Filth

by Irvine Welsh

We’re waiting on our young Mister Lennox. Fuckin sure we are.

  Clell, Gillman and I are joined by the wee chinky bird with the toff’s English-Yank accent. It keeps fuckin well changing. Probably been tae posh schools all over the world. I hate those privileged cunts. They think that you’re fuck all, that they can just use you tae clean up their shite, and in fact, most of the time they are spot-on. What they don’t know though, is that you’re always lurking in the shadows. The opportunity to pounce usually never comes along but you’re always lurking, always ready. Just in case.

  Chinko’s been giein it loadsay fuckin mooth awright. The particular problems ay the inner city. Aye, right ye fuckin well are doll, you didnae get an accent like that in any fuckin inner city. She’s rabbiting on trying to get us tae open up, standard tactics, but we’re keeping it tight. Clell’s expanding a wee bit, saying what the cunt wants tae hear, but he’s on a wind-up. He’s jousting with me and Gus; it’s just the bastard getting in role. I think the best way tae handle these cunts is just tae keep stumpf. The best cons ken that n aw: just say fuck all. She’s rabbiting on though and I’m nodding at her, looking at her eyes and lips moving and I start tae think of her fanny.

  I’d fuckin well gie her one awright. No much in the coupon stakes but a tidy body on it. High marks in curvature of arse. Never mind the mantelpiece when yir pokin the fire; that’s my motto, and it’s stood me in good stead. Same rules.

  It’s as if she can read my thoughts, cause she sort of blushes and looks at the clock. – Well, she goes, – we’d better be making a move back.

  Ah’ll fuckin well make a move on you in a minute ya cunt. Probably game as fuck n aw.

  Lennox is talking to Amanda Drummond. Most likely trying to slip her a length, the dirty fucker. Although with Lennox it wouldnae be much ay a length. Drummond catches me staring at them and looks away. I’d give her one, if only to pass the time of day. Maybe a knee-trembler in the bogs, if I had a bit of time between finishing the crossword and piece brek. Lennox’s index finger rubs the side of his beak. Ice-cool cunt Ray Lennox’s give-away that he’s telling porky pies, that underneath it all he’s a suffering bag of nerves.

  Aye Lennox ya cunt, you’ll ken.

  So we get back into it. Clell’s playing the nice cunt, Gus is winding them up, and I’m keeping stumpf. It’s hot and I’m starting to feel a bit nauseous and shaky. My guts feel sick and heavy. It’s like there’s something in me, I can almost feel it growing, getting stronger. A tumour perhaps, like the one that did in the auld girl. Prone to it, our family. But she was . . . I’m starting to sweat heavily, a panic attack’s coming on.

  I’m losing it.

  Fuck that.

  I’m not like Busby or any of those long-term sick-through-stress saplings that can’t handle the big time. The cunts here’ll never fuckin know, they’ll never fuckin ken cause I’m better than that, better than all of them, stronger than the fuckin lot of those cunts put together.

  I excuse myself and go to the bogs. Inside the lavvy I’m shaking and my teeth are hammering together. I sit on the toilet seat. My arse is itching really badly. I want to sterilise those piles: some boiling water, a sharp pain and then that’s it. The bog paper is just that harsh council-issue garbage. Fuckin cunts! How do they expect me . . .

  I give my piles a clawing until my eyes water. The pain is something to focus on. My breathing is slowing down and the shaking’s subsiding. I try to have a wank, attempting to picture the chinky bird, then Amanda Drummond, in the buff, but nothing’s coming to me. I should have sneaked out the paper. I don’t know who the shag was on page three, I haven’t seen her before.

  When I get back in, I’m still a bit jumpy. All the eyes are on me.

  – You don’t look very happy Bruce, Amanda Drummond says, – are you okay? Are you feeling okay?

  Attack is the best form of defence. I look her in the eye. – I’d be a lot more okay if I knew what I was doing here. Like several of my colleagues I’ve been involved in a murder investigation: I’m trying to solve the murder of a man from an ethnic minority group. I’ve been taken off that to spend time here. I say this in such a way as to let her know that I don’t consider her to be on the case. – Answer me this if you can: what advances racial harmony most: this course or solving that crime? Cause we sure ain’t gonna solve no crime sittin here, sister, I tell her.

