by Irvine Welsh
– Eh, I don’t know about that Robbo . . . I’ve actually go . . .
– C’mon Blades-ay-ay! The Blazer. The night.
– Well . . . you see, it’s Bunty. She’s a little . . .
– Tell ye what Bladesey, she’s walking aw ower ye. That’s why she’s treating yelike shite, cause she can. The Blazer then.
– Well, alright. But I can only come for a couple.
– That’s my boy! You’ve got bottle Brother Blades. Nine bells at the Blazer!
– Right . . .
– You were in some state last night, I tell him.
– Yes, I’m afraid I can’t really remember much about it . . .
– Very convenient Mister Blades, very convenient.
– Did I do anything . . . eh . . .
– Tell ye in Blazer Bladesey. Must nash.
– Yes . . .
– Tro Bladesey, I slam the phone down. Hurley’s right. The big problem with being polis is that you can’t help but see people as either potential criminals or potential victims. That way you feel either a loathing or a contempt for anyone who isn’t like you, i.e.: polis. All my mates are polis, all except Bladesey and Tom Stronach, the fitba guy next door, who I suppose is a mate of sorts. But it’s mainly Bladesey. And I have to work hard not to let my contempt for Bladesey show.
I look at page three. Cathleen Myers today. A ride and a half. Great tits and a fantastic erse, which the photographer spastic hasn’t given us a sight of with that shot. Still, she’s got those come-to-bed-Bruce-Robertson eyes on. I dial Bladesey’s home number. Thank fuck that 1471 call-back facility hasn’t been installed here yet. It’ll soon mean that you’ll have to be polis, just to be able to play simple games like this one.
– Hello, three-three-six-two-nine-four-six.
It’s Bunty’s voice. I’ve never met her. I let the silence hang a bit.
– Hello? Who’s there?
I try to picture Bunty. I think of Bladesey. He reminds me of Frank Sidebottom, the comedian with the big false head. A Manchester accent: you can do it by holding your nose. – Hello.
– Who’s this?
– I got your noom-bih from a friend.
– Who are you? What do you want?
– Let’s joost say, I’ve erd all about yaw, and them services that yaw provide.
– Listen, I think you’ve got the wrong number . . .
– This is three-three-six-two-nine-four-six?
– Yes . . .
– Then I aven’t got the wrong number then, ave I?
– Who gave you this number?
– Someone who spoke very highly of you. He told me all about you. Said you were a brilliant fook . . .
My cock stiffens at Cathleen’s face and Bunty’s silence as the line clicks dead.
The problem with my game is that we’re not great thinkers. We do. You have to keep doing, to find things to do.
We’re the law enforcers of this society. I think of what that means. It means we are paid to do a job we can’t fucking well do because of all these snidey little cunts: the politicians, lawyers, judges, journalists, social workers and their ilk. Take the City of Edinburgh. Arm me and I would delve into the little black address book I keep at hame in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet. I’d pay a few housecalls, leave a little lead and you just watch the crime figures drop over the following few months. The Robertson solution. Real Zero Tolerance.
It’s an internal call and it’s Toalie. – Come up here straight away Robbo, he says, not waiting for a reply before hanging up. Cunt. Does he think I’m just at his beck and call when I’ve got fuckin work tae dae? Real fuckin work, work of the kind that spazwit would never understand. He’s taken root in that fuckin chair. He probably wants another muthafuckin progress report. I hope we don’t go on for too long as I’ve arranged to do other things. You can kiss my bacon-flavoured po-leese ass, muthafuckah.
I head up the stairs, cruising past central admin to see if I can get a glimpse of the big cock-teasing blonde civvy piece, but no fuckin joy. Lennox was sniffing around it in the canteen earlier, the dirty cunt.
Toalie looks stressed as I sit down beside him. You can tell. He’s never very animated but Brother Toal’s give-away gesture is the bending of his lips over his teeth. You could put a headsquare on the cunt and he’d look like your auld mother.
– We need to get our heads together Robbo, he tells me with urgency charged through his squat frame. – The hammer’s been found. It was buried under a hedge at the top end of Princes Street Gardens. Forensic’s managed to trace micro-particles of blood and tissue in the grain of the metal which match the victim’s. Just found it there, under the bushes.
