Filth

by Irvine Welsh

  – Well . . . okay . . . what it was, right, was that the guys would take it in turns tae go into the photocopier room and photocopy their wedding tackle on to a sheet of paper. Then they’d write their names on the back, and put them into an envelope. Once everybody’s been done somebody then tacks the prints on to the board.

  – Get away Bruce! Lennox scoffs, but to the cunt’s embarrassment, everyone else seems captivated. I look at the big hoor, the Size Queen, whose eyes are like saucers.

  – Naw, bit listen, I continue, – The lassies would then try to match the cock to the guy.

  – Lit’s dae it! roars the Size Queen. I clock Lennox looking stricken, but there’s nothing he can do. Even auld Gus is up for it. Peter Inglis goes first, the fuckin animal. Fags are the biggest size queens of the lot and a repressed, inadequate closet case like him must be drooling at the prospect of checking out all that meat. Aye Inglis, ah’ll have you outed ya cunt. Promotion? That? Aye, sure. It might be some equal opportunities cunt’s idea tae turn the force intae a bastion of buggery but old values die hard here, especially in the craft. He’ll ken awright.

  Inglis emerges with a sheet of paper in an envelope. He hands the envelope to Ralph Considine, who’s only a uniformed spastic and thus shouldnae even be here in the first place, and he goes in and does the business, handing the envelope to Gus. There’s whooping and cheering from everybody, except a tentative Lennox, when auld Gus goes in. Then Lennox reluctantly disappears, trying to brass it out. I’m next, but when I put my gear oan the gless plate, wiping it first after the rest of these cunts have been against it, I turn up the enlarger switch to full and take the copy, before sliding it back to its normal setting. I stick the name on the back of my enlarged dick. Thankfully the rash doesn’t look too noticeable with the black and white image and paper quality.

  I emerge with the envelope. Clell and some spastic who worked with Gus do their bit, then we’re away.

  The game is interesting. One cheeky cow marks me down for what’s obviously Lennox’s tackle. That will be fuckin right. Eventually they are all turned over and put in descending order:

  BRUCE

  GUS

  ALAN

  ANDY

  PETER

  RALPH

  STEVE

  RAY

  PHILLIP

  It turns out that auld Gus’s is almost as big as my enlarged one. Nae wonder the sly auld fuck was rarin tae gie it a go! The biggest shock though was that someone was smaller than Lennox, a uniformed spastic called Phillip Watson. I’d’ve thought that impossible without him having a fanny!

  After the disclosure, everybody’s giving me loads of attention. I catch the Size Queen’s flirtatious eye. As time and drink pass she’s embarrassing herself over me, and Lennox has taken the hump big-time, the moosey-faced rat-bag. I’m playing it cool: just flirty enough to keep the cow on the boil, making her suffer, always the best way. I’m doing a James Bond here, firing out the suave double entendres left, right and centre, one or two of them across the bows of a certain Mister Raymond Lennox. The same rules apply.

  I’m going to say fuck all to this big blonde hoor. I want the Size Queen off her high horse, I want her to proposition me. Which, after a while and more drink, she does. She sidles up to me and vampishly announces, – The winner deserves a prize. Let’s go back in there . . . and she takes off and I follow her at a discreet distance into the copy room, clocking Lennox with a wink as I depart. She leans back across the desk and I don’t even kiss her. I lift up her skirt and pull down her knickers. – Give it to me, she’s saying, just give it to me now, her eyes shut.

  I push in and watch the Size Queen thrust and buck with an increasingly puzzled look on her face. She’s daein aw the work and that suits me fine. After a while I shoot my load and leave her wondering what’s been happening.

  I collect my fifty quid from Lennox then I’m off hame, as high as a fuckin kite. Even the short drive gets me horned up again. It’s the rhythm of the traffic and the heat in the car, as well as the lyrical content of the Motley Crüe album Girls Girls Girls on the stereo, which has mair references tae hot pussy than a Dutch newspaper would if someone had torched the floating cat home in Amsterdam.

  When I get hame there’s a couple of letters. One’s a gas bill, the other has a Chelmsford postmark and it’s from Tony and Diana. I feel my cock stir and think about the four-hundred-mile drive to Chelmsford. I could do it through the night on charlie, fuck myself blind for a couple of hours, then head straight back. Yes. I ignore the gas bill, I ignore all of these. Carole takes care of that shite, and I’ve enough fuckin paperwork in my job, for fuck sakes. I eagerly tear the Chelmsford letter open.

