Filth

by Irvine Welsh

  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.

  Some bastard beeps me on the bypass and I think about giving chase but I don’t feel up to it.

  Our coping capacity is low.

  our appetite and all I want is more of the same, fuck eating anything now.

  Coke for fuel, coke for energy. Have a coke and a smile. Coking coal. This is white, not black; clean, not filth. You never eat coke. You just snort it up.

  Snort the whole fuckin lot of it up.

  I’ve done the lot, so I try to have a wank to Hector’s vids in order to distract the coke craving, but I can’t concentrate. My whole body wants the blood my cock needs and I head up to Ray Lennox’s. I’m tanning it in the car, giving a daft spastic the V-sign as I cut him up. Cheeky cunt. Polis. Priority. I come upon Ray’s gaff and I batter the door polis-style until his dressing-gowned figure appears on the doorstep. – Ray, I smile, – sort me out with some posh. Pronto mate.

  – Bruce . . . I can’t . . . he says.


  – Sort ays oot Ray! Hogmanay the morn! I snap, grinding my bare teeth at him. The night is but young.

  I hear a voice coming from inside the house. – Who is it Ray? What’s wrong?

  – It’s nothing! he shouts back into the gaff.

  That voice. It sounded like Drummond. I suppose plenty hoors have those irritating whingy tones. Maybe it’s that Trudi bird.

  – Company Ray? I smirk.

  – Wait there a minute, he says shaking his head before moving back in. Ootside in this cauld? My fucking arse. I step into the lobby. He’s gone for a second or two and returns, producing a gram. – That’s it Bruce, that’s my lot.

  – Aye, you’ll ken, I say, then I head away, leaving him looking like fuckin Noddy. Cheeky cunt.

  I get into the motor and I want to snort a line on the dashboard, but there’s too many cunts around. Desperation takes over and I do it anyway. It’s as strong as fuck. You have to test the stuff, save wasting police time putting it through the labs. One big snort. I’m trembling as I drive through the city back towards Collie. I don’t know what I want to do. I’ll probably hit the piss in a bit. I need to take the edge off this coke. Now. I need a drink now. I stop off outside a bar I used to frequent years ago, before we went to Oz. It’ll have to be one: we realise that our bank cards are at home.

  FUCKEN STUPID SHITING CUNT!

  Our fist slams the dashboard repeatedly until our hand is swollen and almost too sore to hold the wheel. Then we exit and go into the pub. A pocket of shrapnel: barely enough for a pint of lager. I feel like a fuckin jakey as I walk into this tiny dive of a public bar. There’s a small lounge separate from it next door, partitioned by a wooden panel and some frosted glass. From behind it I can hear the hee-hawing laughter of a four-bacardi slag, when I don’t even have enough to stand the cow one. I get the pint of lager up and throw two-thirds of it back in no time. There’s a party of auld cunts playing dominoes in the corner and a nae-mates fucker reading the Evening News at the bar. I recognised him as polis, Drylaw I think. I finish the pint quickly and exit the dive, getting in the motor and driving swiftly back to Collie. I’m focused all the way on the bank cards which are in the inside pocket of our jacket over the chair in the front room.

  With great despondency we, I, we (we’re all here now) clock a car parked outside our house. It looks vaguely familiar. We consider double-backing, but we need our cards and our money. We ignore the occupant of the car, even now we recognise it as Chrissie and storm down the path. But she’s straight out after us.

  – Bruce . . . I’ve tried to call you at work, she says. Her swine-like nostrils flare at me.

  Why pick on Bruce all the time, there’s others too, why can’t they fuckin well dae anything . . .– She’s ill you know, she could be dying, we tell her. We produce our keys and put them in the lock.

  – Who?

  – Shirley, my sister-in-law. She’s ill. Same rules apply, we say, turning the lock.

  – Too bad, she says, pushing in the door after me.

  We try to repel her but she’s all over us like a cheap suit and she’s shouting, – C’mon, I want to turn off the gas for you, come on, and her hands in my flies. – God, this place stinks . . . c’mon Bruce . . .

  It’s only fuckin well me, only me . . . I’m on my fuckin ain here . . .

  I pull away, but she’s still coming on, this fucking cackling witch, her mocking, vicious hoor’s eyes; and I’m pulling her hands away, but I’m stiffening against my will. – Leave me . . . leave me . . .

  – C’moan . . .

  She’s got my cock out and she’s sucking me off and we are crying, crying for Shirley no no no crying for ourself and she’s got my belt off and I’m saying, – Naw naw but Chrissie, wait a minute, wait a minute Chrissie, and she’s diving out of her clothes and she gets the cord from her bag and wraps it round her own neck.

  I’m shivering and trembling and I need my charlie, it’s in my pocket, and I need to see Shirley or Carole . . . she’s the one I need . . . and she’s tightened the belt around my neck before I can speak and her sharp painted nails dig into the foreskin of my semi she’s pushing me back on to the couch and it’s horrendous and she’s pushing her cunt on to it against my will and thrusting on to me and the friction’s hurting me and she’s choking me harder and I can’t breathe or speak as the grip tightens . . .

