The Blade Artist by Irvine Welsh

his life like he did to this prison officer.
    John immediately expresses his regret that he won’t be attending Sean’s funeral. Franco nods, not needing to ask why. The notion of the screw and con as friends would have had the hysterical and embittered on both sides screaming ‘grass’ or ‘compromised’ within seconds.
    John Dick elicits a promise from Frank Begbie that he’ll return to the city to talk to the prisoners when his exhibition hits Edinburgh. While agreeing, the con-turned-artist insists on no press; he won’t be a rehabilitation poster boy. Being feted by the ‘isn’t he marvellous?’ artsy ponces of the left, or sneered at by the bitter ‘he’ll never change’ cynics of the right, holds zero attraction for him. Those are the narratives of pygmies, and they will continue to steadfastly pursue them without his help. He has a life to get on with.
    Franco recounts the genesis of his fame. — That actor wanker who came to our art project, the one you and Mel set up, tae get inspiration for this hard-man part he was up for. Said we would be big mates, he winced at his own naivety, —but he never returned my calls when I got out. I had made a bust of him. I mutilated it in rage. Then the others. I exhibited them like that as a joke. That’s when it took off. They wrote that review, mind, I keep it here, and Frank Begbie goes into his wallet and pulls out a folded newspaper article. Hands it to John Dick, who opens it up and reads:
     
    The exhibition, featuring the efforts of three inmates from Edinburgh’s Saughton Prison, contains some forceful and realised works of art, devised under the tutelage and supervision of art therapist Melanie Francis. The California native has worked with violent prisoners in her own country, and believes that the mission of art in such environments ‘is, put simply, about the re-channelling of energy that, in turn, leads to the reassessing of personal behaviours and life objectives. There is so much raw talent here, which has never had the opportunity to shine.’
     
    None more so than repeat offender Francis Begbie. His striking portraits and sculptures of Hollywood and British television stars, complete with vicious mutilations, taps into our subconscious desire as a public to build up and then destroy the celebrity . . . .
     
    — Then his ex-wife, that actress he’d been cheating on, Franco laughs, — she pays way over the odds for the piece. It starts that Schadenfreude art movement, he says, a sour contempt creeping into his tone. — Bring me your celebs. I’ll hurt them, age them, degrade them, envision their first child being delivered by Fred and Rosemary West. Etch the pain on their pretty faces. Show everybody that they’re just like us.
    — It doesn’t matter where it came from. John Dick hands him back the paper cutting. Franco recognises how John has risen in the prison service, hacking out a space from which to undertake his progressive experiments. His canny, couthie style is a front that conceals a devastatingly sharp mind. People will always underestimate him, then never be quite sure how it is that this self-effacing smiler invariably gets his way. — Art only has the value people are prepared to pay. You tapped into a mood. You have talent.
    — My talent was for hurting people. That’s what I was venting, the desire to hurt another human being. Frank lifts the coffee to his lips. It is hot and stings him, so he blows on it. — Society is fucked, I just give messed-up people what they want. It doesn’t make me a talent, unless it’s for spotting the weakness and twisted desires in others.
    — We all have these impulses, but only losers and psychos indulge them. John Dick smiles, thin-lipped. — Others sublimate it into art and business. And make loads of money. You just saw sense, learned a bit of self-control and moved into a more profitable club.
    — Here’s to self-control and profitable clubs. Frank Begbie deftly raises his