Filth

I Get A Little Sentimental Over You

I’m happier by the time we’ve started up the motor. Just getting out of that shithoose restores your perspective. We take a slow drive down Leith Walk. I’ve got the radio on, as I’m reluctant to start an argument with Ray over rock. He’s a pedantic fucker when it comes to music and he kens nowt about it. Lyn Paul, formerly of the New Seekers is singing ‘I Get A Little Sentimental Over You’. Lyn’s solo career never really took off. I think about mentioning this to Ray but decide that it would be pointless. I mean, why bother? I’m feeling better though, more focused. My anxiety attack has abated, as it tends to do when the scent of the hunt takes over.

We pull up outside Ocky’s flat and I get out and ring the bell. No reply. I hope we’ve no missed him with Drummond and her dykey casual moll pals wasting our time. We go back into the car and wait for a bit. There’s a baker’s on the corner, so Ray nips over and comes back with some sausage rolls with vanilla slices for dessert, washed down by strong coffee in a styrofoam cup. It gets rid of the taste of Clell’s cheap champers which merged with the bi-carb of Lennox’s pills to form a corrosive, acrid bilge in my gut. I burp.

– Looks like we’ve got those jakeys in that new age crowd bang to rights Robbo. That fucking Sunrise Community, or whatever they call themselves, Ray’s telling me.

– Fuckin well time n aw Ray. These things are springing up everywhere. It’s a threat to the great British way of life and it has to be stopped before it gets a toehold. Cunts think they can live just by looking after each other and dancing to fuckin music. They just want to hypnotise the young cunts with these free parties and get them on drugs. They havenae even got a fuckin telly in that farmhoose. They can afford a huge fuckin sound system, but they cannae afford a telly!

– Scumbags, Lennox shakes his head.

– Mind you, I admit, – they made a good job of doing it up. It was derelict before they got it. I’ll need tae git the cunts roond tae dae up ma hoose!

– It’ll be fuckin well derelict again soon. One of the guys that lives there, that Colin Moss, white, male, six-one, thin, filthy brown-blonde dreads, bad skin, green combat jacket, ripped jeans and boots; he’s been seen coming in and out the flats in Leith. Where Allan and Richards live. We’ll do the cunts. Turn over the flat, then the farmhoose. If there isnae any collies there when we arrive, there will be when we turn the place over.

– Tip me off when the action takes place Ray, I tell him. – I’d like to be in on that one.

The job can be satisfying.

I’ve just downed the last of my coffee when I clock Ocky in the rear mirror, he’s coming towards the flat with a wee bird. They’re wrapped up in each other. Dirty wee cunt. Mister Ockenden is sporting a fur-lined, dark blue corduroy jacket and a pair of blue jeans. He’s about five-ten, five-eleven with striking blond hair and slightly girlish features. His girlfriend is a cracker, slim, five-sixish and exactly the same sort of blonde as him. You could take them for brother and sister. In fact ah widnae put it past that dirty wee cunt tae be shagging his sister!

– Tidy wee piece, Ray says, noting the scene. All that posh he does still hasn’t strung him out or blunted his edge. Yet.

– Wee being the operative word. This is a stoat-the-baw situ. Ye reckon?

Ray looks at her, narrowing his eyes and curling his lip outwards. – Always hard tae tell. Curvy wee erse . . . he observes as they pass us.

– Never mind the fuckin erse, did ye clock her coupon? A wee fuckin bairn!

– Possible, Ray agrees, – A borderline case. There or thereaboots.

– Nae question. Forty sheets at five tae one, I’d gie ye.

Lennox shrugs and starts tae crap his breeks.

– C’mon Ray, double score. Five tae one, I urge.

– Naw, mibbee yir right, he concedes.

Too right I am. When it comes tae money doon, he’s no bottle. Doesn’t trust his instincts, that’s why, as smart as he may be, the Lennoxes of this world will never oust the Robertsons.

– What dae ye want tae dae? he asks.

– Steam in Ray, I tell him. – Just what these cunts dae. Only nae cunt steams in like the polis. We’re the hardest firm in this toon, and it’s time these scumbags realised it.

– We have to watch here Robbo . . . Ray’s bricking it.

– Baws. Same rules apply. C’mon. We use The Beast routine, that’ll spook the cunt.

