The Blade Artist (16 page)

— Never shot anybody before, Jim Francis said. — It’s as I thought it would be. No pleasure in it. A fucking shiteing cunt’s weapon. He shook his head, looking at Coover in abject disappointment.

— My fuckin leg . . . Coover groaned at Santiago, who kept his eyes on Jim.

Jim pulled the knife out of the crab. Placed the creature on a flat rock, and crushed it under the heel of his boot. Santiago continued to look at him in confusion, trying to evaluate how this might play out.

— Sport, Jim said, reading his thoughts. He placed the gun on top of the rock, by the wreckage of the crab. He looked at the smooth long blade of the knife. — Nice, he said, then took his own weapon from his pocket. — Mine is an Alaskan Alpha Wolf. No quite as long a blade as your boy, but it’s got a great grip on the handle, and that convex edge reduces drag. Let’s do this, and he threw Santiago’s knife onto the sand in front of him, compelling him to move forward.

— No, man, wait –

But Jim was bearing down towards him. Santiago fought through his fear and grabbed the weapon, lifting his head as Jim swept upwards in a blow, opening up his face at the jawline, skin flapping on bone. Santiago swiped at him, but unbalanced himself and Jim barged into him, knocking him over, jumping on him, sinking the blade into his thigh and his teeth into his adversary’s wrist, as blood spurted from two limbs and Santiago dropped his knife. With the Alpha Wolf stuck in the man’s thigh bone, Jim seized the free weapon and smashed it into his combatant’s throat. More blood shot into the air, then Jim’s second stab thrust the blade through the man’s skull. He had to stand on Santiago’s head to try and retrieve the knife for a planned third strike. Again, it wouldn’t come, and he turned to see Coover hopping across
the rocks, making towards the gun, and he was over in pursuit. — Gimpy’s comin . . . he leered, as he gained on his prey. Crouching, without breaking his stride, he picked up a rock and smashed it over the back of Coover’s head.

Damien Coover fell prone onto the flat stones, dazed, but managing to roll around, holding up his hands as Jim straddled him, the rock raised.

— Please don’t . . . he begged, eyes half shut, waiting for the next blow.

— When you hurt some cunt, Jim said, his face set in a grave scowl, nodding at the still figure of Santiago, who was bleeding into the sand, — it’s your duty to enjoy it. Otherwise, you’ve done it for fuck all. It means nothing.

— Please . . .

The rock came crashing down onto the bridge of Coover’s nose, shattering it in a crack of bone and an explosion of blood. Coover let out a high-pitched yelp, followed by a long, sad whine.

— Would you have enjoyed hurting my wife and kids? Jim asked, looking above him, up to the top of the small cliff, then glancing to his left, down the beach. — What would you have done tae them? Tell me!

— No, we were . . . we were . . .

— You were nothing, Jim said coldly, bringing the rock down on Coover’s head with another crack. — WHAT DAE YE FUCKIN SAY, YA BAM?!

— No . . . Coover groaned.

— WHAT DAE YE FUCKIN SAY?!

— Please, no . . .

He whispered in Coover’s ear: — Begbie’s my name, then he sat up, and roared out to Coover, but above his head, as if addressing the ocean, those crashing waves: — FRANK BEGBIE!! He looked back at Coover. — SAY MA FUCKIN NAME! FRANK BEGBIE!!!

— Frank . . . Frank . . .

— FUCKIN SAY IT RIGHT! FRANK BEGBIE!

— Frank Begbie . . .

He knew it was stupid and could prove costly, but he let himself get lost. It took many blows before he was convinced the man was gone, mashing the bones in his face, obliterating him. It felt so different to when he was fourteen, the very first time, when that one effort had been so decisive. But back then there had been no pleasure in that act, no release, only fear and a sense of mercy which was presently beyond him.

He stood over the pulped face, let his breathing normalise. The rage had been a beautiful treat, but it was self-indulgent, and no good at all to him now. He glanced down the beach, then out to sea. Nothing, bar Holly, looking like a black armchair out where the squally grey-blue sky met the choppy brine. Not even a distant boat. Then a solitary plane thundered above on its descent, heading for the nearby local airport, which lay on the other side of the university. The irony was that if he were to be discovered now, it would most likely be by a lone student, somebody who had stayed behind from the Fourth of July Independence Day celebrations, and who would have possibly ended up raped or murdered, if he hadn’t removed the threats. But there was no one. If he believed in all that shit, he reflected, he would have suspected a higher
power was working with him. But the only power guiding him, Jim realised, was Frank Begbie. And now he had to get rid of him.

Jim felt moved to address the pulped head of the corpse. — Ken what I thought, he said, looking down the empty beach. — You know what I thought, he corrected himself. — It would be great if some other cunt had been with youse. Two wisnae enough.

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.

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 all: 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.

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.