Irvine Welsh - Filth

– That’s cool, Ray nods, – see you up in D.S.

I’ll have to pull up Lennox about all this ‘that’s cool’ and ‘this’s cool’ bullshit. We’re no running a fuckin youth club here.

I get into the interview room and Drummond’s got the two wee hoors in there together. This shows her total cluelessness as polis. You never put them together, you always split them up straight away. The first thing they teach ye. Not that I’m complaining, it’s wall-to-wall fanny in here and it’s fuckin marvellous. Those bennies are kicking in, so I’ll have to watch my gob. And my fuckin erse! Shite coming oot every orifice! Settle Bruce, settle. Estelle. Sylvia. It’s funny, but the last time I was talking to them, I was sure that Estelle was giving me a funny look. Now I’m positive.

– I’m sure I’ve seen you before, she says. She’s a fuckin hard wee cow and nae mistake. But that fringe hanging just above those club-mascara eyes and that scarlet red lipstick . . . ya cunt that ye fuckin well are . . .

I realise that I’m staring at her and that Drummond might be clocking my leer, but no, that dyke’s looking just as penetratingly at her, probably fancies her as well.

– Aye, I’m sure I’ve seen ye, she repeats.

– Well as you were in here the other day being questioned by me, that’s highly likely, I sniff.

– Naw, before but, she says.

– I’m sure I’d’ve remembered, a lovely young lady like yourself.

I hear Drummond’s front teeth smacking off her lips. Spotted! Imitation Toal gesture! Her fuckin mentor. No wonder she’s such a fuck-up! She puts some pictures in front of the lassies, two puss-bags known as Setterington and Gorman amongst them. – Did you see any of those men at the club?

They look fazed, especially Sylvia. I’d gie her one in a minute as well. Looks a natural blonde. Talk to Brucie baby.

– Naw, she says, too quickly. Even Drummond notices this.

– Do you know these men? she asks.

They’re too intelligent to lie. – Know of them, seen them aboot, Estelle replies.

– Who are they?

– Dunno, just guys that hing about the clubs n that, Estelle says. She’s much tougher, that one. A seasoned casual moll if ever there wis one. Those lipstick marks around that fag . . .

– So you don’t know their names? Drummond probes. Ah’ll fuckin probe awright: probe wi some prime Scottish beef.

– Nuht.

– Is there anything else you’d like to tell us about that night? Drummond’s asking.

Estelle looks at Sylvia, then at Drummond. I’m being ignored here, ignored by slags, and I do not like it one little bit. I drum at the desk, but I still might as well be invisible. Estelle starts mouthing: – There was a funny woman in the club. It’s probably nowt, but she just looked a bit weird. She was talking to the coloured boy for a bit, but he pulled away fae her, like they were having an argument. I mind because I saw her earlier in the toilets, she was putting on her make-up next to me.

– What was strange about her, Drummond’s asking. I don’t fuckin well like those fluorescent lights. All that seventies shite. Can we no get a fuckin decent office . . .

. . . the Met . . .

. . . Sydney polis . . . a decent office . . .

But that wis New South Wales.

– I dunno . . .

No you fuckin well don’t know, that’s the fuckin problem you daft wee schemie trollope, you know fuckin nothing, nothing at all . . .

– Was she young, old, big, small, dark, fair . . .

Ma heid’s fuckin well splitting and I’m gonnae start shaking here . . .

– She was a bit of a dog, Estelle says.

I’m wasting my fuckin time with those slags. They ken nowt. That silly wee Roger Moore Drummond should realise that. Same rules apply. Polis? Her? That will be the day. I rise and leave.

Drummond follows me out of the interview room. – Bruce, we need . . .

– Yes, I raise my voice to silence her, – we need to follow this up but I’ve something I need to follow up and I’m running late . . .

– Is there something I should know? Drummond’s irritated look is chilling me out. She’s as fucked off as I am. The only thing I can think of that she should know is the obvious one: she’s never fuckin polis.

Moving backwards I point at her and smile, – We do need to talk Mandy my darling. Later though. I’ll give you a thorough briefing. Ciao.

I leave the flustered dyke farting and shiting in the corridor and head up to Ray’s office in the D.S.

When I get up to D.S., Clell’s there with a bottle of champagne and he’s pouring it into paper cups. He hands me one.

– What’s the celebration?

– I got my best ever Christmas present Bruce, a transfer from Serious Crimes to Traffic.

Anticipating what I’m going to say he carries on, –Yes, I’ll be a pen-pusher in a dull, no-risk, no-fun job . . . and I can’t wait! I’ve had it Bruce. I’ll leave the Sweeney-type stuff to you cowboys! I’m hanging up my baton and cuffs and getting to know the simple beauty of this little felly here, he smiles, holding up a pen.

– If that’s what you want, nice one, I say, raising my cup and loathing the smugness of the spastic. I drain it, and turn to Lennox. – Ready Ray?

– Cool, Lennox says.

I get a raging anxiety attack. I’ve got to get out of this place now. I’m bounding downstairs and out towards the car park and Ray has to get a bend on to keep up.

I Get A Little Sentimental Over You

I’m happier by the time we’ve started up the motor. Just getting out of that shithoose restores your perspective. We take a slow drive down Leith Walk. I’ve got the radio on, as I’m reluctant to start an argument with Ray over rock. He’s a pedantic fucker when it comes to music and he kens nowt about it. Lyn Paul, formerly of the New Seekers is singing ‘I Get A Little Sentimental Over You’. Lyn’s solo career never really took off. I think about mentioning this to Ray but decide that it would be pointless. I mean, why bother? I’m feeling better though, more focused. My anxiety attack has abated, as it tends to do when the scent of the hunt takes over.

We pull up outside Ocky’s flat and I get out and ring the bell. No reply. I hope we’ve no missed him with Drummond and her dykey casual moll pals wasting our time. We go back into the car and wait for a bit. There’s a baker’s on the corner, so Ray nips over and comes back with some sausage rolls with vanilla slices for dessert, washed down by strong coffee in a styrofoam cup. It gets rid of the taste of Clell’s cheap champers which merged with the bi-carb of Lennox’s pills to form a corrosive, acrid bilge in my gut. I burp.

– Looks like we’ve got those jakeys in that new age crowd bang to rights Robbo. That fucking Sunrise Community, or whatever they call themselves, Ray’s telling me.

– Fuckin well time n aw Ray. These things are springing up everywhere. It’s a threat to the great British way of life and it has to be stopped before it gets a toehold. Cunts think they can live just by looking after each other and dancing to fuckin music. They just want to hypnotise the young cunts with these free parties and get them on drugs. They havenae even got a fuckin telly in that farmhoose. They can afford a huge fuckin sound system, but they cannae afford a telly!

– Scumbags, Lennox shakes his head.

– Mind you, I admit, – they made a good job of doing it up. It was derelict before they got it. I’ll need tae git the cunts roond tae dae up ma hoose!

– It’ll be fuckin well derelict again soon. One of the guys that lives there, that Colin Moss, white, male, six-one, thin, filthy brown-blonde dreads, bad skin, green combat jacket, ripped jeans and boots; he’s been seen coming in and out the flats in Leith. Where Allan and Richards live. We’ll do the cunts. Turn over the flat, then the farmhoose. If there isnae any collies there when we arrive, there will be when we turn the place over.