Irvine Welsh - Filth

I look at my own naked body in front of the mirror. I think, yes Carole, you’ve still got it girl. I think I’m losing weight. I put on my bra, clipping it at the front, then sliding it round and putting my breasts into it. I take a silky cream blouse from the wardrobe and put it on and button it up. I love the feel of this particular blouse on my skin. There’s a navy blue skirt here which goes well with it. I put on the skirt and look at myself in the mirror. Yes, definitely losing that bit of weight I put on; the skirt is hanging well. My face has a wide forehead, but this effect I can neutralise by wearing my fringe long. I admire my full mouth and nice big lips. Bruce always admires my lips, and my small nose and large brown eyes.

I dig out some blue, velvet-effect shoes from the bottom of the wardrobe. I’m thinking about Bruce all the time, about how we play these break-up/make-up games with each other, how these wee absences we take from each other are just a tease, which only make our hearts grow fonder. I feel a need and an aching for him, I’ll have to get back to him soon. I wrap my arms around myself and imagine that we’re together. In a sense we are together because nothing, space, time, distance whatever, can break the delicious communion between us.

Equal Opportunities

It took me ages to get ready this morning because I couldnae think what to wear. It’s Carole’s fault; if she was going to shoot off, she could at least have arranged a fuckin laundry service before she went. I came close to just wrapping it and leaving it till the afternoon to go in. However, I discover a black pair of flannels which aren’t too bad once I’ve shaken out some of the dead skin cells.

I’m glad I made the effort though, because my wee girlfriends are in for questioning. I could fuckin well love this wee yin right doon tae her pores. Thir’s nothing better than a bird wi these wee lips that curl outwards, highlighted by plenty lip gloss. The classiest young fanny realise this: you can never overdo it on the lipstick and the mascara.

There’s a twitching in my flannel troosers and I take a deep breath in order to compose myself. Thank fuck I’m a professional and can rise above any other agenda. – So you didn’t see anyone behaving what might be termed suspiciously at the nightclub? I ask her. She’s a fuckin wee shag this lassie. Estelle, her name is.

– Nuht, she says distractedly. The wee cow’s mind’s on something else. Gus has her mate next door, I’d like to see how he gets on. I’m about to turn up the heat on this cocky wee slag when I remember that Amanda Drummond’s in the same room as us. She’s looking at me, and her nose is twitching. I ignore her. Then she says, – D.S. Robertson, can I have a word?

I leave the room, followed by Drummond. This fuckin case. We’re making no fucking headway. I’ve spent most of the morning interviewing some of the punters who were in the club, but very few people will admit to remember seeing Wurie leave. The doorman, that Mark Wilson fucker, I recognised that cunt straight away, and he must have minded of the boy but he’s no letting on. As wide as Leith Walk, that cunt. Those two lassies, Sylvia Freeman and Estelle Davidson, I got a vibe off, but that was probably just because they were shags rather than because of any information they had. I’ll haul them in again later on. That wee Estelle. Phoah. Mind you, that Sylvia n aw. They can come back. They will come back. When Drummond’s oot the fuckin road.

We’re out in the corridor and there’s a couple of painters splashing cheap institution emulsion on the walls. One of them, I note, is eyeing Drummond’s shapeless, bony arse. – We should finish up here now Bruce. There’s this afternoon’s course, she reminds me. I avert my gaze from the painter to her. One thing I do like about her though: those protruding front teeth which could provide serious fun if they got under your foreskin. No that Drummond would have ever learned how to make best use of them.

– I was trying to forget about that, I tell her. Drummond turns her head away and focuses at some crack on the tiled floor. She’s developing a certain expertise in editing out bad news from the airwaves. Well, there will be fuckin plenty tae edit, I kid you not.

This fuckin daft course. As if I give a Luke and Matt Goss. But I have to comply and we dismiss the slags and head down the cannie with Gus for a shorter than usual lunch. The blonde piece is at the table opposite with another couple of civvy shags. I think about going over to say hello, but I see Drummond flapping around like a pelican and Gus and I decide that we won’t get any peace until we go up to her fuckin course.

– Ah dinnae see the point ay they modules. Waste ay fuckin time if ye ask me. Somebody’s probably murdering some poor cunt doon in Pilton, and we’re poncing aroond here wi some silly wee lassies, I say, during the coffee and enrolment.

– Gie them a chance Robbo, we’ve no even started yet, Clelland says. Clelland says.

Clell’s a wind-up merchant of the first degree. He’s a leathery alcoholic guy with short grey hair and a red face. Jowls like piss-flaps. There’s the desperate incubating stink of stale aftershave off him. It covers a multitude of sins. I know.

– Listen Clell, think ay the years we’ve seen in service. Some silly wee tart goes tae college n gets a degree in fuckin sociology and then does some Daz Coupon Certificate in Personnel Management and joins the force on this graduate accelerated programme and she’s earning nearly as much fuckin dough as you or me who’re pittin ourselves oan the fuckin line tryin tae stoap schemies killin each other! She’s never seen past a fuckin desk withoot a real polisman chaperoning her everywhere! Then she writes this fuckin stupid policy document saying: ‘be kind to coons and poofs and silly wee lassies like me’ and everybody gets the fuckin hots. Then they get this posh wee chinky bird wi an American accent tae come in n tell us how tae dae our job and how tae relate tae the public, with, surprise surprise, another set ay forms tae fill in! Aye right! We do look sweet!

That reminds me. I’ve a OTA 1–7 tae fill in for my overtime.

– Aye, says Gus Bain, – Scotland’s a white man’s country. Always has been, always will be. That’s the way ah see it at any rate, and ah’m too long in tooth tae change now, he chuckles cheerfully. A good auld boy Gus.

– Precisely Gus. Ah mind when I took Carole and wee Stacey tae see that Braveheart . How many pakis or spades did ye see in the colours fightin for Scotland? Same wi Rob Roy , same wi The Bruce .

– Aye, says Andy Clelland, – but that’s a long time ago now.

– Precisely. We built this fuckin country. Thir wis nane ay them at Bannockburn or Culloden when the going was tough. It’s our blood, our soil, our history. Then they want tae waltz in here and reap all the benefits and tell us that we should be ashamed ay that! We were fuckin slaves before these cunts were ever rounded up and shipped tae America!

Inside the session, the wee chinky bird, this wee San Yung or whatever they call her, she’s standing up wi that business suit oan and she’s saying: – Right, I wanna do a free association brainstorming exercise. Just call out at random, any responses you can think of.

She turns and writes a heading on the flipchart: WHAT DOES ‘RACISM’ MEAN TO YOU?

Clell shouts out first: – Discrimination.

The wee chinky burd goes aw hot n focused and eagerly writes it down on the chart.

Gillman steams in, no like the cunt I’m sure: – Conflict, he snaps.

As she’s writin this doon, Clell says, – Might no be conflict. Might be harmony. Gillman ignores him.

Gus Bain says: – You’re thinkin of the hairspray.