. Jim Francis won’t help him now. Frank Begbie’s pulse rises and a red mist swamps his brain. Letting the bag drop to the pavement, he spreads his palms and leans back, screaming at the vehicle, — C’MOAN THEN, YA FUCKIN BAMS!!
The limo door opens and Melanie steps out.
36. THE ARTIST IN THE RESIDENCE
Swelling with emotion at the sight of her, Frank Begbie finds it hard not to embrace his oncoming wife. — Melanie, he gasps, but then holds up his hands, urging: — Don’t touch me, honey. . The panic in his gesture and the waft of stagnant urine rising in her nostrils derails Melanie’s instinct to hold him and she freezes. — . . I’m covered in pish. .
— What the fuck, Jim! Melanie’s eyes and nose scrunch up, and she even takes a backward step, as her voice leaps several octaves. — What happened?
He struggles to fight back the annoyance digging into him. What the fuck is she doing here? — It’s a long story. . he protests, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Davie ‘Tyrone’ Power emerging from the car.
Power’s face, half lit by the street lamp, has a look of paternal disdain. He reaches back into the vehicle, producing a packet of sanitary hand wipes. He lays it on the bonnet of the limo in front of Frank Begbie. — Do what you can.
Begbie nods, and starts wiping at his hands, face and hair. He feels clean enough to kiss his wife and squeeze her hand. — I got into a wee scuffle wi some bam in the toilets of a pub, and we both landed in the overflowing latrine. He gives a hollow laugh. Then he asks Melanie, while glancing at Power, — You okay?
— I’m fine, she says with reassuring calm, picking up on his reticence in discussing this further in the present company. — What about you?
— I’m okay. I got upset. . about what happened to Sean. Coming back over here, it really hit me for the first time, he says, and now he isn’t lying.
Melanie touches Frank’s forearm tentatively. They climb into the back of the limo. As Power starts it up, she looks at the chunky dome and broad back of the man in front of them. Even though he has reunited her with her husband, Melanie is still unable to work out why he fills her with revulsion.
— We’ve been searching high and wide, haven’t we, Melanie? Power sings slyly, as if to help her in her quest, putting on music. As the limo surges up a dark, empty Leith Walk, ‘California Dreamin’ by the Mamas and the Papas fills the air. — This one is for the California Mama and Papa in the back who’ll be dreamin’ ay getting hame to their wee yins, he swivels, to display capped teeth. — Three and five, Melanie was saying, eh, Frank?
— Aye, Begbie warily concedes. — So how did you two hook up?
— I was looking for you, Melanie begins, quickly faltering, the look in Frank Begbie’s eye again indicating that this story is best told when they are alone.
— As was I, Power continues on her behalf. — A young American lassie asking for you in Leith grot holes, well, that’s never going to be off my radar for long. So we pooled our resources, he chuckles, his sturdy shoulders rocking.
Frank and Melanie grip hands in tense silence. In spite of his best efforts with the wipes, the heat in the limo is whipping up a rank smell from him, with Michael’s piss drying into his hair and the California flag T-shirt, complete with bear. Power wrinkles his nose in distaste a few times, but only breaks the silence to wax lyrical about the empty roads. — Wish it could be like this aw the time. Driving would be a pleasure.