by Irvine Welsh
Lennox gets a flush roond his eyes. He smiles stoically.
I catch this and turn to him. – Tell ye what Ray, Maisie here, she’d teach ye things thit yir ma couldnae. Forgotten mair thin you’re ever likely tae learn. Ah keep tryin tae entice her back oot ay retirement, but she’s havin nane ay it.
Maisie’s laughing and shaking her heid as Ray continues to look uncomfortable. I lean forward and pull out a pen from my top pocket and start tapping with it on the glass-topped table. – Even for a fresh young piece ay meat like Detective Sergeant Raymond Lennox here Maisie?
She gives Ray, who now seems in excruciating pain, a quick once over. – Sorry sweethert, ah jist dae it fir love now, no fir money. Ah leave that tae the youngsters. Ah’m a one-man wimmin these days.
– Ray here’s gittin himself a bit ay a reputation oan the force as a stud, I smile, puckering my lips and poking the pen languidly in and out of the ball I’ve made of my fist.
– Aw aye? Maisie leers.
That puts our Mister Lennox in his place. And I’m not finished yet. – Aw aye, so if yir ever coaxed oot ay retirement, this is your man: definitely. They tell me he’s the best.
Maisie kens that she might have to do business with the up and coming boys on the force like Ray Lennox, so it serves no purpose to humiliate him. She moves from the particular to the general, in an obvious attempt to spare Lennox’s blushes. – Tell ye what Bruce, Maisie says with an air of confidentiality, – if ye could measure aw the inches ay cock ah’ve hud in the line ay business, n pit thum aw the gither, ye’d be reaching tae the moon n back!
Of course I’m well wide for this game and I’m fucked if that spastic Lennox is squirming off the hook until I’m ready for him to do so. – Well Maisie, if ye wanted tae get yir lips around the sweetest piece ay prime Scotch beef, I kiss my fingertips and shut my eyes in an exquisite gesture, then thumb over at Ray, – D.S. Lennox here is yir man.
– As ah say Bruce, those days are over for me, but if they wernae, wi this fine lookin laddie here, well, it’d be mixin business wi pleasure, ah kin tell ye. She licks her lips at Lennox, who’s looking like his fuckin soul has just imploded.
Aye Lennox, you’ll ken. To save his further embarrassment Maisie goes off on a story concerning one of our city fathers. – Thir wis one Lord Provost, this wis wey before your time son, Maisie nods at Ray, then turns tae me. – You’ll mind ay him Bruce?
– Oh yes . . . by reputation alone though Maisie. Ah’m no that auld!
– Ah didnae mean it like that, yir jist a laddie bichrist, she smiles with those cat’s-erse lips, the moisture having been sucked from those just as sure as they’ve sucked out the semen of millions of punters from here and overseas. – Naw I’m talking aboot Provost . . . well, it wid be improper tae mention names. Bit this Provost was well known amongst the local girls for wanting tae conduct his liaisons wearing the ceremonial robes and chains of the City of Edinburgh.
– Rumour had it, I interject, – that he couldnae get it up otherwise.
– That’s true Bruce son, and take that as comin fae the horse’s mooth. Eh telt ays himself, he said: Maisie, ma wife disnae understand me. She disnae like me wearing the robes around the house. The thing is Bruce, Raymond, she wouldnae let him dae it with her wearin these robes. But you know how the Provost looked: an awfay indistinguished wee man. Naebody recognised him oot ay the gowns, the man’s whole identity and sense ay power came fae they robes. One day the administration at the Provost’s office sent the gowns away tae be cleaned. The Provost had tae conduct his duties in his suit and tie. The thing was, that every Thursday night the perr wee man had booked in doon here fir a wee session wi a couple ay the lassies. The Provost was nervous aboot having tae perform withoot his ceremonial robes, so he had a few nippy sweeties fir Dutch courage.
– As one does, I smirk.
– Well, Maisie continues, taking my hint and refilling my glass, – the Provost got really drunk. When he came doon here he took oaf aw his clathes and refused tae leave or pit them back oan until he had his robes. He was screaming: I am the Lord Provost of the City of Edinburgh and I will shut down this foul house of debauchery! Ye could hear him right acroas Leith! The only thing that would satisfy the Provost was the return of his robes. Now they were in Pullars of Perth, the South Side branch, who at the time were drycleaners to the Provost’s office. We had the number of the Provost’s chief political ally, the chairman of the housing department. He got oantae the Chief Coonstable who did a deal wi Alec Connolly whae wis in police custody at the time, oan a drunk n disorderly charge.
