Irvine Welsh - Filth

– Aye, Gus says. – I watched that Mother Theresa’s funeral again the other night. Ah wis checking tae see what old tapes ah could record ower. Ah watched it aw the wey through again, but it wisnae as good as Princess Di’s.

– Papes though, what dae ye expect, Gillman says.

– Mind you, the papes usually ken how tae pit oan a good funeral, ah’ll say that for them, Gus comments.

– Calcutta but, fuckin wogs eh, Gillman rasps, – what dae ye expect. They cannae fuckin well run the country withoot us, ye dinnae expect them tae be able tae dae a funeral withoot fuckin things up.

– I don’t think . . . Drummond begins.

Gillman dismisses her with a contemptuous scowl. – Fifty fuckin years they’ve hud tae git it right. If they’d goat it right they widnae need any Mother Theresas cause they widnae huv any slums and poverty in the first place.

– Well, Inglis says cheerily, – we’ve goat our ain parliament now. Lit’s hope we make a better job of it!

– That’ll be a load ay fuckin nonsense n aw, I snort. – Whose fuckin shout is it? If we cannae git organised tae get tae the bar wir no gaunny be able tae run oor ain affairs!

Inglis takes the hint and gets them in.

We lose the disapproving Drummond after a few drinks, but Fulton goes as well, which fucks up the prospects of a gang-bang later. Still, that’s force fanny: no worth the cock that’s pokin it. The crawl progresses down through town, to the St James Oyster Bar. I end up necking with some tart who’s groping my arse, and I only decide not to take her back for a shagging when Lennox points out to me that she’s a total fuckin hound. I sneak out the door and we head down the road.

Inglis makes some comment about dubious ladies, and I decide that that proof is too lippy and he’s fuckin well getting it. I arrange for us all to have a late night drink up at the casino, which I know is closed for refurbishment. It’s now freezing and we’re walking through driving snow.

– Shite, I moan, on seeing the boarded-up doors, – it’ll have tae be one ay they arse-bandit places, I tell them, pointing to the Top of the Walk.

– Ah’m no gaun thair, Inglis scoffs. – Doon tae Shrubhill tae the masonic . . .

– What have ye goat tae hide? Ray laughs. He’s taken his pint out with him and is drinking it.

Inglis looks at Lennox as if it’s him that’s the graffiti artist. – You sayin ah have got anything tae hide likes?

– Naw, Ray shrugs and takes a sip from his pint, – ah’m sayin nothing.

I smile at that.

– Look, c’moan, it’s jist for a fuckin drink, Dougie Gillman snaps.

Ray drains his pint and hurls his glass at a council gritting lorry. It smashes against its hull. – Spastics! he shouts.

We head into the club. The bouncer looks piercingly at us, but we get in as soon as he tipples we’re polis. It’s a drinking club full of all sorts of sad poofs. There’s the camp type, the seasoned scene-queens and the hard ex-cons who’ve got a taste for it in Saughton. There’s also a smattering of tourist puffs, wondering what the fuck they’re doing here. I go downstairs and spot the man of my dreams, Sinky, a mercenary wee Calton Hill rent-boy. I brief him on what to do before returning upstairs to the boys.

We’re having a good crack. Gillman’s already burst one queer’s mouth in the lavvy for looking at him funnily. After a couple of drinks, Sinky appears and heads down the floor towards Inglis. – PEA-TIHR! OH PEA-TIHR! he shouts camply, – LONG TIME NO SEE! Brought some friends along I notice!

– Ah dinnae ken you! Inglis shouts.

– Oh sorry . . . didn’t realise it was that kind of a scene . . . so exclusive . . . Sinky retreats, raising his eyebrows. – He can be sooo immature, he adds as an aside to several shocked parties around him. Gillman is looking at Inglis with sheer loathing and Lennox has moved slightly apart from him.

– AH FUCKIN DINNAE KEN HIM! Inglis squeals and makes to go for Sinky. I grab his shoulders. – Fir fuck sakes Peter, we’re polis! Dinnae cause a fuckin scene in here!

– Bit ah dinnae ken him! Inglis pleads.

– Well he seems take ken you, Dougie Gillman says, eyes narrowing into slits of hatred.

– You wrote that shite . . . Inglis accuses, his voice in exasperation going all high and fey like a pansy’s.

– Ah didnae write anything aboot ye, it wis probably one ay yir fuckin boyfriends . . . Gillman sneers, his chin jutting out.

– Ya cunt . . . Inglis swings at Gillman who steps back and bangs him on the side of the face. I grab Inglis and I’m hoping that Gillman will let fly again and smash that queer coupon, but Ray and Gus have got a grip on him and are restraining him. Gillman’s tidy and Inglis knows this, his struggle becoming more pathetic and those startled eyes making him seem more wretched than ever.

– Look, lit’s git oot ay here. Wir aw a bit pished. Lit’s jist git doon tae the masonic, I urge.

We stagger outside into the blizzard and Inglis is already away, a lonely figure trudging through the snow up Leith Walk. – C’moan Peter! Gus shouts.

– Leave the fuckin poof, Gillman says.

– Fuckin arse-bandit! Ray shouts after him.

– BIG FUCKIN NANCY BOY! Gillman roars, cupping his hands round his mouth. The rest of the boys might pass this off as just a load of drunken nonsense tomorrow, but Gillman’s tasted fag blood and he won’t let go of this now. We bay mocking lynch-mob laughter at the broken figure of the sodomite Inglis as his hunched back recedes up the Walk.

Ray has another glass in his hand. He chucks it in Inglis’s direction, but it falls a good few yards short and breaks with a muffled thud in the road, its impact cushioned by the thick snow.

phone in sick, because we knew the cunt was sick anyway.

So Gillman was the perfect man to send to the Forum. That latent Nazi was the man tae gie it tight tae aw they fuckin smart bastards. Toal’s doing his nut at me. The spirit of Christmas my arse. I look out the window at the snow falling. Christmas Eve and I haven’t even had time to go Christmas shopping thanks to this dead wog case. The snow’s really falling though, and Toal has a tree in the corner of his office. It’s nice and warm, and his voice is oddly lulling. It raises up a level of sharpness though. – Why Dougie Gillman? Why did you send him?

I look intently at Toal, his ridiculous bouffant hair. Toal. Thinks he’s an intellectual. His first fantasy was that he was a manager, after they sent him on that MBA course. That was bad enough. His second, that he’s a screenwriter, is just fuckin stupid. These, however, pale into insignificance beside his greatest and most damaging conceit, namely that he’s fuckin polis. I feel like laughing in his face. Instead, I fire out the spiel. – As the responsible officer, I have to consider the development of all the officers in my charge. Dougie Gillman was weak in the community relations area. I made a supervisory decision that he could improve in this area by guided exposure to community relations activity, so I got him to liaise with the Forum.

– Well, I don’t know what guidance he got, because they’ve only gone and filed a complaint against him. A serious complaint. Even worse, it was initiated by the San Yung woman, the one who ran the EO’s course with Amanda Drummond. Niddrie’s insisting on a disciplinary. I’ve had to inform Gillman.