Filth (45 page)

– Phah, Gillman sneers, and nobody sneers quite like him. If someone told me, in sincerity, that I girned like Gillman, I would die a happy man. I can tell it’s draining the blood from Lennox’s face at five feet. – Ah git enough fuckin mooth oan the job withoot takin it fi some cunt in the hoose. He looks to me, – Put this cunt right Bruce.

– I have to fly. I’m having woman problems, I smirk. – But this is a subject which needs further discussion. The bar

They nod affirmatively, Lennox with reluctance, and I, we, I . . . we’re all here . . . jump in the motor and speed towards the Jeannie Deans pub in the South Side. We decide to drive through Queens Park and we marvel at Salisbury Craigs’ imposing face which towers above us. This city of ours is truly beautiful and we like this part where there is not a scheme in sight. Why could we not simply move all the scum to the middle of nowhere, like Glasgow, where they would blend in more effectively? Come to think of it, that’s exactly what we did do, when we built the schemes. Sent them far, but not far enough.

We still have a wrap of coke on us and there must be a good half a G left and we rub a load of it into our gums and our face goes numb. We need it for this Shirley hoor, we know that she is going to make demands on us. We are not to be entrusted with the demands of the weak. It is not in our character.

Shirley is sitting on her own at a table in the corner of the empty bar. She looks like a hopeful hoor on a day shift. When we get closer we can observe her distress through her red, puffy face. Apparently our sister-in-law has been crying.

– Bruce . . . I had a smear . . . a cervical smear . . . there was something there . . . I have to go back for more tests . . .

– I’m sorry, we tell her, – but that’s just one of those things. No sense in getting all steamed up until you see what the other test results tell you.

– But I can’t cope . . . I’ve nobody since Danny left . . . I need you Bruce. I need somebody . . . I need support Bruce . . .

Just looking at her there, at her distress, just for a second, we wish we were stronger. I wish I was somebody else, the person she’s mistaking me for, the person whom she
wants
to mistake me for. The person who gives a fuck. – Sorry, we tell her. – I don’t see what I can do. You’ll have to sort it out.

I’ve been licking her diseased fanny. Oh my God.

Then I, we, start to think: no way should Stronach be getting his game in the middle of the park with that young boy languishing in the reserves, what’s his name, him that played towards the end of season. He’s fit now, so there’s no excuse for such poor selection.

– Bruce, please, she says, and grabs our hand in hers. We brush her away. – Sorry Shirley, we say, rising, as she starts the waterworks. – Nothing we can do. Urgent case, eh. Sort it out and keep me posted. Chin up! Ciao!

We dance across the floor in the pub, slipping deftly past two chairs and as we turn can see her round, dark, black hole of a mouth and she’s bawling something but we are spinning away out the door and she rises to follow us but we nash like fuck across the car park, humming the closing credits tune of
The Benny Hill Show
.

She’s still in hot pursuit screaming Brooosss and we realise that we’re running in the wrong direction, away from the car. We look back and slow down, regaining breath and then turning round, standing still and smiling as she approaches us breathing heavily. We then do a quick shuffle and sell her such a Charlie Cooke-style dummy that had she been a defender, she would, indeed, have had to pay to get back in the park!

Gotcha!

Emulate that Stronach!

She falls on to her knees howling in frustration as we, I, we dive in the car and start up the motor and we head down the road, watching her broken figure receding from us in the mirror.

Shirley brought it on herself. A disease of the fanny, divine retribution for her infidelities. We have our rash, that is our penance. We do not inflict our misfortune on others. We are not made that way.

Daft cunt.

Our, my, head is spinning but I feel euphoric and sick at the same time. There is no way that I can go back to the office and be harassed by hoors. It’s hoggers the morn: oot wi the old, in wi the new. Same rules for fanny as for everything else. We, I, radio in to Toal, telling him that we are following up several leads. I then head home, via stopping at the offie for more supplies, then driving out to Hector The Farmer’s place to pick up some books of a specialist nature which will be used to provide our, my, evening’s entertainment.

Hector’s buoyant when I get to his. He’s smoking that pipe, which always gives him an even more contented air. – You know Bruce, the best thing ye ever did was tae pit me in touch wi wee Claire. I’ve turned intae a right auld sugar daddy. Fantastic wee lassie.

My fuckin . . . I feel a surge of jealousy and remember that she’s just a hoor and it’s all commercial transactions. I have a quick malt with Hector and head off. As he shows me out that fuckin collie tries to jump me again. – Down Angus! It’s just Bruce!

He hauls the dug away and I drive off, still annoyed at Claire for going with that old bastard.

Women.

I can’t

Carole

Shirley

I can’t

Shirley, find somebody strong. This job, this life, it’s drained my strength. I don’t need a lame duck in tow.

Some bastard beeps me on the bypass and I think about giving chase but I don’t feel up to it.

Our coping capacity is low.

our appetite and all I want is more of the same, fuck eating anything now.

Coke for fuel, coke for energy. Have a coke and a smile. Coking coal. This is white, not black; clean, not filth. You never eat coke. You just snort it up.

Snort the whole fuckin lot of it up.

