Irvine Welsh - Filth

– How dae ah get a crime number? she asks.

– You have to report to the nearest local station to where the offence took place.

– But they said any police office . . . she’s almost in tears with frustration.

– Any police office if you have a crime number.

I wink at Sammy, not a bad guy for a uniformed spastic, and then I head upstairs to meet Davie McLaughlin.

D.S. McLaughlin from the South Side is heading up the investigation of Bladesey, who has returned from the bosom of his spastic family in Newmarket to find himself minus a wife and in our custody helping us with our enquiries. McLaughlin is a good choice on this one: a dirty carrot-topped bastard with a filthy fuckin pape name, not in the craft, an odious piece of racial vomit. It’s quite fortuitous as it’s an excuse for not pulling strings for Brother Blades. The pervert Brother Blades.

– So you know Cliff and Bunty Blades well? he asks.

Of course, we find it distasteful talking to a freckle-faced left-footer, but it’s serving our purposes. I slip on my concerned face. – Aye Davie, we’re friends of the both of them. I’ve kent Bladesey, eh Cliff Blades, for a couple of years, but I’ve only got to know Bunty recently. She was going through a pretty hard time with this sicko hassling her, so Bladesey wanted me to come around and give them a bit of support.

– Did you ever get the idea that he was the one making all those calls?

I give a slow, deliberate swallow. – Davie, I’ve been polis longer than I care to remember, and I’ve investigated loads of cases like this. At the time, I have to admit it, it was the last fucking thing on my mind, I shake my head. – Now I can see that this was how he was getting his kicks, enjoying the element of risk. He was wanking all over me! I smash my fist on to the table.

– Don’t give yourself a hard time mate, honestly, says the concerned Romanist. Seems not a bad guy, for a pape. – We all have to switch off and have our own lives. Sometimes we get blind spots about people.

– But I feel like a fuckin monkey Davie . . .

– Bruce, ye cannae go around in your private life thinking that every single pal you’ve got can or cannae be Jackie Trent in some way or another. If the truth be told, when we walk out that door, we all put the job on hold to an extent.

Maybe you do, but you’re a pape. As your family are probably all criminals, you have tae pit the job oan hold.

– I want to see him . . .

– I don’t think that’s a good idea Bruce . . ., the bead-twirler tells me.

– Just give me two minutes with him, I won’t fucking touch him, I swear.

– Okay, he says, raising those ginger brows. McLaughlin may be a Romanistic, anti-abortionist cunt, but he’s polis through and through.

I head down to the detention room where Bladesey is being held. A uniformed spastic stands over him, but departs as I come in.

Bladesey says nothing, but his eyes are burning and eager. He’s pleased to see me.This pathetic little bastard’s genuinely pleased to see me!

He really thinks that I’d be friends with a sad pervert. Best put him right. – You fuckin little cunt! I snap. – Fuckin piss-taking little fart . . . you fuckin strung me along from the start! All that fuckin shit about Frank Sidebottom! You were wanking off in my face ya fuckin cunt!

Bladesey’s now a picture of wretchedness. – No . . . he protests. He looks so bad, that it’s hard for me to keep looking at his eyes. I turn away briefly, but then the need for sport takes over, as it always does, and I glare at him.

– Bruce, you have to believe me, it wasn’t me!

– Don’t make me fuckin punch your heid doon through your fuckin shoodirs – right oot yir fuckin erse ya wee cunt! I move towards him, and he cowers away. I stop and turn, then do a full circle back towards him. I think of all the injustices I’ve suffered, more injustices than that wee cunt could ever know. Spreading my palms I plead, – Why mate? Why the fuck did you do this Cliff? Why did you Drag me intae it? I thought we were mates!

– I didn’t, I didn’t, we are! Bladesey begs, and then breaks down. – I digh-hi-dent . . . I digh-hi-dent . . . he chokes, biting into the sleeve of that checked jacket to stifle his sobs.

It’s pathetic watching a grown man cry in that manner. No fuckin pride. Do you see me break down like a fuckin wee tart, and all the shite I’ve had to contend with as well? Do you fuck! We cope. He deserves to die, to be forced into committing suicide and dying. Like Clell. Aye, if I had my way that would happen with the fucked up: a sort of psychic natural selection. I’d take over the fuckin do-gooding helplines and if one of those sad cases phoned up I’d say: I think you’re absolutely correct to feel such despair. Gie the world a brek and take your own miserable life. If you need any help I’ll be round in a few minutes. Bladesey. He’s fuckin rubbish. Me, hanging aboot wi that nae-mates trash? Huh! I think not. I’m starting to hyperventilate as I look down on him. – I wish I could believe you . . . I wish I could fuckin believe you . . . I’m fuckin oot ay here! I storm out the room knocking over a chair and I hear Bladesey crying, – Brooosss . . . as I depart.

Outside, I regain my composure. I thumb back towards the interview room. – Damaged. In the fuckin nut. Don’t give that spastic any fucking coffee, I hiss at the poor uniformed spastic who’s a little shaken.

– Right gaffer, he says meekly.

I like this officer. I like being called ‘gaffer’. It’s a term some spastics around this nick are going to have to get used to when that promo comes through! I kid you not! I say tatty-bye-byes to the tatty-muncher McLaughlin, thanking the Romanist for his assistance and confirming that, yes, retrospectively, I should have seen that we were dealing with damaged goods in the form of Brother Blades. I drive back to HQ. I’m soon at my desk studying Monica from Sheffield’s full paps, each little goose-pimple on them clearly defined. The photographer’s done the business with this one. A keen student of the game.

The phone goes. External. I skip a heartbeat and then feel a long tense drawing in my chest. I pick it up.

– Hello?

It’s Bunty.

– Bunty, I state.

– Have they got him?

– Yes. I’ve just been down there to see him.

– Still denying everything, I’ll bet.

– Yeah . . . to be expected. They all do it. Not a particularly pleasant experience, it has to be said.

– Yes . . . it must have been . . . Bruce, when can I see you?

– I’ve been giving that a bit of thought Bunty, and I think it’s for the best that we keep a low profile with our relationship, at least until this mess is cleared up.

– What . . .

– Bunty, this could cost me dearly. I’m a detective. I should have picked up that Cliff was suspect. I knew what he was like through the craft, with the videos and stuff. We . . . I could be a laughing stock on the job! There’s a promotion coming up. You get my drift?

– Bruce, I’ll be discreet about us until the time is right. I promise I won’t say anything. But you must come and see me Bruce . . .

– Of course I will, I say softly down the phone. – We’ve got something special, haven’t we?

I’ll be round to fuck you soon you big fat hoor.

– I think so, she says, her voice breaking, – but I’d never get in the way of your career, I’d never do anything to foul that up.

– Bunty, you don’t know how much it means to hear you say that to me. All my life I felt that I was meant for greater things but there was always something holding me back, some missing piece in the jigsaw. That missing piece, I can see now, is the love and understanding of a wonderful woman. That’s what you are Bunty, a wonderful woman. And you’ve suffered so much . . . I want to put that right . . .