Irvine Welsh - Filth

that crack

and your scream changing now; more broken and desperate than ever before, me making you feel but me still feeling

nothing.

How did it make you feel?

But it wasn’t me that did it. We all have to take our share of the blame.

We can cope with this nothingness. We know it too well to be disabled by it. But it’s so cold. The central heating seems to have broken down. The pilot light has blown out. Carole knew how to fix it. We, I, we consider getting a fire together, but it all seems too much: the fetching of coals, the finding of firelighters (is there a new pack?), the kindling, the lighting.

No.

We have knocked on Tom Stronach’s door a couple of times, but there is no reply. We once heard the television, so we know that Julie is in. The New Year’s Day game. Stronach will be playing in that. But no, the papers said that he was dropped. I would think that he would attend though. Surely. We venture out to Safeway’s for food.

We cannot move our head as we walk.

We hear our breathing in the cold air: rhythmic, deep. It puts us into a kind of a trance. We are still alive. We are in the supermarket. Breathing.

The tins and packets on the shelves are just colours and shapes to us. We cannot recognise the products, cannot read the labels. If we take one of each then the chances are that we will have enough of the right things.

This one.

That one.

This one.

– Detective Ser . . . Mister Robertson . . . I hear a voice at my side.

I turn round to see her, a woman. She looks . . .

. . . she has a large smile on her face. Her hair is nice and her teeth are so white. She wears jeans and a beige polo-neck sweater under a brown lined leather jacket. There’s a sadness in her eyes.

Who is she? I’m befuddled and besotted by lack of sleep and all those voices in my head, clamouring for attention . . . for recognition . . .

All I can say is, – How have you been doing?

– Not bad . . . not good, her face screws up and she laughs bitterly. I really want to see her smile again. She looks so beautiful when she smiles. – I’m really missing him. Why is it only the good die young? she asks me, and she asks it in a real way, as a real question, looking at me as if she thinks that I might know the answer.

– Eh . . . I . . . eh . . .

Now she’s seeing me for the first time. She sees my surgical support collar from where I hurt my neck in the fall. She sees the six-pack of the old purple tin in my shopping basket. I hadn’t realised it was there. It was like they just jumped in of their own accord. She’s seeing me now. She’s seeing a jakey with a four-day growth, a manky overcoat, stained flannels and old trainers.

– Are you alright? she asks.

– Eh? Oh, this , I laugh, looking down at myself. – Undercover, I whisper conspiratorially.

– Isn’t it a bit extreme for shoplifting?

– Ha! This isnae shoplifting. This is huge-scale corporate fraud I’m investigating. I nod over to the staff offices at the back of the supermarket.

– I see, she says vaguely, as her son comes over to her side. – You remember Mister Robertson. The policeman. He tried to help your dad.

– Hiya, the wee guy smiles, but as he clocks me he takes a step back. I smell my flannels. Wafting up the inside of my coat under my nose.

– It’s okay Euan. Mister Robertson’s doing detective work. He’s dressed up as a tramp. It must be exciting being undercover, eh Euan?

The wee guy forces another smile.

– Hiya, I smile back. I look at his Hearts tracksuit. The new one. A Christmas present. I point at the crest. – So you’re a jambo eh? Did you go yesterday?

– Naw . . . he says sadly.

– Colin used to . . . his mother begins.

– Who’s your favourite player? I ask, expecting a Neil McCann or a Colin Cameron.

– Tom Stronach, I suppose, he says, then smiles doubtfully, – but he’s no as good as he used to be.

– My next-door neighbour! I’ll have to get Tom to sort us out with some special tickets for Tynecastle. Would you like that?

– Aye, that would be barry.

– Speak properly Euan, his mother says. She looks at me. – You’re really kind, but I couldn’t let you . . .

– It’s no problem. Honestly.

We exchange addresses and phone numbers.

– That’s a really kind man. Mister Robertson. A good man, I, we, hear her tell the kid as they depart.

Our hands are almost cut in two by the handles on the plastic bags, but we are unaware of this until we reach home.

Who are we?

Who are we?

How did we feel?

We put the hands under the warm tap to help our circulation, but the water is boiling from the electric immersion. We flinch with the scalding pain and shed tears at the iniquity of the situation: that transgressors are living better lives than we are currently able to. More festive television, and a load of fuckin

So we watch television. At some point Toal comes tae the hoose. My first foot. At least he comes here, rather than compelling us go in there . That evil, evil place. Some of them would have, Niddrie would have. We have been officially on the sick, our neck in a surgical support collar.

– It might no really seem appropriate Bruce, but Happy New Year.

– Happy New Year Bob, I hear a voice coming from my stiff, cold, numb lips.

Toal explains to us that we are now suspended following an inquiry of the internal variety, the type of all our inquiries.

– Don’t worry, we’ll do what we can, he tells us, looking around our hoose. He’s not taken his expensive-looking camel coat or his leather gloves off. He looks like a football manager. Like the guy who manages Wimbledon, him that played for Spurs. Steaming breath comes from his mouth. A few feet away in our fireplace lie the ashes of his manuscript.

We cannot nod while we are wearing our support collar. – Appreciate it, we say meekly.

Toal is trying to be firm and compassionate at the same time. He must make us aware of the gravity of the situation, but also offer hope that things will improve. We cannot even feel sorry for ourselves any more. This is a bad sign. We think.

– Listen Bruce, we’ve obviously had to withdraw your application . . . for the promotion. Now is not the right time for you to meet with the promotion board. You see that, don’t you?

We understand what Toal is saying. We cannot be bothered responding. They’ve now taken the job we coveted, the one which was ours by right, but the sense of loss that we feel is strangely negligible.

Toal’s looking around the house with distaste. It’s a mess: aluminium takeaway cartons, chip-shop wrappers, beer cans (purple? aye, it’s found us at last!), plates with rotting scraps of food on them, even a pile of dried sick in one corner. – Listen Bruce, Toal’s face pinches as he allows his nostrils to acknowledge the stench we have long been oblivious to, – you can’t live like this. Is there nobody we can get in touch with, to make sure you’re being looked after?

– No . . .

BUNTY

SHIRLEY

CHRISSIE

CAROLE

Carole. The only one who could give us anything. The rest would just take. We have nothing to give them. But Carole will never return.

– You sure?

– I’ll sort it out boss, we tell Toal. His face looks sourly down at us. – Honest, I try to force a smile.