But that is impossible: David Power’s leg is uncomfortably raised at forty-five degrees. He has to keep his foot awkwardly bent to hold the stool in place. But he can feel it sliding away by the angle of his leg pushing on it, the pain and stiffness growing exponentially. He could never keep it there. Power wriggles and flexes his prone upper body against his restraints, glimpsing in horror his dribbling wrist and pinned hand, though they are partially obscured from his view by the chisel handle that juts out from his face. He emits a groan — a miserable, muffled sound somewhere between a plea and a curse — to the receding back of Frank Begbie, who is putting a CD of Chinese Democracy into Power’s expensive sound system. It blasts out at full rattle. — A wee pressie, he smiles. — Dinnae say ah’m no good tae ye!
Then Frank Begbie removes the ball gag, to the relief of David Power, but this is short-lived as he replaces it with a long, broad knife, plunging this into Davie Power’s mouth, hearing a tooth cracking. Power squeals: a sharp, concentrated whine, mostly seeming to Begbie to be coming through his nose.
— Workin wi clay, fuckin shite, Franco says. — This is gaunny hurt, but stey wi ays, buddy, he urges, ripping the knife upwards, tearing Power’s face like it’s paper, as his other hand pushes and twists at the embedded chisel. — Thaire’s the grand finale, he says, in the tone of a host about to offer his guest a quality dessert.
No more sound comes from the fat man, but Frank Begbie can see that his eyes are screwed tight shut. He looks at Power’s shoeless foot, and it’s still unwavering, remaining propped up on the stool. — Good on ye, Davie, Franco says in brisk sincerity. — Ah’m no sure it’s that much consolation tae ye, but you’ve went up in ma estimation, mate. And ah lied aboot no liking ye: never really hud that much against ye, ay-no, he concedes.
With that, Frank Begbie turns and exits, just as the exhausted, mutilated and deranged Davie Power feels the stool slide out from under his leg. And a few painful seconds of fearful anticipation elapse before the patron of the arts witnesses, through a curtain of his own blood, the candle drop and The Woods Above Garvoch Bay explode into flame as loud rock music fills the air.
Outside, Franco calmly watches through the bay window, breathing steadily, the flames licking around Tyrone’s paintings, the blaze gathering force, spreading through the lounge. He can see his former boss, and remembers that old office in George Street, and the safe that Power would fill with the collections from the fruit machines. The way his eyes swivelled in his head as he made the deposits, like a bloated squirrel furtively hoarding nuts for winter. Now he observes the sweating, grimacing, fat man straining against his bonds, the flames lapping up around him on the pyre of the mahogany table, the missing paintings stacked underneath. Then Power’s eyes flitter and spin into his head. His tongue spills out from his face, like a fatigued slug escaping from a cracked wall. When the fire finally obscures the wreckage of Power’s body from his sight, it’s time for Frank Begbie to slip off down the driveway and along the quiet, darkened, tree-lined street.
Marching in the shadows, his leg holding up, Begbie enjoys the scent of apple blossom in the air, strangely complementing the synthetic lime aroma of Tyrone’s detergent, which still emanates from his clothes.
It isn’t till he’s worked his way onto the main Dalkeith Road some ten minutes later that Franco can hear the fire engines blaring, in all probability bound for David ‘Tyrone’ Power’s red sandstone mansion.
He elects to walk to the hotel, where he finds Melanie waiting for him in reception. It’s dark inside, apart from a warm, pastel-green light coming from a lamp on a bureau. The chubby night receptionist emerges from the darkness to give him a lingering accusatory stare.
Terry, who has been loitering in the cab, drives them both to the airport. Franco asks him to make the journey via the town rather than the city bypass. Oblivious to the cabbie’s constant chat, but aware that the conversation is directed largely towards Melanie, Franco looks out at the city in the darkness and the uplit castle, realising, without sentiment, that this might be the last time he’ll ever see it. Of course, there was the likelihood of his exhibition coming here, but in spite of the promises he’d made to John Dick, he might have to throw a sicky for that.
They are both so tired from being up all night, but happy to beat the morning traffic. — Ye might be gittin a wee visit soon, Terry advances mischievously as he drops them off. — Goat offered a wee bit ay work oot in the San Fernando Valley, he chortles, shaking Franco’s hand and tipping Melanie the wink.
The airport is deserted at the early hour, bar a couple of package flights, with nothing open except one Costa Coffee chain. He’d read that they were one of the companies who had issued dire warnings of what would have happened had the most unbendingly pro-austerity party failed to win the election. He listens to the dull, slithering clatter of cups and saucers on veneered tables, his head throbbing with excitement and fatigue as if hung-over. A red-eye full of worn-out, desperate-looking business travellers takes them to London, with little more than an hour layover before they board the connecting flight to LAX.
37. THE FLIGHT
The incongruence of fine tailoring matched with ruddy dishevelment and a stumbling gait indicates an archetypal amateur airport drinker: the nervous flyer who can’t manage to get on a plane unless totally wrecked. He returns unsteadily to his seat, from the rear of the London to Los Angeles British Airways flight, clutching the small bottles of red wine he’s secured from a sympathetic stewardess who knows his type. As he frantically opens one on the way to his seat, the top slips through his fingers onto the floor. It rolls under a chair, so he presses on, burping, trying to keep down a sudden reflux, stumbling right into a passenger seated on the aisle: Frank Begbie. The claret from the bottle splashes over Begbie’s white T-shirt like an opened wound. — Oh my God, I’m so sorry. .
Franco looks at the mess, then to the drunk. — Sorry isnae gaunny git ma –
He feels Melanie’s grip on his wrist, and he draws in a breath as he smiles first at her then the terrified drunk. — No worries. Accidents will happen.
— I’m really sorry, the drunk repeats.
— No worries, bud, Franco insists, as another stewardess materialises, already assisting the man to his seat.
— Ah wisnae gaunny touch the guy, Frank says to Melanie.
She gives him a doubtful look. — So you were in control?
— Of course, he declares. Her eyes widen, to indicate that this response isn’t sufficient. — Look, as I’ve said, the most important thing is us and the kids. I’m never going to compromise that.
Melanie’s voice, when it comes, is hushed by incredulity. — I love you, Frank, I really do. But you live in a parallel moral universe to the rest of us. It’s one where everything you do is justified in some way or another.
— Yes, he nods, in that disarmingly heartfelt way of his, — and I want out of it. I’m working hard to get out. Every day. For us. If you still think there can be an us?