Filth

Infected Areas

A lazy weekend. I did get semi-drunk on Saturday night with Lennox who booted a jakey’s styrofoam cup into the gutter, spilling his coins doon the Walk. It was such good sport watching the cunt groping around for them. After this I gave him a couple of quid, solely to try and make Lennox feel bad. It didn’t work and I regretted the wasted outlay. I laid off the whisky though, which made me feel not too bad Sunday morning, and Sunday was a quiet day.

I thought of Carole a lot. I know what she’s up to. She’s playing a very, very dangerous game and she doesn’t even know it.

Let’s hope she comes to her senses soon.

For everyone’s sake.

I’m scanning the Sunday Mail and I jump as I see a picture of somebody familiar. Black and whi

Fuckin

A panic attack grabs me and shakes me. I feel like a psychic band in my body has been knotted to its tensile limit and twanged and my life-force is shooting for the stars. It reaches a pitch and then stabilises as I gasp and look again, trying to find clarity in the greyness of the newsprint.

I calm down as it’s no who I think it is.

It’s me.

An old picture.

An old picture and a new caption: HERO COP IN RESCUE BID by BRIAN SCULLION A Christmas shopper tragically died in the arms of his wife yesterday, despite valiant efforts to save him by a hero off-duty policeman who came to his aid. STUNNED Shoppers in Edinburgh’s busy South Bridge were stunned when retail manager Colin Sim (41) – who has a history of heart trouble – collapsed on the city street. ‘We were shocked. He just keeled over’, said Mrs Jessie Newbigging (67). ‘I was just looking for something for my granddaughter’s Christmas. I couldn’t believe it. He was just a young man as well.’ Her daughter, June Paton (39) of Hawes Road, Armadale, added: ‘It’s terrible something like that has to happen, especially at Christmas. It makes you think.’ HERO While Heather Sim comforted her dying husband, a man in the crowd mounted a dramatic rescue bid trying both mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and external heart compression in a vain effort to revive the stricken man, who is the father of an eight-year-old son. ‘The boy was a real hero, he tried everything in the book to bring the guy back,’ said Billy Gibson (21). He added: ‘I was feeling a bit sorry for myself as I have just been made homeless and have been sleeping rough, but something like this makes you realise just how lucky you are. Now I’m determined to enjoy my Christmas.’ SHOCK Mr Sim was dead on arrival at the Infirmary. The hospital spokesman said: ‘It was a severe attack. There was nothing anybody could do.’ The police hero, Detective Sergeant Bruce Robertson of Lothian’s Constabulary said: ‘I tried my best to save him, but he just went.’ Student Janet Onslow (19) added: ‘I think we’re all a bit shocked. One minute you’re here, the next you’re gone. It just goes to show.’

How did that make me feel?

It made me feel like watching one of Hector The Farmer’s videos, then going out for a pint and a bar lunch at the Royal Scot, and reading the rest of the papers.

In the Royal Scot they have a wonderful fire going, giving off a roasting heat. After a filling roast beef, mashed potato, carrots, sprouts and gravy, the oxygen leaves my brain and the heat and the flame and the clicking sounds of cutlery on crockery become mesmerising. I can see them in the fire, the demons; their flickering, mocking dances as I recline into the chair. I lift the pint glass of stout to my lips and break the spell. I down the pint.

When I get home I take some sleeping pills and within what seemed like half an hour of unconsciousness it was Monday morning again.

Monday again. The phone drags me out of a stupefying sleep. It’s Gus. He wants to make an early start. Yes, he likes to keep the credits rolling during the winter so that he’s flush when the weather breaks and the gowf becomes a possibility.

There’s a few messages on the machine, from people who read the piece in the Mail. – It’s Chrissie. Congratulations Bruce, if you know what I mean. Phone me. Chrissie. – Well done Bruce . . . it must have been harrowing. Bladesey. – Bruce. Bob Toal. I’m sorry, but well done anyway. Toal. – I’m proud of you. Call me. Shirley. – Whatever happened to, all of the heroes, all the Shakespearoes . . . a coked-up Lennox sings.

I go to the toilet and give my hands another good wash and scrub in the sink. It’s hard to get all the shit off them. I give the black flannels a chance to air, and put on a fawn pair. There’s an old curry stain on them, but I manage to get most of it off, using Stacey’s facecloth.

