Filth (15 page)

– Tell him something about yourself. Play along. Turn up the heat. Up the stakes. That’s the way to do it. Don’t make up any nonsense, he’d probably be able to work it out. Just draw him in. That way you have control. He becomes the victim. Force him to confront his own need. Let the hunter become the hunted, so to speak.

Bunty’s nodding with grim enthusiasm and our gaze is locked upon each other. I can feel the electricity flashing between us. I hold it for a second, just until she starts to look slightly concerned, then I turn to Bladesey: – We’ll nail this creepy bastard Cliff. No danger, then I swivel back to her: – We’ll get him Bunty. Cliff, I say, not looking at him, – I want you to take special care of this lady, this very, very brave lady. Our eyes lock again and there’s a connecting laser beam of sexual energy shooting out from both our pupils.

– Oh I will, he says dutifully, and as I turn to face him, I can sense Bunty’s look of contempt at his assurance, but I don’t want to collude with it. Not yet.

– I feel so much happier now. Thank you so much Bruce, she smiles. The big cow stands up to move to the kitchen, allowing me an inspection of the goods. There’s plenty of buttock-meat in those black leggings and a pair of tits you could lose yourself in.

– Not at all, thank your good hubby here, my pal Cliff. Low friends in high places, what would we do without them, eh Bladesey boy?

– Very true Bruce, Bladesey tries to come over all sage, but only sounds insipid. I look out of the windae behind this wearying, unsubstantial figure and sure enough, the snow’s starting to fall.

I make my excuses and leave. It’s Saturday, but Hearts are away today, so I elect to go into the station and get some more OT on the board. Time and a half. Can’t be sniffed at. In fact, looking at my diary I see that I told the investigating team to be there for a briefing. I don’t know why. I think it was because I overheard Drummond saying to Karen Fulton that she planned to do her Christmas shopping today. Think again dykeface!

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.