Filth

by Irvine Welsh

  Turning Off The Gas

  HQ is the usual fuckin waste of time. I head to my office and force down two cups of black coffee before my briefing. Toalie has started to really fuckin mess up my heid big-time with this inclusion of Amanda fuckin Drumstick in my investigating team. I’m trying to brief the cunts and all I can hear is that high whine in the background, she’s obviously nipped at being dragged in here today.

  – So the situation we have is that on the night of Efan Wurie’s murder, we’ve established that Gorman and Setterington, two known thugs with a record for organised violence, and I stress the organised, were in the vicinity of Jammy Joe’s disco. Nobody saw them in the disco of course, but then they wouldn’t. You know the reign of terror these thugs have imposed on the social life of this city . . . the best approach is to keep them in our sights and see what they’re getting up to. We know their MO. So: what are they doing differently? Who are they seeing? We should also be leaning on the witnesses more, the people who were in the club: Mark Wilson, the doorman, Phil Alexander, the owner, those two girls Sylvia and Estelle . . .

  – I disagree, she’s saying.

  Who the fuck cares what you think, ya fuckin silly wee hoor. Just let me do my fuckin job please.

  – Really? And why, might I ask? I smile.

  – Well, I remember at Tayside . . . she says, and then starts rambling on about some unconnected, irrelevant shite which happened in her last job at fuckin Tayside. Tayside. What ever fuckin well happened there? A sheep got shagged or something. That’s big-time crime up there. Besides, she wis only thaire for ten minutes as an apprentice tea-boy’s part-time assistant or something like that. She’s going on about how this investigation presents an ideal opportunity to build bridges with the wog community and all that shite. It’s fuckin bananay boats we want tae be building for these cunts; tae send them back tae whair they fuckin well came fae. I’m no having any ay this shite.

  – To reiterate, I think the correct approach in this investigation . . . I begin.

  – With all due respect Bruce, that approach has hardly been fruitful so far, she challenges.

  – Thank you for that helpful comment. I’ve been given the responsibility for heading up this investigation. Until this arrangement changes, this is the approach we’ll be taking, I frostily inform her.

  Cheeky wee hoor. Needs a good fuckin seein tae, that cow.

  Anywey, she starts wittering on again, daft cunt that she is. So at the end of the briefing, we’ve agreed that she’ll build the bridges with the wog groups, which is fine by me cause I’ve no intention of listening to some jungle-bunny giving it loads with their chip-on-the-shoulder shite. I head off downstairs thinking about calling Bunty, but Gus comes in.

  – Bruce, I just had an anonymous call. Male, young. Tells me that Setterington, Gorman, Liddell and one other guy were in the club that evening.

  I know that you fuckin muppet. That’ll be Ocky, the cowardly wee rat-bag. Worse than useless unless he grasses up in court which he won’t do as it would mean the end of the cunt’s sorry life.

  – Right Gus.

  – What do you want tae dae?

  – It’s the auld story, eh Gus? Nae cunt saw them. Nae cunt will stand up in coort and say that they were there. I think I’ll check out that wee hoor that works in the flooir shoap, that Estelle Davidson. She’s a tough wee cunt, but she’s the yin tae lean oan. I don’t get the impression that Sylvia knows much. Drummond gies them the soft soap though. It’s no a wimmin’s support group for silly wee lassies we’re running, it’s a fuckin murder investigation.

  Yep, I’ll do that, then Ray and I will check on Ocky. That’s after I’ve been tae the bogs with my copy of the Sun.

  It’s a page three stunner the day, and she’s no unlike that wee Stephanie Donaldson bird that gied ays the gam. April from Newcastle. I’ve heard about coals to Newcastle, but ye certainly dinnae have tae take any hole tae Newcastle if it’s aw like that.

  The graffiti today:

  KAREN FUTON TAKES IT UP THE ARSE

  Don’t recognise the writing.

  C’mon baby . . . Bruce is here.

  It’s your big night . . . that’s it . . . come on . . . I pull out my stiff, flaky cock. There’s a bit of a pong as the helmet pops up, throbbing red raw, pushing past that discoloured foreskin. My fuckin nuts are so itchy . . . phoa . . . come on baby . . . that wanker of a doctor and his fuckin creams . . .

