Filth

Equal Opportunities

It took me ages to get ready this morning because I couldnae think what to wear. It’s Carole’s fault; if she was going to shoot off, she could at least have arranged a fuckin laundry service before she went. I came close to just wrapping it and leaving it till the afternoon to go in. However, I discover a black pair of flannels which aren’t too bad once I’ve shaken out some of the dead skin cells.

I’m glad I made the effort though, because my wee girlfriends are in for questioning. I could fuckin well love this wee yin right doon tae her pores. Thir’s nothing better than a bird wi these wee lips that curl outwards, highlighted by plenty lip gloss. The classiest young fanny realise this: you can never overdo it on the lipstick and the mascara.

There’s a twitching in my flannel troosers and I take a deep breath in order to compose myself. Thank fuck I’m a professional and can rise above any other agenda. – So you didn’t see anyone behaving what might be termed suspiciously at the nightclub? I ask her. She’s a fuckin wee shag this lassie. Estelle, her name is.

– Nuht, she says distractedly. The wee cow’s mind’s on something else. Gus has her mate next door, I’d like to see how he gets on. I’m about to turn up the heat on this cocky wee slag when I remember that Amanda Drummond’s in the same room as us. She’s looking at me, and her nose is twitching. I ignore her. Then she says, – D.S. Robertson, can I have a word?

I leave the room, followed by Drummond. This fuckin case. We’re making no fucking headway. I’ve spent most of the morning interviewing some of the punters who were in the club, but very few people will admit to remember seeing Wurie leave. The doorman, that Mark Wilson fucker, I recognised that cunt straight away, and he must have minded of the boy but he’s no letting on. As wide as Leith Walk, that cunt. Those two lassies, Sylvia Freeman and Estelle Davidson, I got a vibe off, but that was probably just because they were shags rather than because of any information they had. I’ll haul them in again later on. That wee Estelle. Phoah. Mind you, that Sylvia n aw. They can come back. They will come back. When Drummond’s oot the fuckin road.

We’re out in the corridor and there’s a couple of painters splashing cheap institution emulsion on the walls. One of them, I note, is eyeing Drummond’s shapeless, bony arse. – We should finish up here now Bruce. There’s this afternoon’s course, she reminds me. I avert my gaze from the painter to her. One thing I do like about her though: those protruding front teeth which could provide serious fun if they got under your foreskin. No that Drummond would have ever learned how to make best use of them.

– I was trying to forget about that, I tell her. Drummond turns her head away and focuses at some crack on the tiled floor. She’s developing a certain expertise in editing out bad news from the airwaves. Well, there will be fuckin plenty tae edit, I kid you not.

This fuckin daft course. As if I give a Luke and Matt Goss. But I have to comply and we dismiss the slags and head down the cannie with Gus for a shorter than usual lunch. The blonde piece is at the table opposite with another couple of civvy shags. I think about going over to say hello, but I see Drummond flapping around like a pelican and Gus and I decide that we won’t get any peace until we go up to her fuckin course.

– Ah dinnae see the point ay they modules. Waste ay fuckin time if ye ask me. Somebody’s probably murdering some poor cunt doon in Pilton, and we’re poncing aroond here wi some silly wee lassies, I say, during the coffee and enrolment.

– Gie them a chance Robbo, we’ve no even started yet, Clelland says. Clelland says.

Clell’s a wind-up merchant of the first degree. He’s a leathery alcoholic guy with short grey hair and a red face. Jowls like piss-flaps. There’s the desperate incubating stink of stale aftershave off him. It covers a multitude of sins. I know.

– Listen Clell, think ay the years we’ve seen in service. Some silly wee tart goes tae college n gets a degree in fuckin sociology and then does some Daz Coupon Certificate in Personnel Management and joins the force on this graduate accelerated programme and she’s earning nearly as much fuckin dough as you or me who’re pittin ourselves oan the fuckin line tryin tae stoap schemies killin each other! She’s never seen past a fuckin desk withoot a real polisman chaperoning her everywhere! Then she writes this fuckin stupid policy document saying: ‘be kind to coons and poofs and silly wee lassies like me’ and everybody gets the fuckin hots. Then they get this posh wee chinky bird wi an American accent tae come in n tell us how tae dae our job and how tae relate tae the public, with, surprise surprise, another set ay forms tae fill in! Aye right! We do look sweet!

That reminds me. I’ve a OTA 1–7 tae fill in for my overtime.

– Aye, says Gus Bain, – Scotland’s a white man’s country. Always has been, always will be. That’s the way ah see it at any rate, and ah’m too long in tooth tae change now, he chuckles cheerfully. A good auld boy Gus.

– Precisely Gus. Ah mind when I took Carole and wee Stacey tae see that Braveheart. How many pakis or spades did ye see in the colours fightin for Scotland? Same wi Rob Roy, same wi The Bruce.

– Aye, says Andy Clelland, – but that’s a long time ago now.

