Filth

by Irvine Welsh

  – Bladesey, got any two pences? Two twos or four ones is all I need.

  – There’s a five p, Bladesey says. I take it and drop it into the driver’s hand, taking back one penny. – There, I tell the cunt cheerfully, – that’s us square. Three pounds sixty pence.

  – Thanks very much, he muses.

  – Not at all, thank you very much, I smile. The fuckwit pockets the coins and speeds off as I open the gate.

  – Did you not give the chap a tip? Bladesey asks.

  – I would not give that spastic the shite off my shoe, I tell him.

  – There’s a couple of chaps from the Lodge that drive taxis . . .

  – Ah ken that good and well Brother Blades. Just because some fucking cowboy’s in the craft, it doesnae make him due a tip in my book. Same rules apply. A tip? These bastards, ah widnae gie them a bad tip oan the fuckin gee-gees. Do we care? Do we fuck!

  In the kitchen I pour myself a good measure of twelve-year-old Chivas Regal and I fill a glass with Tesco’s Scotch Whisky out of one of these plastic bottles for Bladesey. I’m thinking that it’s our national drink and with him being an English cunt, he won’t notice the difference and he’s three sheets anyway. I could have pished in a glass and he wouldnae have kent any better.

  After a while he looks a bit melancholy. – You’re so lucky with your wife. She seems to understand you, he bleats.

  It looks like he’s ready to open up about his relationship with this big piece he married last year. Bunty, her name is. He worships the big cow: it’s Bunty this, Bunty that, wi the wee cunt. Of course, she seems to treat Brother Clifford Blades like shite. In my experience this means that the woman needs a good fucking or a better one than Bladesey’s capable of giving her. Same rules apply.

  – It’s all a question of values, I tell him. – I mean . . . it’s like what you want out of life. Mind you, I’ll need to give this place a good tidy before she comes back! It’s like a midden!

  – Mmm, you certainly will, Bladesey says, sipping at his whisky. I’m sure the cunt’s face screwed up a wee bit. Fuck’um. Cheeky wee bastard.

  – What about your daughter Bruce? What school’s she at?

  – Eh, Mary Erskine’s. Still at the primary likes.

  – Actually, em, I’m, eh, having a bit of a difficult time with Craig. Bunty’s so protective of him. He’s never really accepted me. It’s not as if I’ve set myself up as a father substitute . . . I mean, I thought, play it all by ear . . . your daughter, you never have any problems with her, do you?

  – . . . There was a wee incident . . . she was caught telling lies, silly wee lies, it was nothing major, it’s all behind us now . . . I tense up. I should not be telling that bastard any of my business. The best form of defence is attack . . .– Listen Bladesey, my auld mucker, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?

  – Well, I . . .

  – You and Bunty. Are you shagging her?

  Bladesey looks at me, then averts his gaze. That cunt’s no daein any shaggin, no fuckin way. When he starts to speak, he seems embarrassed, but not offended, no that I gie a fuck. – Well . . . eh . . . actually, that side of things haven’t been too great lately . . .

  I nod sternly as Bladesey coughs out his humiliation to me. This wanker actually thinks I care. Wrong!

  – I suppose I’ve actually, eh, always been a bit of a loner . . . always had difficulty in making friends . . . that’s why the craft’s actually been so good for me . . . everybody’s accepted . . . Getting this job up here and meeting Bunty . . . well, I thought I’d landed on my feet. I mean Bruce, I don’t know what she wants. I never so much as raise my voice at her, even when she’s being rather unreasonable to me and I always provide. I mean . . .

  I had better straighten the laddie out once and for all. – Listen mate, a bit of advice in the affairs-of-the-heart department. With women what you have to do is shag them regularly. Keep them well-fucked and they’ll do anything for you. Well-shod and well-shagged, that’s the auld phrase.

  – You actually believe that?

  – Course I do. All these stupid spastics at the marriage guidance counsellors: a load of fuckin shite. The root of a marital problem is always sexual. Women like to get fucked, whatever they make out. If you ain’t fucking the woman you’re supposed to be with then that creates a vacuum and nature abhors one of them. Sure as fuck some cunt’ll come along and fill the gap. Fill it with several inches of prime beef. And if she’s no daein it for you, you go and get your hole somewhaire else. I know that I could just go out now and get my hole like that, I snap my fingers in his face causing him to recoil in his chair, – if I wanted it likes.