  Don’t think about that

  . . . phoa baby . . . this is so good . . . oohh ooohh oooohhh . . . April from Newcastle ooohhh you’re a reet bonnie lassinaw . . . oh ya fucker that ye are . . . ooohhhh . . . here I come . . . phoahh . . .

  FUGGHHHKIGHNNN BINGO!

  Oohh ooohh . . . phoa ya cunt . . . I let the spunk drip on to my thighs. Its alkaline properties might do the rash good, it won’t do it as bad as that cunt Rossi’s stupid creams anyway. They should sack incompetent doctors. If we couldn’t cut it on the force that would be us in deep shit but these cunts get away with murder cause they’ve never had to put themselves on the line. The same rules apply or fuckin well should at any rate.

  I sniff the crotch and thighs of the black flannels. There is a low, thick hum of stale sweat punctuated by the occasional sharp whiff of pish. Oh for a decent laundry service. Right now I need a bird who can cook and clean more than I need one who can suck and fuck. Of course, the dream ticket would come with all those attributes. A Carole substitute, until she starts to see sense which won’t be long. It never is.

  Karen Fulton takes it up the arse. Hmm. I’ve never fucked her up the arse. Fucked her up the cunt right enough, but that’s hardly an exclusive club. The last time I had her was after Princess Diana’s funeral. I got her three sheets and did the business with her. Fults has been know tae put it aboot awright, at Christmas and leaving perties and that, but the graffiti seems like wishful thinking to me, probably written by some inadequate like Toal.

  I cross out KAREN FULTON and write BOBTOAL in its place. I stare at my handiwork for a bit and get a breathless fit of the giggles which immobilises me as the tears stream down my face.

  I go outside and wash my hands but I can’t get my nails properly clean. I look at my jaw in the mirror and rub the bristle. I need a good shave

  Simple pleasures. The fan heater under my desk is blowing out hot air against my leg as I recover from that Sherman Tank with a strong cup of coffee and a Kit Kat and a doughnut from Crawford’s. The phone interrupts me. It’s an outside line as well. It’s not her. Not Carole.

  It’s her.

  I told her never to phone here. Never. – I told you never to phone here, I say to her. – I’m in the middle of a serious investigation.

  – I’m sorry . . . I had to talk to you. About what you said a couple of weeks ago, did you really mean it?

  What is this fuckin spastic on about? – What? What was that?

  – The other week Bruce . . . you told me you loved me? Remember? Her voice drops an octave. – Or was that just something you made up because you thought I wanted to hear it?

  It was made up because I had a stiffer and a standing prick hath no conscience. And if that standing prick is attached to Bruce Robertson then it hath less than no conscience. You can’t afford a conscience in this life, that has become a luxury for the rich and a social ball and chain for the rest of us. Even if I wanted one, which I certainly do not, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea as how to go about getting one. Can you buy one from the record bar at Woolie’s?

  This is a dodgy one though: this cow’s showing dangerous signs of intelligence. The thing is, I could handle another shot at that stupid, spasticated hoor. – I don’t think that was what I said. What I said, if you remember, was that I could fall in love with you easily. But I also said that if I gave you love, spiritual love, you would have to be strong enough to take it. Remember?

  There’s a long silence, then she finally squawks, – I remember . . .

  She remembers fuck all. Full
of fuckin vallies or Prozac or whatever some Rossi-style anything-for-a-quiet-life quack has given her for her nerves. – I told you to go away and come back when you’re strong enough. Cause I’ll give you love awright. Ah’ll give you all the love in the world. More love than you can ever imagine . . .

  What the fuck is her name again . . . Hurley’s missus . . . Brigitte . . . Sarah . . . Chrissie! – Chrissie . . . oh Chrissie . . . look . . . you have to be strong enough to take it . . . I let my voice quaver a bit, – . . . because if I give it and don’t get it back, it’s going to tear me apart . . .

  Gus comes in and moves to the end of my desk, picking up my almost empty Hearts mug and pointing over to the kettle. I give him the thumbs-up. At least he’s picked up the right cup this time. There’s a funny gasping sound down the receiver which ignites into Chrissie’s bleat. – Bruce . . . I’m so sorry . . . I just need to know where I stand. It’s just with Bob and you . . . and I mean, what about Carole?

