Melanie knows the answer, and it isn’t an unambiguous one. In Scotland’s and California’s prisons she’s seen all those pathetic women who stood by their damaged men, and vowed she would never be one. But you had to put children first and, more dauntingly, you had to allow that when you committed to a person, you did it because, on some level, it was what you required. And rather than dig up the psychological roots of her own needs for self-examination, Melanie Francis accepted this. Facts are bigger in the dark. But there are still things she needs to know. And to say.
So she tells her own story. The tale of her betrayal of him with that call to the police, Harry Pallister’s disturbing intervention, and the dead man, Marcello Santiago. Only for a very brief moment does she detect a flash of anger in his eyes, when she mentions Harry’s troubled phone calls. Then it’s gone. — I was wrong, she concedes. — It wasn’t the best thing to do. I’m sorry.
— It’s okay. He squeezes her hand. — I know you did it with the best of motives. You were right, we should have gone tae the police straight away. Me and my jailbird nonsense, he attempts to admonish them both, — I feel bad that you had to face that Harry creep on your own.
Melanie is not looking for his absolution, though. She has bigger concerns. — Those men on the beach. Did you hurt them?
Breathe, breathe, breathe. . Franco regards his wife, his lip turned down. — As I told you, I did their van. I would have loved for them to have been in it, but they werenae. So I got out of there, as it would have been unwise to stick around, for all sorts ay reasons. I knew those guys wouldnae be far away, but I didn’t trust myself to go after them. If they didnae kill me, I would have smashed them to pieces. They would have been found mashed on that beach, and students would have been filming it on their phones and putting it on YouTube.
In massive relief, Melanie sucks in the dry, recycled cabin air. Frank had stayed out of bother because he had managed to control his darker impulses. Santiago had been found snagged on the oil platform; Coover was still missing: Melanie has no doubt about her husband’s capacity to be violent towards those men. However, disposing of their bodies in that manner was way too premeditated. It was simply beyond him. — I had to ask. Harry made all sorts of inferences.
Francis Begbie strokes her arm. — Polis are the same everywhere; it’s all about clearing the books, he smiles grimly. — I wouldn’t worry about him, with his mentality and skill set. He seems to have got obsessed with you and made a bit of a cunt of himself. Not that I can blame him. He raises an eyebrow.
His trivialising flattery doesn’t sit well with Melanie. She keeps a pointed gaze on him. Her husband is composed and seems genuine, but she can’t shake off the dark sense that he’s done something terrible.
He reads the dreadful concern in her eyes. — Look, I don’t want to hurt anybody, good or bad, Franco stresses. — I just want us to get on with our lives. I’ve the exhibition coming up –
— Fuck your exhibition, Melanie snaps, to the extent he almost flinches. — Bottom line: I need to know, first and foremost, that I and the kids and my friends and family are not only protected by you, but also safe from you. Because if you can’t look me in the eye and really guarantee that, then we are done.
Frank Begbie doesn’t think. He doesn’t even breathe. He lets his instincts operate, because part of him knows that if he can’t be honest here, for the sake of the ones he loves, then he will have to walk away. — Of course you are. I would die before I’d hurt any of you. I’d treat myself in exactly the same way as anybody else who tried to harm you.
He sees a tear rolling down Melanie’s cheek. But her breathing stays even, as he feels her great strength and is nourished by it, as he always was. In her absence, he’d let himself get weak again, get drawn into old feuds. But it had served a purpose. Then Melanie’s hand goes to his face. He feels a hot wetness on the side of it. It astonishes him. — So I’m not living with a monster, she smiles, a lift in her eyes, and kisses his wet cheek.
— Nope. Franco finds his breath catching. — A human being. Quite a fucked-up one, but one who’s trying to be better.
Melanie shakes her head and gazes deeply into his eyes. — Well, maybe you gotta try a whole lot harder.
Her tone makes him feel like a rescued pit bull, a much-loved but dangerous family pet. And, he realises, that’s exactly what he is, and he has to earn the right to be more. — For you and the girls I will. I’ll do whatever it takes.
— I must be as crazy as you, but I believe you, she says, and they share an embrace.
When they pull apart, he looks at Melanie gravely, punching anxiety back into her frame. — There’s something I need to tell you.
Melanie Francis can scarcely breathe. She feels her shoulders sag. He has done something terrible. I knew it.
— I know who killed Sean.
— David Power told me. It was that young guy, Anton.
— It wisnae him. Power tried to set me up against Anton.
— You have to go to the police this time!
— I can’t.
— You promised you would! Why the fuck can’t you –
He grabs both her hands in his. Lowers his voice. — It was Michael, he tells her. — My other boy. He killed his big brother, and she sits in silent horror, agog, as he tells her the story. — So I can’t go to the cops.
— No. Of course, she agrees, feeling exhaustion eroding her at the edges.
And then he explains to her why he believes Michael did this, and how he can never absolve himself, because of all his contributions to his son’s bad education. Melanie listens patiently, until he’s done. Then she curls into him and, emotionally drained, falls almost instantly into a deep, grateful slumber on his shoulder.
Frank wipes his face with his sleeve, opens his laptop, puts his headphones on and lets Mahler flood into his brain, relaxing him. He can feel his breathing regulating deliciously, slow and even.
One. . two. . three. . who. . are. . we. .
His thoughts drift off into the realm of half-dream, half-memory. A boy at the bottom of that old dock with broken Johnnie Tweed looking up at him, as young Francis James Begbie holds the boulder, ready to execute the deliverance. What was that one word Johnnie had mouthed again? It might have been ‘wait’, but he couldn’t be sure.
What he was certain of was that it was Johnnie’s last word.
We are the mental Y-L-T. .
A bump of turbulence. Melanie’s eyes flick open, and she squeezes his hand as the plane rattles a little, before finding smoother air.
Now Frank Begbie sits contentedly, anticipating the sun, as Chinese Democracy, which he can’t remember putting on, segues back into Mahler.
The stewardess approaches and offers them a selection of drinks. — Just water for me thanks, he says. Then he regards Melanie, coming out of her slumber, and kisses her on the cheek. — It’s so good to be with you. You know what I’m really looking forward to right now?
— What?
— You, me and the girls, trekking down the beach. We have to take them right down to Devereux Slough, for the marine wildlife an aw they species ay bird. Those terns are gaunny be nesting soon.
— I’m looking forward to salsa dancing again, Melanie smiles, her tone dropping enigmatically.
Franco’s face creases in a grin. Succumbing to a nag in his bladder, he rises and heads down to the front of the plane. Loitering in the galley, he nods at a middle-aged woman as she vacates the cramped capsule of the lavatory. She turns away, pretending the acknowledgement hadn’t happened. As Frank Begbie pishes precariously he considers the nature of the etiquette of a unisex toilet in the sky. Should he have ignored the woman, spared her obvious embarrassment? A life of jail taught you little about protocol outside it. He’d discuss this with Melanie.