— So how is Jim? Harry sings breezily.
— Back in Scotland. A family bereavement, and she heads through the hall to the front porch, compelling him to follow. Hoping, for once, that he would be distracted with his eyes on her ass.
— Sorry to hear it. Anybody close? She hears his disembodied voice behind her, thin and metallic.
Melanie opens the front door and turns to face him. — Thankfully, no, she says, unflinchingly. It was easier to say than it should have been. But she has told Harry more than enough. — Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to pick the kids up.
— Of course, he smiles, sauntering out. — Good to see you. I’ll keep you posted, and he gives her a little salute before he heads off down the driveway.
10. THE BROTHER
The best way to go to Leith is on foot, right down the Walk from the city centre. Franco had been determined to savour every step of the descending trek, but stopped at a couple of cut-price electrical stores. Neither had a UK-to-US power adaptor, or a UK lead for the iPhone. Instead they had tried to sell him almost every other electrical or phone-related product or service imaginable. He’d declined, and headed back outside.
The rain has started to fall, so he jumps on a bus down Leith Walk. By the time he gets to Pilrig it has eased off, so he disembarks after a couple of stops, striding to the Foot of the Walk, along Junction Street, down Ferry Road, to Fort House. The imposing building, a monument to sixties muni-cipal architecture, is now eerily empty, but they haven’t yet pulled it down. He looks at the huge walls that surround the scheme, and casts an eye over the flats. There was the Rentons’ old house, Keasbo’s, Matty’s. . but there really is nothing left any more. A melancholia descends upon him, and he heads towards the Firth, following the cries of the gulls. He soon finds himself traversing through a saturated new-build housing development at Newhaven. It has rendered the area unrecognisable to him.
Elspeth had no number for their brother Joe, just an address he’d left her when he’d turned up around a fortnight past, drunk and looking to borrow cash. It seemed a long shot that he’d still be at the same place. Joe was an established couch-surfing jakey, staggering from one insecure Housing Association tenancy or the beneficence of an old pal on to the next, burning down organisations and friendships as he went.
This area had been designated part of the new Leith for urban professionals, but the flats had been constructed with poor building materials, and with no social amenities around the recession had rendered them unsaleable. The developers cut their losses and handed them over to the Housing Association who rented them to breadline council tenants, often those evicted from the big schemes for antisocial behaviour. So the few young professionals who had been misguided enough to purchase such properties found themselves trapped in an embryonic ghetto.
To Franco’s astonishment, Joe is still at the address and answers almost immediately, cheerlessly opening the door, then going back inside, urging him to follow. His brother regarded him in such a perfunctory manner, it was as if Franco had just nipped out for a packet of cigarettes, rather than to California for six years. Joe Begbie, wearing a parka, slumps onto the couch, and swigs at a plastic litre bottle of flat-looking cider, seeming relieved when Franco refuses a slug.
Franco casts his eyes around the small, barren room. The walls are painted white, and are grubby around the light switches. The beige carpet, sticky under his feet, is discoloured with different spillage. The place is littered with empty food cartons, beverage cans and overflowing ashtrays. It seems an advertisement for how a middle-aged man shouldn’t be living.
— That Sandra, Frank, ye were right aboot her. You had that cow sussed, Joe offers, eyes red and sunken, as he augments his cider consumption with a nip of whisky from a bottle of Grouse.
He makes to pass it to Franco who again waves it away, as he thinks of Sandra and chips. He’s always associated the two after a teenage sex incident up the old goods yard. — Kick ye oot, aye?
— Fuckin evil bitch, Joe hisses, his eyes burning. — Poisoned the kids against ays n everything. He shakes his head, then his face suddenly fills with cheer. — Still, good tae see you again. Kent you’d be back!
— Just for the funeral. Then ah bolt.
Joe’s face crumples into a scowl as he lowers the whisky onto a wooden coffee table, the periphery of which is discoloured by cigarette burns. — Dinnae tell ays yir no lookin for the cunt that did Sean! Ah’ve been lookin!
— Aye, fae that couch?
— Ah’ve been lookin! Joe protests. — It’s no that easy. . you dinnae ken what it’s like roond here now. .
— Aye, life kin be hard, Franco blandly concedes.
— Ah’ve nae snout.
— A tragedy. You have my apathy.
— You stoaped?
— Aye.
— Snout?
— Aye.
— Yuv stoaped smokin?
Franco shakes his head. — How many weys dae ye want ays tae say it?
— Hmmph. Joe fixes his brother in a piercing stare. — Any money in this art game, then?
— Ah dae awright.
— Aye, ah read aw aboot that, right enough. Aye, you’re daein fine! Shoes, Joe says bitterly, nodding at the polished black leather on Franco’s feet. It seems to set him off as he suddenly explodes, — You cannae say thit ye didnae make mistakes, Frank!
Frank Begbie retains his composure, hauls in an even, steady breath. — Mistakes are what other people make. People that tried tae fuck ays aboot. They made mistakes. Usually, they peyed for them n aw.
This is enough to turn his brother’s volume down. — California. How’s that workin oot for ye, Frank?
— Fine enough.
— Ah’ll bet it is. Joe’s eyes dance, or rather something behind them does. — How’s it the likes ay you git tae go tae California? he slurs, then snaps suddenly, — Big hoose, ay?
— Five bedrooms. A big outbuilding converted intae a workshop, or studio, as I like tae call it, Franco almost sings, as a sweet taste fills his mouth.
— Near the sea?
— Naw. Well, about three-quarters ay a mile away.
— Big hoose, but, Joe’s accusatory tone continues.
— Aye, though there’s a lot in the neighbourhood that’s bigger. N you? Still livin oan other people’s couches, mate?
— Aye, this is ma mate Darren’s place, ay.
— Cannae be much fun, Franco nods, looking again around the room, the walls of which seem to close in a little more each time he regards them. — Mibbe ah’m just no pickin up on the glamorous side.
Joe is irate, looking at Frank in fury. — Come back ower here tae lord it ower everybody –
— When you’re slumming it, I suppose it must look like the rest ay the world’s lordin it, Franco says.
— Ye goat a sub? Joe asks, in a completely different tone. Franco had realised early into the conversation that external kindness or scorn made zero difference to Joe’s mood. It was purely determined by the units of alcohol flowing through his system, and the fractured, internal narrative his fuddled brain was jumping through.
Franco rises, fishes out a crisp tenner from his pocket. Places it on the table. — See ye behind the goals.
11. THE SECOND SON
He had walked past the old Leith Academy school in Duke Street, now converted into flats, recalling sitting beside skinny, ginger-headed Mark Renton in the English class. How he struggled to understand the words on the page, and he knew that the teacher, Hetherington, a bullish, rugby-playing man with a beard, and leather elbow patches on his checked jacket, would ask him to read again. In his mind’s eye he saw the teacher scanning the room, making his eyes big, as young Frank Begbie’s insides packed densely and seemed to fall through him. — Francis, if you could read next. .