– Precisely. We built this fuckin country. Thir wis nane ay them at Bannockburn or Culloden when the going was tough. It’s our blood, our soil, our history. Then they want tae waltz in here and reap all the benefits and tell us that we should be ashamed ay that! We were fuckin slaves before these cunts were ever rounded up and shipped tae America!

Inside the session, the wee chinky bird, this wee San Yung or whatever they call her, she’s standing up wi that business suit oan and she’s saying: – Right, I wanna do a free association brainstorming exercise. Just call out at random, any responses you can think of.

She turns and writes a heading on the flipchart: WHAT DOES ‘RACISM’ MEAN TO YOU?

Clell shouts out first: – Discrimination.

The wee chinky burd goes aw hot n focused and eagerly writes it down on the chart.

Gillman steams in, no like the cunt I’m sure: – Conflict, he snaps.

As she’s writin this doon, Clell says, – Might no be conflict. Might be harmony. Gillman ignores him.

Gus Bain says: – You’re thinkin of the hairspray.

I chip in and say: – That girl’s not wearing Harmony hairspray. Everybody has a wee laugh at that, well the boys that are auld enough tae mind ay the ad do. Even Dougie Gillman smiles.

The chinky bird raises her voice and says, – I think . . . is it Andy? Clelland nods, – I think Andy made a valid point here. We in policework tend to be conditioned into seeing a conflict-based society due to the nature of our jobs, but in fact race relations in Britain is characterised much more by harmony than anything else.

– It’s the leading brand of hairspray, I tell her. Nobody laughs this time and I’m feeling isolated, like a daft cunt.

At least the hoor seems upset, which is what it’s all about. She looks directly at me and asks, – What does the term racism mean to you . . . she looks at my name tag, – . . . Bruce?

– It doesn’t mean anything to me. I just treat everyone the same.

Bain claps slowly and emphatically, his eyes glazed and his chin jutting out.

– Okay, very laudable, chinky-girl says, – but do you not recognise racism in others?

– Nup. That’s thaire lookout. You take responsibility for your own behaviour, not other people’s, I tell her. I’m chuffed, that was a good point to make, straight from these cunts’ daft interpersonal skills training jargon. I can see that it almost strikes a chord with this Kitchen Sink’s fucked up way of thinking. Then Amanda Drummond jumps in with, – But surely in our professional role as law enforcement officers, we have to accept responsibility for society’s problems. This is implicit, I would have thought.

You are a silly wee cunt. That is explicit, I would have thought. No way are you rocking B.R. spastic fanny. The same rules are applying to the fucking maximum here girlie. – I was speaking as an individual. I thought this was what you wanted. No hiding behind professional roles, I think we were told at the pre-course briefing, we were to respond as human beings. Of course as a law enforcement officer I accept that we have these responsibilities.

The dopey dyke looks fazed by this and deflects the question. Standard tactics. She’s acting like a fuckin criminal. Polis? That? Ha! – Good point Bruce, she says patronisingly, – anybody else got anything to add?

– The biggest problem, Gus starts up, – and youse’ll no like me for sayin this, but it has to be said, the biggest problem is that blacks cause the maist crime, then he’s turning to me, – You worked in London for the Met, Robbo. Tell them.

– Well, I can only speak for my time in the Stroud, I say noncommittally. I look over at Ray Lennox. His face is impassive but there’s a tension in his eyes. I’ll bet the cunt’s suffering. Been on that nostril shite again, I’ll wager four to one on.

Chinky-drawers comes in, – What about Stroud Green?

– I think it would be inappropriate to get into the particular problems that one area may or may not have had, I tell her sharply.

– Fine, she says hesitantly. She didnae like that rebuff. But of course, it’s no real problem. If we won’t talk, then these fuckers are never shy about filling in the gaps. So we listen to a dull lecture, marking time until the coffee break, the heat from the radiator almost making us doze off.

Finally, we adjourn for coffee. Shitey wee fuckin biscuits, that’s all they give us with the coffee. I usually get a roll from the canteen or something from the bakers for my piece, but naw, that’s all forgotten about with this disruption for their coon-loving course. They think of no other cunt’s routine but their own. I take a coffee and stand over beside Clell. I deliberately keep away from Gus. A nice cunt, but he’s giving far too much away. Too far into that three score and ten to learn a new script. Careless, and that’s food and drink to these cunts. Lennox has the right idea. He’s too wide though, that fucker.

We’re waiting on our young Mister Lennox. Fuckin sure we are.

Clell, Gillman and I are joined by the wee chinky bird with the toff’s English-Yank accent. It keeps fuckin well changing. Probably been tae posh schools all over the world. I hate those privileged cunts. They think that you’re fuck all, that they can just use you tae clean up their shite, and in fact, most of the time they are spot-on. What they don’t know though, is that you’re always lurking in the shadows. The opportunity to pounce usually never comes along but you’re always lurking, always ready. Just in case.

