Filth (40 page)

business remains as unsolved as ever. Yes, there are clues, but it’s working out what they mean . . .

– Gus, I shot, – Urban dweller, eight letters . . . N dinnae say citizen cause that’s only seven.

– Aw . . . that’s what ah would have said. Citizen. Here, what did you get for that nine across?

– Soldered. Join using a hot iron, I tell him. There’s a fuckin good one here for ye. Twelve across. Bumptious. TOAL! Pity it’s five letters but.

Gus’s laugh ricochets around the open-plan like a workie’s drill in a built-up area.

I turn to the football pages. BOXING DAY DISASTER is the headline.

an anonymous, lacklustre performance by Tom Stronach, normally so full of endeavour in the visitors’ engine room, led to his substitution in the second half.

Dougie Gillman looks over my shoulder. I shake the paper at him. – Did ye go Dougie?

– A bloody nightmare. That Stronach, he’s a fuckin imposter, Gillman scoffs.

– Ah ken why he was so crap yesterday, I tell him knowingly, – the cunt was up till the wee small hours on Christmas Day, off his fuckin tits . . . no just on bevvy either by the look ay things.

– Aye, thir aw it that fuckin cocaine . . . they fitba players, Gillman shakes his heid.

– Thing is, thir short-changin the fans Dougie. We pey they cunts’ wages.

Gillman nods in bitter agreement as Lennox comes in. He has a copy of the
Screws
as well. He sees Gus at the crossword. – Seven doon, he says, – Short for Patrick. That’s easy: Dirty fuckin thick fenian terrorist bog-wog cunt.

Lennox is now sporting a huge, Zapata-style moustache: it seems to grow along with his charlie intake. I keep thinking that I can see bits of coke stuck in it.

– No bad Ray, mair than five letters in that though, eh, I smile.

What made Ray Lennox want to be all palsy-walsy and one-of-the-boys all of a sudden?

– What about twenty-four across: ‘Lodge?’ Gus asks with an edge in his voice, turning away from Lennox.

– File, Ray says.

– Eh? Gus snaps challengingly.

– Tae file a complaint. Tae lodge a complaint, says Lennox, all superior-like. – I’ll bet the first thing you thought of was masonic or orange! he laughs.

– And ah bet it was the last bloody thing you thought of! Gus almost takes his heid off.

– Eh? Ray asks, bemused, almost rocking back on his heels.

I’m shaking with laughter behind my paper. Growl! Growl! Go for him old boy, go on and teach that smart young pup a thing or two! Go on old boy! You can dae it! Ruff ruff!

– Dinnae think yir behaviour’s no gaun noticed in the craft, son, Gus says, pointing the finger.

– What ye on aboot Gus? Lennox turns to me and then Peter, – What is this? We don’t respond, so he looks back at Gus.

– Jist what ah said. No wise, son, Gus hisses, tapping his muppet heid, – no wise at aw. Then he turns away and leaves. Inglis follows him like he was his boyfriend. Yes, buftie boys are the biggest size queens.

– What the fuck was that about? Ray asks.

– Listen Ray, it’s what I’ve been telling ye aboot, I whisper confidentially as I see Gillman going into the photocopying room. – The young stag syndrome.

Ray looks flushed. – He doesnae ken anything aboot the charlie, does he? he whispers eagerly.

– I doubt it, I smile.

I’m looking at my stars while, yes, I can almost hear it, the slow delicious sound of that wanker, Ray Lennox, stewing in his own fucking juices. My sign is Taurus, the bull. Fuckin appropriate cause that’s all I get aroond here, usually from that sad spastic Toal. Nope. Wrong! He is not a sad spastic, he ain’t that fuckin interesting!

TAURUS (April 21 – May 21): The combined influence of Mars and Pluto, two rather volatile planets, together with your ruler Venus, indicates a time of smouldering passion. But seriously, don’t get too carried away as it could all end in tears. As for someone who is coming on strong today, you need to question their motives.

The
News of The Screws
disgusts me after a while. It’s all shagging, drugs and crime triangles featuring fat schemies. I’ll have to get back to buying the
Mail On Sunday
. I used to get it for the politics, but I packed it in after Princess Diana’s funeral. Every person that was interviewed outside the Palace all seemed to be sad, nae-mates spastics, sort of Bladesey types. Then I read that the majority of people who attended were
Mail
readers. That terrified me into dropping the paper.

I decide to go and see Bunty. – Ray, I’m going walkabout. If that docile mutation Toal is looking for me, tell him that I’m away to the Forum.

– Will do Bruce. When will you be back?

– A couple of hours or so. How, ye wantin ays tae bring back something fae Crawford’s?

– Aye . . . I suppose a Cornish pasty wi chips, Ray says hesitantly, as if he is thinking of something more tasty.

Peter comes back in. – Peter? Scran?

It’ll be sun-dried tomatays, olives and feta cheese fir that big nancy-boy.

– You gaun past Brattisani’s?

– Could do.

– White puddin supper then, he says. Probably sees the white puddin as a guy’s cock. Ah’ll fuckin well bet ye the cunt wants one awright!

– Well, if you’re gaun by Brattisani’s, ah’ll take a fish supper,

A Society of Secrets

Bladesey’s hedge is cut more precisely than any of the others in the street. He’s neat, that’s what he is, is Brother Blades. Probably from a posh family but thick and thus only suited to prole white-collar work. Then again, could have come from an upwardly mobile, but not too upwardly mobile, working-class home where neatness and obedience is stressed as a virtue. And it is. Serve them all my days. This means that the same rules apply.

I drop in accidentally on purpose, seeing as I’m in the neighbourhood and all that shite. It’s a cheerless morning. There’s a pinch in the air but it doesnae look like snow. My lips are chapping a bit, but I’ve applied the greasy stick.

Bunty seems pleased to see me. She bades me enter and she’s got the kettle on. She’s wearing a thick angora sweater but these tits won’t be beaten, they still cry out for attention underneath it. She looks sour when I start to tell her what a great guy I think Bladesey is.

– Yeah, sure, she says with contempt in her voice. This is too much of a woman for you Brother Blades. I’m sorry, but yes, the same rules do apply. She puts a pot of tea on a green plastic tray with two cups and a jug of milk and bowl of sugar. It’s been a long time since I had tea served this way, outside of the office. Every time I go to make a pot at home, there’s always used teabags lying in it and in the sink, and it just got too much hassle cleaning it all up. Besides, I never mind to get milk, though there’s generally beer in the fridge.

I take a sip and raise my eyebrows.

– He’s weak. That’s what he is. No backbone, she spits a bitter elaboration.

Well, Brother Blades is in shit street alright. But I have to support the Brother here because to slag him off would show lack of character in her eyes, although I must do it as though I’m being loyal to him, rather than sincere, as that would show lack of judgement. – Cliff’s one of the best in my book, I tell her, forcing a look which I hope is pained and embarrassed.

– He’s your friend and you’re faithful to him and that’s good, she says, swallowing the bait. – I sometimes wish I had a friend who was as loyal to me. Is that this masonic brotherhood I hear so much about? She drops her voice a little and stares flirtatiously.

– Well, I hope you don’t hear too much about it, I smile back.

– Oh not a great deal of interest. It sounds intriguing though, a secret society.

– Not a secret society, a society of secrets, I wave my finger gently at her.

– Oh I see. And there’s a difference is there?

– Well, I don’t really know. But I do know one thing about the craft: it’s basically now a glorified drinking club for silly wee laddies if the truth be told.

– You don’t seem like the silly wee laddie type, she smiles obsequiously.