The Blade Artist Read Online Free PDF Page A

vowed that his mother’s funeral would be his last visit. He wasn’t close to his brother and sister, nor his sons, whom he imagined would just do what they would do. What he hadn’t really thought about any of them doing was dying. And his visceral reaction hadn’t surprised him, but what did shock him was how deep it went.
    As for friendships, those that existed between unreconstructed men of violence could thrive in camaraderie and even genuine affection for a while, as long as a pecking order was steadfastly adhered to. When it broke down, however, the results were devastating and few relationships could survive them, assuming both parties managed to. But in any case, his old friends lived lives that no longer had any appeal to him.
    He’d spoken to June, quickly sensing through her anti-depressant-fuddled and muffled weeping that her principal agenda was to get him to pay the funeral costs, which he readily volunteered to do. She’d told him the bones of the case; that after an anonymous tip-off, Sean had been found bleeding in a flat in Gorgie, having suffered multiple stab wounds. The police reckoned he’d been assaulted there, but nobody else was present and the neighbours heard nothing to indicate a struggle. The flat was rented by a landlord to a well-known drug dealer who was currently serving a prison sentence. There was no evidence of a drug transaction, andas far as everyone knew, the dwelling had been empty a long time prior to Sean moving in.
    As the flight dragged on it grew tiring, and the connection from London Heathrow was late. Now he emerges back into Edinburgh, cold and fatigued, wearing a light leather jacket, and wheeling out the mid-sized red case he’d stuffed mainly with T-shirts, socks and underpants. Winds from the North Sea blast him as he exits the airport terminal building. It had been a mistake not to bring more appropriate attire. He pulls out his iPhone, as a message from the phone company pops into his text box, outlining the extortionate rates he will pay while abroad. It is followed by a more welcome one from Melanie:
     
    Love u!!! XXX
     
    He texts back:
    Arrived in one peace! Love u!!! XX
     
    He looks in dismay, realising that he spelled piece wrong. Then, to his surprise, when he gets to the taxi rank, he finds he knows the cabbie, instantly recognisable by his distinctive corkscrew hair. And the driver knows him. — Awright, mate? It’s Franco, ay? Sick Boy’s auld mate!
    — Terry. Franco, as he will always be known in Edinburgh, pulls a tight smile back. Juice Terry is one of the city’s characters, and it is comforting to see an old face. Last he’d heard Terry was still making stag vids with his old friend Sick Boy, and driving a cab in his spare time.
    — Read aw aboot ye. Yir daein well, Terry grins, then his face creases. — Listen . . . ah heard aboot yir laddie. Really sorry, mate. Young boy n aw.
    — Thanks, but ah’d sortay lost touch wi him.
    Terry quickly mulls over the response, trying to work out whether it’s genuine, or stoic bravado. — Ower fir the funeral, aye?
    — Aye.
    Driving Franco to the requested address in Murrayfield, and a street that is a mishmash of low-rise dwellings, Terry leaves him a card. — If ye ever want a cab, gies a shout, he winks. — Ah dinnae huv the ‘For Hire’ sign on that much, if ye git ma drift.
    Franco takes the card and puts it in his inside pocket, exiting the cab, saying goodbye, and watches Terry speed off. Through a descending, eerie morning mist, he looks across at the imposing rugby stadium. Then, wheeling the red case behind him, he walks down the short driveway of the pebble-dashed house where his sister lives wth her husband and their two sons. He knocks on the door and Elspeth opens, hair piled high on her head and held there by an almost implausible range of pins and clips. She immediately embraces him, hugging him tightly, — Aw, Frank . . . I’m sorry . . . come in, ye must be exhausted . . .