Chinko’s been giein it loadsay fuckin mooth awright. The particular problems ay the inner city. Aye, right ye fuckin well are doll, you didnae get an accent like that in any fuckin inner city. She’s rabbiting on trying to get us tae open up, standard tactics, but we’re keeping it tight. Clell’s expanding a wee bit, saying what the cunt wants tae hear, but he’s on a wind-up. He’s jousting with me and Gus; it’s just the bastard getting in role. I think the best way tae handle these cunts is just tae keep stumpf. The best cons ken that n aw: just say fuck all. She’s rabbiting on though and I’m nodding at her, looking at her eyes and lips moving and I start tae think of her fanny.

I’d fuckin well gie her one awright. No much in the coupon stakes but a tidy body on it. High marks in curvature of arse. Never mind the mantelpiece when yir pokin the fire; that’s my motto, and it’s stood me in good stead. Same rules.

It’s as if she can read my thoughts, cause she sort of blushes and looks at the clock. – Well, she goes, – we’d better be making a move back.

Ah’ll fuckin well make a move on you in a minute ya cunt. Probably game as fuck n aw.

Lennox is talking to Amanda Drummond. Most likely trying to slip her a length, the dirty fucker. Although with Lennox it wouldnae be much ay a length. Drummond catches me staring at them and looks away. I’d give her one, if only to pass the time of day. Maybe a knee-trembler in the bogs, if I had a bit of time between finishing the crossword and piece brek. Lennox’s index finger rubs the side of his beak. Ice-cool cunt Ray Lennox’s give-away that he’s telling porky pies, that underneath it all he’s a suffering bag of nerves.

Aye Lennox ya cunt, you’ll ken.

So we get back into it. Clell’s playing the nice cunt, Gus is winding them up, and I’m keeping stumpf. It’s hot and I’m starting to feel a bit nauseous and shaky. My guts feel sick and heavy. It’s like there’s something in me, I can almost feel it growing, getting stronger. A tumour perhaps, like the one that did in the auld girl. Prone to it, our family. But she was . . . I’m starting to sweat heavily, a panic attack’s coming on.

I’m losing it.

Fuck that.

I’m not like Busby or any of those long-term sick-through-stress saplings that can’t handle the big time. The cunts here’ll never fuckin know, they’ll never fuckin ken cause I’m better than that, better than all of them, stronger than the fuckin lot of those cunts put together.

I excuse myself and go to the bogs. Inside the lavvy I’m shaking and my teeth are hammering together. I sit on the toilet seat. My arse is itching really badly. I want to sterilise those piles: some boiling water, a sharp pain and then that’s it. The bog paper is just that harsh council-issue garbage. Fuckin cunts! How do they expect me . . .

I give my piles a clawing until my eyes water. The pain is something to focus on. My breathing is slowing down and the shaking’s subsiding. I try to have a wank, attempting to picture the chinky bird, then Amanda Drummond, in the buff, but nothing’s coming to me. I should have sneaked out the paper. I don’t know who the shag was on page three, I haven’t seen her before.

When I get back in, I’m still a bit jumpy. All the eyes are on me.

– You don’t look very happy Bruce, Amanda Drummond says, – are you okay? Are you feeling okay?

Attack is the best form of defence. I look her in the eye. – I’d be a lot more okay if I knew what I was doing here. Like several of my colleagues I’ve been involved in a murder investigation: I’m trying to solve the murder of a man from an ethnic minority group. I’ve been taken off that to spend time here. I say this in such a way as to let her know that I don’t consider her to be on the case. – Answer me this if you can: what advances racial harmony most: this course or solving that crime? Cause we sure ain’t gonna solve no crime sittin here, sister, I tell her.

– Hear hear! Gus says, and starts clapping, and some of the other boys follow suit. Peter Inglis whistles.

This gies the hoor a beamer and a half.

– It’s not a question of one or the other, we need to do both . . . she says weakly, then adds with a bit of gusto, – as the strategy paper makes quite clear.

Oh, the strategy paper is it now? I wondered when we were going to get on to that particular pile of fucking pish. Well I’ve done my homework, dykeface, thank you very much. – I’m glad you mentioned that because if I could quote a circular from Personnel relating to the strategy paper, and I quote: – ‘There are no sacred cows in a modern organisation like the police force. Everything is up for grabs, everything has a priority value.’

– Exactly. The fact that you’re here shows it has priority, she snootily retorts.

– Precisely. Conversely, the fact that we are not out there investigating the murder of a young man shows that that does not have priority.

– Hear hear! shouts Dougie Gillman. Nasty piece of work Dougie, but a brilliant interrogator. One of the few cunts on the force who would make a formidable opponent. Just as well he’s not thrown his hat into the ring for the inspector’s post. He respects the craft hierarchy.

– And so say all of us, Gus barks.

These spastics are not fucking well getting it their own way the day, that’s as sure as the shite on your shoe. By the end of the day they look as bedraggled as a couple of hoors off the backshift, I kid you not.

At the end of the course I note that Ray Lennox is enjoying a bit of banter with Gus. These cunts seem as right as fuck. That’ll be sorted right out though.

I’m thinking again about the promo stakes on my way downstairs. It’s not a fucking particularly strong field.