  – You really think it’s that easy?

  – Course it fuckin well is. There’s fanny gantin oan it, I kid you not. In this toon, in every fuckin toon. Right across this big wide world, I sweep my arms across the room. – All you need to know is where to look. Now me, I’m a detective. I’m polis. A good polisman always knows where to look. And I’m good at my job. I’m maybe not the best polisman in the world, I tell him, waiting for him to nod empathetically, before snapping in dead seriousness, – but I’m certainly one of ’em.

  Cause I fuckin well am.

  – Well, I’m looking forward to Amsterdam, I must say, he says, looking flushed.

  A sad wanker. No self-confidence.

  – It’ll be fuckin magic Bladesey, I kid you not. Hoors of all colours, shapes and sizes. Slàinte!

  Carole

  The problem with Bruce is that he keeps it all in, I know that he’s seen some terrible things in his job and I know that, whatever he says, they’ve affected him deeply. He’s a very sensitive man underneath it all. His hard front fools a lot of people, but I really know my man. They don’t understand what a complicated person he is. To know him is to love him and I certainly know him.

  What I know for instance, is that Bruce has an effect on women. I know that they find him attractive. I know because I’m aware of the effect I have on men. If you’re a sexy person I think you’re always very much aware of the sexuality of others. The sexual aura if you like. It becomes a common currency, a code, an unspoken language. Yes, some people just have that sort of glow around them and I know that Bruce certainly does.

  I spend a lot of time getting myself ready because I always like to look good for him, and for myself too. There are some women who say that you shouldn’t dress to please a man, but when you love someone you revel in their pleasure and I’m guilty of that and I always will be.

  I look at my own naked body in front of the mirror. I think, yes Carole, you’ve still got it girl. I think I’m losing weight. I put on my bra, clipping it at the front, then sliding it round and putting my breasts into it. I take a silky cream blouse from the wardrobe and put it on and button it up. I love the feel of this particular blouse on my skin. There’s a navy blue skirt here which goes well with it. I put on the skirt and look at myself in the mirror. Yes, definitely losing that bit of weight I put on; the skirt is hanging well. My face has a wide forehead, but this effect I can neutralise by wearing my fringe long. I admire my full mouth and nice big lips. Bruce always admires my lips, and my small nose and large brown eyes.

  I dig out some blue, velvet-effect shoes from the bottom of the wardrobe. I’m thinking about Bruce all the time, about how we play these break-up/make-up games with each other, how these wee absences we take from each other are just a tease, which only make our hearts grow fonder. I feel a need and an aching for him, I’ll have to get back to him soon. I wrap my arms around myself and imagine that we’re together. In a sense we are together because nothing, space, time, distance whatever, can break the delicious communion between us.

  Equal Opportunities

  It took me ages to get ready this morning because I couldnae think what to wear. It’s Carole’s fault; if she was going to shoot off, she could at least have arranged a fuckin laundry service before she went. I came close to just wrapping it and leaving it till the
afternoon to go in. However, I discover a black pair of flannels which aren’t too bad once I’ve shaken out some of the dead skin cells.

  I’m glad I made the effort though, because my wee girlfriends are in for questioning. I could fuckin well love this wee yin right doon tae her pores. Thir’s nothing better than a bird wi these wee lips that curl outwards, highlighted by plenty lip gloss. The classiest young fanny realise this: you can never overdo it on the lipstick and the mascara.

  There’s a twitching in my flannel troosers and I take a deep breath in order to compose myself. Thank fuck I’m a professional and can rise above any other agenda. – So you didn’t see anyone behaving what might be termed suspiciously at the nightclub? I ask her. She’s a fuckin wee shag this lassie. Estelle, her name is.

  – Nuht, she says distractedly. The wee cow’s mind’s on something else. Gus has her mate next door, I’d like to see how he gets on. I’m about to turn up the heat on this cocky wee slag when I remember that Amanda Drummond’s in the same room as us. She’s looking at me, and her nose is twitching. I ignore her. Then she says, – D.S. Robertson, can I have a word?