– Post Alec, I smile. – He’s still kicking aboot. A top housebreaker before the bevvy claimed him and he lost the plot. Spent a good number ay years working for the GPO eftir that, before he got even too pished up to haud doon these duties!
– Aye, ehs an awfay man is Alec, Maisie says with some affection. – Well, she continues, – they said that they would drop the charges against Alec if he broke intae Pullars of Perth and recovered the robes. So Alec said, Aye, nae bother. The thing was, and you ken Alec, Bruce, I nod with a smile, – he wis fleein, that was the reason eh wis in your custody in the first place. So Alec’s brekin intae the shoap, while the Provost’s still doon here, and he’s screaming: I want my robes! If you don’t get my robes I’ll close this place down! And mind, what he said went. Then he went tae the kitchen and got a knife. The girls were terrified, but he got his own clothes and started ripping and tearing them to shreds. I am the Lord Provost! I wear the robes of my office! I do not wear this fucking shite! He was shouting. Well, Alec had broken in awright but something went wrong. He either lifted the wrong packet or it was unclearly labelled and he picked up this bag he thought was marked Lord Provost’s Office. In the meantime we had got the Provost so drunk that he’d passed oot. When Alec got doon here wi the package, we found out there was just a lady’s fur coat inside. It seems that they’d taken the Provost’s robes up tae the head office in Perth for specialist treatment. So we dressed the Provost in this coat and stuck him in a taxi hame, Maisie smirked.
I nudge Lennox, – Wait till ye hear this bit Ray.
– Well, the taxi driver, unknown tae us, had just been bumped for his fare by a squad of laddies gaun oot tae Niddrie. He wis in nae mood tae find that when he got tae the Provost’s address, that there wis only an unconscious, naked man in a fur coat wi nae money in the back ay his car.
– What did he dae? Ray asks.
Maisie takes a bracing sip of whisky. – The driver thinks, I’ll show this cheeky swine. He drives back into town and up the Calton Hill. He drags the unconscious Provost oot the car and lays him out on the monument, the big half-finished yin wi the pillars, the one they call the disgrace ay Edinburgh. A patrol car came along a bit later and found a group of the young funny fellies that used tae hing aboot up there having a line up wi the Provost.
Ray’s eyes widen.
– Provost . . . well, let’s just call him Provost X, was well known for his hostility tae the gay community, I explain. – He’d knocked back permission for them to open a drop-in centre. Said it would be a hot-bed of sodomy. Anyway, the Provost was found by that patrol car a little later on. The young queens scattered. It was kept out the papers, but it was all around the grapevine. As you say Maisie, that monument had long been known as Edinburgh’s disgrace, but the name had dropped out of common usage. That incident certainly popularised it again!
– Rumour had it that the Provost gave up the whisky after that, Maisie cackles, – reckoned it gave him a sair erse!
We laughed for a bit until I grew fed up and stopped abruptly and looked coldly at Maisie. – The new lassie Maisie. I think I’m ready to check her out now. Meet her, and perhaps arrange a wee date for the night.
– Surely Bruce, surely, Maisie says, rising from her chair and departing.
– She’s some woman Maisie, eh, Ray smiles, – a real character.
– Aye, sure. That’s no the wey it works wi women
Ray, I lecture sagely, – Women are like tetrapaks: it isnae what’s inside that’s important, the crucial thing is tae git these flaps open. Never forget that, I tell him.
The visit has a spin-off. – This is Claire, Maisie introduces us tae this wee doll.
Maisie’s new hoor is a class act who has split from her murderous bastard of a pimp in Aberdeen and she’s into doing good turns for the polis in order to get some level of protection. I take one look at this wee waif and volunteer myself for the job. Of course she’s anything but, merely employing the hoor’s acting skill to the full. I crack this code straight away and arrange for her to call at mines tonight. This is a risky approach for all sorts of reasons but if we wait for Carole to get sensible
pies with chips, the wey only Crawford’s can do them, stacked high and smothered in grease. Just fuckin flour really, but they do the job.