  – Git fuckin harder ya silly wee poof! C’moan! Get it in! She’s rubbing and twisting harder and I’m getting harder and it’s going up, she’s enclosing me, and I want to fuck this bitch to pieces but there’s no way, cause although I’m hard now she’s fucking the life out of me, throttling it out of me and she’s screaming: – Turn off ma fuckin gas! Fuck harder! Move! Move! Turn oaf ma fuckin gas!

  I’m choking and blacking out as I convulse and she’s screaming and growling and her teeth bite my bottom lip as she roars and bucks and crashes before she pulls away gasping and I watch my cock disintegrate.

  She lies back and lights a cigarette. – Mmmm. That was great. What’s wrong Bruce? You okay? You’re greeting like a wee laddie!

  – Shirley’s ill, I say. – My sister-in-law. She’s no well.

  I’m crying for myself.

  She looks at me and shakes her head. – You’re no fun any more Bruce.

  – We hear voices Chrissie. Aw the time. Do you ever hear them? All our life we’ve heard them. The worms.

  – What? What are you on about?

  – We say this, they say that. We turn the records on loud. It’s like the messages in the records when they play them backwards. Like me and her. We’re together still, you ken that? It’s all of us . . . I, we, I hear myself singing in a low, tuneless voice, – Why not take all of me . . .

  – I have to go, she says, pulling her clothes on. – Whatever it is that you’re on, you should lay off it.

  We say nothing, we’re just willing her not to be there. Depart depart depart naebody asked you tae come

  When she goes, we binge on the coke we got from Ray. After a few hits we wish the cow would come back cause I’d really show that cunt, but naw, my cock’s still as limp and sad as Ray Lennox’s that time with with Shirley.

  Cause it was me and Shirley and I let her down and I can’t blame the others.

  I go to phone, but decide against it. I try to light the fire, but my hands are trembling. A bit of Toal’s manuscript has been preserved, brittle and dry.

  in BILL TEALE’s office.

  [ANDERSON]

  This psycho, you reckon he’ll strike again?

  [TEALE]

  What makes you so sure it’s a he?

  [ANDERSON]

  C’mon Bill. They usually are.

  [TEALE]

  I think that our mystery lady may have more to do with this than we imagine.

  ANDERSON looks visibly flustered.

  [ANDERSON]

  What makes you say that?

  [TEALE]

  Basically, there’s two things. One, she’s vanished off the face of the planet which means someone’s covering up for her, someone perhaps, who knows a lot about this investigation, and secondly

  What the fuck . . .

  What the fuck does this cunt Toal know? I should have read that script. Fuckin Carole!

  Daft fucking cow.

  Fuck.

  I should have read that script. Knowledge is power, or so they say. But fuck it. Keep your head down and your heart hard and you’ll be okay. Slow breathing.

  Slow breathing.

  Easily done.

  Our hearts are hardened in this business. They have to be as hard as our sponsors’ heads and that’s what fucks us up. They can afford to be hard because they can abstract it all and they can do that because they are removed from it all.

  We, on the other hand, must pay the physical and psychic price so that these pampered rich cunts can flounce around unperturbed.

  Naw, there isnae such a thing as a free lunch. We always pey.

  This m
orning they come in the thin and miserable shape of Drummond. I am out on patrol with her. Why? I don’t know why. I can’t think straight. She is going on about the case: victims, suspects, scenes of crimes, reports, forensic, analysis, politics and I want to scream: SHITE. I DON’T FUCKIN CARE ABOUT THIS. I’M FUCKIN WELL DYING HERE!

  Cause I am.

  I can’t breathe in this fuckin car. That fuckin coke flares up my sinuses, my bronchitis. I’m coughing and shaking and the smell of her perfume is unbearable. She must be on the rag dousing herself like that. A pathetic cover-up job. It’s stinking like a hoor’s cubicle in the red-light district on a Saturday night at the height of the tourist season back in the Dam, this fucking motor.

  This isnae Hogmanay . . . this is fuckin Halloween . . .

  Out with her of all people. Cruising them. Looking for Ocky. Her. Never fuckin polis.

  But we are fuckin polis.

  We are sick and shivering and frightened. Lennox tried to poison me with that coke. It was full of shit. He’s trying to kill us. We feel like shouting at Drummond: SEE IF WE DIE IT’S RAY LENNOX’S FAULT, RAY DRUG ADDICT LENNOX, THE SAME RAY LENNOX YOU THINK THE SUN SHINES OUT HIS ARSE BUT YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT HE’S LIKE. HE WILLNAE FUCK YE LIKE THE WEY YE WANT, WE’VE SEEN HIS FUCKIN COCK AND IF WE DIE IT’S LENNOX THAT’S THE MURDERER

  I’m hyperventilating. We are hyperventilating. I’m I’m I’m smelling that muthafuckin bacon fry . . .

  Somebody phone the police. Help. Please.

  – Are you okay Bruce?

  – Yes. Okay I certainly am.

  – Look, you can say it’s none of my business . . .

  – I’m fine . . . honest. I’ve just been having a bit of a bad time, we tell her, gaining control of our breathing as sweat pours from our brow. We roll down the window and a frozen blast of air comes in.

  – If you want to talk about it . . . she lowers her voice, adopting the Miss-Hunter-in-good-cop-mode-stance. Miss Cunter. I’d fuck her eyes oot now if I had the chance. Probably an arid-fannied spinster whose vagina tastes of Arizona soil.