Book Review | The Blade Artist by Irvine Welsh

I’d written Francis Begbie off at the end of Trainspotting - he seemed destined for a lifetime locked up in Saughton. Endy-fuckin-story. 

 

Franco had been an innovative, bottled-lightening character in Irvine Welsh’s breakout book because, particularly in the casually violent ’90s, everyone seemed to know a Begbie. Welsh masterfully distilled the essence of that nascent nutter lurking in every friendship group, forever poised to throw an evening’s revelry into the sort of mayhem that would quickly become urban myth, into one Scots bam with “blazing coals of enmity” set deep into his skull where his eyes should have been.
 

“They would whisperingly condemn his violence with those sour,
baleful expressions, until they wanted some cunt sorting out,
then he would suddenly become the big hero…
It had suited them all to keep him as he was.”

When the character was unleashed again in Porno, inevitably it was to seek retribution against his former friend Mark Renton, who had infamously ripped off both Begbie and Sick Boy at the end of Trainspotting. Yet despite the sequel’s obligatory “Get Renton” storyline, Welsh allowed the “poofs’ porn”-bombarded Franco to grow beyond the social archetype of the first book, with the hardman taking on a surprisingly thoughtful and tragic aspect as he realised that he’d allowed himself to become Sick Boy’s tool; nowt more than a weapon to be wielded. Porno still felt like the end of the line for the Beggar Boy though, with its shocking finale leaving a question mark over the character’s very survival – a question that The Blade Artist answers decisively. You see, Franco didn’t merely survive that speeding car – he thrived.

“I’ve got that nonsense under control now,

cause it doesn’t take me anywhere interesting. Just jail.”
 

In the years since Porno, the newly-blossomed “deep fuckin thinker” has learned to master the sickening rage that has always defined him. Rather than unleash it indiscriminately against saps and foes, he is now - quite literally - famous for channelling it into artistic endeavours. Shrewdly tapping into the millennial desire “to build up and then destroy the celebrity”, he spends his days creating superstar sculptures which he then disfigures gruesomely, selling each one for a small fortune. He has exchanged the boozers of Edinburgh for the beaches of Santa Barbara; submissive, downtrodden victims the likes of Kate and June for the strong, sexy and morally resolute Melanie; and distant, disowned sons for doted-on daughters. Even the name Francis Begbie is now seemingly just a dissociated name on a passport - “…it’s like he himself is an entirely different person…”; a person who goes by the name Jim Francis.

“Leave me to do what I do best…
Which, of course, is painting and sculpting.”
 

Needless to say, motivating stories of reform and redemption are not Irvine Welsh’s bread and butter, and it takes fewer than a brace of chapters – less time than it takes for the author to concede that Jim Francis is indeed Francis Begbie – for it to become quite plain that Franco’s inconceivable rehabilitation is anything more than a shared delusion that sustains an even more improbable marriage. Unspeakably violent impulses are as much a part of Jim Francis as they ever were Francis Begbie, but they are controlled and ultimately harnessed for profit. Cut off from drink and peers and all the other triggers that regularly conspired to turn him into an animal, the artist formerly known as Begbie is now living the American dream. “It’s called choice,” he explains. “Ah chose tae be a bam. Now ah’m choosin no tae be. Simple as that.” Not quite so catchy a mantra as, “Choose life”, it has to be said, but the sentiment is exactly the same. Unfortunately, Franco’s newfound Zen is put to the test when a couple of fresh-out-of-jail desperados menace Jim’s wife and daughters. When a call from back home informs him that one of his sons has been murdered.

“She tries to find him, this man she’s married, whom she’d taken with her back to the States. 

All she can see is a Scottish jailbird she’d met years ago called Francis Begbie.”

Returning to Edinburgh and realising that the polis couldn’t care less about who killed his son, Franco takes it upon himself to investigate - though I should stress that The Blade Artist is no great Agatha Christie mystery. Welsh’s drama is borne of having an ostensibly reformed psychopath interact with faces from his past – to a certain degree, the identity of his son’s killer is irrelevant. Everyone that Begbie encounters has a different take on his transformation and success, but two schools of thought persist: His sister Elspeth, for instance, believes that he’s got worse – he’s just got clever. Those like Fat Tyrone, those looking to wield the weapon of Begbie, seem to agree with her – for them, it all boils down to cash, and daft old Franco’s just seems to have belatedly realised where the big money is and how to seize it. Yet Jim’s wife and mentor are utterly convinced of his transformation – and, for the most part, so is Jim himself.

“Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is.”

 

What makes The Blade Artist so thoroughly absorbing is this question of motivation; of what is actually driving Jim Francis / Francis Begbie. Windows are opened into the past that inform the present, while the spectre of an inexorably violent future looms large over every single page. Dyslexia. Granddad Jock and Handsome Johnny. Cha Morrison and the “jointly manufactured” conflict. Seeker, “the Dancing Partner”. Learning to read. The art therapy. The art therapist.

The author has said that this book grew out of his idea to portray Begbie being the most “self-controlled” guy in a room, but reform doesn’t automatically follow self-control. Violence remains a “beautiful treat” to Franco, dangerous and indulgent. Here random, reckless acts of savagery flower into morally-driven, premeditated atrocities executed with care and precision. Art is a vent for Jim Francis, a vehicle, but far from the bottom line. And if that’s all there was to it, The Blade Artist would have been fascinating enough. What knocks it out of the park is its refusal to pigeon-hole its beguiling protagonist. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, The Blade Artist leaves the reader with a nagging sense that some part of Franco has indeed been “rendered soft by loving”; that, deep down, he’s a man genuinely trying to be a better human being, if not for his loved ones, then at least for his suddenly insightful and selfish self.

At times, Welsh does perhaps go a little too far with the Beggar Boy. His conquering of dyslexia and penchant for challenging audiobooks feels in keeping with such radical character development, but feasibility is stretched thin when Begbie’s thoughts turn to matters of philosophy and his musings suddenly sound more redolent of his thoughtful frenemy Mark Renton than they do the feared port hardman. Within the context of The Blade Artist, these insights don’t prove to be too jarring, and actually help to sell the genuine enlightenment behind the rehabilitation, but if read hot on the heels of the Trainspotting trilogy (or Mark Renton Series, as the less imaginative of retailers have retrospectively labelled it), it becomes incredibly difficult to reconcile Francis Begbie with Jim Francis. Perhaps, though, that’s the point.

Much like a Begbie assault, The Blade Artist is fast and intense; a raw and bloody welterweight of a novel that punches well above its weight class. Whilst far from being a fully-fledged Trainspotting novel the like of Porno or Skagboys, it’s hard to imagine a more exciting entry in the series – save, of course, for the mandatory follow-up, which this book’s excruciating cliffhanger has left me desperate for.

The Blade Artist is available to download from iTunes’ iBooks Store or Amazon’s Kindle Store for £9.49. Today’s cheapest retailer for the hardback is Amazon, who have it listed for £12.99.