  I leave the room, followed by Drummond. This fuckin case. We’re making no fucking headway. I’ve spent most of the morning interviewing some of the punters who were in the club, but very few people will admit to remember seeing Wurie leave. The doorman, that Mark Wilson fucker, I recognised that cunt straight away, and he must have minded of the boy but he’s no letting on. As wide as Leith Walk, that cunt. Those two lassies, Sylvia Freeman and Estelle Davidson, I got a vibe off, but that was probably just because they were shags rather than because of any information they had. I’ll haul them in again later on. That wee Estelle. Phoah. Mind you, that Sylvia n aw. They can come back. They will come back. When Drummond’s oot the fuckin road.

  We’re out in the corridor and there’s a couple of painters splashing cheap institution emulsion on the walls. One of them, I note, is eyeing Drummond’s shapeless, bony arse. – We should finish up here now Bruce. There’s this afternoon’s course, she reminds me. I avert my gaze from the painter to her. One thing I do like about her though: those protruding front teeth which could provide serious fun if they got under your foreskin. No that Drummond would have ever learned how to make best use of them.

  – I was trying to forget about that, I tell her. Drummond turns her head away and focuses at some crack on the tiled floor. She’s developing a certain expertise in editing out bad news from the airwaves. Well, there will be fuckin plenty tae edit, I kid you not.

  This fuckin daft course. As if I give a Luke and Matt Goss. But I have to comply and we dismiss the slags and head down the cannie with Gus for a shorter than usual lunch. The blonde piece is at the table opposite with another couple of civvy shags. I think about going over to say hello, but I see Drummond flapping around like a pelican and Gus and I decide that we won’t get any peace until we go up to her fuckin course.

  – Ah dinnae see the point ay they modules. Waste ay fuckin time if ye ask me. Somebody’s probably murdering some poor cunt doon in Pilton, and we’re poncing aroond here wi some silly wee lassies, I say, during the coffee and enrolment.

  – Gie them a chance Robbo, we’ve no even started yet, Clelland says. Clelland says.

  Clell’s a wind-up merchant of the first degree. He’s a leathery alcoholic guy with short grey hair and a red face. Jowls like piss-flaps. There’s the desperate incubating stink of stale aftershave off him. It covers a multitude of sins. I know.

  – Listen Clell, think ay the years we’ve seen in service. Some silly wee tart goes tae college n gets a degree in fuckin sociology and then does some Daz Coupon Certificate in Personnel Management and joins the force on this graduate accelerated programme and she’s earning nearly as much fuckin dough as you or me who’re pittin ourselves oan the fuckin line tryin tae stoap schemies killin each other! She’s never seen past a fuckin desk withoot a real polisman chaperoning her everywhere! Then she writes this fuckin stupid policy document saying: ‘be kind to coons and poofs and silly wee lassies like me’ and everybody gets the fuckin hots. Then they get this posh wee chinky bird wi an American accent tae come in n tell us how tae dae our job and how tae relate tae the public, with, surprise surprise, another set ay forms tae fill in! Aye right! We do look sweet!

  That reminds me. I’ve a OTA 1–7 tae fill in for my overtime.

  – Aye, says Gus Bain, – Scotland’s a white man’s country. Always has been, always will be. That’s the way ah see it at any rate, and ah’m too long in tooth tae change now, he chuckles cheerfully. A good auld boy Gus.

  – Precisely Gus. Ah mind when I took Carole and wee Stacey tae see that Braveheart. How many pakis or spades did ye see in the colours fightin for Scotland? Same wi Rob Roy, same wi The Bruce.

  – Aye, says Andy Clelland, – but that’s a long time ago now.

  – Precisely. We built this fuckin country. Thir wis nane ay them at Bannockburn or Culloden when the going was tough. It’s our blood, our soil, our history. Then they want tae waltz in here and reap all the benefits and tell us that we should be ashamed ay that! We were fuckin slaves before these cunts were ever rounded up and shipped tae America!