Then I head outside, taking the ice-scraper to the Volvo’s windscreen. Julie Stronach’s visible in her front window, straining to put a bauble on the Christmas tree she’s just erected. Just erected? She can come next door and see if she can get mines up! I’m getting a good decko of those full tits in that tight, white t-shirt. She catches me staring so I give a neighbourly wave, and hold up the can of windscreen defroster in one hand and the scraper in the other and let my shoulders rise. Julie smiles with cautious empathy. I get in the motor, sticking on Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy, and head for HQ to rendezvous with Gus who’s just getting out of his own motor in the car park. I wave and he gets into my passenger seat. His nose is red with the cauld. – Well done Bruce. That must have been pretty terrible, Saturday likes, he says.

– Worse for the boy, I say.

We’re off down to Leith, sitting in the motor outside yon wee Estelle’s flower shop and who should come in but Gorman. It gets us off the subject of the boy that died. – I spy strangers, I smile at Gus.

Gus decides to nick into Crawford’s while I keep shoatie. – Two sausage rolls Gus, one buttered roll, a portion ay chips and a vanilla slice plus coffee.

I start thinking about that graffiti in the bogs last week.

He returns with the goodies and we sit waiting for Gorman to depart. – Thing is Gus, that Karen Fulton, she wis a game cow at the start. The force bike she wis called, doon at the South Side. These fuckin hoors are ey on aboot equality. How the fuck did she git oot ay uniform? Ah’ll tell ye how: shaggin fuckin Toal. Now she’s above aw that, in wi that lesbo crew in Personnel. Every time they drop thir drawers they git a promotion, every time we do, it’s a disciplinary. What fuckin equality is thir in that?

Gus laughs and goes, – Right enough Bruce.

This cunt’ll never get a promotion. You have to spell things oot tae him. – Ah’m no saying that ah’d like tae shag Toal mind you, some price tae pey for a promo that, I grin, – but the principle’s the same. Fulton now though, just look at her: snooty fuckin cow, willnae mix it wi the likes ay us. Senior cock only. Thir wis a time when ye only hud tae paint three stripes oan yir willie and she wis desperate tae pack it between her thighs.

– Yir an awfay man Bruce, Gus coughs in laughter. A good old boy, even if a bit slow. I suddenly get an uneasy feeling. That was a mistake mentioning both Fulton and Toal to Gus. He’s probably seen the graffiti in the bogs as well. I’ll be fuckin prime suspect now. Luckily Gus’s mind isnae sharp enough, even in the narrow, proscribed, polis wey.

I’ll hand it tae that cunt Ghostie Gorman. The fuckin evil little albino twat has the good grace tae leave twenty minutes later, after we’ve had our scran, and without any flooirs. – Never reckoned that cunt tae be the romantic type, I smile at Gus.

– Bingo, Gus says softly, veteran polis instincts tuned tae alertness. Aye, the auld boy might be slow, but he can smell prey. You never lose that.

This is what makes the job worthwhile, the scent of spastic schemie blood, even better if it comes in the shape of quality fanny. It’s like two comes with one stroke.

I wait for Gorman to get out of sight and then I go in and have a look at the flowers, the prettiest one of all the one behind the counter. – Hello Estelle, I smile at her. There’s an auld wifie in the shop as well. She looks challengingly at Estelle who’s lost some of her hard cow composure, the juice draining from the hoor’s tank slightly. The auld wifie raises her eyebrows and goes into the backshop.

– How’s business?

– Sawright, she says, brushing her hair back in a nervous gesture.

– Funny, jist saw a guy come oot the shoap empty-handed. Did ye no huv nowt in his line?

– Nuht . . . she says doubtfully, avoiding my eyes and making out that she’s tidying up.

– Whae wis eh?

– Dinnae ken, eh wis jist eftir a bouquet . . . changed ehs mind bit . . .

At this point, right oan cue, the wifie comes out and says, – If you’re gaunny spend ay day talkin tae yir boyfriends, dae it ootside the shop n ah’ll take it oaf’yir pey!

Estelle gets a beamer at this one. – Listen, I think we should have a wee blether. Crawford’s? Either that or ah haul ye doon the station now. Whit’s it tae be?

– Awright, she says, coming out with me and making a big thing of shivering in her overalls.

We head for Crawford’s, and I wink at Gus who’s still in the car. We sit down with coffee. I have another vanilla slice. – Can I treat you to one of these? I ask.

– Nuht, she says dismissively.

She sits down and lights a fag. – I’ve done nowt wrong, she tells me.

Aye, right.

– Wasting police time, withholding information, possibly harbouring a suspect. You fuckin well listen, I point at her, – It’s tell aye what ye ken, or you’re gaunny be up in court. It’s up tae you. If ye dinnae want tae be making soft toys in Cornton Vale fir the next year ah’d find that tongue if ah wis you hen, and ah widnae be takin ma time aboot daein it.

She’s bending a bit here. I can tell. She lowers her heid.

