Irvine Welsh - Filth

– I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to refer to female officers in that way, she challenges.

– Absolutely right! I sing. – Apologies for any offence caused my darling, force of habit. Bad habit yes, but habit nonetheless. That’s why I rely on people like your good self who are so much more aware of those issues than I am to keep me informed of my transgressions in this important area . . .

– I’m not your darling either, she says. Karen Fulton nods supportively. Drummond stares at me for a second, then she says, – Look Bruce, you may think that I’m being pedantic, but it’s hard enough getting all the abuse under the sun out there from the public, without being patronised and sneered at by your own colleagues. All I want is equal treatment, that’s all.

Do fuckin equal work then ya wee cunt and stop poncing around with wog groups.

– Point taken. Now, what news from the Forum?

She bleats on for ages about the hopes and fears for wogs in Lothian around this case. After we finish, Peter Inglis sidles up to me. – Needs a good seeing tae, that yin, he says bitterly, trying in vain to establish heterosexual credibility.

Aye Inglis, right ye are. What are you gaunny dae? Strap a fuckin dildo on her and shag her up the arse? – Too right, I tell him. – She wants equal rights, get her tae dae equal work. I’d like tae see her go doon tae Leith and haul in Lexo Setterington or Ghostie Gorman or Franco Begbie. Whae’ll have tae dae it? You or me Peter. She’ll be shuffling papers or counselling some daft slag whose scumbag ay a felly’s tanned her jaw.

It’s expedient to leave Inglis believing I’m his only pal on the force. He stands fomenting his rage as he looks across at Drummond who’s giving it loads with Fulton. Inglis is basically homosexual. I’m no saying that he’s the sort ay guy who would feel your bum in the lavvy or anything like that, but his psychology is homosexual. It makes sense to expose him. The same rules apply.

– Who’s for Crawford’s? Gus asks.

– Sorry Gus, I have tae nash, I announce, slinging on my overcoat. It gives off a stale, rancid smell, but at least I minded to change into the new C&A’s slacks. The material seems to irritate the rash on my inner thighs though. – Got a wee lead with a mate of Ocky’s. Might be something, might be nothing. Have to check it out but. See youse later.

I hurry upstairs to the audio-visual section to pick up the tripod and video camera that Pete Loburn, the technician, is letting me take out for a few days. A good boy, in the craft. I hurry downstairs and load the gear onto the back seat of the Volvo. I have to pick up Claire at the Fish Factory before heading out to Penicuik for the shoot. Then I have to bomb hame and do some tidying up as I’m fucking Bunty over there this affie. I’m also, in a sense, fucking Bladesey. Fucking the poor wee bastard for good. It’s all go!

Thankfully the roads are still not very busy. I tear down the Walk in the motor and park indiscreetly outside the Fish Factory. Normally I’d keep the Volvo a few streets away, but the clock is ticking. Maisie’s there with Claire, and fortunately she’s all ready.

– Cup ay tea or something stronger Bruce darlin? Maisie asks.

– I’d love to Maisie, but I can’t. Time is of the essence. Claire, my sweet, are you ready?

– Aye, she says. She’s got her knee-length fur coat on, and I hope she’s wearing what I specified underneath it. It looks like it as she’s on heels.

– Gie’s a flash then, I instruct.

She opens her coat, exposing the black bra, split-crotch panties, stockings and sussies. Phoah!

– Magic.

Claire goes to put a tracksuit top, bottom and trainers on, but I tell her to take them with her and come as she is. – The car’s warm, the engine’s running, I urge.

– Look eftir her now Bruce, Maisie half-warns as we depart, – she’s a good yin.

She fuckin well isnae half. I could gie the hoor one now.

– You know me Maisie, I smile. – Call me old-fashioned, but I believe that ladies should be treated with the utmost respect.

It doesnae take long tae hit the bypass. Deep Purple’s ‘Highway Star’, the orignial version off Machine Head , is blaring out the stereo. Ah’ve got the wheels, the hot chick, now aw ah need is a line ay posh! It’s as well that the road isnae too busy as I can hardly keep my eyes on it, with her sitting next to me and her coat sliding over those thighs, exposing the sussies. At one stage I thought, fuck it, I’m going to have to pull on to a slip-road and a country lane and blow some more OT dosh.

Funny, what stops me is having to listen to her whinging. She’s started to have second thoughts about the project. – Ah’m no sae sure aboot this, she says, lighting a cigarette.

– C’mon Claire, yir gittin good dosh for this. Besides, look on it as an education, a new experience beneficial tae yir career development, I reason. I’m sounding like Toal talking to a jug-eared raw recruit of a uniformed spastic before sending him down to Drylaw. – It’s a good dug. A sheepdug. A collie, for fuck sakes. They’re gentle, obedient dugs, known for it. And I guarantee that the video is only going to be for private use. Hector and myself. Two grand Claire. It’s good dosh.

– Aye . . . awright.

It’s just as well that Hector’s wedged up. Farmers always complain about their lot, but you never see a skint one. They tend to be the one profession that gets on well with the polis. They have the property, and we’re in the property protection business. So they have a tendency to be more instinctively well-disposed towards us than most. Like us, they tend to have a high depression and suicide rate. It’s that seasonally adjusted depression wi them. Look at that Ted Moult guy that did the Everest Double Glazing.

We pull off the road and up the gravel track towards the farmhouse. Hector has heard the Volvo tearing up and comes out to greet us in his usual hale and hearty manner. He’s a real fermin vermin archetype awright: stocky, ruddy, white hair and beard, tweed jacket, cords and boots.

– Hello Bruce.

– Hector.

His eyes open like saucers. – And what am I to call this lovely young lady?

– Claire, she says.

His face ignites further. – It’s an absolute pleasure and an honour my darling, he says, taking her arm in his and leading her to the Range Rover. I follow with the camera and tripod. It’s muddy, very fucking muddy and I’m trying to watch those new fawn flannels.

– Is this your farm? Claire asks Hector.

– All mine, my darling, all mine.

Hector’s House.

– From the road into town back there, he stops and sweeps his free arm around to the ugly, desolate brown mounds which tower over us, – right up to the base of them there hills.

Claire gives an impressed, evaluating smile. That lassie will go all the way to the top in her profession. She has that premium-range hoor’s instinctive understanding of value.

Hector gives a whistle, and from out of nowhere a collie shoots towards us like a missile. Just as you think it’s going to collide into us, it slows down and circles us a few times, yelping with excitement.

– This is Angus, Hector says proudly, petting the panting, enthusiastic beast.

We get into the Range Rover.

– It’s freezing, Claire says, lighting another fag.

– Angus here’ll warm ye up, I say, getting into the back after her, letting the dog sit on the front passenger seat.

Claire looks dubiously at her leading man.

– Silver medal at the Royal Highland Show in ninety-five, eh boy, Hector says fondly to the dog, starting up the car.

The mutt leans over and starts licking my hand with its sandpaper tongue. – He likes you Bruce, Hector observes, starting up the motor.