GUS BAIN Too auld and stupid. KEN ARNOTT From B division. A straight-down-the-line dull nae-mates-outside-the-force-and-craft polisman. A serious threat if he had half a brain. PETER INGLIS No wonder he’s crawling up my arse when he’s had the audacity to put in for this post. A loser. Something fucking queer aboot that sad loner.

I get to my desk and there’s a message saying that a woman was trying to get me, she didn’t leave her name. It’ll be Carole, nothing surer. Seeing the error of her ways. Getting a bit weepy on her own with Christmas approaching. That is her problem. I have to head off and see the quack. I’ve an appointment.

I drive out across the city. These cunts have changed the one-way system tae confuse you even further. Trying tae drive from one side of the toon tae the other with aw this Denis Law lying is a fucking joke. If it was up tae me I’d ban all these buses and chop off most of these silly gairdins and get a few fucking new lanes doon Princes Street.

At Dr Rossi’s surgery I’m kept waiting for twelve minutes. I am here at 5.25 for my 5.30 appointment, but it is 5.42 by the time I get seen, probably thanks to some dopey auld cow who smells stale and just wants to waste stamp-payers’ money by talking all day to a doctor, the only person who will come near her on account of the whiff coming fae the cunt.

It’s okay you fuckin mingin auld bastard, it’s only a fuckin murder investigation I’m on. Carry on, carry on, don’t mind me.

When I get in, Rossi makes no apology for keeping me late. Instead he asks me to drop my keks.

– Well Mr Robertson, Rossi says, inspecting my testicles and my inner thighs, – this looks like eczema.

– Eczema! But here . . . I mean, people get eczema on their back, or arms or face . . . but no there . . .

Rossi’s eyes widen balefully, and a flicker of distaste is evident in them. – Eczema can occur anywhere. There’s no evidence to suggest that you might have something additional, certainly it’s not an STD.

There’s me fucking well disintegrating here and this cunt’s just passing it off like it was nowt . . .– I’ve never had this before. Even when I . . . I mean, I’ve just never had this before.

– Were your parents prone to it? It can be hereditary.

– No . . .

Parents fuck off parents fuck off

– It’s some aggravated skin disorder, probably a form of eczema. I can’t emphasise strongly enough that you should keep that area clean. I’m going to prescribe a cream.

I take a deep breath and let the sterile air of Rossi’s surgery fill my lungs. I try to remain focused on Rossi without making eye contact. Look at the brows, that’s an old con’s trick: focus on the polisman’s eyebrows rather than his pupils. Haul in a Fyfe a Begbie a McPhee a Wylie or a Doyle and those criminal cunts always adopt the same approach. Eye contact without eye contact. Always fucks the baby polis up, that one. Just formulating a strategy, getting back into the notion of the games feels somewhat empowering and I enquire crisply of Rossi: – What’s brought this on?

Rossi’s climbing down a bit. His tone’s less haughty now. After all, it’s just two professional men chatting together in a diagnostic mode. Identify problem and suggest possible solutions. – Well, you may be allergic to a certain foodstuff. It may be part of the stress and anxiety-related condition you’ve been experiencing.

Stress. That figures. The fuckin job. Toal’s caused this! He’s fucked Busby and he thinks he’ll fuck me. Wrong!

I take Rossi’s creams and head away hame. Home is not a good place for me, it never was. I prefer to work all the overtime I can. People like Gus, they lap up the OT. They get in the habit during the summer so that they can accrue as much time to get on the gowf during the day when the links are clear. Me, I can only sleep during the day. I like to keep busy at night. I head home and have a quiet evening in wanking to some of Hector The Farmer’s videos. I take a glance at the Evening News. There’s an article by a spastic who’s their so-called ‘Chief Crime Reporter’ which seems to just offer a sounding board for any bitter coon lover to criticise the service. Then I head out to Jammy Joe’s disco: a chance to combine business with pleasure. It’s a bugger to get parked in the town and I shouldn’t have taken the motor. Still, I’m going to stay quite sober, I just want to fire into some game tart and take her hame and fuck her until I feel tired enough to get some zeds in.

That Mark Wilson boy is on the door, and the smart cunt’s nervously checking me out. Yes, I’m almost positive that cunt used to run with the CCS back in his day. If that’s the case, he’s bound

again. If last night was about emptying the bag, tonight, thank fuck, is Lodge night. The masons is the only place that you can go to meet cunts that arenae polis. It’s different up here tae down in England. There are, of course, some fat cats and professional types, like down south, but in the Lodges up here it’s mainly tradesmen. It’s like the gowf: in Scotland you have schemie gowf clubs like Silverknowes. Just you try bein a fuckin tradesman and joinin a golf club in England though.

I personally think that aprons are for silly wee lassies to wear in the kitchen and no for grown men on a night out. The ritualism of the Lodge has its uses however; it’s made me far more sexually inventive. This helps with the games.