I’m looking forward to checking out Claire from Aberdeen the night, but it’s time Ray and I were back at the office. It’s expedient to hit the canteen first, as it always is. It’s busy but there’s an eerie atmosphere and I look over and see Drummond holding a huge card. I know something’s wrong straight away by the quiet vibe. She looks devastated, as if somebody’s told her some horrific news. I feel a sense of elation. I head over to Dougie Gillman. – Dunno if you’ve heard, he tells me, – but Clell tried tae top himself this morning. Jumped off the Dean Bridge.
This news sends me into an excited rapture. Even more thrilling than Clell attempting suicide is the thought that he must have been so miserable to try, and that by failing he’s merely succeeded in humiliating himself and the pain will still be there.
How did it make you feel?
I try to compose myself, to convert my feelings into a horrified shock, but I can’t hide the glee and don’t really have to try too hard as Gillman is more than complicit. – What happened? I cough.
– The trees broke his fall, but he smashed his hip tae pieces. He’s in the Princess Margaret Rose hospital. They’re operating on him the morn. A hip replacement.
– Is that all? I ask.
Amanda Drummond has moved alongside me with the huge card which has been signed by everyone. – I’d ‘ve thought that was enough, she says coldly.
– Of course . . . I didn’t mean it that way, I protest convincingly, making her look a bit petty for suggesting that I did. – Let me sign that card . . . it’s all a bit of a shock . . . it’s just that he got the dream move to Traffic . . . I can’t take it in . . .
– Of course it is . . . I’m sorry, Drummond says, – I wasn’t implying . . .
– Is there a collection?
– Karen and I are collecting, she says.
I thought as much. Nursemaid a mental cripple while neglecting your duties. Carry on featherbedding vegetables, it’s only a murder we’re trying to solve here.
A rummage through my pocket produces a crumpled tenner which I hand over to Drummond. I know a lassie who’d suck every drop ay spunk oot ay yir baws for that note.
– Bruce . . . have you spoken to Bob yet?
– Toal, I correct her. – Not today. Why?
– He said to get in touch with him as soon as you came in. There’s a note on your desk about it.
– I’ll go straight up, I tell her, exiting.
Toal’s hammering away on his fuckin film script as I go in, because he sneakily saves what he’s got and switches the programme over to something else. He’s trying to be cool, but he looks as guilty as a Begbie in a jeweller’s stockroom. He asks me to excuse him for a minute, nature calls, he says. As he exits, I move behind his desk. There’s nothing on the screen, the crafty cunt. There are a set of keys in the lock of the top drawer of his desk. They are obviously house keys and car keys, so the one that sticks in the lock must be valuable to Toal for him to keep it with those. I pull my jersey cuff over my hand and turn the lock.
Inside is what looks like a thick report, only it isn’t a report, it’s a draft screenplay. The title page:
CITY OF DARKNESS: A MURDER MYSTERY
Screenplay by Robert S. Toal
Who the fuck does he think he is? Does he think he’s going to get out of this place, that Hollywood’s going to come along and say: Aye, you’re a thick Scottish cop who couldnae catch a cauld and cannae write his name, here’s a million quid for a fuckin screenplay? We’ll get fuckin Tom Fuckin Cruise and Nicholas Fuckin Cage tae star and Martin Fuckin Scorsese tae direct . . . aye, sure. I want to just rip up that cunt’s shite, fuckin well burn it in the fire, keep me warm this Christmas, the only fuckin use fir it . . .
Alongside it is a key. It looks identical to the one in the lock. I take it and close the drawer. I’m going to get Toal’s script, and his disks. I should just do the lot of them now, and there’s fuck all the cunt can say about it either. That would be excellent! But the promotion board . . . no, I’ll have to keep him sweet. He mustn’t suspect that it’s me who’s fucking him over. Stick to the guiding principle of destroying without overtly making enemies. The corporate way.
I sit back in my seat as Toal returns. He tells me curtly that Mssss Drummond is no longer lead officer on the case. Muggins here is back in the front line. I have mixed feelings about this. She’s obviously been exposed as the dippit cunt that she is, but it means more fuckin work for me and I’m too fuckin busy to chase around looking for some fuckin criminal spastics. He tells me that he wants a progress report on his desk, by the end of the day, letting him know who is working on what.
