Irvine Welsh - Filth

– Bruce, I’m a bit busy right now, Toal says, shuffling through some papers. He looks so fucking low.

– I want you to come and see something, some graffiti in the toilet.

– I don’t have time for . . .

– As Fed rep, I don’t have time to see brother officers being slandered by other members of the service!

– What’s this?

I explain the graffiti to Toal and he’s following me down to the bogs. The others have come along, their faces like the ghouls when that Colin Sim guy died. They are looking at Inglis for a reaction and he looks crestfallen. – It’s jist a load ay bloody nonsense, he’s saying over and over again, torn between trying to make light of it, and being genuinely staggered.

How did it make you feel?

I head back up the stairs with Toal, who beckons me into his office and closes the door. – Listen Robbo, he says, – Inglis isn’t, well, you know, is he?

– What? I ask. I’m starting to enjoy this.

– Like the graffiti says, Brother Robertson, Toal snaps.

Toal must be upset to resort to playing the craft card so nakedly. – Whether he is or isn’t is irrelevant surely, I say, planting the seed, – Peter’s sexuality is his business. He’s being harassed and we operate a non-discrimination policy on the grounds of sexual orientation.

– But he can’t be being sexually harassed if he’s not a . . . well, gay, I think the fashionable term is these days.

– Well, you can call it sexual harassment or just plain harassment Bob, but the way I see it, is that this is the unacceptable face of canteen culture . . .

– Whoa Bruce, whoa, I’m on your side . . . this has to be stamped out. It just came as a bit of shock to me . . . I mean, Peter’s a craft stalwart . . .

– Peter’s a lonely guy Bob. What he gets up to is his own business, and I don’t profess to know much about him, but I’m not having a brother officer harassed in this way.

– Exactly. I’ll make sure this is dealt with.

I walk out as high as a kite. The concepts ‘Inglis’ and ‘poofery’ are now indelibly associated. The concepts ‘Inglis’ and ‘promotion’ not so. Ah, the games, the games.

You should keep moving when you’re on a roll and I decide to call on Estelle at the flower shop. I’d like tae fuckin gie that wee shag one. She’s probably feart of Gorman and Setterington. What she needs is protection from those monsters. Someone she can trust in her life. An older, more mature man who can respond to her needs. If there are damsels in distress need saving, then I can think of no better knight in shining armour than Detective Inspector Elect Bruce Robertson.

That old familiar lump in the flannels starts rising as I think about Estelle and a combination of positions and girlie sex noises. A threesome with her and wee Claire, the hoor fae Maisie’s. Just what the doctor ordered. That’ll sort ma fuckin rash oot Rossi!

When I get to the shop, the only person there is the disapproving auld boot, who tells me that Estelle is off sick with the cold.

– A lot of it going about, I cheerfully say.

– Aye, sure, the auld cow mumbles. She doesnae like Estelle at all, that’s as sure as another trophyless season in Gorgie.

– Does she get many callers?

– Too bloody many, the wifie says, then crinkles her nose and commences hostilities, – What’s it tae you?

Looks like the auld cunt just woke up and smelt the bacon. The Scottish working class and respect for the polis go together like Mother Theresa and Playboy centrefolds.

I decide not to probe. – Just trying to make sure I’ve no rivals, I smile, heading for the exit.

– I never thought she wis that desperate, the cheeky old boot says.

I stop abruptly and look around at the stock and give some of the plants a sniff. – Bad time ay the year for flooirs, I say, then: – You got a staff toilet back there?

– Aye, she says. – Anything else?

– Not for now.

That cheeky auld boot is getting a visit from the environmental health; we’re fuckin sure the auld cunt is. Anyway, it seems a good idea to take the rest of the afternoon off and let the form OTA 1–7 take the strain. Call it stress management Mr Toal. Call it stress management Mr Niddrie. Bruce Robertson stress management.

I leave the Hunter’s Square bogs, then stop into the pie shop for a chilli pie. I almost got the bastard worms right out there. There can’t be much of them left. I get in the Volvo and head out to Colinton. The worms are on the run. The worm called Inglis is being flushed out the system; outed and routed, before further infestation can take hold.

At home I cut myself out a big, celebratory line of posh. I’m soon dying on a shag. The only person I can think of belling is Shirley. It’s either that or hooring and she’s cheaper.

Shirl girl.

I succumb to the force of libido and make the call, but as soon as she arrives I can see that I’ve made a mistake and that I’d have been better off with a wank. She’s like a block of ice; she’s staring at me, leaning back on the chair, smoking a fag, looking really nasty.

– I don’t know why I’m here, she says bitterly, and I’m about to retort along the lines of ‘because you’re a slag who wants fucked’ but I bite my tongue. – Carole phoned, she says suddenly in a gleeful inspiration, hoping to get to me. – She told me that she doesn’t want anything to do with you. If you try to see the bairn . . .

– Huh! What does she know? She knows nothing! That’s what she fuckin well kens. The sum total, I snap, feeling my anger rising. I try to control myself. – I mean, she’s deluding herself Shirley . . . it’s said. I’m more sad than angry about it. She’s unstable: I personally think that she’s had some sort of breakdown. I worry about her.

– She seems alright to me . . . Shirley says doubtfully, folding her arms, fixing her eyes on me. Her dark eyes. She’s a sexy cow from a certain angle.

– Believe you me Shirley, the game I’m in, you become something of an expert on human nature. She’s obviously had some kind of breakdown that’s gone undetected. She’s telling lies; lies to poison you against me.

– Poison me against you! Huh! You’ve been quite capable of that yourself, she scoffs, her face contorted in petulance, almost cracking that foundation mask which she wears to cover the acne scars she has. I like the way she does her eyes but, always have.

Time to move. I get ready to make my pitch. – Look . . . I know I’ve been cruel to you in the past. But you know why, surely to God you know why, I plead.

– I wish I did Bruce, I really wish I did, she says, shaking her head.

– Don’t wind me up Shirley, please, and don’t insult the both of us . . . I stand up and walk to the door. Surely the whore can’t be stupid enough to fall for it.

– I’m sorry Bruce, I don’t follow you . . . she says. Her pupils are widening. The fuckin spastic. I don’t believe it. She’s doubting herself. That’s step one: establish doubt. Step two: drive the bus right through her fucking doubt.

– Shirley, you surely to God know only full well that I’ve been trying to drive you away . . . cause I . . . fuck . . . I’m saying too much . . . I shake my heid.

– What! What are you saying?

– I tried to drive you away cause I couldn’t fuckin stand it!

– What! What couldn’t you stand?

– Danny! Carole! Him being with you! Me being with her! Making love to her and pretending it was you! Putting up with sneaky shags in backs of cars when I wanted to take you to my bed and hold you in my arms and make love to you all night and shout to the whole fuckin world: This is her! This is the lassie I love!