– You gaunny co-operate?

– Look, ah ken that guy, fae the clubs n that. They call um Ghostie. Eh wis one ay the guys youse showed ays the photae ay that time. Eh jist comes in sometimes, tae talk aboot the clubs n music n that.

– Jist a wee two-person musical appreciation society. That’s nice.

She lifts her head up and focuses on me in a tough stare. – It’s no like that. Thir’s loads ay people ah ken and half-ken that come in tae blether aboot what they’ve been up tae, in the clubs n that.

– So how often does this boy come in and see ye?

– Maybe once a fortnight . . . depends.

She’s a fuckin hard nut awright. – And he was at Jammy Joe’s oan the night of Mr Wurie’s murder?

– Ah dinnae ken . . . look, ah’m oot nearly every night. Ah dinnae mind who’s oot everywhaire and who isnae.

– Busy social life. They must pey ye well in that flooir shoap.

– That’s ma business, she says. This cow has recovered her composure quickly. A real hard case, but what a fuckin little doll n aw. She’s looking at me intently. – Ah’m sure ah ken you fae somewhere . . . she says, almost accusingly.

– Ye soon will, ah’ll tell ye that for nothing. We’ll be watching you Estelle, you and your boyfriend.

– Ehs no ma boyfriend, she snaps.

– Hope no for your sake. Gaun, git back tae yir shop, ah nod to the door. She gets up and casts another glance at me before she leaves. This wide wee cow needs fuckin well sorted oot. Sorted oot good and proper. Nice erse on it, even through the overalls.

My genitals are hot and tingling, so I head to the café bog with my Sun and thrash off to Tara from Portsmouth, the image of Estelle’s receding arse complementing Tara’s smallish but solid tits. I spurt in double-quick time. I then give my sweaty hole a good rubbing with the bog paper and my arse a good clawing. I’m seeing Rossi in a bit, as no progress has been made with the fool’s creams.

I get back out and drop Gus off at the station. I drive out tae Rossi’s and I stick on a Michael Bolton compilation tape I made. ‘How Am I Supposed to Live Without You’ off of Soul Provider comes on, and I sing my heart out. Then Bolton’s version of ‘When A Man Loves A Woman’, which is ten times better than any nigger shite, comes blasting out and by the time I get to Rossi’s surgery and park the Volvo I’m in better spirits.

They think that they can drag Bruce Robertson down? All the schemies, coons and what have you? Get fuckin real you sad cunts!

– I’ve been applying that cream you gave me, Doctor Rossi, but it just makes me worse.

– Mmm, says Rossi, – If you just drop your trousers.

I comply, wondering whether this cunt’s an arse bandit. It seems that the bastard can never wait to get my fuckin keks off. Rossi, of course. Italian. Pape. These cunts are all shirt-lifters. That’s why the population of Ireland’s so fuckin low. Tattie famine my hole, it’s cause all these fenian cunts are erse-shag-gers. Same fuckin rules. Rossi, well, I ken it’s his job, but what a perfect cover for brown-bombers.

– Yes, yes, the infected area is more widespread. It’s now all over the thighs as well as the testicles. Yes. Are you avoiding foods with a high fat content?

– Aye . . . I tell him. The cunt expects me to fuckin starve.

– Well, I think we have to change creams, he says, writing out a new prescription. – I know it’s difficult, but try not to scratch the infected area. These look . . . well, they look like nail marks. I can’t stress enough the importance of washing and changing underwear on a regular basis. Cotton briefs preferably, or better still, boxer shorts for the circulation of air.

I need a fuckin washing done. That slag’s abandoned me; trying to fuckin well kill me! She kens I cannae work that fuckin machine. Huvnae hud a proper cooked meal in ages, a roast or something. When a man loves a woman right enough. I fuckin well followed her oot tae Australia. I fuckin well came back here for her. When a man loves a fuckin woman.

Trouble is, they dinnae love men!

– The thing is, ah’m eatin like a horse Doc, but I’m still losing weight . . . I’m worried I might have picked up something . . .

– You mean like an STD?

– Nah . . . well, aye . . .

– Have you been having different sexual relationships?

I smile at him. – You know how it is Doctor . . . normal heterosexual red-blooded male . . .

He looks at me strangely and I wonder if this cunt does know how it is.

– I want a urine sample, but . . . Rossi produces a plastic carton with a lid, – what I’d also like from you is a stool sample.

This cunt must be a fuckin perve of the highest order. I’ll have to give Inglis his number. – What for? I ask coldly.

– Concerning the issue of your weight, I think you may have worms. Tapeworms.

– What does that involve?

– They are harmless parasites, but they can be hard to get rid of.