I know The Beast routine off by heart. I should fuckin know it.

– Aye . . . Ray raises his eyebrows doubtfully but he’s getting out of the car with me, and by the time he hits the stair, he’s aw fired up, bouncing with adrenalin, taking these steps three at a time, almost squashing a stunned cat which jumps out from under his feet. It’s knocking on this old cat, getting slow. The stair fairly reeks of its pish.

We halt outside the door to get our puff back. – Reckon he’ll be giving it one by now? I ask.

– I would think so. They were practically gaun for it gaun intae the fuckin stair. Lennox looks at me and then hesitates: – . . . Want a line?

– Right, I nod, looking around as Ray puts some posh on the corner of his credit card and takes a rough hit up that hooter.

I look a bit doubtful, not wanting my nose cavities fucked by roughage. – It’s okay, this is good. It’s as fine as fuck, Ray says, his eyes watering as he sniffs and sniffs.

I take a whack, and it is good stuff; that sweet smell in my head, my face numbing, a surge of power flowing through me. Time for action.

I rap heavily on the door. Once, twice, three times. I hear a whingy voice, – Awright, awright! Ah’m comin.

Ocky, aka Brian Ockenden, aka soft little twat with a gob who got in too deep, opens the door in his t-shirt and boxer shorts. His mouth and eyes widen in shock.

– Mister Ockenden. Hello, I smile pushing past him into the hallway.

– You cannae come in . . .

– SHUT THE FUCK UP! Ray screams in his face, causing him to recoil. Lennox’s puffed himself up and he’s standing right over Ocky who’s aw cowed and bent. – You fuckin well speak when you are spoken to or I’ll fuckin well have you right now! Get it!

This wretched wee cunt looks at him, trying to summon up a bit of defiance.

– I ASKED DO YOU FUCKIN GET IT! Ray roars, and Ocky buckles a little bit more.

– Aye . . . cool it man, ah’ve no done nowt . . . he whimpers.

– You’re in serious bother mate, Ray says, closing the door and shaking his head in disgust.

– Cool it Ray, I say, putting a protective arm around Ocky’s shoulder. – Stay here a minute. Where’s the bedroom? I whisper.

– It’s . . . he looks sideways, – . . . but thir’s somebody in thair . . .

– It’s awright, I tell him with a matey grin. I open the bedroom door, and the lassie’s sitting up in the bed with her t-shirt on. I go in, shutting the door behind me.

– What’s this? she asks. – Who are you?

– Police, I say, whipping out my ID – Do not attempt to leave this room. Do you understand? What is your name?

– I don’t have to say anything to you . . .

She’s a wee honey. Still got those fetching freckles. – Make it easy on yourself hen, I advise, then with urgency ask, – How old are you?

– Sixteen, she says, lying.

– Any ID? I look towards a shoulder bag on the bedside locker.

Her cool’s blown. Her eyes are like the satellite dishes on Tom Stronach’s ootside wall. – Fifteen . . . but I’ll be sixteen in September, she says hastily. Too hastily. Too quick to admit it. I wonder why she doesnae want me in that bag.

– Your boyfriend’s broken the law if he’s had intercourse with you. Has he? I ask, moving closer to get a wee scan of those titties under that T. Not large, but certainly firm enough. Yo ho ho and a barrel full of fun.

She moves back against the headboard a little and pulls the duvet up over her chest. The colour fairly drains from her face though, as I reach over and grab the bag, pouring its contents out on to the bed. This unearths a small plastic bag with what is obviously Ecstasy tablets in them.

– I . . . I didn’t . . . she’s stammering. She’s lost it now.

– D.S. Lennox! I shout, and Ray comes through. I hold the bag of pills up to him. – Looks like MDMA tablets to me. Note that they were found on this girl’s person. At least six hundred milligrams. Please also note that this girl is under the legal age of consent.

– Check, Ray says, exiting.

– You stay here, I say pocketing the pills. – You’re in very serious trouble. What did you say your name was?

– Stephanie . . . she says sheepishly, hugging her knees up into her chest and letting her chin rest on them. Her hair tumbles forward. She pulls one side back and secures it behind her ear.

– Stephanie what?

– Stephanie Donaldson . . .