I make myself some toast on the grill, but I burn the first lot and have to try again. I open the back door to let out the smell. Outside in the back garden I see that Stacey’s bike hasnae been put intae the shed. It’ll rust tae fuck. I stick it inside and then go to the bottom of the garden on the pretext of pottering, but I want to get a good nose into Stronach’s hoose. He’ll be at training today, and I could do with a sketch of his bird, see what that wee cow’s up tae. She doesnae seem tae be at hame though and it’s nippy out here.

The second batch of toast is fine. It’s midday and I fill in my overtime from last night at Jammy Joe’s on the OTA 1–7 form and head up to HQ in the Volvo accompanied by a tape of Iron Maiden’s self-titled debut album, the offering where Paul Di Anno rather than Bruce Dickinson is at the mic.

The recent snows have frozen over. Of course, this means chaos on the roads with the highway cunts unable to cope. As if they werenae used to bad weather. There’s a bottleneck stretching from Colinton to fuckin Aberdeen or the likes. THIS HAPPENS EVERY FUCKIN YEAR. I feel like getting out of the car and choking the living shit out of any spastic whose face offends me, which in this case is just about every cunt. Fuckin police force here . . .

Fuckin emergency services

Cunts

I’ll fuckin

I park the car outside the shops before Napier College. It’s a so-called university now, but every cunt knows it still as Napier College. The punters know a real uni when they see it and this fuckin place for trainee basket-weavers in no way fits the bill. Same rules. There’s a decent bakery here and I radio in and tell them that the traffic’s scandalous and I’ll see them when I do.

When I finally make it in, I start going through the papers on the Wurie case. I’m interrupted by a call from Gus Bain who’s up in records. If I didnae ken that bastard better, I’d say that he was sniffing roond the big blonde piece up there n aw. But he’s been married tae the same auld boot for seventy thousand light years, the churchy auld cunt.

– Bruce. Gus here. Have you opened your internal mail yit? A wee present fae the funny felly up the stair.

I rip open one of the pile of sealed envelopes in my in-tray, the one with the Nid’s name on it.

INTERNAL MEMO To: D.S.s Gillman, Stark, Robertson, Mclnally, Thomas, Inglis, Clelland, Noble, Phillips, Lennox and Bain From: Chief Superintendent Niddrie. Date: 3rd December 1997. Re: Equal Opportunities Module: Racism Awareness. The course tutors have brought to our attention cases of inappropriate attitudes and behaviour on the course of which you were a member. With this in mind it is intended to hold a series of individual debriefing sessions with course members, the tutors and members of the core team of which myself and Deputy Chief Constable Mathieson are members. With this in mind, please report to my office on Friday, 4th December at 2.15 p.m., the scheduled time for your debriefing.

I’m sitting digesting it, and snapping open another Kit Kat when Inglis and Gillman come in moaning.

– That’s the fuckin morn, Gillman snorts. – What kind ay notice is that?

Niddrie must be getting his heid nipped by the top brass. This case isn’t going to go away, more’s the pity. The boys are girning away about it and old Gus has arrived. The auld boy’s fairly up for stirring it as well.

– Well, ah’ll tell ye something, he’s saying, – ah’m no gaun up thair withoot a Fed rep. That’s you, he smiles, looking at me.

It’s patently obvious that the sorry old goat is trying to get me to wind up Niddrie and Toal and bomb myself right out of the promo race. He’s such a predictable old fuck. It makes sense to humour him.

– Too fuckin right Gus! What the fuck is this shite? Ah’m straight ontae the blower tae Niddrie. You get roond the rest ay the guys. Tell them: say fuck all withoot a Fed rep. This is a fuckin disciplinary fit up. These cunts are looking tae make one ay us an example just because the papers and they mealy-moothed cunts are kickin up shite about this deid silvery moon.

– Right, Gus says.

I sit down and compose myself. I then phone this Marshall guy from the Multicultural Forum on Coon Rights or whatever they call it, the cunt that’s been hassling me. – Hello Mr Marshall? D.S. Robertson here.

– I’ve been trying to get you for ages to arrange a meeting . . .

– Yes, it seems we’ve been a bit like ships in the night. Two o’clock tomorrow okay for you?

– Yes, that’s fine. Shall I come to your office?

– No, not at all, I’ve kept you waiting, I’ll come down to you, I tell him.

I put the phone down, a satisfying glow coming over me. I then bell Niddrie as I catch Gus’s attention. I gesture at him to put the kettle on.

– D.S. Robertson here. Re your memo. That date you’re giving me, it’s not convenient, I tell Niddrie. – I’ve made an appointment for that time and I can’t get out of it.

– Cancel it. This takes precedence, Niddrie sharply informs me. Niddrie hates me calling him direct. Everything should go through Toal. Niddrie believes in the strict hierarchical division of the organisation’s reporting structure. The chain of command. He gives newcomers to our division the old ‘my door is always open’ bullshit, but woe betide the cunts if they ever get daft enough tae try walking through it.

It would be pleasurable to fuck Niddrie about without needing to play the craft card. I know that those New Labour wankers up the City Chambers have been intoxicated with their election victory and are strutting around like peacocks and coming down hard on Niddrie and co. and one of their beefs is equal opps. – I’m meeting people from the Forum on Racial Equality and Community Relations, I tell him.