– I’ll go to the toilet now, I stand up.

– That won’t be necessary . . . he says, – in your own time . . .

– I can do it now, I tell him, exiting. I head to his bog and fill the container with sludgy lager and curry shite. The cunt wants shite, ah’ll fuckin well gie him shite!

I leave Rossi with my crap and pish and drive into town. Worms. It doesnae bear thinkin about. My thoughts are interrupted by a message from Ray, telling me that it’s going off down the flats. Colin Moss went up there carrying a holdall, so the D.S. boys’ve got the sniffer dugs down there and are raring to do Moss, Richards and Allan.

The roads are pretty bad and I’m shaking at the wheel, worried that I’m going to miss all the fuckin action. Fuck looking for somebody who topped a coon, this is real poliswork. I stick my light on the top of the car and hit the siren as I tear doon Leith Walk.

OUT MA FUCKIN WEY YA CUNTS!

By the time I get down to the flats, a huge crowed has gathered outside. Some jakeys from the lodging house sit huddled on to a bench, drinking strong largers and fortified wines and making insulting comments at two young uniformed spastics, one whose ears glow red with the cold and the humiliation. Some other polis are trying to cordon the area off and disperse the crowd. I see that something’s on the ground. As I get closer it looks like the remains of an animal but it has been ripped open and crushed beyond recognition, strewn all over the slushy pavement. I look towards the heavens suspecting our old friend gravity and the flats. This was probably last year’s model whose collar had grown a little tight and was jettisoned to make way for the incoming Christmas puppy dog.

Then I clock Ray, who looks a bit sheepish and tells me that the dug was one of ours, a sniffer in the advance party. I savour the prospect of an alliance with the RSPCA, destroying the peace-loving, caring credibility of these hippy, squatting cunts. They murdered that poor animal! Ha! Gotcha!

Ray nods towards George Mackie, the dug-handler, who’s sitting on the pavement being comforted by a poliswoman. I ken George from the craft. Lodge St John, Corstorphine.

– Bruce . . . he wheezes . . .– eh’s gone Bruce . . . Pedro’s away . . . ma Pedro . . . the best sniffer oan the force . . . eh’s gone . . .

– What happened George, I ask, bending over him.

– Eh found a sheet ay acid . . . but they’d hidden it in the kitchen . . . he slipped his leash . . . they hid the acid wi these dug biscuits . . . poor Pedro ate the lot, Mackie moaned, sounding himself like a dog in pain. – Perr Pedro . . . eh jist totally loast it . . . eh freaked and even turned on me! Me Bruce! I had him since he was a puppy . . . the runt ay the litter . . . I admit that I truncheoned him . . . it wis self-defence Bruce . . . eh just lept oot the windae . . . the best dug ah’ve ever hud . . . the best sniffer on the force . . . fourteen floors up, eh never stood a snowball’s chance in hell . . .

I move back over to Ray. – Where’s Moss? Ms Richards? Mr Allan?

Lennox points across to this trio of crusty bastards looking smug and getting into a BMW. The car’s being driven by Conrad Donaldson, Q.C.

– Nowt we can do Bruce, Ray says. – Listen Bruce, c’mere the now . . . Lennox furtively gestures over to a tenement stair door, far from the crowd. – I fucked up. I had the sheet ay acid to plant and I was about tae dae it when the fuckin dug ripped it out my hand . . . he showed me a toothmark on one of his fingers. – George was in the living room and it came intae the kitchen . . . he should have been with it at all times . . . he didnae follow procedure.

– What was in Moss’s holdall? Can we no do them for that?

– A fucking Christmas pudding. I didn’t even bother confiscating it to take it doon the lab for analysis. The smart cunt was straight on to Donaldson, who was here within ten minutes. They were laughing their fuckin heads off, Lennox smirks slightly, seeing the funny side. I don’t. I walk away in a raging fury and get back into the car.

That night I go out for a drink with Clell, who’s going on about his new job in traffic.

– It’s great tae be free fae Serious Crimes Bruce, he says, raising his glass. – It’s given me time tae think about what I want tae do with my life. That’s the problem wi Serious Crimes, you shut off too much. You just go through it . . . he makes his palms go parallel and forward like a train.

– Well, you’ll have plenty of time to think sitting with those vegetables in traffic, I tell him.

Clell looks closely at me. There’s a slight tick in his eye. It seems as if I’ve upset him.

– That’s just the way I want it, he bleats.

Cunt thinks that his worries are over and that he can rub our faces in it because he’s got a job as a vegetable. Wrong! We are not interested in the trivial concerns of one Mister Andrew Clelland.

I make my excuses after a bit and head hame.