The Blade Artist Read Online Free PDF Page B

a bit?
    — Of course, Elspeth says, and she leads him through to the spare room.
    Franco strips to his underpants and gets beneath the duvet. Enjoying the luxury of stretching out flat after the cramped plane, he drifts off into an unsatisfactory sleep full of disjointed dreams. A few hours have elapsed when he is woken by noises coming from downstairs. Punching Terry’snumber into his iPhone, he then does some stretches, followed by a bit of shadow-boxing in the full-length mirror and 150 pushups, before taking a shower.
    The boys, George and Thomas, aged ten and nine, have returned from school. They regard him in blank fascination. After an exchange of pleasantries about flights and America, George ventures, — Mum said that you were in prison.
    — George! Elspeth hisses.
    — Naw, it’s okay, Franco smiles. — Yes, I was.
    — Wow . . . you must have done some bad things, right?
    — Some bad things, Franco concurs, — but mostly stupid things. That’s why people go to jail. But you lads seem far too smart for that caper. So how’s school?
    The boys are both keen to recount their days, and as he chats to them, Franco is confounded by how much he actually likes his nephews. Even Elspeth seems to lighten, and he shows her pictures of the girls on his iPhone. — They’re beautiful, she says, but almost in accusation, her tones hinting at the inevitability of him somehow destroying them.
    Greg, Elspeth’s husband, arrives home from work. He has put on a bit of weight and his hair has thinned. — Frank! Great see you. He extends a hand and shakes Franco’s firmly. — Obviously sorry about the circumstances, he glumly corrects himself.
    — Aye, you too, and thanks, Franco manages, thinking how Greg looks like the classic British middle manager; tired, harassed and beset with the crippling awareness that he’s gone as far as he’s likely to, and that the next big life changewill be long-off retirement or worse, not-so-long-off redundancy. — How’s work?
    — You do not want to know, Greg shakes his head.
    You do not want to know how much I do not want to know , Franco thinks.
    But Greg, like his sons, is friendly, and keen to make conversation. — Merger talk in the air. Never good, Frank. He stares out the window. Dropping his breath, he repeats, — Never good.
    After dinner (Franco is disconcerted to find himself calling it that too, instead of tea) the boys go to their rooms, and Greg gets more serious, nursing a whisky, as Elspeth loads up the dishwasher in the kitchen. — I really admire you, Frank, the way you’ve turned your life around through art. It must be so rewarding.
    — Money’s good but, ay.
    — I always fancied writing the great Scottish novel . . . Greg wistfully intones as he points to a bookcase. — I took a creative writing course once . . .
    Franco tracks Greg’s gaze, taking in the spines of the usual suspects, finding that he’s read most of them. — They ey said ah was good at art at school, but I could never see it. I once drew this picture wi a black sun. The teacher went radge; ‘A black sun, Francis Begbie?’ But I liked the idea of a black sun, like a black hole in space. Sucking everything intae darkness: where we came from, where we’re headed.
    Greg nods, but his grin crumbles as the desolate weight of Franco’s words hits home. He rallies, and venturesadmiringly, — To have that kind of creativity . . . I wish it was me! Meeting all those stars . . . Have you ever met Jennifer Aniston?
    — Best blow job ah ever had.
    Greg raises his brows, glances towards the kitchen, and lowers his voice. — Wow, you’re joking, right?
    — Aye. She wisnae that good.
    — Ha ha ha . . . Greg chortles, falling into silence as Elspeth reappears.
    Frank has been looking at the CDs displayed in a big cabinet. Underneath there are several board games stacked on a shelf that grab his attention. He rises to inspect them. — Monopoly . . . an Edinburgh yin! Never knew they did