Bushes. Thick black bushes. Chewed lips from Amsterdam. If I had a hammer. Hammer house of horror.
– I don’t suppose there’s any prints? I ask mechanically.
– Naw . . . it’s been wiped clean, that’s if the killer wisnae using gloves in the first place. As you know, this man’s a diplomat’s son, he says, dropping his voice and raising his eyes, as if I’m supposed to go: Wow! Barry!
I couldn’t give an Aylesbury Duck.
– I see, I see. What kind of a hammer was it?
– Oh, it’s a steel-headed claw hammer with tempered shaft and rubber handle. Standard issue, you can get them at any B&Q or Texas hardware store. The serial number of the hammer was filed off. This boy meant business.
– Right, I’ll get some lucky bastard checking all the sales of hammers from hardware stores over the last few months.
It fuckin well wouldnae be ma joab anyway. Some uniformed spastics and a clerical can go through that one.
I’m thinking to myself that a couple of neds in this city have topped this coon who’s no business, as far as I can see, being here in the first place, so, fuck it. Who gives a toss? The answer is me. This reorganisation post comes up soon. I want that job, so I’m going to ferret out that murdering schemie bastard who topped our innocent coloured cousin. It’s called, in a word, professionalism, and I’m a total fucking pro, something that the spastics around here wouldn’t understand. Same rules apply in each and every case.
But Toal though, he’s slavering on at me. – This is a bloody strange one Robbo. Nothing’s turning up. We’ve been through all the revellers.
That wee Sylvia and Estelle, I’d go through them in a minute.
– Probably some young racist thugs out on the town, I tell him. Fitba guys or BNP members or something. Might need to get in about them. I’d like to lean a bit heavier on some of these young lassies that were there. They shield these guys, it’s their boyfriends and what have you.
– I’m not so sure Robbo. I’m a wee bit fed up of having some silly wee laddies used as a dustbin for every crime in this city. It’s lazy poliswork, that’s what it is.
Him accusing me of lazy poliswork. Him, that’s never been oot fae behind that fuckin desk in yonks. – Aye, awright. But I know they guys. Some of them arnae that wee now, and they’re moving intae other areas besides fighting at the fitba. When these guys start tae believe their ain propaganda, then you have tae watch out. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m not convinced that those spastics are blameless.
Toal raises his eyebrows. – Just keep me informed, he says.
Toal either kens fuck all aboot poliswork, or he’s holding something back, something about this coon case. Which is it? Fuckin both, that’s obvious. Whatever he says, these cunts are a good starting point. It’s time some of these fuckers went down; whether or not they did this one is immaterial, they are bad bastards and banging some of them up will make the streets safer. It’s time to lean on some cunt, I’m bored sitting here shuffling papers. It has tae be Ocky. The weakest of weak links in the chain. An E-riddled fanny merchant who hangs out with some of the top boys because they like the cunt’s devastating wit. Ha. He’s been feeding us stuff on them for years. Of course, we still let them go about their business. Their antics mean newspaper headlines,
which means big-time OT and a cry out for extra polis resources. That’s the way it works. Let them knock fuck out of each other, but always be ready to pounce when they threaten commerce.
I go back past the central admin unit, but there’s still nae sign of thon blonde piece. At the downstairs bogs I weigh myself on the metric scales. My weight is still going down. I hope I’ve not got Aids or something, from some fucking hoor. I must eat more. I can’t put on weight, I never could. Fast metabolism, not like some of the blobs in this place. If it was up tae me, I’d weigh every cunt on the force annually and whoever didn’t make the required weight would be out on their fat arses. Weightist? You fuckin well bet your sweet ass!
I get a whiff from the canteen. I investigate and there’s fish pie which looks interesting. – Awright Ina? I ask the auld girl behind the counter.
– You’re early the day Bruce, she says.
– I was tempted by the fish pie.
– With chips?
– Magic Ina, and bung on some beans as well, I tell her, savouring that big, gorgeous congealed mass of sludge. The fish pie isnae too bad either.