There’s a silence on the other end of the line. – Shit . . . listen . . . you’ll have to go to that one. We’ll need to make it Thursday afternoon. Three-thirty.

Niddrie puts the phone down on me. I keep the receiver to my ear and then I bell Toal, noting that Gus, busying himself with the coffee, hasn’t seen me redial. He still thinks I’m talking to the Nid.

– It’s Bruce Robertson, I whisper. – Niddrie’s gied me a new time for the briefing. I have a forum meeting to go to. I’m informing you as my direct supervisor, I raise my voice for Gus to hear, – I’ll come along, but I’ll have a Fed rep with me. Drysdale from the south side.

Gus raises his eyebrows. He puts a cup of coffee in a Hearts mug in front of me. This isn’t my Hearts mug, it’s Inglis’s. I’ll fuckin catch something off that cunt.

– I think you’ve misunderstood the memo Robbo, Toal says.

– Aye?

– This is an exploratory debriefing session. There’s no question of anyone being reprimanded or disciplined at this point.

– So what you’re saying is that this may be a precursor to disciplinary action?

– No . . . not necessarily. It’s an open-ended discussion.

– So it’s a counselling session then?

– Well . . . yes . . . but not a counselling session in the sense of it being related, or even potentially related at this point in time, to the disciplinary systems of the Edinburgh and Lothians Constabulary.

– But my attendance is compulsory?

– Everyone must attend.

– You’re asking me or telling me?

– Robbo, what I’m hoping from you and the rest of the team is your willing co-operation. If this isn’t forthcoming then I’ll be forced to introduce a disciplinary element.

– I see . . . I let the silence hang.

Eventually Toal says, – I don’t have time for this bullshit. I’ll see you in Jim Niddrie’s office at the appropriate time. Cancel everything else.

The line clicks dead. Now Toal’s hung up on me! Who the fuck does he think he is? Niddrie’s fuckin office-boy, that’s who. I shout into the mouthpiece, – I don’t have time for your fuckin bullshit Niddrie! We’ve got a fuckin murder case tae solve! I slam the phone down.

Gus Bain raises an eyebrow, – Whoa, Robbo, ye gied Niddrie it tight there, did ye no?

– The only way wi these cunts Gus, I said. That’s all they understand. I turn round and notice that Sonia, one of the civvy clerks, had come into the room. – Sorry aboot that Sonia hen, industrial language they call it.

– Sawright, she says. – It’s Hazel.

– Of course . . . of course . . . Hazel. Bet she takes it aw weys. Bit young for me but. Mind you, if they’re auld enough tae bleed . . .

– Ah’m sure Hazel’s heard worse, Gus gives that wheezing, creepy laugh of his, and she grins nervously.

– What ye could do for me Hazel, is to gie they people at the Forum a phone. I had a meeting with them tomorrow at two. Tell them I have to cancel out, but I’ll get back to them.

– Right. . . aw aye. . . there was a woman on the phone for you while you were out, she tells me.

– Whoah! Gus laughs, – Mister Popular.

Aye? Whae?

– She wouldnae leave a name or number. She sais you’d know who it was.

– Right . . .

That’s a bastard. Shit. Probably Carole crawling back. I’ll leave a message on the answer machine tonight.

Those cunts Toal and Niddrie have upset me big-time. Making me miss important fucking calls with their shite. I should have fuckin well stayed in Australia. Then where would the fuckers be now? If I hadn’t gone out there but stayed in London wi the Met, I’d’ve probably been Chief Constable in a fair-to-middling size force by now. I feel a bad itch in my arse. These boxer shorts ride up and brush against the scar tissue. My arse shouldn’t be fucking sweating as much. Stress, that’s what it is, as Rossi said, and it’s caused by these Personnel cunts who wouldnae ken what poliswork was if it was to suck their cocks or lick their fannies.

I decide to hit the canteen for lunch, well, pre-lunch, as it’s a bit early for dinner. Too late for a break and too early for lunch. Bruce Robertson time, I call this. Ina sorts me out with some bacon rolls and I hear smarmy voices behind me which belong to some cunts in suits and one of them is that lippy fucker Conrad Donaldson Q.C. who spends his time coining it in from the taxpayer by defending the kind of fucking scum that we risk our lives to try and put away: rapists, murderers, child molesters and what have you.

– Practising cannibalism Bruce? he nods at the plate and smiles.

I’m looking coolly at the cunt. I’d love to have him. Just him and me, just twenty minutes in an interview room the gether.

– Hello Conrad, I force a smile back.

I want to punch his face and deck him and them stomp that smirking posh face into the ground under the heel of my boot and keep doing it until his skull explodes over the lino, sending its fucked criminal-loving contents squidging across that tiled canteen floor. I’d eat my dinner after and keep it down as well, I kid you not. – Remember what I told you that PIG stood for? Pride, Integrity and Guts.

He smiles and turns to his pals. – Detective Sergeant Bruce Robertson. One of the force’s leading reactionaries. Comes from a mining family as well, I hear.