  Inside the session, the wee chinky bird, this wee San Yung or whatever they call her, she’s standing up wi that business suit oan and she’s saying: – Right, I wanna do a free association brainstorming exercise. Just call out at random, any responses you can think of.

  She turns and writes a heading on the flipchart: WHAT DOES ‘RACISM’ MEAN TO YOU?

  Clell shouts out first: – Discrimination.

  The wee chinky burd goes aw hot n focused and eagerly writes it down on the chart.

  Gillman steams in, no like the cunt I’m sure: – Conflict, he snaps.

  As she’s writin this doon, Clell says, – Might no be conflict. Might be harmony. Gillman ignores him.

  Gus Bain says: – You’re thinkin of the hairspray.

  I chip in and say: – That girl’s not wearing Harmony hairspray. Everybody has a wee laugh at that, well the boys that are auld enough tae mind ay the ad do. Even Dougie Gillman smiles.

  The chinky bird raises her voice and says, – I think . . . is it Andy? Clelland nods, – I think Andy made a valid point here. We in policework tend to be conditioned into seeing a conflict-based society due to the nature of our jobs, but in fact race relations in Britain is characterised much more by harmony than anything else.

  – It’s the leading brand of hairspray, I tell her. Nobody laughs this time and I’m feeling isolated, like a daft cunt.

  At least the hoor seems upset, which is what it’s all about. She looks directly at me and asks, – What does the term racism mean to you . . . she looks at my name tag, – . . . Bruce?

  – It doesn’t mean anything to me. I just treat everyone the same.

  Bain claps slowly and emphatically, his eyes glazed and his chin jutting out.

  – Okay, very laudable, chinky-girl says, – but do you not recognise racism in others?

  – Nup. That’s thaire lookout. You take responsibility for your own behaviour, not other people’s, I tell her. I’m chuffed, that was a good point to make, straight from these cunts’ daft interpersonal skills training jargon. I can see that it almost strikes a chord with this Kitchen Sink’s fucked up way of thinking. Then Amanda Drummond jumps in with, – But surely in our professional role as law enforcement officers, we have to accept responsibility for society’s problems. This is implicit, I would have thought.

  You are a silly wee cunt. That is explicit, I would have thought. No way are you rocking B.R. spastic fanny. The same rules are applying to the fucking maximum here girlie. – I was speaking as an individual. I thought this was what you wanted. No hiding behind professional roles, I think we were told at the pre-course briefing, we were to respond as human beings. Of course as a law enforcement officer I accept that we have these responsibilities.

  The dopey dyke looks fazed by this and defl
ects the question. Standard tactics. She’s acting like a fuckin criminal. Polis? That? Ha! – Good point Bruce, she says patronisingly, – anybody else got anything to add?

  – The biggest problem, Gus starts up, – and youse’ll no like me for sayin this, but it has to be said, the biggest problem is that blacks cause the maist crime, then he’s turning to me, – You worked in London for the Met, Robbo. Tell them.

  – Well, I can only speak for my time in the Stroud, I say noncommittally. I look over at Ray Lennox. His face is impassive but there’s a tension in his eyes. I’ll bet the cunt’s suffering. Been on that nostril shite again, I’ll wager four to one on.

  Chinky-drawers comes in, – What about Stroud Green?

  – I think it would be inappropriate to get into the particular problems that one area may or may not have had, I tell her sharply.

  – Fine, she says hesitantly. She didnae like that rebuff. But of course, it’s no real problem. If we won’t talk, then these fuckers are never shy about filling in the gaps. So we listen to a dull lecture, marking time until the coffee break, the heat from the radiator almost making us doze off.

  Finally, we adjourn for coffee. Shitey wee fuckin biscuits, that’s all they give us with the coffee. I usually get a roll from the canteen or something from the bakers for my piece, but naw, that’s all forgotten about with this disruption for their coon-loving course. They think of no other cunt’s routine but their own. I take a coffee and stand over beside Clell. I deliberately keep away from Gus. A nice cunt, but he’s giving far too much away. Too far into that three score and ten to learn a new script. Careless, and that’s food and drink to these cunts. Lennox has the right idea. He’s too wide though, that fucker.