Irvine Welsh - Filth

– A racing certainty, I smile.

– Good, says Toal. – Right Amanda, keep on with the surveillance. Bruce, could you hold on for a minute?

Drummond coughs a nervy: – Certainly Bob, and departs, kip as rid as my cherry eftir a night’s hooring, and Toal’s probably ready to tell me that the inspectorship is as good as mine.

– Do you have a problem with Amanda? he asks.

– Not at all, I tell him.

– She’s complained to me about your manner. Do you have to refer to her in that condescending way? Her name’s Amanda, it might be better if you called her that, rather than Mandy my sweet.

Fuckin stroppy dyke.

– C’mon gaffer, I smile, using the casual but respectful tone to soften Toal up, which it does, – she’s being far too uptight. I’m just being friendly and informal, that’s all.

– Bruce, you’re a good and experienced officer, but you’re going to have to relate better to all other officers, particularly if you become an inspector. These things are important in the modern police force, mark my words, Toal reprimands, sweeping a hand through his bouffant hair, but it’s a gentle reprimand and he can’t keep the underlay of complicity out of his voice.

– I hear what you’re saying Brother Toal, but it takes two to tango. I suggest you have a similar word with our Msss Drummond.

I’d like to turn of the gasssss for Mssss Drummond, fuckin well turn it off for good.

Toal sits up in his seat somewhat pompously, as he tends to do when I play the craft card, – I have spoken to Amanda and made her aware of her responsibilities.

I’ll fuckin well bet. That wee slag thinks that crawling up Toal’s erse is the way on to the fast track. Wrong!

Later on I’m in the cannie, catching up on some of the gossip and the wee cow comes over to me. – Bruce, can I have a word? She nods to the corridor. A uniformed spastic from the craft raises his eyes. This wee cunt’s goin tae rub ma face in it already about her new role. No way am I taking any bullshit fae the likes of Drummond.

– I don’t know if you’ve heard Bruce, but it’s Gus’s birthday tomorrow, and we’re planning a wee surprise party for him. In Serious Crimes.

So that’s all it is. Nae cunt telt ays, Lennox or any of them. Bastards. – I was aware of that, I say haughtily.

– Just making sure, she smiles, and turns to leave. – See you later.

She thinks that she can get roond me wi the softly-softly approach. Wrong. Same rules apply. I head back downstairs but it’s typical post-holiday blues and I’m hating it at this shitehoose.

I’m sifting through the papers on my desk for the case file and I see out of the corner of my eye that a woman has come into the office with Drummond and Hazel the clerical. She looks vaguely familiar. Drummond’s pointing over at me.

The woman has a wee laddie with her and they tentatively approach my desk, following Drummond.

– Bruce, my colleague informs me, – somebody to see you. It’s Mrs Sim.

Who the fuck’s this

– I came last week, the woman says meekly, – but they told me you were on holiday. I wanted to thank you personally for everything that you did for Colin. She turns to the wee boy. – This is a good man Euan, this is the man that tried to help your daddy . . . she stifles a sob.

The wee boy keeps his head bowed, but raises his eyes up at me and pushes out a smile. He’ll be about ages with Stacey.

– His heart was bad . . . it was a family thing . . . hereditary. I’m watching her lips moving. – He never let it bother him. He was a good man, she whimpers and sobs and Drummond’s got her hand, and she looks back at the wee laddie and then at me, – . . . and this is a good man. This man tried to help your dad son, tried to help him when the rest just stood by and gawped . . . he tried so hard for your daddy . . .

How did you feel

– . . . I just wanted to say thank you Sergeant Robertson . . . Bruce . . . I just wanted to say thank you for trying to help him . . .

– I’m sorry I couldn’t save your husband, I tell her.

– Thank you . . . you did all anybody could. Thank you. This is a good man Euan, she sniffs, as Amanda leads her away, looking back at me in a deep, soulful and human way.

Gus comes over and grabs my shoulder tightly. – Perr lassie. An awfay Christmas for her and the wee felly.

She doesn’t know, the woman: she just doesn’t know.

I have a bash at the crossword. I can’t concentrate, and I decide to take an early finish. It’s Stronach’s testimonial match at Tynecastle the night, but no way will I go there and line that spastic’s pockets. It would be too much to see him poncing around full of himself. I can’t see there being much of a crowd. It’ll be Gary MacKay or Craig Levine size I should imagine.

So the evening finds me down at the Lodge listening to some referee twat who’s a building inspector with the district council. He’s holding court and it’s not a bad crack. Bladesey’s lost. He comes over to join us sporting his new glesses, but like most English cunts, he kens nowt about fitba. Ray Lennox appears with a couple of uniformed spastics, who aren’t wearing their uniforms but are still uniformed spastics and always will be. I nod to him to come over and he’s squeezing in beside me. I’ve tipped him off before about hanging around with these nonentities. Associate too much with losers and that’s exactly what you’ll become.

This referee’s some cunt. – So there I was at Ibrox and they need the three points to clinch the title. I mean, they’re about thirty points ahead so it’s a foregone conclusion, it’s mathematically impossible for them to be caught. It’s a gala day, and the families are all out, the bairns with their faces painted up, the lads looking forward to celebrating. Coisty’s put them one–nil up with a close-range tap-in at the back post. Ha ha ha. He’s some character. Suspicion of offside but Oswald Beckton’s flag stayed down. Oswald, Lodge 364. You’ll ken his face, the ref prompts.

There’s a few nods and knowing smiles around the table. – So anyway, the whole place goes up and it’s party-time. Everybody’s singing ‘we’re up to our knees in fenian blood’ and it’s a gala atmosphere. But then, with a couple of minutes left, a long ball gets punted through the middle towards the Rangers goal. This young lad nips inbetween Goughy and McLaren and they bring him down heavily inside the box. Now, it’s a blatant penalty, but of course there’s no way I’m going to give that and spoil the party. I mean, they’d’ve had to have gone to Firhill the next week to win it, stuck with a fifteen thousand capacity. How could I spoil it for them to lift the flag at home? They were going to win it anyway! By the length of Argyll Street! No way was yours truly going to be a killjoy. Imagine what the boys in the Lodge at Whitburn would have said! My life wouldnae have been worth living. Spoiling a gala day out! So I waved play on.

– As ye do mate, eh, Councillor Bill Armitage said.

– I had to send off this tube for arguing. The ref’s decision is final. This arsehole wouldnae let it go, even after I’d booked him. There’s always one, eh!

– Fenian bastard, Bill Armitage scoffed.

– I don’t mind telling ye, the ref continues, – that it was a bit embarrassing watching it on Scotball the next day. The boys were great though, they kept the replays to a minimum and avoided any reverse-angle showings. Anyway, I spoke to the SFA observer at the match in the Blue Room afterwards and he understood the situation fully. Turns out that he’s in the same Lodge as wee Sammy Kirkwood. You mind of wee Sammy! He says to me.

I nod. Wee Sammy used to get me magazines. Good stuff n all, though not quite as good as Hector The Farmer’s. I’ll have to bell that auld fucker and see if he’s got any new gear.