– Well Stephanie Donaldson, I’ll leave you to think about how silly you’ve been. You’re going to have to give us a wee bit of co-operation here my girl.

A whole fuckin loat ay co-operation. Stephanie Donaldson. Hmmm.

She sits stiffly up in the bed and I go through to see how Ray’s doing. He’s got Ocky in the front room.

– Judges are coming doon hard as fuck on stoat-the-baw, Ray’s telling him.

– I thoat she wis sixteen. She telt me she wis, Ocky protests, then smiles at me, an all-lads-together smile.

I give him a hangman’s smile in return. I run my finger across my throat and make a crackling, slavering sound. – Sorry mate, but as Ray here says, this isnae the time tae be done for stoat; no now, no wi aw that paedophile stuff in the papers. It’s fair goat the magistrates oan the warpath, aw that palaver. Stoat man, thir daein time for it right now. Only aboot a year or so, which means six months. Nae real bother tae you. Mind you, this is posh fanny, so add oan a year. Which makes it a whole year inside.

He’s no looking too happy.

Ray chips in, – Aw aye, Ocky here could handle twelve months inside, eftir aw, every cunt loves a stoat-the-baw. A wee bit ay tackle pits oan some make-up, aw the red-blooded males in Saughton understand the score. A standing prick hath no conscience, Ray smiles, a cold, ghostly grin. – They always ask aboot the ride, the other boys inside. What was she like? Did she have big tits? Schoolie’s uniform? Lennox laughs, a dry cackle. He pulls a bogey down from his beak and examines it to see if any posh has got caught up in the mucus. Satisfied that it’s clean, he rolls it between the forefinger and the thumb, wringing out the moisture, and flicks it on to Ocky’s carpet. He stares at Ocky for a bit and shakes his heid. – Six months for a ride though, doesnae really bear thinkin aboot, eh no? Hope it wis a good one mate. Be yir last for a while.

– No necessarily, I chip in. – Cause, aye, they aw love a stoat-the-baw. Problem is, that thir’s a thin dividin line between a stoat-the-baw and a nonce. Ye tend tae get a loat ay fishermen’s tales oan the inside, only wi stoat, the size goes doon the wey instead ay up the wey, I spraff, in a pally, trade-secret sharing way as I push my palms together.

– Thing is, Ray says, – see if somebody fae the polis was tae tell a screw like Ronnie McArthur, a strict freemason and staunch family man, that the lassie was eleven . . . or ten . . . or even eight . . .

– Ah know what you’re gaunny say Ray: the poor cunt’s life wouldnae be worth livin. He’d be taken to The Beast’s wing in Saughton. But ah dunno any polisman, any professional in policework who would stoop that low, I tell him, widening my eyes and extending my palms and looking around.

– For the greater good though Bruce, Ray agrees, advancing his proposition, – suppose that this stoat-the-baw had access to certain information and had the potential to help the police with a major investigation but refused to do so . . . you and Ronnie McArthur are pretty tight, aren’t ye Robbo?

– In the craft, aye, I nod, switching my glance to Ocky. This cunt is shiteing it. I let the fucker stew and have a wee scan for potential knock-off. This cunt though: fuck all worth chorrin.

– C’moan boys . . . he pleads.

– Ye see Ocky, thir’s this guy inside, on The Beast’s wing. Thir’s loads ay beasts oan the wing, but only one in the whole ay the Scottish prison system that they call The Beast. Follow? Ray explains.

The cunt looks shat up. It’s like he’s watching an action replay of his life with only the shite bits left in. A bit like watching The Tom Stronach Story on video, should anyone be daft enough to commit the commercial and aesthetic suicide which producing such a film would involve.

– He’s no the felly ye want tae share a cell wi man. But Ronnie would be forced tae make that happen if it wis put aroond that the lassie thair was eight years auld or something.

– For yir ain protection likes, Ray says.

– Some protection, I laugh, – The Beast is fuckin mental. No way should that cunt should be in the jail. But that’s the fuckin prison system fir ye eh? They did have the cunt in Carstairs for a bit. He escaped though.

– That was a fuckin big joke that eh? Ray coughs out another dry, humourless cackle, then rubs that hooter again. He’s been on the sniff awright, and no just that one wee hit outside there. Just as long as he’s no haudin oot on auld Robbo here, his mentor.

