Filth (4 page)

– Fuckin spastics.

– Me give up ma fuckin holiday for some stiffed nig-nog? Aye, right. I look fuckin sweet right enough. As if I give an Aylesbury. Every fucker kens that I have my three weeks’ summer in Thailand and my winter’s week in the Dam. Tradition. Custom and fuckin practice. Nae pen-pushing cunts are stopping that. No siree, I’ll be fuckin well shaggin for Scotland come the tenth of this month.

I go to put a tape of
Deep Purple in Rock
into the cassette player, but decide against it because this will precipitate an argument with Lennox over whether Coverdale is a better vocalist than Gillan, which as any spastic knows is a non-argument. I mean, who could compare Coverdale’s Purple or Whitesnake output to the original Deep Purple line-up Gillan graced alongside Blackmore, Lord, Glover and Paice? Only an idiot would try. Additionally, Gillan produced in
Glory Road
and
Future Shock
, two classic solo hit albums. What did Coverdale ever do as a solo artist? But I’m not getting into this with Lennox, so I put on Ozzy Osborne’s
Ultimate Sin
.

Lennox nods thoughtfully as the Oz struts his stuff. – Tell ye what though Robbo, you’ve got a very understanding wife. If Mhari had found out I was off to Amsterdam with a mate . . .

Ray’s bird. She left him anyway. Probably wasn’t giving her enough. Of course, Ray could never give any bird enough. The mouth department and the trouser department are well out of synchronisation in the not-so-superstore that is Ray Lennox, I kid you not.

– It’s a question of values Ray. Give and take. Keeps the spice in a relationship, I tell him.

Ray raises his eyebrows. – I’d watch Toal though Robbo. Just play it gently, he’ll let ye go. This case’ll be wrapped up in ten minutes anyway.

– Ye never know but, eh.

– C’mon Bruce, somebody daft enough to top a silvery in a staircase in the centre ay the toon shouldnae prove too hard tae catch. It’ll be some schemie young bloods pished up on the toon and tooled up . . . Toal’s probably seeing it as some big political thing cause the wog probably had a rich daddy who plays golf with some big noise doon in London. If it was an ordinary punter from Brixton they wouldn’t give a toss. You know how insecure that spastic is.

– Exactly Ray. That spastic’s jealous of my status in the craft . . . and he was trying to butter me up about all my homicide experience. Where did I get most of it though? Over in fuckin Australia, which counts for nothing with these spastics when it comes tae promoted posts. Doesnae count for nowt though, when they want somebody drafted on to one ay their fuckin teams.

– Out of order, Ray nods.

– Here, Ray, I shout, clocking a Crawford’s, – pull up at that baker’s a minute.

I get a couple of bacon rolls and Ray gets another sausage roll, which we scran back and wash doon with hot, slimy, milky coffee. It has the aftertaste of a jakey’s lips after a binge on the old purple tin! I take over at the wheel and we drive down by the Water of Leith and I chuck the auld cow’s paperweight into the river. I’m writhing in the seat as I drive. I have a rash developing on my testies and my arse. Caused by excess sweat and chaffing, the quack said. The cream he gave me seems to be making it worse, if anything. I suppose it’s something that’ll have to get worse before it gets better. Fuckin spastics. How do they expect me to do my job under these circumstances?

I cannae

It’s getting really fucking itchy and I shift my weight on to one buttock and claw at my arse through my shiny black flannels. She’s . . . I need a proper fucking laundry service, that’s what I need. It’s no good. I stick it out until we get to the High Street where I stop the car at Hunter Square and go into the public bogs. This needs a good claw. I whip everything down and remove the dampness from around my arse with toilet paper. Then I scratch like fuck but it stings as the grease from the bacon roll, I realise, is still under my nails. I claw and claw feeling a delicious liberation as the wound tears and pulsates. I see the blood on my fingers. I wedge some toilet paper between the cheeks of my arse in order to stop them from rubbing together and creating the friction which causes the tissue to itch. My balls are not too bad. I go back up without bothering to wash my hands.

– You down the lodge tonight Bruce? Ray asks, as I pull down the Royal Mile. We’ll cruise down to HQ via Leith: kills a wee bit time.

