Filth (25 page)

I go into a bar and smoke hashish and drink some beer. It’s a dimly lit touristy place. After a few drinks and smokes I feel better. The side of my face is swollen.

– I got mugged by some fuckin scousers, I tell an Irish guy. – They took eight hundred guilders off me. Three of them.

He just nods in a neutral way. I didn’t expect anything more from a criminal. All the Irish are like that, except the Protestant Northern Irish, our brethren.

I buy a phonecard and call Bunty.

– Awright Boontay loove? Ow are yaw?

– Leave me alone! she shouts, slamming the phone down. I’ve got a stiffer, so it’s over to the red-light district.

I try to get it on with a black hoor, but my nuts are so sore after that kicking that I can’t get it up. The scouse cunts have spoiled my day’s hooring; a few hours OT wasted. I go and do some more hash, but I hate this stuff. It’s powders I need. I get in tow with these Dutch guys who are going to a party in a houseboat. When we get there the place is full of scum, just like these Sunrise fuckers at Penicuik, but the cocaine I get is the best I’ve ever had. I tell this to one of the cloggites with skin so clear, so like a doll’s you just want to taste it and she just says, – But of course. This is Amsterdam.

Anyway, I get fucking wrecked. I remember getting asked to leave. When I get home Bladesey’s still up. He’s been out and he’s bought a bottle of malt whisky by way of an apology for his shocking behaviour the previous night. We arse the lot and then clean out the mini-bar in his room. I stagger back through to mine and crash out into a pulverising sleep.

‘
. . . the essentially depraved nature of the creature that she married . . .’

I wake up in the night with a shuddering spasm; it’s as if I’m falling through my own body. I’m sweating and trembling. There’s no hoor by my side but my baws are red-raw. Objects start to come into focus through the dark. It’s the hotel room in Amsterdam. I think of Carole and a crushing pain almost rips me apart. It’s only a reaction to my loss. My mouth feels like it’s been blowtorched and had the skin from my scrotum grafted onto it, but when I go to the mini-bar and down a soda water it only succeeds in turning my guts over. I lurch back to bed as the light comes up. The light. I’m safe again. I get a good bit of kip in.

I wake about lunchtime. My calendar on my watch tells me that it’s the fifteenth of December. Christmas is coming. I get showered, the side of my face still swollen and tender, and I dress and head next door. Bladesey’s still asleep. The cunt sleeps deeply. He’s half-blind withoot his specs. There they are on the bedside table.

I pick them up.

Leaving the hotel I take a stroll over by the canal streets and I spot a likely corner café for a late breakfast. En route, I pull the specs out of my pocket. These lenses are so thick. I put them on and lean over the green balustrade and watch a distorted tug go down the canal. How could any cunt wear those?

Thick though they may be, in a contest with the grinding, seg-ridden heel of Bruce Robertson’s shoes, there was only going to be one winner. I twist, grinning at the satisfying crack they make on the cobblestones. Then, with a piece of footwork so deft that it would have Tom Stronach hitting the rewind button on the VCR in appreciation, I flick the broken specs into the Herengracht and watch as its still waters claim them.

When I get back to the hotel Bladesey’s in a hell of a state, sitting on his bed. – Bruce . . . is that you . . . I can’t find my glasses . . . I don’t know what I’ve done with them . . . I had them last night . . .

– You were three sheets last night, I tell him.

– Yes, but I had my glasses . . .

– Listen Bladesey, come to think of it I dinnae mind ay ye having glasses oan last night. . .

– Oh my God . . . I can’t see Bruce . . .

– Never mind Brother Blades. Bruce Robertson will be your eyes. Ah’ll pick the hoors for ye son, dinnae you worry. Premium minge.

– But . . .

– The only butts that come intae it are the ones we’ll be fuckin doon that red-light district. Now fling that coat oan and let’s paint the toon red. It’s oor last day!

I’m leading Bladesey over to the red-light district. The hurdy-gurdy wheezes out some atmospheric Dutch music. The guy that winds it up has his hat out for change but he’s wasting his time with me. Every red cent is designated hooring and drugs money. Even grub is a luxury at the moment. I turn away from the outstretched cap and scramble to avoid an approaching bike as we’re standing in the cycle lane, but Bladesey’s too slow. It rams him, though not at force. The Cloggie cunt starts shouting at him: – Klootzak! Asshole!