– You hear wrong, I say softly, looking him hard in the eye. – You must be getting me mixed up with someone else.

– Hmm, Donaldson mumbles, raising his eyebrows.

My knuckles are white on the tray as I depart. I hear Donaldson muttering a consensual goodbye, through a ringing in my ears. I feel sick and dizzy. I sit in a corner and devour the rolls, ripping and rending the stringy meat in my sharp teeth, wishing that it was Donaldson’s scrawny neck. New Labour rising star Conrad Donaldson.

By the time I get back upstairs I’ve composed myself, but whenever I think of Donaldson and his ilk, a savage rage crashes inside my chest. At one point it gets so bad that I’m shaking and my teeth are hammering again. I need a drink so I knock off early and hit the bar at the social club downstairs. Just feeling the thick carpet under my feet composes me. It makes a change from the other rooms in the building with their thin, harsh, cheap Berber flooring. The bar itself is a lot more basic than it used to be. When it opened it was full of good bric-à-brac, antique vases and the like, but these kept going missing so they changed to a more functional decor. A couple of baby polis are playing pool, but I see Bob Hurley at the bar. – I arrived just in time I see, I smile at him.

– Alright Robbo, he turns to the barman, – Another pint of lager Les, and you’d better set up a wee Grouse as well.

– Make that a large Grouse Les, seein as this English cunt’s on the bell. I wink at the barman. Hurley’s face briefly whitens a wee bit. The race card is just one of the cards in the pack and if you’re serious about this game you utilise that full pack as and when you need to. That wee aside is just to remind Hurley of his status as a barely tolerated guest, not just in this country, but in this life.

Hurley and I sit down in a corner and a few rounds later on we’re still there. Toal, of all people, has just come in, but I’m ignoring that arsehole. He sits in the next booth to us, reading the Evening News. Fuck him, the sad, nae mates cunt. Only tries to socialise with the boys when he wants something. It’s Hurley I’m more interested in.

He’s still melancholy about the split with his wife. – What fucked it up with me and Chrissie was her family. You know what it’s like being a polis, he sings in that Tony Newley voice that makes the word ‘polis’ sound so funny.

What’s he on about: ‘a’ polis? Daft cunt.

– You tell them all, her friends, family, the neighbours what you do for a living and you get treated like a leper. They sit in the house, her pals and their spouses and they say nothing, it’s like they’re in an interrogation room. The conversation’s full of awkward silences and they can’t wait to make their excuses and go. Then they always put off coming round again. You get treated fucking . . . he gasps, seemingly in pain, his breath catching, – like a fucking leper, he repeats, – . . . that’s what you feel like Bruce, a fucking leper.

– Yeah.

Hurley pulls a bit of wax from his ear and rubs it on the underside of the seat. – So I went through a phase of telling them that I was a plumber or that I sold insurance. Then they start telling you everything about themselves. It’s like, ‘I do this on the side’ or ‘I don’t put that through the books’. They’re all at it. Every one of them, he says, raising his voice in rage, – fucking Jackie Trent. The lot of them, they’re all fucking Jackie Trent.

I clock Toal getting up and leaving, the nosey, eavesdropping cunt.

– Exactly. And you are a law enforcement officer, I tell him.

– Right, and that’s what she can’t bleedin well understand. When you do what you have to do as a law enforcement officer, when you blow the whistle on these bastards, she turns round and says, ‘It’s my family. I’m leaving.’

– That’s women for you, I tell him, swigging back my whisky. If you drink whisky you’ll never get worms.

She isn’t much of a fuck that Chrissie. Quite into the video camera but went a bit funny on me when I brought out the vibrator. Had tae go aw lovey-dovey oan the daft cow to stop her becoming hysterical.

– I just find it hard to switch off sometimes. The thing about being a polis is that you get used to seeing things in a certain way: looking for things that are going wrong. It’s the way you are; how some people behave, it makes you so suspicious. I just can’t stop running routine checks on them. That’s what wound her up, the questions I would ask her family. I didn’t even realise that I was probing. I couldn’t switch out of role. You can’t be any other way Robbo, that’s what you do.

– Take it or leave it, eh mate, I smile. I’ll be taking your missus again, that’s for sure you stupid cunt.

– Aye, he says, Tony Newley style, – so she left it. It’s over. For good this time.

– Force marriage though pal. May the force be with you, cause sure as fuck the fanny willnae stick aroond.

– You’re lucky though Robbo, he says, almost accusingly.

– Aw aye, me and Carole. Well, she’s a wee bit special. No doubt about that. Steak on the menu tonight!

– She can cook as well! Hurley says, – Is there no end to this woman’s talents?

The fuckin lecherous cunt’s wantin me tae tell him aboot Carole and I’s sex life. Nae wonder his wife’s gittin fucked by everybody in sight. Aw mooth n nae troosers that prick. – It’s a question of values, I say, draining the whisky glass.