– You’re tellin me. The good thing though, thir wis a few fields between him n the toon. So the local livestock took the brunt ay The Beast’s frustration. They had tae put four cows doon eftir he’d finished wi them. Big-time OT for the vets. Peter Savage fi Strathclyde telt ays that in aw his years oan the force he’d never seen anything like it. The thing is, they’ve goat The Beast back in the mainstream prison system. The only wey that they can keep the cunt quiet is by pittin a new model in his cell every few weeks.

I look doon at this silly wee fuck. There’s a faint noise coming from his throat. He’s trying tae say something. Ray coughs and makes a wee comment which ah dinnae catch.

– What was that Ray?

– Models, Ray goes, – what’s aw this models shite?

– Aw, that’s what the local screws call the laddies they send him. Usually young pretty boys, early twenties . . . like this one here. I swivel and point at Ocky, who’s now just a quivering wreck. No such a smart cunt now. – Ah’d say that you were an identikit model, I tell him. – See, the boys that get pit oan The Beast’s wing are usually rapists rather than stoat-the-baws. They git a wee bit too carried away and cannae hear the word ‘No’ fae a lassie. Well, they git plenty ay opportunity tae practise that word wi The Beast; they can try oot aw the permutations ay pitch, tone and volume, but see The Beast? Well, he’s goat that selective deefness n aw. N fact he’s goat it bad.

Ray smiles at the young tube. – Bet ye eh enjoys the resistance. Likes tae see the boys struggle.

– Six fit four ay solid muscle. Hung like a fuckin hoarse. Legendary. Always splits thum the first time; even they wee Calton Hill rent boys they feed him, and these boys are used tae takin loads ay hard meat.

– Phoa! Makes ma eyes water tae think aboot it! Ray gasps.

– But the wardens indulge The Beast tae fuck like. They’ve goat a selection ay wigs, dresses n make up so that he can dress the models up as he likes. He gies them their names: usually French sounding ones: Juliette, Justine, Celestine, Monique an aw ay that. They reckon eh gits them fi the go-go’s at the Bermuda Triangle in Tollcross. This yin here though, ah pucker ma lips at Ocky, – he’d be a Christine.

– How’s that? Ray goes, letting his mouth go moronically loose, and I realise that I am too, as we’re enjoying the twisted but undeniable sexuality which is part and parcel of the complete dominance over another human being. This is one of the things which makes poliswork such a satisfying career.

– Blonde hair, I say, slowly and softly.

– Aw aye, Ray picks up, – ah heard aboot that. When he gits a blonde he always calls them Christine. They say it wis tae dae wi his wife. They tell ays that ehs much mair possessive towards blondes.

– It’s fuckin oot ay order really, but that’s the system, eh?

– This is the perennial problem wi the system Robbo. A dustbin for society, for everything it cannae or willnae deal wi. Thing is but, ye’d find oot a lot aboot yersel n that situ, like. Banged up wi The Beast. Phew!

– Ah cannae imagine a worse fate.

– Might find oot things aboot yirsel ye’d rather no find oot, Ray notes sombrely. Ocky’s done, we’ve broken him. We just need to rub his face in it a little bit more before reassembling him with several modifications in the psychic specification, in order that he does our bidding.

– Well one thing’s certain: ye dae a stint n thaire wi that monster, ye come oot a changed man, I smile.

– That’s if ye come oot at aw. They tell ays ehs chalked up a couple ay suicides over the years.

– Aye, and another young laddie went and hung ehsel eftir a few months oan the ootside. That experience changes a cunt. Defo, I snap at the terrified tube, who springs back from future hell to present hell.

– Maybe the guy would’ve done it anyway; a spastic, a fuckin common criminal. Whaes tae say?

– The Beast though man, daein time wi that would tip the fuckin scales. No think so Ocky? Help! Help! they shout at the wardens, those poor models. No that it does any good.

– So ah’ve heard Robbo, Ray grins.

The wee cunt sits there shivering. He’s ours. He always has been.

– They tell me that he’s HIV now. Dae they isolate the cunt though? I ask rhetorically.

– Dae they fuck, Ray replies.

– Effectively then, it’s a death sentence for any cunt in that cell wi him.