  – Hear hear! Gus says, and starts clapping, and some of the other boys follow suit. Peter Inglis whistles.

  This gies the hoor a beamer and a half.

  – It’s not a question of one or the other, we need to do both . . . she says weakly, then adds with a bit of gusto, – as the strategy paper makes quite clear.

  Oh, the strategy paper is it now? I wondered when we were going to get on to that particular pile of fucking pish. Well I’ve done my homework, dykeface, thank you very much. – I’m glad you mentioned that because if I could quote a circular from Personnel relating to the strategy paper, and I quote: – ‘There are no sacred cows in a modern organisation like the police force. Everything is up for grabs, everything has a priority value.’

  – Exactly. The fact that you’re here shows it has priority, she snootily retorts.

  – Precisely. Conversely, the fact that we are not out there investigating the murder of a young man shows that that does not have priority.

  – Hear hear! shouts Dougie Gillman. Nasty piece of work Dougie, but a brilliant interrogator. One of the few cunts on the force who would make a formidable opponent. Just as well he’s not thrown his hat into the ring for the inspector’s post. He respects the craft hierarchy.

  – And so say all of us, Gus barks.

  These spastics are not fucking well getting it their own way the day, that’s as sure as the shite on your shoe. By the end of the day they look as bedraggled as a couple of hoors off the backshift, I kid you not.

  At the end of the course I note that Ray Lennox is enjoying a bit of banter with Gus. These cunts seem as right as fuck. That’ll be sorted right out though.

  I’m thinking again about the promo stakes on my way downstairs. It’s not a fucking particularly strong field.

  GUS BAIN Too auld and stupid.

  KEN ARNOTT From B division. A straight-down-the-line dull nae-mates-outside-the-force-and-craft polisman. A serious threat if he had half a brain.

  PETER INGLIS No wonder he’s crawling up my arse when he’s had the audacity to put in for this post. A loser. Something fucking queer aboot that sad loner.

  I get to my desk and there’s a message saying that a woman was trying to get me, she didn’t leave her name. It’ll be Carole, nothing surer. Seeing the error of her ways. Getting a bit weepy on her own with Christmas approaching. That is her problem. I have to head off and see the quack. I’ve an appointment.

  I drive out across the city. These cunts have changed the one-way system tae confuse you even further. Trying tae drive from one side of the toon tae the other with aw this Denis Law lying is a fucking joke. If it was up tae me I’d ban all these buses and chop off most of these silly gairdins and get a few fucking new lanes doon Princes Street.

  At Dr Rossi’s surgery I’m kept waiting for twelve minutes. I am here at 5.25 for my 5.30 appointment, but it is 5.42 by the time I get seen, probably thanks to some dopey auld cow who smells stale and just wants to waste stamp-payers’ money by talking all day to a doctor, the only person who will come near her on account of the whiff coming fae the cunt.

  It’s okay you fuckin mingin auld bastard, it’s only a fuckin murder investigation I’m on. Carry on, carry on, don’t mind me.

  When I get in, Rossi makes no apology for keeping me late. Instead he asks me to drop my keks.

  – Well Mr Robertson, Rossi says, inspecting my testicles and my inner thighs, – this looks like eczema.

  – Eczema! But here . . . I mean, people get eczema on their back, or arms or face . . . but no there . . .

  Rossi’s eyes widen balefully, and a flicker of distaste is
evident in them. – Eczema can occur anywhere. There’s no evidence to suggest that you might have something additional, certainly it’s not an STD.

  There’s me fucking well disintegrating here and this cunt’s just passing it off like it was nowt . . .– I’ve never had this before. Even when I . . . I mean, I’ve just never had this before.

  – Were your parents prone to it? It can be hereditary.

  – No . . .

  Parents fuck off parents fuck off

  – It’s some aggravated skin disorder, probably a form of eczema. I can’t emphasise strongly enough that you should keep that area clean. I’m going to prescribe a cream.

  I take a deep breath and let the sterile air of Rossi’s surgery fill my lungs. I try to remain focused on Rossi without making eye contact. Look at the brows, that’s an old con’s trick: focus on the polisman’s eyebrows rather than his pupils. Haul in a Fyfe a Begbie a McPhee a Wylie or a Doyle and those criminal cunts always adopt the same approach. Eye contact without eye contact. Always fucks the baby polis up, that one. Just formulating a strategy, getting back into the notion of the games feels somewhat empowering and I enquire crisply of Rossi: – What’s brought this on?

