— Never mind that, Elspeth barks, — finish your breakfast.
— But it’s just so strange to think we’ll never see Sean again, George says. — Never ever.
— Nobody knows, Franco offers.
— Do you think you go to heaven or hell? Thomas asks him.
— Maybe both, Franco says. — Maybe there’s some kind ay transit between the two, when you get bored with one, you can mix it up a bit, and head to the other.
— Like on holiday? Thomas wonders.
— Like a bus between two airport terminals, George volunteers.
— Aye, Franco considers, — why not? If nobody knows, what happens after could be anything we imagine, or maybe nothing at all.
Thomas is still in holiday mode. — Holidays in hell, he says dreamily.
— Been there, done that. Frank Begbie looks at his sister. — Mind the time we went to Butlins at Ayr? He turns to the boys. — Nah, your mum won’t, she was just a wee baby.
The boys seem to look at their mother in an almost mystical light, trying to envisage this. — I can’t imagine Mum as a baby, George says, half shutting his eyes as if to conjure up the image.
Elspeth turns to her sons. — Right, you two, jildy.
— Ah’ve no heard that word in years, Franco says.
— What does it mean? George asks.
— It means hurry up, Elspeth says briskly, — so less talk, more rock.
As his nephews depart, Franco leans back in his chair. — Who was it that said that? Was it old Grandad Jock?
— Like Butlins at Ayr, that was before my time, Elspeth says snootily. — What have you got on today?
— I’m meeting an old friend.
— Another auld lag fae the nick, I expect. Elspeth crunches on a slice of toast.
— Aye, Franco grabs the teapot and tops his mug up, — and he’s done even more time than I have.
Elspeth shakes her head in contempt. — You’re such a loser, Frank. You just cannae help yirsel –
Franco raises his hand to silence her. — He’s a screw. A prison officer. The guy who got me into reading, writing, painting.
— Aw, right. . Elspeth says, and she looks genuinely ashamed and penitent.
Franco decides to quit while he is ahead, gulping down his tea and going to his room to get ready. The Tesco phone has, to his astonishment, shot into some kind of life. It glows a radioactive lime green. He tries to type in Melanie’s number, but the zero key sticks to send 0000000 flying across the screen. — Fuck, he curses, drawing air down deep, filling his lungs.
Of course he’d see John Dick. Before Melanie there was John, the man who believed in him, despite Franco being determined to present all the evidence to the contrary. The radical prison officer, who went against everything established, from the narrow, reductivist government economic and social policy, the institution’s petty rules and procedures, to the self-defeating fatalism of the cons themselves. Dick brought in the writers, poets and artists, to see if anything would gel. Saw a spark ignite in a few, Frank Begbie being the most unlikely.
They meet in the Elephant House cafe on George IV Bridge, close to where he’d started out yesterday, at the Central Library. His impression is that John Dick looks well; longish face, dark-framed glasses, black hair cut short, a permanent five-o’clock shadow, and baggy clothes which conceal a wiry but muscular build. Franco recalls that when they first met, Dick had the relaxed bearing around him that he knew came from possessing a physical confidence. Amid all the other chunky, aggressive screws, John Dick seemed like a prisoner whisperer, his soft voice having the gift of turning down the volume in others. With the exception of Melanie, he probably listened to nobody in his life like he did to this prison officer.
John immediately expresses his regret that he won’t be attending Sean’s funeral. Franco nods, not needing to ask why. The notion of the screw and con as friends would have had the hysterical and embittered on both sides screaming ‘grass’ or ‘compromised’ within seconds.
John Dick elicits a promise from Frank Begbie that he’ll return to the city to talk to the prisoners when his exhibition hits Edinburgh. While agreeing, the con-turned-artist insists on no press; he won’t be a rehabilitation poster boy. Being feted by the ‘isn’t he marvellous?’ artsy ponces of the left, or sneered at by the bitter ‘he’ll never change’ cynics of the right, holds zero attraction for him. Those are the narratives of pygmies, and they will continue to steadfastly pursue them without his help. He has a life to get on with.
Franco recounts the genesis of his fame. — That actor wanker who came to our art project, the one you and Mel set up, tae get inspiration for this hard-man part he was up for. Said we would be big mates, he winced at his own naivety, — but he never returned my calls when I got out. I had made a bust of him. I mutilated it in rage. Then the others. I exhibited them like that as a joke. That’s when it took off. They wrote that review, mind, I keep it here, and Frank Begbie goes into his wallet and pulls out a folded newspaper article. Hands it to John Dick, who opens it up and reads:
The exhibition, featuring the efforts of three inmates from Edinburgh’s Saughton Prison, contains some forceful and realised works of art, devised under the tutelage and supervision of art therapist Melanie Francis. The California native has worked with violent prisoners in her own country, and believes that the mission of art in such environments ‘is, put simply, about the re-channelling of energy that, in turn, leads to the reassessing of personal behaviours and life objectives. There is so much raw talent here, which has never had the opportunity to shine.’
None more so than repeat offender Francis Begbie. His striking portraits and sculptures of Hollywood and British television stars, complete with vicious mutilations, taps into our subconscious desire as a public to build up and then destroy the celebrity. .
— Then his ex-wife, that actress he’d been cheating on, Franco laughs, — she pays way over the odds for the piece. It starts that Schadenfreude art movement, he says, a sour contempt creeping into his tone. — Bring me your celebs. I’ll hurt them, age them, degrade them, envision their first child being delivered by Fred and Rosemary West. Etch the pain on their pretty faces. Show everybody that they’re just like us.
— It doesn’t matter where it came from. John Dick hands him back the paper cutting. Franco recognises how John has risen in the prison service, hacking out a space from which to undertake his progressive experiments. His canny, couthie style is a front that conceals a devastatingly sharp mind. People will always underestimate him, then never be quite sure how it is that this self-effacing smiler invariably gets his way. — Art only has the value people are prepared to pay. You tapped into a mood. You have talent.
— My talent was for hurting people. That’s what I was venting, the desire to hurt another human being. Frank lifts the coffee to his lips. It is hot and stings him, so he blows on it. — Society is fucked, I just give messed-up people what they want. It doesn’t make me a talent, unless it’s for spotting the weakness and twisted desires in others.
— We all have these impulses, but only losers and psychos indulge them. John Dick smiles, thin-lipped. — Others sublimate it into art and business. And make loads of money. You just saw sense, learned a bit of self-control and moved into a more profitable club.
— Here’s to self-control and profitable clubs. Frank Begbie deftly raises his cup.
John Dick joins the sober toast, then checks his watch. — I should be getting back to work. Can I drop you off somewhere?