Irvine Welsh - Filth

Karen Fulton takes it up the arse. Hmm. I’ve never fucked her up the arse. Fucked her up the cunt right enough, but that’s hardly an exclusive club. The last time I had her was after Princess Diana’s funeral. I got her three sheets and did the business with her. Fults has been know tae put it aboot awright, at Christmas and leaving perties and that, but the graffiti seems like wishful thinking to me, probably written by some inadequate like Toal.

I cross out KAREN FULTON and write BOBTOAL in its place. I stare at my handiwork for a bit and get a breathless fit of the giggles which immobilises me as the tears stream down my face.

I go outside and wash my hands but I can’t get my nails properly clean. I look at my jaw in the mirror and rub the bristle. I need a good shave

Simple pleasures. The fan heater under my desk is blowing out hot air against my leg as I recover from that Sherman Tank with a strong cup of coffee and a Kit Kat and a doughnut from Crawford’s. The phone interrupts me. It’s an outside line as well. It’s not her. Not Carole.

It’s her .

I told her never to phone here. Never. – I told you never to phone here, I say to her. – I’m in the middle of a serious investigation.

– I’m sorry . . . I had to talk to you. About what you said a couple of weeks ago, did you really mean it?

What is this fuckin spastic on about? – What? What was that?

– The other week Bruce . . . you told me you loved me? Remember? Her voice drops an octave. – Or was that just something you made up because you thought I wanted to hear it?

It was made up because I had a stiffer and a standing prick hath no conscience. And if that standing prick is attached to Bruce Robertson then it hath less than no conscience. You can’t afford a conscience in this life, that has become a luxury for the rich and a social ball and chain for the rest of us. Even if I wanted one, which I certainly do not, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea as how to go about getting one. Can you buy one from the record bar at Woolie’s?

This is a dodgy one though: this cow’s showing dangerous signs of intelligence. The thing is, I could handle another shot at that stupid, spasticated hoor. – I don’t think that was what I said. What I said, if you remember, was that I could fall in love with you easily. But I also said that if I gave you love, spiritual love, you would have to be strong enough to take it. Remember?

There’s a long silence, then she finally squawks, – I remember . . .

She remembers fuck all. Full of fuckin vallies or Prozac or whatever some Rossi-style anything-for-a-quiet-life quack has given her for her nerves. – I told you to go away and come back when you’re strong enough. Cause I’ll give you love awright. Ah’ll give you all the love in the world. More love than you can ever imagine . . .

What the fuck is her name again . . . Hurley’s missus . . . Brigitte . . . Sarah . . . Chrissie! – Chrissie . . . oh Chrissie . . . look . . . you have to be strong enough to take it . . . I let my voice quaver a bit, – . . . because if I give it and don’t get it back, it’s going to tear me apart . . .

Gus comes in and moves to the end of my desk, picking up my almost empty Hearts mug and pointing over to the kettle. I give him the thumbs-up. At least he’s picked up the right cup this time. There’s a funny gasping sound down the receiver which ignites into Chrissie’s bleat. – Bruce . . . I’m so sorry . . . I just need to know where I stand. It’s just with Bob and you . . . and I mean, what about Carole?

– This is not about Carole. Fortunately, she’s at her mother’s at the moment. This is about me, Bruce , and you, Chrissie . If there is a you and me. If there is a you and me, then we talk about Carole. Until there is a you and me, in a real sense, then Carole is my business and my business alone.

There’s a pause. That fluorescent strip light’s flickering again. No wonder I feel fuckin sick in here. Can those penny-pinching cunts no spend fuck all but sweeties on simple fucking maintenance? Gus comes over and dumps a full mug of coffee on my desk.

– Bruce . . . I need to see you. I’ve just felt so alone since I walked out on Bob. I’ve even been thinking of going back to him . . . you said that Carole’s away . . . can I come over and see you tonight? Please . . .

I reach into my drawer and pull out another Kit Kat from the cellophane pack of eight. The cunt who invented the Kit Kat ought to be fuckin well knighted. I get through loads of them. Fuck knows why I dinnae put on loads ay beef. Fast metabolism, I suppose. – Aye. Awright. But I’ll tell you one thing Chrissie. I am not, repeat not, in the mood for mind games. I’m not going to be exploited by you because I’ve made my feelings for you plain. I’ll keep a tight rein on these feelings until I get some spiritual commitment back.

The spiritual caird. It had tae be played. They always fall for that one, they just cannae help themselves. I hear her voice thin down to a gasp. – I need to see you, to talk face to face. I’ll be round tonight. When’s good for you?

– Make it eight, I tell her, before signing off and putting the blower down. – Getting rode, getting rode, getting rode, I sing softly to myself, to the tune of ‘Here We Go’. I wave semieuphorically over at Gillman and Inglis who’ve just come into the office. Gillman gives a curt nod, that cunt never displays emotion, but Inglis gives me a big, flouncy wave which sets off a feeling of nausea in my stomach.

Chrissie tonight. Oh well, at least I’ve sorted out a ride. Hardly a hassle-free one though. I’m hoping it’s going to be better than it was the last time. She was a funny cow, the camera seemed to excite her, but when I got out the vibrator she started greeting and going on about Bob and how her life was in a mess. You can never fathom some fenny.

I look at my Scottish Police Federation calendar. December the fifth. Not that long to Christmas, but fuck that crap, the winter’s brek in the Dam comes first. That fuckin dull calendar. I had a top one last year but then that memo came round from Personnel, doubtlessly initiated by arid-twatted dykes like Drummond, stating that ‘pin-ups’ were to be banned. Some fuckin twaddle about negative images of women. If a shaggable bird in the buff is a negative image, then what the fuck counts as a positive one? A fuckin boot like Drummond in a polis uniform? I think not. Same rules apply.

The nausea won’t go away and I have to get out of here early. Ray Lennox is out stalking the hippy community Sunrise fuckers at Penicuik so there’s nobody I can skive off with. I don’t trust Gillman, and Clell’s lost the plot with all this Traffic bollocks. I decide to head up town, and go for a little stroll. The town is mobbed out with Saturday shoppers looking for Christmas bargains. You can almost breathe in the raw greed which hangs in the air like vapour. As the late afternoon darkness falls, the lights look tacky and sinister.

The scene of the crime. Here I am, walking up the Playfair Steps. A young jakey, in filthy, threadbare clathes, holey trainers and sucking on an old purple tin, hopefully holds a styrofoam cup out at me. – Job Centre’s yon wey mate, I point towards the West End.

– Merry Christmas, he says.

– You n aw mate, I smile. – Could be a cauld yin but. I’d check in there for a few weeks if ah wis you, I point at smug grandeur of the Balmoral Hotel, – lit room service take the strain. You know it makes sense.

The jakey shoots me a look of anger which can’t conceal an underlay of sheer terror as he contemplates a cold season on the streets, and quite possibly the end of his miserable life. Still, if he gets enough of the old purple tin in him, he won’t feel the cold taking him slowly.