I’ve done the lot, so I try to have a wank to Hector’s vids in order to distract the coke craving, but I can’t concentrate. My whole body wants the blood my cock needs and I head up to Ray Lennox’s. I’m tanning it in the car, giving a daft spastic the V-sign as I cut him up. Cheeky cunt. Polis. Priority. I come upon Ray’s gaff and I batter the door polis-style until his dressing-gowned figure appears on the doorstep. – Ray, I smile, – sort me out with some posh. Pronto mate.

– Bruce . . . I can’t . . . he says.

– Sort ays oot Ray! Hogmanay the morn! I snap, grinding my bare teeth at him. The night is but young.

I hear a voice coming from inside the house. – Who is it Ray? What’s wrong?

– It’s nothing! he shouts back into the gaff.

That voice. It sounded like Drummond. I suppose plenty hoors have those irritating whingy tones. Maybe it’s that Trudi bird.

– Company Ray? I smirk.

– Wait there a minute, he says shaking his head before moving back in. Ootside in this cauld? My fucking arse. I step into the lobby. He’s gone for a second or two and returns, producing a gram. – That’s it Bruce, that’s my lot.

– Aye, you’ll ken, I say, then I head away, leaving him looking like fuckin Noddy. Cheeky cunt.

I get into the motor and I want to snort a line on the dashboard, but there’s too many cunts around. Desperation takes over and I do it anyway. It’s as strong as fuck. You have to test the stuff, save wasting police time putting it through the labs. One big snort. I’m trembling as I drive through the city back towards Collie. I don’t know what I want to do. I’ll probably hit the piss in a bit. I need to take the edge off this coke. Now. I need a drink now. I stop off outside a bar I used to frequent years ago, before we went to Oz. It’ll have to be one: we realise that our bank cards are at home.

FUCKEN STUPID SHITING CUNT!

Our fist slams the dashboard repeatedly until our hand is swollen and almost too sore to hold the wheel. Then we exit and go into the pub. A pocket of shrapnel: barely enough for a pint of lager. I feel like a fuckin jakey as I walk into this tiny dive of a public bar. There’s a small lounge separate from it next door, partitioned by a wooden panel and some frosted glass. From behind it I can hear the hee-hawing laughter of a four-bacardi slag, when I don’t even have enough to stand the cow one. I get the pint of lager up and throw two-thirds of it back in no time. There’s a party of auld cunts playing dominoes in the corner and a nae-mates fucker reading the
Evening News
at the bar. I recognised him as polis, Drylaw I think. I finish the pint quickly and exit the dive, getting in the motor and driving swiftly back to Collie. I’m focused all the way on the bank cards which are in the inside pocket of our jacket over the chair in the front room.

With great despondency we, I, we (we’re all here now) clock a car parked outside our house. It looks vaguely familiar. We consider double-backing, but we need our cards and our money. We ignore the occupant of the car, even now we recognise it as Chrissie and storm down the path. But she’s straight out after us.

– Bruce . . . I’ve tried to call you at work, she says. Her swine-like nostrils flare at me.

Why pick on Bruce all the time, there’s others too, why can’t they fuckin well dae anything . . .– She’s ill you know, she could be dying, we tell her. We produce our keys and put them in the lock.

– Who?

– Shirley, my sister-in-law. She’s ill. Same rules apply, we say, turning the lock.

– Too bad, she says, pushing in the door after me.

We try to repel her but she’s all over us like a cheap suit and she’s shouting, – C’mon, I want to turn off the gas for you, come on, and her hands in my flies. – God, this place stinks . . . c’mon Bruce . . .

It’s only fuckin well me, only me . . . I’m on my fuckin ain here . . .

I pull away, but she’s still coming on, this fucking cackling witch, her mocking, vicious hoor’s eyes; and I’m pulling her hands away, but I’m stiffening against my will. – Leave me . . . leave me . . .

– C’moan . . .

She’s got my cock out and she’s sucking me off and we are crying, crying for Shirley no no no crying for ourself and she’s got my belt off and I’m saying, – Naw naw but Chrissie, wait a minute, wait a minute Chrissie, and she’s diving out of her clothes and she gets the cord from her bag and wraps it round her own neck.

I’m shivering and trembling and I need my charlie, it’s in my pocket, and I need to see Shirley or Carole . . . she’s the one I need . . . and she’s tightened the belt around my neck before I can speak and her sharp painted nails dig into the foreskin of my semi she’s pushing me back on to the couch and it’s horrendous and she’s pushing her cunt on to it against my will and thrusting on to me and the friction’s hurting me and she’s choking me harder and I can’t breathe or speak as the grip tightens . . .

– Git fuckin harder ya silly wee poof! C’moan! Get it in! She’s rubbing and twisting harder and I’m getting harder and it’s going up, she’s enclosing me, and I want to fuck this bitch to pieces but there’s no way, cause although I’m hard now she’s fucking the life out of me, throttling it out of me and she’s screaming: – Turn off ma fuckin gas! Fuck harder! Move! Move! Turn oaf ma fuckin gas!

I’m choking and blacking out as I convulse and she’s screaming and growling and her teeth bite my bottom lip as she roars and bucks and crashes before she pulls away gasping and I watch my cock disintegrate.

She lies back and lights a cigarette. – Mmmm. That was great. What’s wrong Bruce? You okay? You’re greeting like a wee laddie!