I sit down and enjoy my meal. Ray Lennox comes over and joins me. – Awright Bruce? Seen the paper? He thrusts it in front of me. There’s another headline about local coons criticising the police. One of them’s that Forum cunt Marshall, speaking, of course, in another capacity. They get in far too many capacities, shit-bags like that.
– Shite. These silverys are about naught-point-one per cent of the population. They’ve got far too much to say for themself. They should call that paper the ‘Coon, Poof, Silly Wee Lassie, Schemie and Communist News’. I only read it for the fitba and Andrew Wilson. He’s the only one that talks any sense on that fuckin paper, even if he is a Hibby Leith bastard.
– It gets on my fuckin tits, Ray says, shaking his head. His eyes are staring, the cunt looks a bit manic.
– Listen Ray, I wanted to speak to you about something. I ken you’re no officially on this investigation, but I think we should pay our pal Ocky a wee visit the morn. It being Friday, it would be nice to fuck up the cunt’s weekend fine-style by getting him to keep his ears open on our behalf. You might get some info on the collies if we shake the fucker doon. Wi Christmas comin up they’ll aw want sorted oot wi gear.
– The spunk-bag’s been a bit remiss lately. Forgotten who his real mates are. His mates on this side of the divide, Ray smiles.
Say what you like aboot Ray Lennox, he’s polis through and through. – Time we reminded him, I smile. – So what’s been happening your end young Raymondo?
– The usual bollocks. I’m still stalking those cunts from that Sunrise Community. They’re supposed to be cannabis suppliers. It’s a fuckin waste of time, but what can you do?
Anything other than posh is a waste ay time for that cunt. But I can see his point. What’s the point of being on D.S. duty if ye cannae get access tae any decent collies?
– Listen Robbo, he whispers, – I’m on these benzedrines. They’ll do the biz in the meantime. They keep you going when you’re a bit fucked. Want a couple?
– Aye, I tell him.
He slides me a plastic packet of pills. – I got them on a bust. The charlie situ should improve tonight.
– Good, I smile, pocketing the pills.
– What about this fuckin EO’s briefing? Ray asks.
– Shouldnae take mair than an ooir, I say, shuddering as the big blonde hoor from central admin comes past. I give her the eye but she’s not biting. Probably lesbo tendencies. – Ride thon, eh Ray?
– No half.
– Any luck? Ah saw you sniffin roond it doon the cannie this mornin.
– Nah, she shags on recommendation only. Ah heard that she’s a size freak. She finds oot fae the other lassies likes ay Karen Fulton n that crowd, who the guys wi the really big packets are and she’ll only fuck them.
– That’s you oot the runnin then, eh? I laugh, thinking about the time we had a session with my sister-in-law Shirley.
– Cheeky cunt, Ray says, a slight beamer on his face. – Listen, we’d better nash to this briefing.
– Aye, right.
In the event, the EO briefing only takes half an hour. I even get on Niddrie’s good side when I hit a note with the cunt on politics, much to Amanda Drummond’s distaste.
– Equality is a lot of nonsense, I say, goading Drummond, who expects me to hang myself by saying something stupid like the black man isn’t the equal of the white man. Think again, dafty.
– How can you say that?
– Easily. It’s a philosophical point. I believe in justifiable inequality. Example: aw that lot we put away. Criminals. Child molesters. They’re no equal with me. No way, I say, as coldly and dispassionately as possible. That struck a chord with Niddrie. He’s an impassive bastard, but I ken he thinks like me.
Anyway, the gig finishes early enough for Ray and I to hit the cannie so we can have an afternoon break and practise our routine before we go and sort out Ocky. We are intercepted by Amanda Drummond in the corridor and she tells us that she’s going to talk to Sylvia and Estelle and would I come along. I’m annoyed that the cow has pulled them in without consulting me, but chuffed at the prospect of being able to put a face, erse and pair of tits on those two rides. – Sure . . . I turn to Ray and raise my eyebrows, – . . . give us half an hour will you Ray mate?
– That’s cool, Ray nods, – see you up in D.S.
I’ll have to pull up Lennox about all this ‘that’s cool’ and ‘this’s cool’ bullshit. We’re no running a fuckin youth club here.
