Irvine Welsh - Filth

– Yir an awfay man Bruce, Gus coughs in laughter. A good old boy, even if a bit slow. I suddenly get an uneasy feeling. That was a mistake mentioning both Fulton and Toal to Gus. He’s probably seen the graffiti in the bogs as well. I’ll be fuckin prime suspect now. Luckily Gus’s mind isnae sharp enough, even in the narrow, proscribed, polis wey.

I’ll hand it tae that cunt Ghostie Gorman. The fuckin evil little albino twat has the good grace tae leave twenty minutes later, after we’ve had our scran, and without any flooirs. – Never reckoned that cunt tae be the romantic type, I smile at Gus.

– Bingo, Gus says softly, veteran polis instincts tuned tae alertness. Aye, the auld boy might be slow, but he can smell prey. You never lose that.

This is what makes the job worthwhile, the scent of spastic schemie blood, even better if it comes in the shape of quality fanny. It’s like two comes with one stroke.

I wait for Gorman to get out of sight and then I go in and have a look at the flowers, the prettiest one of all the one behind the counter. – Hello Estelle, I smile at her. There’s an auld wifie in the shop as well. She looks challengingly at Estelle who’s lost some of her hard cow composure, the juice draining from the hoor’s tank slightly. The auld wifie raises her eyebrows and goes into the backshop.

– How’s business?

– Sawright, she says, brushing her hair back in a nervous gesture.

– Funny, jist saw a guy come oot the shoap empty-handed. Did ye no huv nowt in his line?

– Nuht . . . she says doubtfully, avoiding my eyes and making out that she’s tidying up.

– Whae wis eh?

– Dinnae ken, eh wis jist eftir a bouquet . . . changed ehs mind bit . . .

At this point, right oan cue, the wifie comes out and says, – If you’re gaunny spend ay day talkin tae yir boyfriends, dae it ootside the shop n ah’ll take it oaf’yir pey!

Estelle gets a beamer at this one. – Listen, I think we should have a wee blether. Crawford’s? Either that or ah haul ye doon the station now. Whit’s it tae be?

– Awright, she says, coming out with me and making a big thing of shivering in her overalls.

We head for Crawford’s, and I wink at Gus who’s still in the car. We sit down with coffee. I have another vanilla slice. – Can I treat you to one of these? I ask.

– Nuht, she says dismissively.

She sits down and lights a fag. – I’ve done nowt wrong, she tells me.

Aye, right.

– Wasting police time, withholding information, possibly harbouring a suspect. You fuckin well listen, I point at her, – It’s tell aye what ye ken, or you’re gaunny be up in court. It’s up tae you. If ye dinnae want tae be making soft toys in Cornton Vale fir the next year ah’d find that tongue if ah wis you hen, and ah widnae be takin ma time aboot daein it.

She’s bending a bit here. I can tell. She lowers her heid.

– You gaunny co-operate?

– Look, ah ken that guy, fae the clubs n that. They call um Ghostie. Eh wis one ay the guys youse showed ays the photae ay that time. Eh jist comes in sometimes, tae talk aboot the clubs n music n that.

– Jist a wee two-person musical appreciation society. That’s nice.

She lifts her head up and focuses on me in a tough stare. – It’s no like that. Thir’s loads ay people ah ken and half-ken that come in tae blether aboot what they’ve been up tae, in the clubs n that.

– So how often does this boy come in and see ye?

– Maybe once a fortnight . . . depends.

She’s a fuckin hard nut awright. – And he was at Jammy Joe’s oan the night of Mr Wurie’s murder?

– Ah dinnae ken . . . look, ah’m oot nearly every night. Ah dinnae mind who’s oot everywhaire and who isnae.

– Busy social life. They must pey ye well in that flooir shoap.

– That’s ma business, she says. This cow has recovered her composure quickly. A real hard case, but what a fuckin little doll n aw. She’s looking at me intently. – Ah’m sure ah ken you fae somewhere . . . she says, almost accusingly.

– Ye soon will, ah’ll tell ye that for nothing. We’ll be watching you Estelle, you and your boyfriend.

– Ehs no ma boyfriend, she snaps.

– Hope no for your sake. Gaun, git back tae yir shop, ah nod to the door. She gets up and casts another glance at me before she leaves. This wide wee cow needs fuckin well sorted oot. Sorted oot good and proper. Nice erse on it, even through the overalls.

My genitals are hot and tingling, so I head to the café bog with my Sun and thrash off to Tara from Portsmouth, the image of Estelle’s receding arse complementing Tara’s smallish but solid tits. I spurt in double-quick time. I then give my sweaty hole a good rubbing with the bog paper and my arse a good clawing. I’m seeing Rossi in a bit, as no progress has been made with the fool’s creams.

I get back out and drop Gus off at the station. I drive out tae Rossi’s and I stick on a Michael Bolton compilation tape I made. ‘How Am I Supposed to Live Without You’ off of Soul Provider comes on, and I sing my heart out. Then Bolton’s version of ‘When A Man Loves A Woman’, which is ten times better than any nigger shite, comes blasting out and by the time I get to Rossi’s surgery and park the Volvo I’m in better spirits.

They think that they can drag Bruce Robertson down? All the schemies, coons and what have you? Get fuckin real you sad cunts!

– I’ve been applying that cream you gave me, Doctor Rossi, but it just makes me worse.

– Mmm, says Rossi, – If you just drop your trousers.

I comply, wondering whether this cunt’s an arse bandit. It seems that the bastard can never wait to get my fuckin keks off. Rossi, of course. Italian. Pape. These cunts are all shirt-lifters. That’s why the population of Ireland’s so fuckin low. Tattie famine my hole, it’s cause all these fenian cunts are erse-shag-gers. Same fuckin rules. Rossi, well, I ken it’s his job, but what a perfect cover for brown-bombers.

– Yes, yes, the infected area is more widespread. It’s now all over the thighs as well as the testicles. Yes. Are you avoiding foods with a high fat content?

– Aye . . . I tell him. The cunt expects me to fuckin starve.

– Well, I think we have to change creams, he says, writing out a new prescription. – I know it’s difficult, but try not to scratch the infected area. These look . . . well, they look like nail marks. I can’t stress enough the importance of washing and changing underwear on a regular basis. Cotton briefs preferably, or better still, boxer shorts for the circulation of air.

I need a fuckin washing done. That slag’s abandoned me; trying to fuckin well kill me! She kens I cannae work that fuckin machine. Huvnae hud a proper cooked meal in ages, a roast or something. When a man loves a woman right enough. I fuckin well followed her oot tae Australia. I fuckin well came back here for her. When a man loves a fuckin woman.

Trouble is, they dinnae love men!

– The thing is, ah’m eatin like a horse Doc, but I’m still losing weight . . . I’m worried I might have picked up something . . .

– You mean like an STD?

– Nah . . . well, aye . . .

– Have you been having different sexual relationships?

I smile at him. – You know how it is Doctor . . . normal heterosexual red-blooded male . . .

He looks at me strangely and I wonder if this cunt does know how it is.

– I want a urine sample, but . . . Rossi produces a plastic carton with a lid, – what I’d also like from you is a stool sample.

This cunt must be a fuckin perve of the highest order. I’ll have to give Inglis his number. – What for? I ask coldly.

– Concerning the issue of your weight, I think you may have worms. Tapeworms.