The Blade Artist by Irvine Welsh Page A

cup.
    John Dick joins the sober toast, then checks his watch. — I should be getting back to work. Can I drop you off somewhere?
    — No, I’m going to take a wee walk down by the docks. All that new stuff down there; Ocean Terminal, the casino . . .
    — Aye, John Dick nods, — it’s certainly all change in that neck of the woods.

15
     
THE DELIVERY BOY 3
     
    The fresh fruit and veg were never that fresh, as the orders were usually made up a day in advance. I grabbed a box that said: Forth Ports Authority, Leith Docks, Jock Begbie. The ticket on it looked like 3 November, but for some reason it was a smudged mess, and I wasn’t big on reading anyway. It was actually for 4 November, but I mistakenly loaded it onto the delivery bike.
    When I got down to the docks, it was 4.20 p.m. on the cheapo digital watch I’d bought from the garage, but dark, drizzly and shite, the way Scotland often is at that time of the year. The orange sodium lamps were already on and splashing their reflections across the wet pavements and streets. The first weird thing was that the security bam, John, wasn’t on the gate. I cycled right through, over that jarring strip of cobblestone, then across the iron rails of the cattle grid. I pedalled in the near-dark, heading for that imposing brick bothy. The old dry dock was barely lit by the overhead lamps. As I drew closer I heard voices; urgent, threatening sounds, carrying in the still night. I stopped and carefully climbed off the bike, and pushed it slowly and silently forward, resting it against the back of the bothy. At first it seemed as if the voices were comingfrom inside, but then I worked out that their source was the front of the howf.
    I crept round the building and I could see them, standing over by the edge of the wharf. Handsome Johnnie was a bit away from Grandad Jock and the other two, Carmie and Lozy. An overhead lamplight was bathing them in a meagre glow, their breath dragon-like in the cold air as their shadows spilled over the cobblestones. I could tell Johnnie was scared. His palms were extended in appeal. — C’mon, boys . . . Jock . . . it’s me . . .
    — If ye jump, and go feet first, you’ll brek yir legs, my grandad said, looking down into the dock. — But you’ve got a chance ay surviving. Well worth a punt!
    Carmie had a length of rope in his hands, and moved towards Johnnie. — That wey or oor wey, Johnnie boy!
    I crouched down against the side of the bothy. I was shiteing myself. I mind that the left side of my face went into a twitching spasm.
    — Wir giein ye that chance, Grandad Jock sneered, his head cocked to one side. — Wi owe ye that, and he turned to Carmie and Lozy. — Ah’d be right in sayin that we owe Johnnie that, ay, boys?
    —Ah reckon so, Jock, Lozy said.
    — Carmie’s no sae sure, but, ay-no, Carmie? my grandad smiled.
    Carmie’s big heid looked distorted under the bleary light. — Ah’d say that a pilferin, double-crossin grass is entitled tae nowt. A grass whae betrays his ain mates.
    — Auld lang syne, but, Carmie, auld lang syne, Jock said sagely. — So what’s it tae be, Johnnie?
    — But ah cannae . . . boys . . . it’s me . . . Johnnie pleaded.
    — Aw, we ken it’s you awright! We ken that! Carmie chuckled darkly, like Johnnie was a kid who had been rumbled stealing sweeties from the local confectioner’s.
    — If we tie ye n then fling ye in yir done, Johnnie. Or hing ye ower thaire fae yon crane like Carmie wants. See sense, Grandad Jock implored. — What’s it tae be? Thoat ye were a gambling man. Thoat that wis how this mess aw sterted. The gambler’s instinct deserted ye? Shame . . .
    Johnnie stepped slowly to the edge and looked down. I took a hunkered step back further into the shadows, and felt my heart thrashing in my chest. I still half believed, wanted to believe, that he would be okay, that they were just ‘putting the frighteners’ on him (a favourite phrase of Jock’s) and that they’d all soon