Irvine Welsh - Filth

I’m looking forward to checking out Claire from Aberdeen the night, but it’s time Ray and I were back at the office. It’s expedient to hit the canteen first, as it always is. It’s busy but there’s an eerie atmosphere and I look over and see Drummond holding a huge card. I know something’s wrong straight away by the quiet vibe. She looks devastated, as if somebody’s told her some horrific news. I feel a sense of elation. I head over to Dougie Gillman. – Dunno if you’ve heard, he tells me, – but Clell tried tae top himself this morning. Jumped off the Dean Bridge.

This news sends me into an excited rapture. Even more thrilling than Clell attempting suicide is the thought that he must have been so miserable to try, and that by failing he’s merely succeeded in humiliating himself and the pain will still be there.

How did it make you feel?

I try to compose myself, to convert my feelings into a horrified shock, but I can’t hide the glee and don’t really have to try too hard as Gillman is more than complicit. – What happened? I cough.

– The trees broke his fall, but he smashed his hip tae pieces. He’s in the Princess Margaret Rose hospital. They’re operating on him the morn. A hip replacement.

– Is that all? I ask.

Amanda Drummond has moved alongside me with the huge card which has been signed by everyone. – I’d ‘ve thought that was enough, she says coldly.

– Of course . . . I didn’t mean it that way, I protest convincingly, making her look a bit petty for suggesting that I did. – Let me sign that card . . . it’s all a bit of a shock . . . it’s just that he got the dream move to Traffic . . . I can’t take it in . . .

– Of course it is . . . I’m sorry, Drummond says, – I wasn’t implying . . .

– Is there a collection?

– Karen and I are collecting, she says.

I thought as much. Nursemaid a mental cripple while neglecting your duties. Carry on featherbedding vegetables, it’s only a murder we’re trying to solve here.

A rummage through my pocket produces a crumpled tenner which I hand over to Drummond. I know a lassie who’d suck every drop ay spunk oot ay yir baws for that note.

– Bruce . . . have you spoken to Bob yet?

– Toal, I correct her. – Not today. Why?

– He said to get in touch with him as soon as you came in. There’s a note on your desk about it.

– I’ll go straight up, I tell her, exiting.

Toal’s hammering away on his fuckin film script as I go in, because he sneakily saves what he’s got and switches the programme over to something else. He’s trying to be cool, but he looks as guilty as a Begbie in a jeweller’s stockroom. He asks me to excuse him for a minute, nature calls, he says. As he exits, I move behind his desk. There’s nothing on the screen, the crafty cunt. There are a set of keys in the lock of the top drawer of his desk. They are obviously house keys and car keys, so the one that sticks in the lock must be valuable to Toal for him to keep it with those. I pull my jersey cuff over my hand and turn the lock.

Inside is what looks like a thick report, only it isn’t a report, it’s a draft screenplay. The title page:

CITY OF DARKNESS: A MURDER MYSTERY

Screenplay by Robert S. Toal

Who the fuck does he think he is? Does he think he’s going to get out of this place, that Hollywood’s going to come along and say: Aye, you’re a thick Scottish cop who couldnae catch a cauld and cannae write his name, here’s a million quid for a fuckin screenplay? We’ll get fuckin Tom Fuckin Cruise and Nicholas Fuckin Cage tae star and Martin Fuckin Scorsese tae direct . . . aye, sure. I want to just rip up that cunt’s shite, fuckin well burn it in the fire, keep me warm this Christmas, the only fuckin use fir it . . .

Alongside it is a key. It looks identical to the one in the lock. I take it and close the drawer. I’m going to get Toal’s script, and his disks. I should just do the lot of them now, and there’s fuck all the cunt can say about it either. That would be excellent! But the promotion board . . . no, I’ll have to keep him sweet. He mustn’t suspect that it’s me who’s fucking him over. Stick to the guiding principle of destroying without overtly making enemies. The corporate way.

I sit back in my seat as Toal returns. He tells me curtly that Mssss Drummond is no longer lead officer on the case. Muggins here is back in the front line. I have mixed feelings about this. She’s obviously been exposed as the dippit cunt that she is, but it means more fuckin work for me and I’m too fuckin busy to chase around looking for some fuckin criminal spastics. He tells me that he wants a progress report on his desk, by the end of the day, letting him know who is working on what.

He can stick it up his bouffant erse. I go downstairs and brief Drummond and Gillman. It’s pleasurable telling Drummond that she is to oversee the clerical procedure of tracing the hammer. – I want the net cast wider on this hammer search, every B&Q and Texas in Scotland, I smile.

She goes to say something but composes herself, while I drink in her discomfort before asking, – Is that all? I give Dougie Gillman a wink as Ms Drummond scuttles off in a most unprofessional manner!

We once read some cunt saying that it was better to travel hopefully than to arrive and just thinking this makes us want tae smack the bastard ower the heid with a truncheon because if this is as good as it gets then we are well and truly fucked. I sit down trying to fill up three sides of A4 with Toal’s fuckin report.

After two sides and a paragraph, I go hame to tidy up. This means I pull out a black bin-liner from under the sink and lob all the shite that’s accumulated into it. I need a second one before I leave the front room. I would normally never go to such lengths for a hoor, it’s just that I need the place looking right for that sense of theatre. I get the desk and chair in from the garage and I bring doon Stacey’s toy blackboard and chalk from her bedroom. That’s me ready. I stick one of Hector The Farmer’s videos in to get me in the mood before the Roger Moore shows up.

That wee Claire’s a good one alright. Nice one Maisie. It’s taken me ages to find a lassie that would be ideal for all this. The thing is I know most of the girls through working on vice. Down Dock Street. I looked after them and they looked after me. The best pimp those hoors had ever fuckin well had. This one’s special awright. She’s done the biz as I specified: short permed wig, tweed skirt, green jersey with brooch on it. The brooch is fuckin essential. Perfect. Just like Miss Hunter.

– Bruce Robertson, come out here, she commands us.

This hoor has the correct expression, pitch and tone. Maisie has briefed her excellently. We are compelled to obey. We? Me. I. – Yes Miss, I say softly.

– You are a disgrace, Robertson, she says to us. – The sneakiest, most evil and vile little human piece of excrement who ever walked this Earth . . .

– I suppose so, we agree. We are disgraceful. All of us.

I start to pish myself. The hot urine trickles down my thigh, burning the eczema.

. . . but at the same time I have paradoxically never known a boy who places me in such an intense state of sexual arousal . . . the lips of my vagina quiver and widen when you walk into a room Robertson . . . she gasps. Fuckin hell. – Are you aware of that Robertson? Are you?

– Suppose, we tell her. I’m getting stiff. Very stiff.

– I want you Bruce Robertson. You make my cunt wet. I am going to have you Bruce Robertson . . . she’s over to me and she’s on me, pushing me back across the desk I bought recently, undoing my snake belt and pulling my soaking flannels down. She hitches up her skirt and she’s got no knickers on, she’s impaling herself on me and fucking me slowly telling me what a bad boy I’ve been to have caused her to do this and I’ve got my hands clutching her buttocks and I’m calling the frigid auld hoor for everything under the sun and this is therapy in its purest and simplest form and a mist rises and spots appear before my eyes and my head spins and the lesson today is: BRUCE ROBERTSON.