Irvine Welsh - Filth

– Oh Bruce . . .

– Just keep mum my darling, and I’ll be round to see you soon. That’s a promise.

– Okay Bruce.

– I’ll see you soon.

– Bruce . . . I love you . . .

Fuck off fatso. The moment Bladesey was banged up, that was you and me in the death throes of our relationship. Mind you, I might string this cow along for a bit longer; asks no awkward questions and keeps a good, clean hoose. She’d get a formidable crease oan a collar, that yin! – I love you too Bunty.

There’s a silence.

– I have to go, I tell her. I’ve got another call coming in. I have as well. It’s Shirley. Fuckin hell. I’ve heard ay the expression fanny comin oot the fuckin waws, but it’s certainly comin oot fae the receiver. I see Gillman over in the corner by the sink and he’s holding up my Hearts mug and guesturing at the kettle with his free hand.

– Shirley, I say curtly. I check for the Kit-Kats in my drawer. Still a few left.

– Bruce . . . I need to see you. I need to talk. I give Dougie the thumbs up sign.

– What about?

– I need to see you! Pleeeassssse . . .

This cunt’s gaun fuckin loopy oan ays here. – Alright, alright! Jeannie Deans, in half an hour!

– Be there Bruce, please don’t let me down . . .

– I won’t, we tell her. I won’t what: be there or let her down? Then, thinking of Bunty, not of how we feel about Bunty, but what we said to her, we say, – I love you.

– You mean that?

The even-handed approach. It enhances credibility both in policing and in relationships! – I said it. I’m on my way. See you soon.

– See you.

I put the phone down. What is that spasticated cow wanting from me? We have enough fucking trouble on our plate as it is. I go over to the kettle, where Gillman and Ray Lennox are in conference. – Gascoigne was right, and Best even said it as well. Thir’s never been a man, a real man, who hasnae slapped his missus. Aw that liberal airy-fairy bullshit. She steps oot ay line, she gits a bat in the mooth, that’s it.

Lennox is shaking his head slowly in disgust. – We investigate crimes ay domestic violence. That’s assault and it’s against the law ay the land.

– Phah, Gillman sneers, and nobody sneers quite like him. If someone told me, in sincerity, that I girned like Gillman, I would die a happy man. I can tell it’s draining the blood from Lennox’s face at five feet. – Ah git enough fuckin mooth oan the job withoot takin it fi some cunt in the hoose. He looks to me, – Put this cunt right Bruce.

– I have to fly. I’m having woman problems, I smirk. – But this is a subject which needs further discussion. The bar

They nod affirmatively, Lennox with reluctance, and I, we, I . . . we’re all here . . . jump in the motor and speed towards the Jeannie Deans pub in the South Side. We decide to drive through Queens Park and we marvel at Salisbury Craigs’ imposing face which towers above us. This city of ours is truly beautiful and we like this part where there is not a scheme in sight. Why could we not simply move all the scum to the middle of nowhere, like Glasgow, where they would blend in more effectively? Come to think of it, that’s exactly what we did do, when we built the schemes. Sent them far, but not far enough.

We still have a wrap of coke on us and there must be a good half a G left and we rub a load of it into our gums and our face goes numb. We need it for this Shirley hoor, we know that she is going to make demands on us. We are not to be entrusted with the demands of the weak. It is not in our character.

Shirley is sitting on her own at a table in the corner of the empty bar. She looks like a hopeful hoor on a day shift. When we get closer we can observe her distress through her red, puffy face. Apparently our sister-in-law has been crying.

– Bruce . . . I had a smear . . . a cervical smear . . . there was something there . . . I have to go back for more tests . . .

– I’m sorry, we tell her, – but that’s just one of those things. No sense in getting all steamed up until you see what the other test results tell you.

– But I can’t cope . . . I’ve nobody since Danny left . . . I need you Bruce. I need somebody . . . I need support Bruce . . .

Just looking at her there, at her distress, just for a second, we wish we were stronger. I wish I was somebody else, the person she’s mistaking me for, the person whom she wants to mistake me for. The person who gives a fuck. – Sorry, we tell her. – I don’t see what I can do. You’ll have to sort it out.

I’ve been licking her diseased fanny. Oh my God.

Then I, we, start to think: no way should Stronach be getting his game in the middle of the park with that young boy languishing in the reserves, what’s his name, him that played towards the end of season. He’s fit now, so there’s no excuse for such poor selection.

– Bruce, please, she says, and grabs our hand in hers. We brush her away. – Sorry Shirley, we say, rising, as she starts the waterworks. – Nothing we can do. Urgent case, eh. Sort it out and keep me posted. Chin up! Ciao!

We dance across the floor in the pub, slipping deftly past two chairs and as we turn can see her round, dark, black hole of a mouth and she’s bawling something but we are spinning away out the door and she rises to follow us but we nash like fuck across the car park, humming the closing credits tune of The Benny Hill Show .

She’s still in hot pursuit screaming Brooosss and we realise that we’re running in the wrong direction, away from the car. We look back and slow down, regaining breath and then turning round, standing still and smiling as she approaches us breathing heavily. We then do a quick shuffle and sell her such a Charlie Cooke-style dummy that had she been a defender, she would, indeed, have had to pay to get back in the park!

Gotcha!

Emulate that Stronach!

She falls on to her knees howling in frustration as we, I, we dive in the car and start up the motor and we head down the road, watching her broken figure receding from us in the mirror.

Shirley brought it on herself. A disease of the fanny, divine retribution for her infidelities. We have our rash, that is our penance. We do not inflict our misfortune on others. We are not made that way.

Daft cunt.

Our, my, head is spinning but I feel euphoric and sick at the same time. There is no way that I can go back to the office and be harassed by hoors. It’s hoggers the morn: oot wi the old, in wi the new. Same rules for fanny as for everything else. We, I, radio in to Toal, telling him that we are following up several leads. I then head home, via stopping at the offie for more supplies, then driving out to Hector The Farmer’s place to pick up some books of a specialist nature which will be used to provide our, my, evening’s entertainment.

Hector’s buoyant when I get to his. He’s smoking that pipe, which always gives him an even more contented air. – You know Bruce, the best thing ye ever did was tae pit me in touch wi wee Claire. I’ve turned intae a right auld sugar daddy. Fantastic wee lassie.

My fuckin . . . I feel a surge of jealousy and remember that she’s just a hoor and it’s all commercial transactions. I have a quick malt with Hector and head off. As he shows me out that fuckin collie tries to jump me again. – Down Angus! It’s just Bruce!

He hauls the dug away and I drive off, still annoyed at Claire for going with that old bastard.

Women.

I can’t

Carole

Shirley

I can’t

Shirley, find somebody strong. This job, this life, it’s drained my strength. I don’t need a lame duck in tow.