Irvine Welsh - Filth

. . . you know I need a little time . . .

. . . a little time to think things ov-uh . . .

I head back to the office, or more specifically, to the cannie. Total’s there, and he looks in a good mood. He has the air of the washhoose bully who’s heard a satisfying piece of malicious gossip, but when he sees me he suddenly goes all serious, coming over and giving me a squeeze on the shoulder. I’m hoping that nobody noticed this gesture and I quickly glance around and to my dismay see Gillman’s face set in a pitiless mask of loathing.

– Bad luck on Saturday, Toal says in commiseration.

I didn’t know that Toal followed the fitba and I’m just about to criticise Stronach’s performance, when I realise that he’s talking about the guy I tried to save.

How does it make you feel?

– Thanks Bob, I nod. I think it might be a good time to arrange to see him, so I set up a wee meet in his office after lunch. His easy compliance sets up an expectation that I’ll get a result out of him regarding my holiday leave. Otherwise, going to the cannie was a mistake. The curry looked good, but turned out to be bland and tasteless. I ate it anyway, but then bought a sausage roll which I smothered in broon sauce and pepper.

Amanda Drummond and Karen Fulton spy me and come across with their salad on their trays. Fuckin salad at this time of year. I can see Fulton wanting to lose a few pounds, but Drummond for fuck sakes. That yin would have to move around in the shower tae get wet. Probably does a good gam though, that’s what they say aboot skinny birds. – It must’ve been terrible Bruce, Drummond shakes her head. She looks earnestly at me and asks, – Are you okay?

I nod, and split the sausage roll with a fork. Fulton gives a tentative, sympathetic smile.

– If you need to talk about it, Drummond lisps.

Aye, right. Tae you? That will be shining bright hen. Dinnae even insult me by pretending you gie a Luke and Matt.

– Not a very pleasant experience, it has to be said, I state in clinical tones, – but the show must go on. I have to see our good friend Mister Robert Toal. If you fine ladies will excuse me, I nod, rising and leaving.

I must try to save people more often. It seems to be not a bad device for attracting the fanny.

But it is time to go up to see Toal. He looks furtive as I enter his office unannounced and quickly does a bit of jiggery-pokery on his computer. The cunt’ll have his fuckin screenplay on there, and will have just switched it over on to some organisational chart or something. Chancing fucker. – Bruce, Bruce . . . how goes the case? he asks, regaining his composure.

– Bob, I think it’s basically cut and dried. Gorman and Setterington were in the area. I know that they were in that club that night. I’ve seen Gorman acting very friendly with Estelle Davidson. Gus is on surveillance. It’s really just a matter of hanging fire and hauling them in.

– Aye . . . the political nonsense has died a bit of a death now. The papers are bored and the top brass are a bit less jumpy. It’s as well we didnae panic. A wog’s a fuckin wog, eh, he snorts, shaking his head.

– Yeah, I say non-committally. This could be a test to draw me. I’m not getting into this with him. – Bob, I’ll come to the point mate. I need a break. I know you wanted leave suspended but I’m going to crack up if I don’t get away. The last thing I want to do is to go the way of Busby . . . and that thing at the weekend was the last straw, I almost plead. I hate that light blue paint on the walls in Toal’s room. Always makes the place look cold. There’s the smell as well, that terrible reek of stale tobacco which seems to have impregnated itself into Toal’s skin cells. I mean, I like a fag, but that cunt . . .

– Okay Bruce, okay. I can sanction special leave. I’m prepared to do that in your case only. Considering the unique circumstances, Toal looks searchingly at me, as if he expects some kind of reaction. Of course, he gets none. – Just make sure that everyone on the team is briefed to clean up this case in your absence, he continues, now quite snooty and authoritative as if I don’t know what’s changed the fucker’s mind. Eureka. That wee talk with Grand Master Frank Crozier has paid dividends. He must’ve put Toal in the picture. The bigger picture.

– Thanks Bob. Appreciated.

Toal kens the lie of the land alright. And Niddrie had better come through with that promotion. It’s my job. Yo ho ya cunt that ye are: a holiday followed by a promotion. Most importantly, that daft cow Carole should get her act together and get hooked up to the Starship Bruce Robertson, because that vessel is going places. And there might be very few berths available on that particular craft soon, especially seeing as the wey the fanny’s stacking up, I kid you not!

I bell Bladesey to tell him we’re on, then drive to the Lothian Road travel agent’s which specialise in late bookings to get sorted for the Dam, singing along to Curtis Stigers’ self-named debut album which yielded the classic singles ‘I Wonder Why’ and ‘You’re All That Matters To Me’. A tidy bird with a crop of long black ringlets for hair does the business for me, the only cloud on the horizon being that the direct flights are full and we’ll therefore need to change at Brussels. The lassie tells me that she’s never been to Amsterdam before.

– Maybe I’ll take you sometime, I smile, rubbing my five o’clock shadow.

She gives me a strained, cheerless grin back. By the time I’ve got it all booked and confirmed it’s been snowing again. My brogues scrunch the styrofoam beads of snow as I get back into the car and head for the East End. I park in Gayfield Square, near the local nick, then I buy a chicken supper from the Deep Sea which I ferociously gorge in the doorway of Bandparts. After that I hit Mathers for a pint. When I get into my third I decide that there is no way I’m going back to that shitehouse today.

I give Bladesey another bell at his office and confirm that I’ve booked up. I think about calling Bunty from somewhere but I don’t want the daft hoor giein Bladesey it tight because I want that wee cunt out on the pish the night to celebrate our trip to the Dam. He’s reluctant, but I tell him, if he gets his hole from somebody else (some chance) it’ll make him feel better about himself and he might be more attractive to Bunty. If this had any chance of happening and working, no way would I have told him. Actually. I’m starting tae sound like the cunt now. Actually.

So I meet Bladesey in the Guildford and we fling back a few pints followed by a trip to the Indian in Hangover Street. Bladesey has chicken korma, which is par for the course for a wee pansy like him, while I rip through that beef vindaloo like there’s nae tomorrow.

We head up to the Ritz Ballroom, tonight being the night for the divorced and separated, i.e.: slags that are desperate for it. And there they are on the flair strutting together round their handbags as Billy Joel’s ‘Uptown Girl’s belting out: all stretch marks and crow’s-feet and ragged necks and flab, but fuck it, mutton or lamb, it’s aw fuckin meat tae Bruce Robertson, rag week or no, the bloodier the better!

So we take some seats, Bladesey and I, next to these two boilers and they are up for it when we offer to buy them drinks. The dark short one has a nasty look, the look of a cow who’s bitter about men; a pseudo lesbian. Probably been with some fucking criminal type who knocked the dopey slut around and it was her own fault because she had neither the brains nor personality to find somebody better. Slags like that can’t accept home truths so they often turn dykey. This red-heided hoor though, she looks a game bitch.

– So what’s your name then?