– Nah . . . maybe Thursday, for the pool round robin.

– Quiet night in with the missus?

– Yeah, I say, glowing with pride, – Carole’s making a special meal tonight.

– I wish I had somebody to make me a special meal, Ray says, as we motor down Easter Road past Tinelli’s Restaurant, an old haunt of Carole’s and mine.

– You’re no telling me that you’ve no got something oan the go?

– Nah, since ah split up wi Mhari ah’ve been daein a bit ay sniffin, but thir no bitin, Ray says, looking doleful, as well the cunt might.

– Mibbee gittin too desperate Ray, giein the birds that I-want-intae-yir-drawers-at-all-costs stink.

Lennox looks thoughtful, and lets his finger rub the side of his nose. Talking of stinks, there’s an almighty Judi Dench coming into the car and I’m about to pull up that scummy bastard for letting one go, when I realise that its source is the sewage filtration plant. – Aye, mibbee, he concedes.

– Huv tae fix ye up wi ma sister-in-law again, eh Ray! I laugh. Ray looks embarrassed. He hates tae be reminded of the time we both rode that cow. Every cunt has their Achilles’ heel, and I always make a point of remembering my associates’ ones. Something that crushes their self-image to a pulp. Yes, it’s all stored for future reference.

Wheels Of Steel

Back doon at HQ everyone in the canteen’s gaun fuckin spare about the holiday memo. I say nothing. Best to play it cool and let their anger ferment for a bit. Of course, they’re all looking to me, as Fed rep, for a bit of leadership but I’ve got to keep my nose clean as there’s the new D.I. post which is coming up soon in the departmental reorganisation. No way would I put my neck on the line for any spastic in this place, although I obviously keep them thinking otherwise.

Toal’s shiting it about this departmental reorganisation. I don’t know why, he should be well used to it by now. They have one here every six months, and every one they undertake fucks things up even worse than before. So they set up a working party and they go away for ages and when they come back they recommend yet another departmental reorganisation. The best thing aboot this yin is that it puts our good friend Mister Toal on shaky ground as when I get this promotion I’ll be on the same grade as him. It’s a promotion I should have had long ago but for their stupid fucking rules and Carole’s idiocy.

But he’s on a wee run right now, is Toalie. He’s got us all in for another fuckin briefing, and this new civvy blonde piece is handing oot the notes. I get a waft of her perfume. I give Clell the eye and he nods back in shared acknowledgement of the fact that the blonde piece looks some ride. Ah’d say mid-thirties, body still firm, but jist startin tae git that heavier wey that I like. Well worth one.

Toal’s slavering on about this journalist coon that got topped and his diplomat father, but I can’t hear a fuckin word of it cause the blonde piece is standing in a light which makes her top look almost see-through and these jugs are fuckin well prominent. Ya cunt ye. Gie ye a fuckin migraine, thon. Thankfully Toal’s briefing is short, so I get downstairs for a coffee and a sausage roll.

I force myself to look through the copies of the file that Toal’s opened up on the topped silvery. They now have a positive identification: a Mister Efan Wurie. His father is the ambassador for Ghana. He was staying at the Kilmuir Hotel on the South Side. He only checked in a couple of days ago.

A couple of days ago . . .

That means

Shouldnae fuckin well be here.

He should not

A journalist. A diplomat’s son and a journalist. That wisnae
Shouldnae have been here in the first place
What sort of a journalist was he?

Only on some commie nigger mag that no cunt reads. Fitba fuckin fanzine journalism.

There’s little of note in the file otherwise, so I place a call to the Lothian Forum on Coon Rights, or whatever they call them. Maybe he was up here to meet an Edinburgh darkie. It’s engaged. I’m absolutely Aylesbury’ed, so I decide to knock off early, taking the motor out to my pal Hector The Farmer’s, who’s got some good video tapes.

I’m tearing out of town in the Volvo, the Michael Schenker Band giving it big licks. I’m always indebted to them for saving a crap Reading Festival I once went to. Before we know it, there it stands in front of me: Hector’s House.

Hector crushes my hand in a masonic grip, his alcohol-flushed face beaming at me. –Got time to come for a dram, he asks.

