Irvine Welsh - Filth

– You really think so? she says balefully. I love doubt in a woman. It’s nearly as sexy as determination.

– Listen. I’m going to say something here. Something I shouldnae say. No. I’m not, I tell her, shaking my head slowly.

– What? she says, sitting bolt upright.

– No. It’ll only cause bad feeling and complicate matters . . . neither of us need that at the moment . . .

– Please. Say what you have to. I want you to. Please. Her fingers ravel round mine and tighten.

Please. Police. Me.

I inhale sharply, then let it out with a long, slow pant. – Right. I will. It’s breaking me up what this freak’s doing to you because I’ve got strong feelings for you. There, I said it, I’m sorry, I shrug. I pull our hands apart. Then I stand up and raise my palms in a surrender gesture. I turn away and let a long silence hang. I go to the window and pull back the net curtains. There’s a white Nissan Micra on a double fucking yellow line. M reg. Where are the traffic spazmos?

– Bruce . . . it’s okay . . . I hear a thin voice from behind me.

I go and sit on the couch. I put my head in my hands and let my elbows rest on my knees. I put on a low, pained voice and say, – There’s nothing I can do or say . . . I’ve messed things up.

– No . . .

I hear her getting up and coming towards me. I feel her light touch on my neck. She’s massaging me, her thumbs kneading at the red liver-spotted back of my neck, and she’s crying in heavy, halting sobs. – I don’t know what to say . . . she bleats.

I look up at her and let a tremble come into my voice. – Just tell me that you don’t feel anything for me, just call me a creep, no better than the scumbag who phones you up . . .

– . . . No . . . No . . .

– . . . because that’s what I am, a dirty, filthy, sick creep, talking like that to the wife of a friend, when she’s emotionally distressed, when she doesn’t know her own mind . . .

– No! No! I do! I do know my own mind Bruce! I want to be with you!

I pull her on to my knee, fuckin hell, there’s some weight on this hoor, and move her red, swollen face to me. Holding it a few inches from mine, I slide at her tears with the edge of my finger, like the windscreen-wipers on the Volvo. – Ah’m gonny brush these tears away hen, believe you me, ah’m gonny brush them away. Same rules apply, I whisper softly.

At that point I hear a crackling from inside my pocket. I give her a disappointed look.

– Foxtrot calling Z Victor BR, come in BR, over.

– Roger Foxtrot, over, I groan wearily.

– Specify location, over.

– Twelve Carrick Glen Gardens, Corstorphine, over.

– Please proceed to HQ, over.

– Roger Foxtrot, I’m on my way, over and out.

And I was, after I fucked Bunty in the bedroom. I took my time though, you always do with new fanny. What I usually do with a new bird is hole up with them for a weekend and spoil them with loads of foreplay, champagne, takeaways and undivided attention to all the preposterous shite they drivel. That usually does the trick for getting into them on a casual basis for months. The best thing to do is to give a new bird the very best possible time, and then she knows you have the capacity to do that again and she’s always looking inwards blaming herself for not being able to reactivate that passion in you. The best lovers ken that you only need tae be a good lover once with one bird. Get it right the first time and then ye can basically dae what ye like. Eventually they tipple that you’re just a selfish cunt, usually eftir a few years ay fruitless self-analysis, but by that time you’ve generally had your fill and are firing into somebody else.

Bunty is a powerful woman, but Bladesey obviously hasn’t been doing his homework satisfactorily. I thought she’d take some satisfying but the dirty cow went off like an incendiary device. I suppose after Bladesey any performance would be more than suitable. As I get dressed after, I’m conscious of the smell coming from my flannels. I hope Bunty didn’t notice. I should have fucking well minded to put on the fresh ones I got from C&A’s . . . fuckin stupid bastard . . . what’s the point of getting them if you don’t wear them . . .

Fortunately, she doesn’t appear to notice, and we say our lovers’ goodbyes and I head off.

When I got back to the station it was only Gus wanting to know about the sweep for the fitba and the fantasy fitba league.

Shearer’s goals last week at Tottenham put me in a nice position, just behind Peter Inglis and some uniformed spastic. I’m ready to pounce. Behind Peter Inglis. Mind you, ye dinnae want that cunt behind you!

I’m thinking that I could handle another shot at that Bunty and I call her to arrange to come round to mines tomorrow, which I instantly regret, a real sign of weakness that was. The problem with hoors is not so much the getting into their keks, but the keeping them at arm’s length afterwards. Life can become complicated, which is fine; only simpletons live simple lives. Trouble is, mine’s is complicated enough right now.

A Sportsman’s Dinner

Karen Fulton is looking sexy today. She’s put on a bit of weight which doesn’t suit most women but she carries it well. Festive overindulgence perhaps, or maybe the classic sex substitute. That’s the best dieting plan, fuck ’em regularly! Nae time for munchin on fuckin biscuits then! Too much munchin oan carpets wi Drummond, that’s the problem there. Same rules apply. – Looking drop-dead gorgeous Karen, I tell her.

She smiles at me, but there’s a touch of frosty lesbo coating which I expect is Drummond’s doing. All it takes is the probing tongue of one spacedyke for the impressionable to stray from the path of righteousness. But all it takes is some prime Scotch beef to get them back on the fast track, I kid you not. She’s long overdue a length.

Anyway, Bulldyke Drummond comes in with Inglis and Gus Bain. She seems to have warned to Inglis since he’s been all but proven to be a sad buftie-boy. If being befriended by a fucking fag-hag doesnae establish the bastard as a rubberwrist, goodness knows what will. Inglis knows this and obviously hates her following him around.

I’ve summoned the team in early doors today, and I can tell that some of them arenae too chuffed. As if I care: I’ve a very busy day. I’m seeing Bunty later, but first I’ve got an urgent appointment at Hector The Farmer’s oot at Penicuik, the old stomping ground, in a couple of hours’ time. We need all the light we can get.

I give a brief lack-of-progress report on the Wurie case. Then I open up the discussion. – Okay folks, any news from your ends? Gus? I ask.

– I’ve been keeping tabs on Setterington and Gorman. They’re still hanging around that bloody second-hand furniture shop all the time, Gus tells us. The old boy’s looking bitter; lost a bit of pep that yin! Could dae wi some fuckin charlie in him! Chop yirsell oot a line ay posh ya muppet-faced auld cunt!

– Aye, Ray Lennox and some of the boys in D.S. are convinced that Setterington and Francis Begbie are dealing hard drugs from there. I’m chuffed at Gus’s expression of scorn at my mention of Ray Lennox’s name. – Just keep those beady eyes open Gus. Peter?

– This mystery woman’s still no checking out. I’ve shown pictures to just about everybody from Jammy Joe’s, all the stewards and most of the party crowd, but it’s still no checking out.

You are checking out as a sick perverted arse-buggerer of other men. – We still have this mystery woman in our lives . . . how exciting . . . I turn to Drummond: – Mandy my sweet, what news from our friends in the ethnic community?