I get into the interview room and Drummond’s got the two wee hoors in there together. This shows her total cluelessness as polis. You never put them together, you always split them up straight away. The first thing they teach ye. Not that I’m complaining, it’s wall-to-wall fanny in here and it’s fuckin marvellous. Those bennies are kicking in, so I’ll have to watch my gob. And my fuckin erse! Shite coming oot every orifice! Settle Bruce, settle. Estelle. Sylvia. It’s funny, but the last time I was talking to them, I was sure that Estelle was giving me a funny look. Now I’m positive.
– I’m sure I’ve seen you before, she says. She’s a fuckin hard wee cow and nae mistake. But that fringe hanging just above those club-mascara eyes and that scarlet red lipstick . . . ya cunt that ye fuckin well are . . .
I realise that I’m staring at her and that Drummond might be clocking my leer, but no, that dyke’s looking just as penetratingly at her, probably fancies her as well.
– Aye, I’m sure I’ve seen ye, she repeats.
– Well as you were in here the other day being questioned by me, that’s highly likely, I sniff.
– Naw, before but, she says.
– I’m sure I’d’ve remembered, a lovely young lady like yourself.
I hear Drummond’s front teeth smacking off her lips. Spotted! Imitation Toal gesture! Her fuckin mentor. No wonder she’s such a fuck-up! She puts some pictures in front of the lassies, two puss-bags known as Setterington and Gorman amongst them. – Did you see any of those men at the club?
They look fazed, especially Sylvia. I’d gie her one in a minute as well. Looks a natural blonde. Talk to Brucie baby.
– Naw, she says, too quickly. Even Drummond notices this.
– Do you know these men? she asks.
They’re too intelligent to lie. – Know of them, seen them aboot, Estelle replies.
– Who are they?
– Dunno, just guys that hing about the clubs n that, Estelle says. She’s much tougher, that one. A seasoned casual moll if ever there wis one. Those lipstick marks around that fag . . .
– So you don’t know their names? Drummond probes. Ah’ll fuckin probe awright: probe wi some prime Scottish beef.
– Nuht.
– Is there anything else you’d like to tell us about that night? Drummond’s asking.
Estelle looks at Sylvia, then at Drummond. I’m being ignored here, ignored by slags,
and I do not like it one little bit. I drum at the desk, but I still might as well be invisible. Estelle starts mouthing: – There was a funny woman in the club. It’s probably nowt, but she just looked a bit weird. She was talking to the coloured boy for a bit, but he pulled away fae her, like they were having an argument. I mind because I saw her earlier in the toilets, she was putting on her make-up next to me.
– What was strange about her, Drummond’s asking. I don’t fuckin well like those fluorescent lights. All that seventies shite. Can we no get a fuckin decent office . . .
. . . the Met . . .
. . . Sydney polis . . . a decent office . . .
But that wis New South Wales.
– I dunno . . .
No you fuckin well don’t know, that’s the fuckin problem you daft wee schemie trollope, you know fuckin nothing, nothing at all . . .
– Was she young, old, big, small, dark, fair . . .
Ma heid’s fuckin well splitting and I’m gonnae start shaking here . . .
– She was a bit of a dog, Estelle says.
I’m wasting my fuckin time with those slags. They ken nowt. That silly wee Roger Moore Drummond should realise that. Same rules apply. Polis? Her? That will be the day. I rise and leave.
Drummond follows me out of the interview room. – Bruce, we need . . .
– Yes, I raise my voice to silence her, – we need to follow this up but I’ve something I need to follow up and I’m running late . . .
– Is there something I should know? Drummond’s irritated look is chilling me out. She’s as fucked off as I am. The only thing I can think of that she should know is the obvious one: she’s never fuckin polis.
Moving backwards I point at her and smile, – We do need to talk Mandy my darling. Later though. I’ll give you a thorough briefing. Ciao.
I leave the flustered dyke farting and shiting in the corridor and head up to Ray’s office in the D.S.
When I get up to D.S., Clell’s there with a bottle of champagne and he’s pouring it into paper cups. He hands me one.
– What’s the celebration?
– I got my best ever Christmas present Bruce, a transfer from Serious Crimes to Traffic.