– Effectively, aye. That’s what it boils doon tae, Ray shrugs.

– I know that it sounds grim, but that’s only the one choice but, eh Ocky? Thir’s ways and means, I kid you not, my sweet, sweet friend, I say softly, cupping the terrorised cunt’s face in my hands. – I know your whole life’s been flashing in front ay ye, but aw that’s just the worst-case scenario. Anyway, I twist the spastic’s heid so that he’s facing Ray Lennox who’s smiling like a department store Santa Claus. – Uncle Ray here’ll tell ye what ye have tae dae tae stey oot ay The Beast’s vile clutches. Think ay him as your knight in shining armour.

Ray winks at him, then snaps his fingers and starts singing, – I feel a song comin on . . .

Ah feel the horn comin on. Stephanie Donaldson. Steph-fanny Donaldson. – I, in the meantime, shall go and check oan that wee drug-dealing slut ay a girlfriend ay yours Ocky. Honestly, the company you keep. Mind you, it’ll no be the first time that posh fanny’s dragged a good man down. Huv tae watch whaire ye pit that dick. Thir’s eywis strings, I wink, departing to the bedroom.

When I’m back through, she’s up and dressed and sitting on the bed.

– Well, well little miss, have we had time to think about our position? I ask. Ah’ll show the wee fuck a few positions awright. Startin oaf wi fuckin doggy-style.

– Please don’t tell anyone . . . I don’t want my father to know. He mustn’t know, she’s begging.

– I’ll have to charge you with possession and intent to supply. Of course, as a minor, it’s likely that you won’t receive a custodial sentence, but you will have to appear in court. What school do you go to?

– John Gilzean’s . . . she bleats piteously.

– Well, I’m sure that such a reputable school will take disciplinary action. I will, of course be forced to inform them, and also your parents. Ecstasy is a very dangerous drug.

– Please don’t tell my father . . . please . . . he’s a barrister. It would be terrible for us . . .

Donaldson. Of course! – Your father isn’t Conrad Donaldson, is he? I can feel my spirits lifting and I’m sure that my cock has never been as big in my pants before.

– Yes, she says, her eyes lighting up hopefully.

Oh ya fucker! Mister Fuckin Smug Cunt himself! Bingo! His offspring right here on Bruce Robertson’s plate! A small world, a small city. God bless Edina, Scotia’s darling seat! I clear my throat; lust and the prospect of revenge had furred it over. – Listen doll, I’m going tell him. As of now, I’m going to tell him. Whether or not I actually end up doing so is entirely up to you, but as of now, I am.

– Please . . . I’ll do anything . . . don’t tell him! she squeaks.

– Well, I’ll tell you how it’s going to be. You listening to me? Because I’ll say this once. Okay?

She looks up and nods slowly at me. I can’t see much of Donaldson in her. I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad.

– You suck my cock and we’re square. And you suck it good. Okay?

She’s looking at the floor. Her shoulders are shaking.

– Okay, nae deal. Stephanie Donaldson, you are charged with possession of a controlled substance, with intent to supply. You have the right to . . .

– No! No! Please!

I’m smiling down at the posh wee fucker. – Come on baby. End this nightmare. End it all wi a wee suck, I say softly. – Your wee scumbag boyfriend, dinnae tell me you huvnae done the biz wi him. One cock’s much the same as another. A few minutes ay your sweet wee heid and the nightmare is over. You walk oot ay here. We’re square. See if you dinnae fuckin play ball? The school and Daddy hear all about it.

A mining family. Ha! I come from a lot dirtier, filthier places than doon a fuckin pit, as this wee tart’s aboot tae find oot.

– Alright . . . she says, making the contract. A verbal agreement will do nicely. It might not be worth the paper it’s written on but you cannae very well take a blow-job back once it’s been given.

– Good girl. Fair exchange is no robbery. Why involve the state doll? Why cause all the nasty paperwork? I smile as I unzip. It flies oot like a fuckin jack-in-the-box. – Suck me baby . . . I whisper, – Suck Robbo here real good.

She’s looking at it then looking at me with large pleading eyes, but I’m holding the bag of Es in my other hand. – I’ll be roond that posh school. Suck. I’ll be sure Daddy Conrad Q.C. gets to know the whole story. Suck.

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.