  Rossi’s climbing down a bit. His tone’s less haughty now. After all, it’s just two professional men chatting together in a diagnostic mode. Identify problem and suggest possible solutions. – Well, you may be allergic to a certain foodstuff. It may be part of the stress and anxiety-related condition you’ve been experiencing.

  Stress. That figures. The fuckin job. Toal’s caused this! He’s fucked Busby and he thinks he’ll fuck me. Wrong!

  I take Rossi’s creams and head away hame. Home is not a good place for me, it never was. I prefer to work all the overtime I can. People like Gus, they lap up the OT. They get in the habit during the summer so that they can accrue as much time to get on the gowf during the day when the links are clear. Me, I can only sleep during the day. I like to keep busy at night. I head home and have a quiet evening in wanking to some of Hector The Farmer’s videos. I take a glance at the Evening News. There’s an article by a spastic who’s their so-called ‘Chief Crime Reporter’ which seems to just offer a sounding board for any bitter coon lover to criticise the service. Then I head out to Jammy Joe’s disco: a chance to combine business with pleasure. It’s a bugger to get parked in the town and I shouldn’t have taken the motor. Still, I’m going to stay quite sober, I just want to fire into some game tart and take her hame and fuck her until I feel tired enough to get some zeds in.

  That Mark Wilson boy is on the door, and the smart cunt’s nervously checking me out. Yes, I’m almost positive that cunt used to run with the CCS back in his day. If that’s the case, he’s bound

  again. If last night was about emptying the bag, tonight, thank fuck, is Lodge night. The masons is the only place that you can go to meet cunts that arenae polis. It’s different up here tae down in England. There are, of course, some fat cats and professional types, like down south, but in the Lodges up here it’s mainly tradesmen. It’s like the gowf: in Scotland you have schemie gowf clubs like Silverknowes. Just you try bein a fuckin tradesman and joinin a golf club in England though.

  I personally think that aprons are for silly wee lassies to wear in the kitchen and no for grown men on a night out. The ritualism of the Lodge has its uses however; it’s made me far more sexually inventive. This helps with the games.

  I make myself some toast on the grill, but I burn the first lot and have to try again. I open the back door to let out the smell. Outside in the back garden I see that Stacey’s bike hasnae been put intae the shed. It’ll rust tae fuck. I stick it inside and then go to the bottom of the garden on the pretext of pottering, but I want to get a good nose into Stronach’s hoose. He’ll be at training today, and I could do with a sketch of his bird, see what that wee cow’s up tae. She doesnae seem tae be at hame though and it’s nippy out here.

  The second batch of toast is fine. It’s midday and I fill in my overtime from last night at Jammy Joe’s on the OTA 1–7 form and head up to HQ in the Volvo accompanied by a tape of Iron Maiden’s self-titled debut album, the offering where Paul Di Anno rather than Bruce Dickinson is at the mic.

  The recent snows have frozen over. Of course, this means chaos on the roads with the highway cunts unable to cope. As if they werenae used to bad weather. There’s a bottleneck stretching from Colinton to fuckin Aberdeen or the likes. THIS HAPPENS EVERY FUCKIN YEAR. I feel like getting out of the car and choking the living shit out of any spastic whose face offends me, which in this case is just about every cunt. Fuckin police force here . . .

  Fuckin emergency services

  Cunts

  I’ll fuckin

  I park the car outside the shops before Napier College. It’s a so-called university now, but every cunt knows it still as Napier College. The punters know a real uni when they see it and this fuckin place for trainee basket-weavers in no way fits the bill. Same rules. There’s a decent bakery here and I radio in and tell them that the traffic’s scandalous and I’ll see them when I do.

  When I finally make it in, I start going through the papers on the Wurie case. I’m interrupted by a call from Gus Bain who’s up in records. If I didnae ken that bastard better, I’d say that he was sniffing roond the big blonde piece up there n aw. But he’s been married tae the same auld boot for seventy thousand light years, the churchy auld cunt.

  – Bruce. Gus here. Have you opened your internal mail yit? A wee present fae the funny felly up the stair.