I keep a tighter grip on him. The wee cunt’s shaking through pish withdrawal and fear. After a bit I steer him into a fat hoor’s den and leave him.

– Bruce, I . . . I . . . he stammers.

– Look after my mate doll, I wink at her, – he’s lost his specs and his mince pies arenae too good.

– I look after him good, she says in a Caribbean accent.

– . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . Bladesey moans.

– I take special care of you big boy, the hoor says, leading him into her den.

I then set out on
my
day’s hooring, leaving the wee cunt to find his ain wey back. I go back to my wee student girl. I got so carried away, I just clean forgot about my mucker Brother Blades. An oversight on my part.

When I return back to Cok City a few hours later, Bladesey’s home and he’s pissed off. He looks terrible.

– I told you to stay there Bladesey, where did you get to? I was worried sick!

– I . . . eh, actually eh, took a taxi . . . you were gone so long . . . she wouldn’t let me stay until you came back . . . the girl in the room . . .

– Well, you missed a good time, I tell him.

I was sorely tempted to leave the half-blind cunt in the Dam, but I decide that he has his uses. In the airport lounge bar at Schipol I wait until Bladesey’s gone to the lavvy then I put a porn movie and some of the charlie I scored earlier into his bag.

It’s a no-lose situation for me as we go through the Customs back in Edinburgh. I either have the pleasure of seeing Bladesey’s coupon as he gets huckled, leaving me to explain to Bunty that I wasn’t into Amsterdam, I was convinced that we were going to Scarborough, but Cliff insisted; or, alternatively, he gets off scotfree and I’ve got the some quality sniff and wallpaper-paste mix. It’s the later scenario as Bladesey strolls through the Customs with ease.

I’m more relieved that they didn’t open my bag; the flannels, shirts, socks and keks were kicking up a real eye-watering furore in there. While I’m obviously happy to have some quality gear as I retrieve the goods while Brother Blades takes another piss at Edinburgh Airport, I’m a little disappointed that Bunty hasn’t had the opportunity of seeing the essentially depraved nature of the creature she married.

But there’s time enough for that.

Post-Holiday Blues

My first day back after a holiday and that cunt Toal calls me into his office. There’s something different about that spastic, and it takes me a second to realise what it is. Then I see it: he’s dispensed with the Brylcreem and blow-dried his hair, back-combing it. A new Toal! A media-friendly, softer, slicker, more youthful trendy image for the modern law enforcement officer in a democracy. He looks like a fucking simpering poof, self-conscious and effete. That barnet will take some getting used to. Oh no you don’t Sister Toal. Same fuckin rules!

– In your absence Amanda Drummond’s been taking the leading role in the investigation. I’ve decided, after a great deal of deliberation, that I want this state of affairs to continue.

I feel my holiday euphoria evaporate in the face of the heat from Toal’s bombshell. My response is unformed and undignified. – A silly wee . . . I stammer.

– I expect you to give her full co-operation. Bruce, since you’ve been away the media have got interested again. The Forum’s been making a lot of noises. It seems that you’ve been a bit lax on the community relations side. It’s exactly that area that Amanda’s strong in. It’s horses for courses Bruce, Toal nods semi-apologetically. – You’ll have to go with me on this just now, he snaps truculently, as I feel the words Listen Brother Toal dry in my throat.

I can only stand there like a fag-hag outside the bogs of some nancy-boy meatpacking disco just before last orders as Toal picks up the phone. – Amanda, Bruce’s back. Can you come up here and brief him on what’s been happening?

He puts the phone down.

– Look, eh, Gus Bain has filled me in . . . I start. I just want to go. I need to take stock before I can face that gloating dyke Drummond.

– Gus isn’t on the ball Bruce, he’s going nowhere, Toal says impatiently.

That makes me feel good as I had Gus marked down as almost a serious rival in the promo stakes. It’s out of order though, Toal badmouthing the auld cunt like that.

