Irvine Welsh - Filth

fuckin throbbing. It was one fuckin mad session up the masonic last night, especially with Bladesey, the daft wee cunt. He’ll be as embarrassed as fuck this morning. My guts are greasy and the spice content of my burps and my heartburn is telling me that a strong curry got into the mix some way along the line.

I shuffle some papers on my desk, examining the witness statements again. They all saw fuck all of course. Sylvia Freeman and Estelle Davidson. The two rides we’ve interviewed in connection with the topped nigger. They were in the club that night awright. Must be game if they were there on a midweek evening. It’s fuckin annoying but I cannae think what they looked like in detail, other than that they were rides. That’s the problem, when you think of a bird you fancy, it’s the clathes that come first, usually a dress or a top or something like that, when what you want is erse, tits, eyes, mooth, hair, etcetera. I mean, you arenae gaunny go intae Chelsea Girl or Next or River Island and have a wank over a load ay tops or pairs ay troosers or skirts hingin oan a rack, are you? No unless you’re some sad cunt like my wee mate Bladesey. Anyway, I’ll pull in these wee slags for some of the special Bruce Robertson interrogation. If ayy nighteengaahhle could seeng like yooo

Bored shitless here.

I shuffle the papers for a bit longer but the images of Sylvia and Estelle don’t form in my head so I bell Bladesey at his work.

– Extension four-zero-one-seven, Cliff Blades speaking. How can I help you?

– You can stop talking in that poofy English accent for a start.

– Oh, hello Bruce. How are you?

– Right as rain Bladesey boy, I reply, as a wave of nausea crashes through my body and my hand starts to shake uncontrollably on the receiver. I want to go home. I want my bed. – It takes a wee bitty mair than a few wee nippy sweeties tae knock old Bruce Robertson out of his stride. I kid you not, my sweet, sweet friend.

– I must confess, I’m actually feeling rather rough. Came within an ace of phoning in sick. Actually I would have done as well if Bunty hadn’t been at home today. I think I’d rather be at work than face her in this condition.

– What about the night, you and me, straight back on the pish! No surrender to the IRA!

– Eh, I don’t know about that Robbo . . . I’ve actually go . . .

– C’mon Blades-ay-ay! The Blazer. The night.

– Well . . . you see, it’s Bunty. She’s a little . . .

– Tell ye what Bladesey, she’s walking aw ower ye. That’s why she’s treating yelike shite, cause she can. The Blazer then.

– Well, alright. But I can only come for a couple.

– That’s my boy! You’ve got bottle Brother Blades. Nine bells at the Blazer!

– Right . . .

– You were in some state last night, I tell him.

– Yes, I’m afraid I can’t really remember much about it . . .

– Very convenient Mister Blades, very convenient.

– Did I do anything . . . eh . . .

– Tell ye in Blazer Bladesey. Must nash.

– Yes . . .

– Tro Bladesey, I slam the phone down. Hurley’s right. The big problem with being polis is that you can’t help but see people as either potential criminals or potential victims. That way you feel either a loathing or a contempt for anyone who isn’t like you, i.e.: polis. All my mates are polis, all except Bladesey and Tom Stronach, the fitba guy next door, who I suppose is a mate of sorts. But it’s mainly Bladesey. And I have to work hard not to let my contempt for Bladesey show.

I look at page three. Cathleen Myers today. A ride and a half. Great tits and a fantastic erse, which the photographer spastic hasn’t given us a sight of with that shot. Still, she’s got those come-to-bed-Bruce-Robertson eyes on. I dial Bladesey’s home number. Thank fuck that 1471 call-back facility hasn’t been installed here yet. It’ll soon mean that you’ll have to be polis, just to be able to play simple games like this one.

– Hello, three-three-six-two-nine-four-six.

It’s Bunty’s voice. I’ve never met her. I let the silence hang a bit.

– Hello? Who’s there?

I try to picture Bunty. I think of Bladesey. He reminds me of Frank Sidebottom, the comedian with the big false head. A Manchester accent: you can do it by holding your nose. – Hello.

– Who’s this?

– I got your noom-bih from a friend.

– Who are you? What do you want?

– Let’s joost say, I’ve erd all about yaw, and them services that yaw provide.

– Listen, I think you’ve got the wrong number . . .

– This is three-three-six-two-nine-four-six?

– Yes . . .

– Then I aven’t got the wrong number then, ave I?

– Who gave you this number?

– Someone who spoke very highly of you. He told me all about you. Said you were a brilliant fook . . .

My cock stiffens at Cathleen’s face and Bunty’s silence as the line clicks dead.

The problem with my game is that we’re not great thinkers. We do. You have to keep doing, to find things to do.

We’re the law enforcers of this society. I think of what that means. It means we are paid to do a job we can’t fucking well do because of all these snidey little cunts: the politicians, lawyers, judges, journalists, social workers and their ilk. Take the City of Edinburgh. Arm me and I would delve into the little black address book I keep at hame in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet. I’d pay a few housecalls, leave a little lead and you just watch the crime figures drop over the following few months. The Robertson solution. Real Zero Tolerance.

It’s an internal call and it’s Toalie. – Come up here straight away Robbo, he says, not waiting for a reply before hanging up. Cunt. Does he think I’m just at his beck and call when I’ve got fuckin work tae dae? Real fuckin work, work of the kind that spazwit would never understand. He’s taken root in that fuckin chair. He probably wants another muthafuckin progress report. I hope we don’t go on for too long as I’ve arranged to do other things. You can kiss my bacon-flavoured po-leese ass, muthafuckah.

I head up the stairs, cruising past central admin to see if I can get a glimpse of the big cock-teasing blonde civvy piece, but no fuckin joy. Lennox was sniffing around it in the canteen earlier, the dirty cunt.

Toalie looks stressed as I sit down beside him. You can tell. He’s never very animated but Brother Toal’s give-away gesture is the bending of his lips over his teeth. You could put a headsquare on the cunt and he’d look like your auld mother.

– We need to get our heads together Robbo, he tells me with urgency charged through his squat frame. – The hammer’s been found. It was buried under a hedge at the top end of Princes Street Gardens. Forensic’s managed to trace micro-particles of blood and tissue in the grain of the metal which match the victim’s. Just found it there, under the bushes.

Bushes. Thick black bushes. Chewed lips from Amsterdam. If I had a hammer. Hammer house of horror.

– I don’t suppose there’s any prints? I ask mechanically.

– Naw . . . it’s been wiped clean, that’s if the killer wisnae using gloves in the first place. As you know, this man’s a diplomat’s son, he says, dropping his voice and raising his eyes, as if I’m supposed to go: Wow! Barry!

I couldn’t give an Aylesbury Duck.

– I see, I see. What kind of a hammer was it?

– Oh, it’s a steel-headed claw hammer with tempered shaft and rubber handle. Standard issue, you can get them at any B&Q or Texas hardware store. The serial number of the hammer was filed off. This boy meant business.

– Right, I’ll get some lucky bastard checking all the sales of hammers from hardware stores over the last few months.