  I rip open one of the pile of sealed envelopes in my in-tray, the one with the Nid’s name on it.

  * * *

  INTERNAL MEMO

  To: D.S.s Gillman, Stark, Robertson, Mclnally, Thomas, Inglis, Clelland, Noble, Phillips, Lennox and Bain

  From: Chief Superintendent Niddrie.

  Date: 3rd December 1997.

  Re: Equal Opportunities Module: Racism Awareness.

  The course tutors have brought to our attention cases of inappropriate attitudes and behaviour on the course of which you were a member. With this in mind it is intended to hold a series of individual debriefing sessions with course members, the tutors and members of the core team of which myself and Deputy Chief Constable Mathieson are members.

  With this in mind, please report to my office on Friday, 4th December at 2.15 p.m., the scheduled time for your debriefing.

  * * *

  I’m sitting digesting it, and snapping open another Kit Kat when Inglis and Gillman come in moaning.

  – That’s the fuckin morn, Gillman snorts. – What kind ay notice is that?

  Niddrie must be getting his heid nipped by the top brass. This case isn’t going to go away, more’s the pity. The boys are girning away about it and old Gus has arrived. The auld boy’s fairly up for stirring it as well.

  – Well, ah’ll tell ye something, he’s saying, – ah’m no gaun up thair withoot a Fed rep. That’s you, he smiles, looking at me.

  It’s patently obvious that the sorry old goat is trying to get me to wind up Niddrie and Toal and bomb myself right out of the promo race. He’s such a predictable old fuck. It makes sense to humour him.

  – Too fuckin right Gus! What the fuck is this shite? Ah’m straight ontae the blower tae Niddrie. You get roond the rest ay the guys. Tell them: say fuck all withoot a Fed rep. This is a fuckin disciplinary fit up. These cunts are looking tae make one ay us an example just because the papers and they mealy-moothed cunts are kickin up shite about this deid silvery moon.

  – Right, Gus says.

  I sit down and compose myself. I then phone this Marshall guy from the Multicultural Forum on Coon Rights or whatever they call it, the cunt that’s been hassling me. – Hello Mr Marshall? D.S. Robertson here.

  – I’ve been trying to get you for ages to arrange a meeting . . .

  – Yes, it seems we’ve been a bit like ships in the night. Two o’clock tomorrow okay for you?

  – Yes, that’s fine. S
hall I come to your office?

  – No, not at all, I’ve kept you waiting, I’ll come down to you, I tell him.

  I put the phone down, a satisfying glow coming over me. I then bell Niddrie as I catch Gus’s attention. I gesture at him to put the kettle on.

  – D.S. Robertson here. Re your memo. That date you’re giving me, it’s not convenient, I tell Niddrie. – I’ve made an appointment for that time and I can’t get out of it.

  – Cancel it. This takes precedence, Niddrie sharply informs me. Niddrie hates me calling him direct. Everything should go through Toal. Niddrie believes in the strict hierarchical division of the organisation’s reporting structure. The chain of command. He gives newcomers to our division the old ‘my door is always open’ bullshit, but woe betide the cunts if they ever get daft enough tae try walking through it.

  It would be pleasurable to fuck Niddrie about without needing to play the craft card. I know that those New Labour wankers up the City Chambers have been intoxicated with their election victory and are strutting around like peacocks and coming down hard on Niddrie and co. and one of their beefs is equal opps. – I’m meeting people from the Forum on Racial Equality and Community Relations, I tell him.

  There’s a silence on the other end of the line. – Shit . . . listen . . . you’ll have to go to that one. We’ll need to make it Thursday afternoon. Three-thirty.

  Niddrie puts the phone down on me. I keep the receiver to my ear and then I bell Toal, noting that Gus, busying himself with the coffee, hasn’t seen me redial. He still thinks I’m talking to the Nid.

  – It’s Bruce Robertson, I whisper. – Niddrie’s gied me a new time for the briefing. I have a forum meeting to go to. I’m informing you as my direct supervisor, I raise my voice for Gus to hear, – I’ll come along, but I’ll have a Fed rep with me. Drysdale from the south side.

  Gus raises his eyebrows. He puts a cup of coffee in a Hearts mug in front of me. This isn’t my Hearts mug, it’s Inglis’s. I’ll fuckin catch something off that cunt.