They reach the approach to the red sandstone mansion, the gravel popping under the wheels. When they step inside the house, Power announces, — I’m going to make a pot of camomile tea for Melanie and myself. Frank, don’t take this the wrong way, but not to make too fine a point of it, you are fucking minging, and he hands Begbie a silk robe. — I suggest you go to the basement and put your clothes through the laundry and dryer. There’s a shower down there.
Frank Begbie is extremely disinclined to let Melanie out of his sight. But she is urging him to go, and if Power had been intending to harm her, he reasons, he had ample opportunity to do so earlier. He nods and descends the stairs. In departure he can hear David ‘Tyrone’ Power pompously extol the virtues of Murdo Mathieson Tait.
The basement is a huge, rambling space. It’s largely open-plan, apart from the shower and laundry rooms, which lie off a connecting corridor linking a substantial gym to the rear of the house, with a large workshop to the front. Frank Begbie removes his clothes, bundling his jeans, T-shirt and socks into the washer, everything bar his underpants, pouring in the lime-scented detergent and setting the load. Then he heads to the shower, turns on the taps, and washes his son right out of his hair. He thinks of Michael as he scrubs with Power’s peach-scented exfoliating gel. Bearing witness to his son’s brutal, animal rage was like being shown a 3D movie of his younger self in action. History repeated itself. The ‘don’t do the things I did’ mantra was tiresome pish. The best way to make sure your children don’t grow up as cunts is not to be one yourself — or not to let them see you being one. This is easier as a sober artist in Santa Barbara than as an alcoholic jailbird in Leith.
Leaving the shower and drying himself off, Frank Begbie pulls on his underpants and gets into Tyrone’s silk robe. It hangs so farcically on him he laughs out loud. Then he turns to look around the rest of the vast basement.
The gym confirms that Tyrone obviously pumps iron in bouncer fashion, turning a massive calorie intake into not just fat but ludicrous amounts of chest, shoulder and arm muscle. The Falstaffian figure was a renowned street fighter back in his day, and still reputedly enjoys the occasional busting of chops, but generally leaves the real dirty work to hired hands.
It’s the workshop, though, that gives away the darker side of Power’s character. Most of it is taken up by two benches, full of all sorts of machine and hand tools. Franco has never taken David ‘Tyrone’ Power for a DIY enthusiast. The pliers, screwdrivers, but most of all the copious knives — including a throwing set in a box — make Franco decide to get Melanie away as soon as possible.
Frank is relieved to return to her, despite the forty minutes left on the wash cycle. He climbs the stairs, feeling preposterously self-conscious in the outsize silk kimono, wondering if this has been Tyrone’s idea all along: to render him vulnerable. Approaching Melanie and David Power, he listens to their chatter about dead painters. Then he gratefully embraces her, this time without any toxic stench, drinking in Melanie’s familiar scent, yet aware of Power’s sly, rapacious eyes on them. Pulling apart, he looks her in the eye. — Listen, I’ve a couple of things to straighten out with Davie, he urges, — you should go to the hotel and pack. I’ll meet you there as soon as my clothes are dry.
— No way. I’m not leaving you again!
— Ah really owe my old mate an apology, Frank implores, glimpsing Tyrone puffing up in entitlement. — Go and pack. Phone your mum. Find out how Grace and Eve are doing.
Melanie softens at that. Checks her phone for the time. — Will you be okay?
— Well, Frank Begbie laughs, — if I’m not at the hotel within ninety minutes, this time you do have my express permission to phone the police.
David ‘Tyrone’ Power looks hurt, responding with a sour pout.
It doesn’t go past Begbie. — Look, he appeals to Melanie, — I want to catch up a bit with my old mate and, as I’ve said, there are apologies due on my part. I was a wee bit rude the last time I enjoyed his hospitality, he concedes, turning to Tyrone. — What’s that auld phrase, Davie? You’d best enjoy my hospitality, because you won’t enjoy my hospitalisation.
As Power grins, Melanie looks at them in contempt. Jim seldom talks like this, but whenever he does, coldness locks around her. She shimmies a few inches from him. From Frank, as he’s called here. — You know, I think I will go, and leave you two with your fucking gangster bullshit.
— Sorry, babe. Franco’s brows raise and his mouth tightens in exasperation. — Can I borrow your phone?
Melanie unceremoniously slaps it into his hand, and settles back on the couch, regarding the paintings on the walls. Franco calls Terry, requesting his services. As Tyrone starts talking about one of Murdo Mathieson Tait’s compositions, Frank Begbie sits in silence until a call comes back fifteen minutes later. It’s followed by a cab pulling up outside. Melanie rises to leave.
— I’ll be with you soon, Franco urges.
— Right, she says, heading outside. Franco watches her departure from the window, sees her step into Terry’s cab.
— She’s no happy, Tyrone observes.
— She’ll come round. Franco turns to him. — I’m more worried aboot the driver she’s got intae the cab wi!
— Aye?
— Mind ay Juice Terry?
— Business Birrell’s mate? The fanny merchant?
— Aye.
Tyrone smiles briefly, then Franco registers his expression hardening. — We need tae have a fuckin chat. A chat we should have had a few days ago, he barks, pointing at the empty space on the couch opposite him.
Frank Begbie raises his arms in a surrender gesture and sits down. — Ah wis out ay order on the last visit, he says, shaking his head sadly. — Aw that stuff wi Sean. . it hit me harder than I thought. . and that thing wi Nelly. How is he?
— Still in the Infirmary, Tyrone says. — You hit his liver. It was touch-and-go for a while, but he’ll live.
Franco lets the concern drain out of his tightening limbs. — So ah decided tae make ma peace by taking care ay your wee problem, he remarks, watching Tyrone’s face open up like sunrise on a cold morning.
Then Power’s heavy brow furrows, briefly reminding Franco of Chang, the Chinese Shar-Pei dog that belongs to his neighbours in Santa Barbara. — What are ye saying, Frank?
— Anton is no more, Francis Begbie reveals with an understated flourish, enjoying Power’s intense absorption of this information. — Aye, poor Larry was collateral damage, but, well. . he grins and shrugs minimally.
— You’ve done him? Miller? He’s gone? You’re joking!
— Your boys should take a discreet wee drive doon the docks. The old dry dock by the abandoned factory units. Anton’s in there, and Larry’s in the brick howf by the side ay it. His van should still be parked there too.
— How did ye. . what happened?
— Let’s just say they played wi fire and got burnt.
Tyrone starts up a flurry of eager texting as Franco delineates the story, omitting only the details about Michael. His son and former employer are quite able to enter each other’s orbits without his assistance. As he listens, Tyrone can’t fight the euphoric smile ripping open his face. — Well done, Franco my son! I knew ye’d come roond!
— When I thought it through, I realised it could only have been him, Franco lies easily. — Listen, I was a bit rude with that last drink you offered, he concedes, — but maybe I should have one now, with the missus being away. Californians. He rolls his eyes. — It is a wee bit ay a celebration, after all, and he stands up and moves over to the marble cocktail bar. — Do ye mind?