Filth (14 page)

My balls feel scaly and crusty. The skin is flaking off them. My eczema’s getting fuckin bad alright. Too many dirty thoughts. Too many bad places. But not now. What a lovely wee gob on it.

She puts her mouth slowly around the tip of my cock and winces. – That’s it baby, that’s it. Suck me like you suck your boyfriend . . . get that tongue working . . . you’re a beautiful wee lassie, ye ken that? Touch ma baws. Touch ma fuckin baws wi yir hands! I command.

Daddy’s girl

– Grip ma baws . . . harder baby c’mon . . . grip ma fuckin baws harder . . .

She’s gagging and wretching and greeting her eyes oot, but by now I’ve a hold of that golden hair and her head is mine. Daddy’s fuckin girl. Cannibalism, eh ya cunt? Well your wee lassie likes the taste ay that bacon, she fuckin loves that meat awright, loves it right tae the back ay her fuckin throat . . .

– Suck ya wee fuckin hoor or yer auld man’ll ken yir a fuckin drug-dealing wee hing-oot!

Yes yes yes yes

She’s suckin, she’s fuckin well suckin awright . . . the wee angel . . . ahhh . . . ahhhh . . . ahhhhh . . .

– Yeahsss . . . swallay! I’m farting oot loads ay gas, it’s burning my eyes. The power of that Lauriston Place Curry Hoose’s vindaloo!

She’s swallayin rather than spitting. I feel like I’m going to pass out as I pump it into her. There’s a tense pounding at the back of the neck like my head was being lifted off with a shovel, but it’s ebbing, just like my spunk against the back of her throat and down her gullet. She’s choking, but I haud her heid steady until I’m ready, then I withdraw my cock from her miserable torn face, stuff it in my troosers, zip up and leave her to her tears. – That’s us square hen, till the next time. Keep away fae this stuff, I smile, waving the pills at her and pocketing them. – And tell your auld man that Bruce Robertson was asking for him, I wink, brushing a few flakes of dead skin from her shoulders.

I was asking for him, but I got you instead doll.

I go through to the lobby leaving the wee slut to soak up that distinctive curry, Guinness and spunk atmosphere. Ray Lennox is warning Ocky to keep us posted on the movements of yobs like Alex Setterington and Ghostie Gorman. Poor Ocky; it was a bit of large hammer for such a small nut, but it’s the sport that counts and it passes the time of day.

As we prepare to leave, Ray turns back to Ocky, – Ye should leave they pills alaine. I never touch them. Tried them once, but they didnae go wi the job. Made me feel too good aboot everybody. Nae use in my game. The charlie but, that’s another story, he laughs.

Ocky just nods fearfully.

– Ye want tae teach her how tae gie a fuckin decent blow job, I laugh, pointing through to the room and shaking my head in a mixture of laughter and disgust as we depart. Outside the door Ray and I give each other the high five.

Sound cunt Ray Lennox. If every fucker on the force was like him, the job would be so much easier.

It’s the weekend! Early knock-off eftir that and no way am I going back to the HQ to hear Drummond bleating on about two silly wee cows who know that Setterington and Gorman’s mob were there but are trying to divert things by flagging up red herrings. I’m hame and it’s on with my
Frank Sidebottom Salutes the Magic of Freddy Mercury and Queen and Kylie Minogue
. Kylie Minogue: say what you like about her singing and her acting but she’s a wee doll. Things would be easier if we had birds like that on the force instead of dogs like Drummond. Or even these wee birds that Stacey likes, them that go, Tell us what ye want what ye really really want. The wee yin goes, Which one’s your favourite Dad? Carole just looked over sarcastically and said: Ask a silly question.

I practise Frank’s Mancunian accent for another small while then I give Bladesey a bell to check that he’s still at work, which he is, and he tells me that he’s coming straight out to the pub at nine. Working very late is our Brother Blades. That’s a sure sign that you’re either shagging someone you shouldn’t be, or in Bladesey’s case, not shagging who you should be.

Then I place another call to Bunty. Cunty. Cunty Bunty, how does your minge grow?

– Hello Boontay. That’s your name, int it?

– Yes. Who are you?

– Bet you’ve got hairs on your fanny like the branches of a tree. When was the last time you made loove Boontay?

– I don’t see that’s any of your business . . . you must lead a very pathetic life if you have to take such an interest in other people’s. I feel sorry for you.

My oh my. I do feel patronised all to hell. How can I recover from this shattering blow to the very core of my self-image? Easy peasy pudding and pie. – Well, thenkyaw! But what about your life Boontay?
Is
it that boring?

– That’s my business. Who are you? What do you want? . . . What’s your name?

Questions and answers; honesty, lies . . .– My name’s Frank, actually.

– Well Frank, I think you’re a very sorry excuse for a human being.

Do you now darling? How fascinating that you noticed. It was Daddy. I blame him. He was a bad man. But what about you sweetheart; what about you, who married one Clifford Blades? – They told us you take it oop the boom Boontay. Is that right?

– God you’re pathetic. Who told you then? Who told you that nonsense?

– It were . . . it were . . . little Frank.

– Who’s he then?

– Ee’s . . . ee’s . . . I’m not talking to you anymore, I squeak. This hoor is an A1 baw-buster. Cool as ye like. No wonder poor auld Bladesey’s on personal hand-jobs with the old newsprint. The bigger they are, the harder they come though. This is going to be a challenge. We decide to beat a temporary retreat.