– Sorry mate, I’m on a murder investigation. Some daft nigger’s only gone and got himself topped. Still, there’s big OT possibilities. Got the goods?

– Aye, Hector smiles and produces a Tesco’s bag with two VHS format video tapes in it.

We arrange to meet at the Lodge later that week and I speed off homewards, a strong jab in my shiny flannels every time I pass a piece of quality fanny.

That night I’m home, home alone, although that’s my business, not Ray Lennox’s or any cunt else’s. I’ve got a large slice of gala pie for my tea. I put it into the microwave and watch the movie I got from Hector. Two hoors are having a good licking and frigging session and the black studs are just about to come and join them . . . no . . . I switch it off. I don’t want any black studs. I put on another tape featuring two lesbians and a milkman.

I bite into the gala pie and my teeth ache and send a spasm through my body. The fuckin thing’s still frozen in the middle. I eat it anyway. The video is okay but I start to feel uneasy as a fluttering rises and intensifies in my chest. The room looks gaudy with too many rough edges. I go to the kitchen and pour out a large measure of reassuring whisky. I take the bottle with me into the front room. Another glass and the unease passes. I’m not thinking about work. I’m here, at home.

I stay up and sleep in the rocking chair after having had a few nippy sweeties. I’m half-dozing and half-awake, thinking of Carole. She’ll be back soon. She knows what side her bread’s buttered on.

After a while my guts really begin to ache badly and I’m sweating. I sit writhing in the chair as it rocks in a sickening rhythm but I can’t go to bed, not until it gets light. I think I’m going to throw up. I keep it down, trying to breathe in slowly. The thick, stagnant alcohol sweat. My fuckin guts. It’ll be from that gala pie. I’ve a good mind to report the deli spastics to the environmental health, no that those fuckers are any use.

After a bit it thankfully eases off as sleep takes me away.

with my guts rumbling away. It’s darkness and I’m in bed. I don’t remember going to bed. This is unusual for me. I sense the space beside me and I grab at her dressing gown and hold it tightly. It still has her smell. I’d let it go in the night and I had the bad dreams as a result. I’ve also been inadvertently clawing at my balls because they are nipping something terrible.

My head feels broken and weak, like it’s been smashed open and its contents spilt all over the pillow. Despite this, the tendons of my neck feel yanked to their tensile limit, seemingly unable to support its dead weight. The first sunlight is filtering insipidly through the blinds making the room look washed out and blurry.

With some effort, I get up and wash and go to have a close shave but I’ve ran out of blades and scratch the worn one over my face. I decide against the car and head for the bus stop with a strange mixture of liberation and despair, realising that it’s only ten-twenty a.m. and I’ve already decided I’m going to be out drinking tonight.

My stomach is still upset and the stink of bodies on the bus seems overpowering. Too many schemies. Can they not have a bus which runs from Colinton into the city centre without having to pass through Oxgangs? When I alight a jakey holds out a hopeful grubby hand. I shake it and tell the cunt that Jesus loves him. He looks bemused as I move away and I’m doon the road by the time the growls start. If it wasn’t coming up to the season of goodwill I’d’ve gone back and had the cunt pinched.

I go to the newsagent and buy a
Sun
. I also look at the pornographic magazines on the top shelf. I make no apologies for this; the job is one in which it’s dangerous to think too much, so the best thing is to channel your energy into something that’s the easiest to think about but which does you no harm. For most of us sex fits the bill nicely.

I leave without making another purchase however, and I’m upset at the cheerfulness of the shopkeeper. – The
Sun
, he shouts loudly, – very good, thirty pence.

This disgusts me as I’m not like the rest of the festering plebs who read the
Sun
. I’m more like somebody who writes the thing, edits it even. Know the difference, you pleb, always know the fuckin difference.

The last thing I need first thing in the morning is yet another briefing from Toal about this Wurie murder. As it happens, it’s the first thing I get along with Gus Bain, Peter Inglis and three constable spastics, namely: Roy, whom I know through the Lodge, Muir, whom I worked with on Drug Squad and who’s acceptably Jackie Trent, and Considine who seems okay. So it looks like Toal’s heading up this team himself to work on the topped coon case.