  14th December 1997

  Dear Bruce,

  I hope all is well with you. We are writing to tell you that we all feel that it’s not a good idea that you join ourselves and Laurence and Yvonne next month. I am sorry that you and Carole are having difficulties, but I don’t think it would be appropriate for you to join us without her.

  We’ve had some great times together, but I think that any period of experimentation needs a little bit of time for reflection. This is what Diana and I are currently undertaking.

  I hope you and Carole resolve your difficulties satisfactorily.

  Best wishes,

  Tony Crosby

  Tony, the fucking twat. I feel a spasm of hatred twist through me as the power simultaneously leaves my cock. Fuckin soft Tony: lecturer in fine art at the Chelmer Institute or whatever you call it. All our frenetic fucking going on and him mincing around like a vegetarian in an abattoir. Carole fuckin well shiting it as well, giving him a nervous hand-job. They don’t have the big-match temperament. That Diana does though. Fuckin hell, I could have done with going another fuckin few rounds wi yon big hoor.

  I think about phoning Geoff Nicholson of the Essex police, and telling him about this sordid little club. Solid in the craft, is Geoff. I’m just about to pick up the blower when there’s a knock on the door and it’s Tom Stronach, his wavy fair hair sticking up in tufts. He’s dressed in a grey Russell Athletic sweatshirt and grey tracksuit bottoms. He looks quite downcast.

  – Tom . . . how goes it? I ask in phoney concern.

  – I’m fuckin Zorba’d Bruce. One thousand, two hundred and thirteen paying customers. I gave that fuckin club twelve years of loyal service.

  – I see. I thought the gate was nearer two thousand.

  – Naw, the Evening News bumped it up a wee bit.

  – Well, I was there, I lied. Some fuckin chance. Versus a Derby County reserve side on a pissing wet Tuesday with only eight shopping days left until the gig?

  Tom shakes his head, then brightens up a little bit, – I did get a nice note from Kenny Dalglish.

  – I’m sure he’d have been there if he could, I shrug. – Guys like that, they must get loads of requests. It’s a bad time of the year.

  – Aye, right enough, Tom concedes. – Anyway Bruce, I’ve a couple of tickets for you for the Sportsman’s Dinner, for my testimonial likes. We’re gonny huv it in that lull between Christmas and New Year. Any excuse to keep the perty going!

  – Nice one Tom, I say, grasping the embossed tickets he hands over with the leaflet. Instantly I see that it was a mistake, the bastard has stung me. The ticket reads:

  YOU ARE INVITED AS A V.I.P. GUEST TO

  THE TOM STRONACH TESTIMONIAL SPORTSMAN’S DINNER

  at the Sheraton Hotel, Lothian Road, Edinburgh

  on Monday, December 28th, 1997

  Dress is informal (lounge suits)

  Donation of £60 for all ticket holders to the Tom Stronach Testimonial Fund.

  Donation. Sixty bar. Stung by that bastard Stronach! I’m saying nothing, but the cunt’s straight in. I might have guessed. He’s known for it. There’s always a bit of jiggery-pokery, high drama and stand-offs reported in the Evening News when his contract comes up for renewal. The bastard isnae slow when it comes to dosh. – Sorry I cannae let
ye have them buckshee Bruce, but it defeats the whole purpose, if ye ken what ah mean.

  – Mmm, right Tom, I cough, – I’ll just get my cheque-book.

  Cunt.

  I’m scribbling out a cheque and he’s rabbiting away in my ear, – Graeme Souness might be one of the after-dinner speakers. I’m hoping that Kenny’ll make it this time as well. And Rodney Dolacre’s definitely coming up. He’s a great speaker.

  – Mmm. Rodney Dolacre, ex-England. I hear that he makes a bit of money on the circuit. He’s done some stuff with Besty, Marshy and Greavesy.

  – Aye, it was good of him to express interest.

  No way will Dalglish, Souness or Dolacre come to that tube’s testimonial dinner.