He can stick it up his bouffant erse. I go downstairs and brief Drummond and Gillman. It’s pleasurable telling Drummond that she is to oversee the clerical procedure of tracing the hammer. – I want the net cast wider on this hammer search, every B&Q and Texas in Scotland, I smile.
She goes to say something but composes herself, while I drink in her discomfort before asking, – Is that all? I give Dougie Gillman a wink as Ms Drummond scuttles off in a most unprofessional manner!
We once read some cunt saying that it was better to travel hopefully than to arrive and just thinking this makes us want tae smack the bastard ower the heid with a truncheon because if this is as good as it gets then we are well and truly fucked. I sit down trying to fill up three sides of A4 with Toal’s fuckin report.
After two sides and a paragraph, I go hame to tidy up. This means I pull out a black bin-liner from under the sink and lob all the shite that’s accumulated into it. I need a second one before I leave the front room. I would normally never go to such lengths for a hoor, it’s just that I need the place looking right for that sense of theatre. I get the desk and chair in from the garage and I bring doon Stacey’s toy blackboard and chalk from her bedroom. That’s me ready. I stick one of Hector The Farmer’s videos in to get me in the mood before the Roger Moore shows up.
That wee Claire’s a good one alright. Nice one Maisie. It’s taken me ages to find a lassie that would be ideal for all this. The thing is I know most of the girls through working on vice. Down Dock Street. I looked after them and they looked after me. The best pimp those hoors had ever fuckin well had. This one’s special awright. She’s done the biz as I specified: short permed wig, tweed skirt, green jersey with brooch on it. The brooch is fuckin essential. Perfect. Just like Miss Hunter.
– Bruce Robertson, come out here, she commands us.
This hoor has the correct expression, pitch and tone. Maisie has briefed her excellently. We are compelled to obey. We? Me. I. – Yes Miss, I say softly.
– You are a disgrace, Robertson, she says to us. – The sneakiest, most evil and vile little human piece of excrement who ever walked this Earth . . .
– I suppose so, we agree. We are disgraceful. All of us.
I start to pish myself. The hot urine trickles down my thigh, burning the eczema.
. . . but at the same time I have paradoxically never known a boy who places me in such an intense state of sexual arousal . . . the lips of my vagina quiver and widen when you walk into a room Robert
son . . . she gasps. Fuckin hell. – Are you aware of that Robertson? Are you?
– Suppose, we tell her. I’m getting stiff. Very stiff.
– I want you Bruce Robertson. You make my cunt wet. I am going to have you Bruce Robertson . . . she’s over to me and she’s on me, pushing me back across the desk I bought recently, undoing my snake belt and pulling my soaking flannels down. She hitches up her skirt and she’s got no knickers on, she’s impaling herself on me and fucking me slowly telling me what a bad boy I’ve been to have caused her to do this and I’ve got my hands clutching her buttocks and I’m calling the frigid auld hoor for everything under the sun and this is therapy in its purest and simplest form and a mist rises and spots appear before my eyes and my head spins and the lesson today is: BRUCE ROBERTSON.
I sit down and compose myself, lighting a cigarette. – You’re fucking excellent Miss Hu . . . eh Claire.
– Anything else ye need? she smiles sweetly, tidying her gear away.
– Naw, not just now thank you, I consider, thinking if she’ll be game for a little scheme that Hector The Farmer and I talked about sometime ago. Worth thinking about.
She departs and I shower and get changed. The dirty clothes are piling up. I’ve not much clean stuff left. I’ll have to do a laundry soon.
Refreshed, I decide to head out for a late-night drink doon the Lodge. George Mackie, the dug-handler’s there, looking lost and lonely in the company of a uniformed spastic whose name escapes me. Poor auld Dode looks three sheets. I order a triple whisky and a pint of Guinness and join him and the non-person.
Dode’s still greeting his eyes oot over that fuckin mutt that got topped through Lennox’s incompetence. As the night wears on he becomes increasingly tedious. Even the uniformed spastic fucks off. At one point, the tears well up in Gorgeous George’s eyes.
– It’s no something that ye git ower Robbo . . .
– Man’s best friend right enough George, I nod, slinging back another double Grouse.
– . . . that dug wis ma partner. That dug . . . he looks lairily around the bar, – . . . that dug hud hert. That dug wis mair polis than any man in this bar!
