Irvine Welsh - Filth

I keep a tighter grip on him. The wee cunt’s shaking through pish withdrawal and fear. After a bit I steer him into a fat hoor’s den and leave him.

– Bruce, I . . . I . . . he stammers.

– Look after my mate doll, I wink at her, – he’s lost his specs and his mince pies arenae too good.

– I look after him good, she says in a Caribbean accent.

– . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . Bladesey moans.

– I take special care of you big boy, the hoor says, leading him into her den.

I then set out on my day’s hooring, leaving the wee cunt to find his ain wey back. I go back to my wee student girl. I got so carried away, I just clean forgot about my mucker Brother Blades. An oversight on my part.

When I return back to Cok City a few hours later, Bladesey’s home and he’s pissed off. He looks terrible.

– I told you to stay there Bladesey, where did you get to? I was worried sick!

– I . . . eh, actually eh, took a taxi . . . you were gone so long . . . she wouldn’t let me stay until you came back . . . the girl in the room . . .

– Well, you missed a good time, I tell him.

I was sorely tempted to leave the half-blind cunt in the Dam, but I decide that he has his uses. In the airport lounge bar at Schipol I wait until Bladesey’s gone to the lavvy then I put a porn movie and some of the charlie I scored earlier into his bag.

It’s a no-lose situation for me as we go through the Customs back in Edinburgh. I either have the pleasure of seeing Bladesey’s coupon as he gets huckled, leaving me to explain to Bunty that I wasn’t into Amsterdam, I was convinced that we were going to Scarborough, but Cliff insisted; or, alternatively, he gets off scotfree and I’ve got the some quality sniff and wallpaper-paste mix. It’s the later scenario as Bladesey strolls through the Customs with ease.

I’m more relieved that they didn’t open my bag; the flannels, shirts, socks and keks were kicking up a real eye-watering furore in there. While I’m obviously happy to have some quality gear as I retrieve the goods while Brother Blades takes another piss at Edinburgh Airport, I’m a little disappointed that Bunty hasn’t had the opportunity of seeing the essentially depraved nature of the creature she married.

But there’s time enough for that.

Post-Holiday Blues

My first day back after a holiday and that cunt Toal calls me into his office. There’s something different about that spastic, and it takes me a second to realise what it is. Then I see it: he’s dispensed with the Brylcreem and blow-dried his hair, back-combing it. A new Toal! A media-friendly, softer, slicker, more youthful trendy image for the modern law enforcement officer in a democracy. He looks like a fucking simpering poof, self-conscious and effete. That barnet will take some getting used to. Oh no you don’t Sister Toal. Same fuckin rules!

– In your absence Amanda Drummond’s been taking the leading role in the investigation. I’ve decided, after a great deal of deliberation, that I want this state of affairs to continue.

I feel my holiday euphoria evaporate in the face of the heat from Toal’s bombshell. My response is unformed and undignified. – A silly wee . . . I stammer.

– I expect you to give her full co-operation. Bruce, since you’ve been away the media have got interested again. The Forum’s been making a lot of noises. It seems that you’ve been a bit lax on the community relations side. It’s exactly that area that Amanda’s strong in. It’s horses for courses Bruce, Toal nods semi-apologetically. – You’ll have to go with me on this just now, he snaps truculently, as I feel the words Listen Brother Toal dry in my throat.

I can only stand there like a fag-hag outside the bogs of some nancy-boy meatpacking disco just before last orders as Toal picks up the phone. – Amanda, Bruce’s back. Can you come up here and brief him on what’s been happening?

He puts the phone down.

– Look, eh, Gus Bain has filled me in . . . I start. I just want to go. I need to take stock before I can face that gloating dyke Drummond.

– Gus isn’t on the ball Bruce, he’s going nowhere, Toal says impatiently.

That makes me feel good as I had Gus marked down as almost a serious rival in the promo stakes. It’s out of order though, Toal badmouthing the auld cunt like that.

Good news for me but. I’m feeling a bit more up as Drumsticks comes in and gives me a look of distaste and it makes me feel even more comfortable that she evidently hates doing this as much as I do. – Hi Mandy, I smile.

– Did you have a good holiday Bruce? she asks with a forced civility for Toal’s sake.

– Not bad at all.

– Holland, wasn’t it?

– Yes. It’s a regular jaunt. A very civilised country.

– The landscape’s a bit flat though, isn’t it? Toal interjects.

– I like it, I shrug, – it provides an interesting contrast with Scotland’s more rugged terrain.

– What is there to do there? Drummond probes. She wants me to say ‘hoors and drugs’ in front of Toal.

– It’s a very relaxing place. You can sit in a café and just watch the world go by with a nice coffee, I shudder slightly as the hangover kicks in. Fuckin cunts are trying to wind me up. But what do they know? Nothing, zilch, sweet fuck all. Sum total: the big fuckin zero.

– I’ve heard that Amsterdam has a lot of drug problems, Toal says, looking at me challengingly.

– Yes, that’s the downside of the city. It’s far too liberal and as a result it does attract scum. Anyway, enough idle banter about holidays, what about the case? I say coldly and briskly, making Toal and Drummond look like the frivolous lightweights they are. Toal looks a bit narked that I’ve stolen a mark on him. He’d better get used to it because once I’m promoted, that’s the way it’ll be. Fucked if I’m taking any of his bullshit then.

Drummond starts rabbiting on a load of shite which, however you dress it up, amounts to fuck all has happened since I’ve been away, just as I guessed. How the fuck did they ever expect to make progress with a case like this in the absence of the main player? That’s the problem with this wee team of ours: too many Stronachs, no enough Dalglishs.

– . . . and Valerie Johnston, the girl on the cloakroom, has stated that Alex Setterington and David Gorman were definitely in the club that night.

Drummond’s wearing a white blouse and has a darker coloured bra on which is visible through it. I’d gie they tits a wee squeeze, only as a personal favour to her, mind you. That would gie her something to frig aboot! She catches where my eyes are and ostentatiously does up her jacket. Aye, you wish ya fuckin daft cow.

– So what we have to do is to pull in Setterington and Gorman for questioning, she continues.

– I don’t think that would be the way to play it Mandy, my sweet, I pleasantly interject, and she goes to pull me up but I talk over her, raising my voice, – Setterington and Gorman are hardened criminals. They’re veterans of questioning. They’ll give away Scottish Football Association, and they’ll have a smartarsed lawyer like Conrad Donaldson doon here straight away. I note Toal’s mouth puckering in resigned distaste at the acknowledgement of my point. – If they know we’re on to them, they’ll just close ranks. I know these bastards. I think we should keep them under observation, see what they’re getting up to. One of their mates is a grass and I can lean on him.

Drummond has lost the moment and Toal’s nodding vigorously. – I agree Bruce, he says, – these are crafty bastards. We need to have hard evidence before we make any move on them. This informer you know, do you reckon he’ll come up with something?