  Stronach wastes little time in donning that mantle of arrogance which characterises most fitba guys on a roll. – If ye want any mair tickets Bruce, just gies a shout. Ah’m no sayin ah’ll be able tae get them mind, but ye ken, seein as it’s you n that.

  – I’ll bear that in mind, I snap, handing over the cheque which is equivalent to twelve blow-jobs from a Leith hoor. Bastard.

  The cunt leaves with a smile on his face. He’s aw fuckin pleased wi himself cause he thinks that he’s got one over on Bruce Robertson. Well you are in for a shock, my dim-witted spastic footballing friend, because the news for you is that the same rules apply.

  Later that night Chrissie comes over. Stronach’s net curtains twitch, but he’s playing tonight, so it’ll be that nosey golddigging hoor he married. I pull Chrissie in and we start to turn the gas off for each other. The hoor is getting good at this, her that wisnae intae it at all in the first place.

  – Tighter Bruce . . . tighter . . . she groans, and I feel my own windpipe constrict a few centimetres as she twists her belt.

  I’m finding it difficult to keep enthusiastic. I keep thinking about the rivals in the promotion stakes:

  GUS BAIN

  PETER INGLIS

  JOHN ARNOTT

  Fuck every one of youse plebs . . .

  – Fuck me harder Bruce! Fuck me harder! Chrissie’s imploring.

  Fuck every one of youse . . .

  There’s Stacey’s school picture on the sideboard. I can’t look at it, I wish I’d turned it away, or put it in the drawer. She’s watching us . . .

  Stacey’s watching me and this cow . . .

  . . . this isnae . . .

  I’m a good man . . . she said it . . . the woman, his wife . . . I tried to pump the life back into the boy . . .

  Pump

  Like I’m pumping this bitch . . .

  Pump

  – Oh Bruce . . . c’mon . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh God . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . ooohhhhh . . .

  And I’m still pumping, but the mair ye gie this hoor, the mair she takes. I’m really fucking well trying and it’s a relief when that horrendous shriek fills the air to signal that she’s getting there and I feel the belt slacken from my neck and I twist my hips deftly and start to fire my own spunk home.

  – Fuck sakes Chrissie . . . I gasp as my ejaculations fade like the pulse of a dying man and my gyrations settle to motionlessness.

  I collapse on to her, roll off and we doze for a while. I wake up first and inspect the damage.

  The blood vessels in my eyelids have ruptured and there’s a thick mark on my neck. I’m a professional law enforcement officer. I have to deal with the public. I can’t go around looking like this because of that selfish bitch. No with a promotion board coming up.

  – That was great, she says, stretching languidly before getting getting up and getting dressed. – Listen Bruce . . . she says as she moves fluently into her underwear then her skirt and blouse, – I know we need to talk about what kind of commitment we want to make to each other, but I don’t see that there’s a need to rush things.

  – I think that’s quite sensible, I say. She’s looking smart. Put on a bit of weight, had her hair tinted. There’s more confidence and grace in her movements.

  – I mean, I don’t think that coming out of a relationship straight into another is something that’s very sensible, she smiles, tossing her blonde hair back and tugging a brush through it. Let’s just keep it on this basis until we find out what our real feelings are.

  – I couldn’t agree more. We should look before we leap, I tell her. She’s worth a poke alright. – Why don’t you stick about for a bit, have some nosh and we’ll maybe have a bit more fun later on? I move across to the sideboard and put Stacey’s picture in the top drawer.

  – I’d love to Brucey, but I’ve got somebody to see.

  – Oh, I say.

  – See you later Brucey baby, she swings her bag over her shoulder. She turns back to me and kisses my forehead and winks and then says in an American accent, – Glad we’re parking in the same lot honey, then she’s oot the fuckin door.

  Right. . .

  Gone.

  Fuckin

  Thinks that she can just go like that after trying to fuck up my promotion. Who the suffering fuck does she think she is? She’d never replace Carole! She’s never the one!

  A ten-a-penny polisman’s fuck, that’s aw she is!

  She’s left her lipstick. Her red, red lipstick.

  More Carole

  I have to admit it, leaving Australia was a mistake. Bruce and I were at our happiest there. It was just that we went out to be with my mum and when my dad died she wanted to come back. There seemed no point in staying over there because Stacey was just a baby and she hadn’t started school. I know that I was selfish and that I didn’t really think of Bruce’s career. He was doing so well in the Sydney police. I think it’s diabolical that he had to return to Scotland on a lower grade than the one he was on in Australia.