  – This is not about Carole. Fortunately, she’s at her mother’s at the moment. This is about me, Bruce, and you, Chrissie. If there is a you and me. If there is a you and me, then we talk about Carole. Until there is a you and me, in a real sense, then Carole is my business and my business alone.

  There’s a pause. That fluorescent strip light’s flickering again. No wonder I feel fuckin sick in here. Can those penny-pinching cunts no spend fuck all but sweeties on simple fucking maintenance? Gus comes over and dumps a full mug of coffee on my desk.

  – Bruce . . . I need to see you. I’ve just felt so alone since I walked out on Bob. I’ve even been thinking of going back to him . . . you said that Carole’s away . . . can I come over and see you tonight? Please . . .

  I reach into my drawer and pull out another Kit Kat from the cellophane pack of eight. The cunt who invented the Kit Kat ought to be fuckin well knighted. I get through loads of them. Fuck knows why I dinnae put on loads ay beef. Fast metabolism, I suppose. – Aye. Awright. But I’ll tell you one thing Chrissie. I am not, repeat not, in the mood for mind games. I’m not going to be exploited by you because I’ve made my feelings for you plain. I’ll keep a tight rein on these feelings until I get some spiritual commitment back.

  The spiritual caird. It had tae be played. They always fall for that one, they just cannae help themselves. I hear her voice thin down to a gasp. – I need to see you, to talk face to face. I’ll be round tonight. When’s good for you?

  – Make it eight, I tell her, before signing off and putting the blower down. – Getting rode, getting rode, getting rode, I sing softly to myself, to the tune of ‘Here We Go’. I wave semieuphorically over at Gillman and Inglis who’ve just come into the office. Gillman gives a curt nod, that cunt never displays emotion, but Inglis gives me a big, flouncy wave which sets off a feeling of nausea in my stomach.

  Chrissie tonight. Oh well, at least I’ve sorted out a ride. Hardly a hassle-free one though. I’m hoping it’s going to be better than it was the last time. She was a funny cow, the camera seemed to excite her, but when I got out the vibrator she started greeting and going on about Bob and how her life was in a mess. You can never fathom some fenny.

  I look at my Scottish Police Federation calendar. December the fifth. Not that long to Christmas, but fuck that crap, the winter’s brek in the Dam comes first. That fuckin dull calendar. I had a top one last year but then that memo came round from Personnel, doubtlessly initiated by arid-twatted dykes like Drummond, stating that ‘pin-ups’ were to be banned. Some fuckin twaddle about negative images of women. If a shaggable bird in the buff is a negative image, then what the fuck counts as a positive one? A fuckin boot like Drummond in a polis uniform? I think not. Same rules apply.

  The nausea won’t go away and I have to get out of here early. Ray Lennox is out stalking the hippy community Sunrise fuckers at Penicuik so there’s nobody I can skive off with. I don’t trust Gillman, and Clell’s lost the plot with all this Traffic bollocks. I decide to head up town, and go for a little stroll. The town is mobbed out with Saturday shoppers looking for Christmas bargains. You can almost breathe in the raw greed which hangs in the air like vapour. As the late afternoon darkness falls, the lights look tacky and sinister.

  The scene of the crime. Here I am, walking up the Playfair Steps. A young jakey, in filthy, threadbare clathes, holey trainers and sucking on an old purple tin, hopefully holds a styrofoam cup out at me. – Job Centre’s yon wey mate, I point towards the West End.

  – Merry Christmas, he says.

  – You n aw mate, I smile. – Could be a cauld yin but. I’d check in there for a few weeks if ah wis you, I point at smug grandeur of the Balmoral Hotel, – lit room service take the strain. You know it makes sense.

  The jakey shoots me a look of anger which can’t conceal an underlay of sheer terror as he contemplates a cold season on the streets, and quite possibly the end of his miserable life. Still, if he gets enough of the old purple tin in him, he won’t feel the cold taking him slowly.

  I head up to the South Side and think about calling in at Alan Anderson’s old boozer in Infirmary Street. I wonder what Alan’s doing now. One of our spectacularly average players of the seventies; there was a factory turning them out. It’s really busy up the Bridges with schemies purchasing shoddy goods from the wog discount stores and students between classes sniffing around the second-hand record shops.