– Tell me, who’s this Little Frank? she insists.

– Oops . . . sorry Boontay, me mam’s joost calling for me, I have to go. You’ll get me into trooble you will. Coming Mam . . . no I’m not making dirty phonecalls to prostitutes . . .

I slam the phone down. That big hoor can take the stick. Good. She’ll fuckin well need to. The funny feeling in my troosers tells me that a chugging session with Hector The Farmer’s material is well due. A good wank to some big-titted hoor, then try to dispatch the remains of last night’s Ruby Murray intae the next life. My bollocks are still a bit raw and flaky, and I get further aroused at the thought of wee Stephfanny’s lips round my cock.

It gets too much after a bit so I head down to Maisie’s sauna, also known as The Fish Factory. Maisie isn’t in for a blether and some advice as to how my specialist needs can be met, but I find a young hoor and take her over to Links B&B run by a guy from craft who owes me one. I try to ride her but my cock and balls are tender as fuck with that eczema, so I finger-fuck her roughly and get her to suck me off. She’s not into it at all, but I tell her I’ll shut their fuckin place down if I get any bullshit off her and she complies. When the smell of her gets unbearable, I tell her to fuck off before I’m tempted to break her jaw.

I fall asleep for about an hour and I wake up with a bad anxiety attack, and don’t know where I am. I have to open the window and look out on to the darkened Links to get my bearings. It’s quarter-to-nine and I’m going to be late for Bladesey. I fire up town in a taxi, which is driven by a guy I know vaguely from the

cause I was three sheets last night and in such a condition you always go one strength up in the curry stakes just soas you can taste it. I think those benny tabs have a high bi-carb content, so that’s not helping either. I’m not working this Saturday morning. No, I’ve promised to visit my friends the Blades.

At Home With The Blades

Bunty might be a tough nut to crack on the blower, but Bladesey’s told me that it’s all been getting to her. This is as it should be. Right now there’s a lump in my flannels and I feel charged up with a sense of my own power over her. It’s time I met up with this big hoor, as I promised Bladesey.

The snow’ll be starting up again soon. It’s going to fall heavily. You can feel it in the air. The decorations are up in the city and the lights are on. They finally buried the Wurie guy in London. There was a piece about it on last night’s television news; as expected, it was critical of the investigation. Fuck it, the coon’s well out the way underneath the earth and frost. The most important thing is that the roads are clearer, and I get out to Carrick Knowe in no time.

Bladesey’s shiteing his pants. Possibly with good reason. Bunty’s looking pretty severe, and he got in three sheets last night. I saw to that. She’s a big woman, a hefty woman, but press the right buttons and that big hoor would go off like an alarm clock for all her superior ways. I know the type. Same rules apply. She’s as straight as they come though; no knock-off in this Habitat/John Lewis furnished gaff. No tick, and not a smidgen of dust. Make a good polisman’s wife. Or fuck. About five-five, but eleven stone plus, on the voluptuous side of fat, black hair curled and twisted into ringlets a younger woman would wear (Bunty must be mid-thirties) and quite a bit of flash jewellery; necklace, earrings, bracelets which giving a tarty hint which is out of synch with her haughty tones.

The sum total of the particular equation that is Bunty adds up to: far too much woman for Bro. Clifford Blades. He’s nearly stammering: – This is Bruce, my friend I told you about. Eh actually, he’s the one I’m going to Scarborough for the masons’ beano with.

I try to stifle a laugh. Scarborough. Huh. Catch me in a pleb resort like that? I think not my sweet, sweet friend. – Pleased to meet you Bunty, I smile, extending my hand and letting a full, wholesome grip linger.

She returns my smile. – Bruce, isn’t it?

Yes it is, you meaty-thighed, big-titted whore. – Yes . . . I begin.

– Cliff’s told me all about you, she says, a fraction teasingly.

– Oh, nothing defamatory I hope . . . I turn to Bladesey, – for your solicitor’s sake, that is, I quip.

– Not at all. On the contrary, says this big tart with the huge earrings. Grab a hud of these and yank and she’d have tae go doon oan ye, nae choice, although her fanny might be like Murray field Ice Rink the minute ye did. But perhaps not, because this cow respects power. I ken the type. I snap into professional mode. – I understand how unsettling this must be for you Bunty. However, try not to worry unduly. I’ve dealt with creeps like this one before. Most of them, if you’ll pardon the expression, are all mouth and no trousers. Slamming the phone down only goes to show them that you’re frightened. They feed off that fear. Stay as cool as you can, and talk to them. That’s when they start tripping themselves up. Getting careless, running off at the mouth.

– Your officer said not to get into it with them, she says, slightly quizzically.

– Yeah, we generally tell our younger, less-experienced officers that. And yes, I find that works if you want them to stop. If you actually want to catch these bastards though, if you’ll pardon my French, you have to use different tactics.

– Oh, I want him caught, don’t you worry about that, Bunty says in an almost low growl, – I want him to suffer.

I feel my cock stiffen at the emphasis this big hoor puts on the word ‘suffer’. Phoa! – Well Bunty, I say, it comes out in a soft wheeze, – Ehmm, excuse me, bit of a throat, I cough, – The best thing you can do is offer a bit of self-disclosure.

– What do you mean by self-disclosure? she asks challengingly, sitting forward in her seat, pushing her long dark fringe out of her eyes. Yes, this big hoor would take some satisfying right enough, and I’d fuckin relish the challenge. Fuckin relish it, I kid you not.