  I’m looking forward to seeing Bruce again, so we’ll be back together as a family; me, Bruce and our little girl Stacey. She has to accept the wrong she’s done and the hurt she’s caused everyone with her silly little lies. I often feel guilty, I feel that I should have taught her better, taught her the difference between right and wrong. She’s a good girl really though and it’s important for her to know that Bruce and I forgive her.

  All families go through these kind of traumas and it’s important not to make more of these things than is necessary. It’s a complicated world enough to grow up in these days.

  I am back in the bar again. Two men are looking at me. One says something that I don’t catch, but the hostility is unmistakable.

  Why is it that a woman cannot drink alone?

  You want me but you can’t have me.

  Robertson’s my name.

  I took the name of my man.

  I am his.

  If he was here now, he’d silence you, your leering, sneering faces. You would never be able to stand up to my Bruce. You’re not men.

  Private Lessons

  Worms. I’m not happy. I’ve been reading more about them at the library. There’s a tidy bird works there as well. When I get bored looking at the books, I look at her. I’ve been here most of the morning, after another sleepless night. But it’s soon time to relocate to the office, as Saturday means big-time OT. Predictably, it’s mobbed out. Lennox is in as well. We agree to shuffle some papers for an hour, then head out.

  It’s great to be cruising around in the motor. I’m well wrapped up and the roads are clearer. Lennox is obviously uncomfortable, shivering away in an inappropriate suede jacket.

  – Dressed for the weather, eh Ray, I snigger.

  – Fuckin plain-clathes allowance is rank, he grumbles.

  Moaning cunt. If he didnae spend aw his money oan designer labels, he might make the allowance run tae some practical gear. Thinks that the taxpayer’s nowt better tae dae than tae fund that fucker tae prance about on an imaginary catwalk while he pretends that he’s polis.

  As our trip progresses, it becomes abundantly clear that Lennox is keeping his cards close to his chest. The thing is, we are aware of that. Lennox is second division. He is not aware of that. There is a set
of rules which apply and those are rules that the likes of Ray Lennox could only ever have a rudimentary knowledge of, whereas the Bruce Robertsons of this world, we are moving off on a different tangent.

  We kid you not.

  – Maybe call in at the Fish Factory, eh Ray?

  – Okay, Lennox says.

  I turn off Junction Street into Ferry Road. – Shirley, we muse, – ma sister-in-law. Mind the time we both rode her?

  – Aye, says Lennox uneasily.

  Mr Top Shagger Lennox, huh! Thon daft wee laddie couldnae satisfy that piece. Exposed as an inadequate. She’s sucking me off and Lennox puts it in her from behind and she’s backing intae him and after a bit she’s gaun, – Change ends . . . Bruce . . .

  The Fish Factory is our name for a Leith brothel which operates as a sauna, or is it a Leith sauna which operates as a brothel? No matter. Auld Maisie, the most experienced madam in the city is in, and the kettle’s oan.

  We pit the squeeze oan Maisie that often the ex-hoor can hardly be chuffed tae see us, but a good hoor (and Maisie was one of the best) is always a superb actress so we get the red carpet treatment. That’s the beauty aboot being polis: it doesnae really matter whether or not everybody hates you, as long as they’re civil tae your face and can put up a good front. You can only live in the world you ken. The rest is just wishful thinking or paranoia. – Bruce darlin, Maisie states (correctly), wi a wee peck on the cheek for yours truly.

  – So Maisie. How goes it? I enquire, flopping back on to the couch and putting my arms around the back of my head. I get a whiff from my armpits and almost lower them in panic. Fuck it. Let the cunts smell Bruce Robertson. Maisie doesnae register. A hoor must learn to live with unpleasant smells. She’s kicking oan now Maisie, but she’s still a looker; in a heavy, print-dress matronly sort ay wey.

  – No bad Bruce, no bad. We’ve a new lassie sterted; a wee lassie fae Aberdeen. Ye want tae check her oot?

  – Later maybe Maisie, I smile, with a broad wink.

  She looks up at Lennox, – Mibbee yir young pal here might?