  I try to get a look at the scores in the window of a TV shop. In England Man U., Arsenal, Newcastle, Chelsea and Liverpool all won, so it’s as you were. I’m waiting on the Scottish results coming through when a raucous shriek fills the cold air, stripping the flesh from my back. I turn and see a crowd forming across the road. I go over to investigate, pushing past the stupefied ghouls and see a man, about mid-forties, well-dressed, twitching away on the ground in an ugly paroxysm, one arm stiff and clutching his side.

  The boy is turning blue and a woman is screaming: – COLIN! COLIN! PLEASE HELP US! PLEASE!

  I’m down on my knees at the prostrate figure’s side. – What’s wrong? I shout at her. He seems not to be breathing. He’s pissed himself; a black, wet patch is forming on his groin.

  – It’s his heart . . . it must be his heart . . . he’s got a bad heart . . . oh Colin no OH GOD COLIN NO!

  I’ve got the boy’s head back and I’m giving him mouth-to-mouth.

  C’mon you bastard

  I can feel the life draining from him, the heat leaving the body and I’m trying to force it back into him, but there’s no response. His face is white now, he looks like a manikin. I turn to the woman. There’s a wheezing birr coming from her own bleached-out face. – What is . . . what can . . .

  – Do something . . . please . . . the words seem to aspirate from a hole in her throat.

  I shout at the guy, – C’mon mate . . . you cannae just go . . . I turn to the gaping crowd, – Git an ambulance! JUST FUCK OFF OOTTHE ROAD!

  I’m trying external heart compression, applying the pressure, thudding at the guy’s chest, respect and expectation giving way to malevolence as he refuses to respond. I feel his wrist.

  There’s no pulse.

  LIVE

  LIVE

  LIVE

  – You have to live, I say softly to him. His eyes have rolled into his head.

  The woman is screaming in my ear, – COLIN . . . OH NO GOD NO . . .

  I don’t know how long passes as I sit alongside this formless thing lying in the stench of its secretions and I’ve got the woman’s hand in mine. I can hear the sirens and I feel the hand on my shoulder. – It’s alright mate. You did more than anybody could do. He’s gone. I look up and see a guy with red hair coming out of his nostrils. He’s wearing a luminous green waistcoat.

  The ambulance guys are taking him away. In a sudden, strident motion, the woman grabs me round the waist, her sweet scent merging with his malodorous reek. – Why . . . he was a good man . . . he was a good man . . . why? At first it feels awkward and invasive, but our bodies settle into a
natural convergence, we fit each other like a hand in a glove.

  – Was he? Was he? I nod, feeling tears rolling down my cheek and I’m rubbing at my face. The woman is in my arms, her head in my chest. I want to hold her forever, to never let her go.

  They take the dead man into the ambulance and we break our embrace and I feel the cold shallowness of isolation as she’s led away. I stand up and turn to face the ghouls. It’s the same faces all the time. Like that daft film where they all gather for a tragedy.

  – What youse fuckin well looking at? What dae ye expect tae see! Go back tae yir shoppin! Gaun! I flash my badge at them, – Police! Disperse!

  The dead man is on the trolley and the woman collapses across his chest. That’s what the ghouls want a shufti at, like at that Princess Diana’s funeral, they want to scrutinise those who really knew her, to drink the misery out of their faces.

  Somebody’s talking to me. – Who are you?

  – Bruce Robertson, D.S. Bruce Robertson, I shout at him. – Lothian’s Police.

  – What happened?

  I look at the guy, – I tried to save the boy . . . I tried, but he just went . . . he just went . . . I tried to save him.

  – How did that make you feel?

  – Eh? I ask the cunt. – What the fuck . . .

  – Brian Scullion, the Evening News. I was watching you. You did really well D.S. Robertson. How did you feel when he didn’t make it?

  I turn away from this spastic and push through the crowd. I slope down Infirmary Street and head mole-eyed into Alan Anderson’s old boozer.

  The boy should have stayed alive. That woman, she loved him.

  I’m shivering. It was cold out there.

  A double whisky keeps the chill at bay. I change to voddy after that though; cunts can’t whiff it on your breath in the same way. I knock back of few of those. I’m thinking about the guy. Pushing the life into him, all the time pushing against a greater force. Trying to fill the plugless bath but it’s no use, it all just goes.