Gus Bain comes in and we have a scoop. I’m trying tae watch myself but Gus likes a good jag when he’s clocked off. Hurley fucks off back to his miserable life. Hurley isn’t liked much on the force. I don’t know why; there’s just something about the cunt that makes you fuckin detest him and savour everything bad that happens to him, of which there is lots, I kid you not. You learn to sniff out a loser in this game. The worst kind of losers are the ones who think that they are winners and have to be reminded of the facts. Like a certain young gentleman by the name of Raymond Lennox, for instance.

– Young Ray Lennox didnae have much tae say for himself oan the course, I tell Gus.

– Aye, still waters, Gus smiles with a bit of affection.

– Listen Gus, I say, dropping my voice, – dinnae take this the wrong way, but watch what ye say in front ay Ray. I’m no saying nowt against the guy. In fact I lap him up. But watch what ye say aroond him.

– What dae ye mean Robbo? Gus looks alarmed.

– What I mean is that he’s typical ay they young cunts. He’d drop ye in it in a minute if it suited him. Ye ken the wey it is Gus, five minutes oan the force and they want tae be the Chief Fuckin Constable. Thinks eh kens it aw. The thing is, they young cunts are totally ruthless and they certainly arenae above a bit ay backstabbin and character assassination tae git oan.

– Surely no Ray . . . seems such a nice young felly . . . Gus says bewildered. I sense doubt through his antagonism. Time to hit hard.

– Listen Gus, whaire’s Ray Lennox the now? Ehs no in here drinkin wi us, is eh? Naw. I’ll wager three tae one, naw, make that four tae one on, that he’ll be drinkin wi they silly wee lassies in some fuckin wine bar up the toon, just like eh wis eftir that fuckin course . . .

– But that’s up tae thaim . . . thir young and they dinnae want tae be doon here wi the likes ay us . . .

– . . . Yes Gus, fair do’s and good luck tae the boy. I hope he rides them both, I hope they make a fuckin sandwich oot ay him, one slice white, one slice yellay n young Lennox in the fuckin middle.

– Yir an awfay man Bruce, Gus chuckles.

– But the thing is, who dae ye think’ll be the main topic ay conversation during this touching little tête-a-tête? You and I. The silly cunts who make the snowballs and also fling them.

– Hmmm, Gus says thoughtfully, – ah ken what yir gittin at. Ye think our Young Mister Lennox is running with the hounds and hunting with the hares?

– He’s hunting the fuckin hounds, as far as I can see, as long as he’s no fuckin well running off at the mooth as he tends tae dae.

– I’ll keep a beady on that wee cunt, Gus nods, touching his eyeball.

Thank fuck it’s Lodge night the night. We down our drinks and head out to Stockbridge. The roads are slippy as the surface has frozen over. We see a lumbering taxi trying to turn slowly down a sidestreet but sliding on the ice and scraping its bodywork against a lamp post. As it comes to rest the irate spastic of a driver springs out and inspects the damage. – Jesus fuck . . . he snaps, then truculently yanks open the door of his taxi.

I nod to Gus. The cunts inside are getting out. This one’ll do us up tae Shrubhill.

A lassie’s getting out of the taxi. Quite a young lassie. Or she’s trying to get out of the taxi. The torn-faced cunt of a taxi driver is not helping her, he’s just holding the door and impatiently asking her if she’s alright. The lassie has one of her legs in a plaster and she’s attempting to get up and at the same time position the crutches on that treacherous icy surface.

It’s just like . . . fuckin hell . . .

I move over swiftly and I’ve got a hold of her. – Can you manage? Here, let me . . .

– Thanks . . .

I’m helping her to her feet and Gus has got the crutches positioned and we get her on to the pavement. The scent of her perfume is filling my nostrils. I’m up against her and I can feel her soft warmth. I could just hold her like this, forever.

God, I remember . . . it was so long ago . . .

Then it happens; a stiffening inside my flannels and y’s and I have to adopt the old bent-double last-dance-at-the-disco posture to conceal it.

– Are you going far . . . the pavement’s very slippy.

– Naw, I’m just in that stair there, she points over to the stair door.

– I’ll give you a hand over, I smile, taking her arm.

– Thanks very much . . . that’s very kind of you, she says as we reach her door.

– No problem. Can you manage up the stairs? I want her to say no, come up with me, come up and have some coffee, leave auld muppet-faced Gus to his silly masonic shite, come up with me and hold me in your arms like you used to . . .

. . . but it’s not. Those were different times.

– I’m fine now, honest. Thanks again, she smiles.

– Alright then . . .

It isn’t her. It could never be. But I wished with all my heart that it was.

Ha!

Bullshit! I wished with all my heart I could get another pint!

– C’moan Gus, time for the lodge. I’m fed up wi helping spastics on duty withoot daein it in social hours n aw. I pile into the taxi.

– Ye awright Bruce? Ye seem upset, Gus says, looking straight at me, as he gets in.

– I will be awright once I get to where we’re meant tae be going. I shout at the driver, – The Edinburgh Masonic Club, at Shrubhill, driver. Next to the bus depot.

We cruise through the frozen streets in silence.