Good news for me but. I’m feeling a bit more up as Drumsticks comes in and gives me a look of distaste and it makes me feel even more comfortable that she evidently hates doing this as much as I do. – Hi Mandy, I smile.

– Did you have a good holiday Bruce? she asks with a forced civility for Toal’s sake.

– Not bad at all.

– Holland, wasn’t it?

– Yes. It’s a regular jaunt. A very civilised country.

– The landscape’s a bit flat though, isn’t it? Toal interjects.

– I like it, I shrug, – it provides an interesting contrast with Scotland’s more rugged terrain.

– What is there to do there? Drummond probes. She wants me to say ‘hoors and drugs’ in front of Toal.

– It’s a very relaxing place. You can sit in a café and just watch the world go by with a nice coffee, I shudder slightly as the hangover kicks in. Fuckin cunts are trying to wind me up. But what do they know? Nothing, zilch, sweet fuck all. Sum total: the big fuckin zero.

– I’ve heard that Amsterdam has a lot of drug problems, Toal says, looking at me challengingly.

– Yes, that’s the downside of the city. It’s far too liberal and as a result it does attract scum. Anyway, enough idle banter about holidays, what about the case? I say coldly and briskly, making Toal and Drummond look like the frivolous lightweights they are. Toal looks a bit narked that I’ve stolen a mark on him. He’d better get used to it because once I’m promoted, that’s the way it’ll be. Fucked if I’m taking any of his bullshit then.

Drummond starts rabbiting on a load of shite which, however you dress it up, amounts to fuck all has happened since I’ve been away, just as I guessed. How the fuck did they ever expect to make progress with a case like this in the absence of the main player? That’s the problem with this wee team of ours: too many Stronachs, no enough Dalglishs.

– . . . and Valerie Johnston, the girl on the cloakroom, has stated that Alex Setterington and David Gorman were definitely in the club that night.

Drummond’s wearing a white blouse and has a darker coloured bra on which is visible through it. I’d gie they tits a wee squeeze, only as a personal favour to her, mind you. That would gie her something to frig aboot! She catches where my eyes are and ostentatiously does up her jacket. Aye,
you wish
ya fuckin daft cow.

– So what we have to do is to pull in Setterington and Gorman for questioning, she continues.

– I don’t think that would be the way to play it Mandy, my sweet, I pleasantly interject, and she goes to pull me up but I talk over her, raising my voice, – Setterington and Gorman are hardened criminals. They’re veterans of questioning. They’ll give away Scottish Football Association, and they’ll have a smartarsed lawyer like Conrad Donaldson doon here straight away. I note Toal’s mouth puckering in resigned distaste at the acknowledgement of my point. – If they know we’re on to them, they’ll just close ranks. I know these bastards. I think we should keep them under observation, see what they’re getting up to. One of their mates is a grass and I can lean on him.

Drummond has lost the moment and Toal’s nodding vigorously. – I agree Bruce, he says, – these are crafty bastards. We need to have hard evidence before we make any move on them. This informer you know, do you reckon he’ll come up with something?

– A racing certainty, I smile.

– Good, says Toal. – Right Amanda, keep on with the surveillance. Bruce, could you hold on for a minute?

Drummond coughs a nervy: – Certainly Bob, and departs, kip as rid as my cherry eftir a night’s hooring, and Toal’s probably ready to tell me that the inspectorship is as good as mine.

– Do you have a problem with Amanda? he asks.

– Not at all, I tell him.

– She’s complained to me about your manner. Do you have to refer to her in that condescending way? Her name’s Amanda, it might be better if you called her that, rather than Mandy my sweet.

Fuckin stroppy dyke.

– C’mon gaffer, I smile, using the casual but respectful tone to soften Toal up, which it does, – she’s being far too uptight. I’m just being friendly and informal, that’s all.

– Bruce, you’re a good and experienced officer, but you’re going to have to relate better to all other officers, particularly if you become an inspector. These things are important in the modern police force, mark my words, Toal reprimands, sweeping a hand through his bouffant hair, but it’s a gentle reprimand and he can’t keep the underlay of complicity out of his voice.