Filth

‘. . . the essentially depraved nature of the creature that she married . . .’

I wake up in the night with a shuddering spasm; it’s as if I’m falling through my own body. I’m sweating and trembling. There’s no hoor by my side but my baws are red-raw. Objects start to come into focus through the dark. It’s the hotel room in Amsterdam. I think of Carole and a crushing pain almost rips me apart. It’s only a reaction to my loss. My mouth feels like it’s been blowtorched and had the skin from my scrotum grafted onto it, but when I go to the mini-bar and down a soda water it only succeeds in turning my guts over. I lurch back to bed as the light comes up. The light. I’m safe again. I get a good bit of kip in.

I wake about lunchtime. My calendar on my watch tells me that it’s the fifteenth of December. Christmas is coming. I get showered, the side of my face still swollen and tender, and I dress and head next door. Bladesey’s still asleep. The cunt sleeps deeply. He’s half-blind withoot his specs. There they are on the bedside table.

I pick them up.

Leaving the hotel I take a stroll over by the canal streets and I spot a likely corner café for a late breakfast. En route, I pull the specs out of my pocket. These lenses are so thick. I put them on and lean over the green balustrade and watch a distorted tug go down the canal. How could any cunt wear those?

Thick though they may be, in a contest with the grinding, seg-ridden heel of Bruce Robertson’s shoes, there was only going to be one winner. I twist, grinning at the satisfying crack they make on the cobblestones. Then, with a piece of footwork so deft that it would have Tom Stronach hitting the rewind button on the VCR in appreciation, I flick the broken specs into the Herengracht and watch as its still waters claim them.

When I get back to the hotel Bladesey’s in a hell of a state, sitting on his bed. – Bruce . . . is that you . . . I can’t find my glasses . . . I don’t know what I’ve done with them . . . I had them last night . . .

– You were three sheets last night, I tell him.

– Yes, but I had my glasses . . .

– Listen Bladesey, come to think of it I dinnae mind ay ye having glasses oan last night. . .

– Oh my God . . . I can’t see Bruce . . .

– Never mind Brother Blades. Bruce Robertson will be your eyes. Ah’ll pick the hoors for ye son, dinnae you worry. Premium minge.

– But . . .

– The only butts that come intae it are the ones we’ll be fuckin doon that red-light district. Now fling that coat oan and let’s paint the toon red. It’s oor last day!

I’m leading Bladesey over to the red-light district. The hurdy-gurdy wheezes out some atmospheric Dutch music. The guy that winds it up has his hat out for change but he’s wasting his time with me. Every red cent is designated hooring and drugs money. Even grub is a luxury at the moment. I turn away from the outstretched cap and scramble to avoid an approaching bike as we’re standing in the cycle lane, but Bladesey’s too slow. It rams him, though not at force. The Cloggie cunt starts shouting at him: – Klootzak! Asshole!

I keep a tighter grip on him. The wee cunt’s shaking through pish withdrawal and fear. After a bit I steer him into a fat hoor’s den and leave him.

– Bruce, I . . . I . . . he stammers.

– Look after my mate doll, I wink at her, – he’s lost his specs and his mince pies arenae too good.

– I look after him good, she says in a Caribbean accent.

– . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . Bladesey moans.

– I take special care of you big boy, the hoor says, leading him into her den.

I then set out on my day’s hooring, leaving the wee cunt to find his ain wey back. I go back to my wee student girl. I got so carried away, I just clean forgot about my mucker Brother Blades. An oversight on my part.

When I return back to Cok City a few hours later, Bladesey’s home and he’s pissed off. He looks terrible.

– I told you to stay there Bladesey, where did you get to? I was worried sick!

– I . . . eh, actually eh, took a taxi . . . you were gone so long . . . she wouldn’t let me stay until you came back . . . the girl in the room . . .

– Well, you missed a good time, I tell him.

I was sorely tempted to leave the half-blind cunt in the Dam, but I decide that he has his uses. In the airport lounge bar at Schipol I wait until Bladesey’s gone to the lavvy then I put a porn movie and some of the charlie I scored earlier into his bag.

It’s a no-lose situation for me as we go through the Customs back in Edinburgh. I either have the pleasure of seeing Bladesey’s coupon as he gets huckled, leaving me to explain to Bunty that I wasn’t into Amsterdam, I was convinced that we were going to Scarborough, but Cliff insisted; or, alternatively, he gets off scotfree and I’ve got the some quality sniff and wallpaper-paste mix. It’s the later scenario as Bladesey strolls through the Customs with ease.

I’m more relieved that they didn’t open my bag; the flannels, shirts, socks and keks were kicking up a real eye-watering furore in there. While I’m obviously happy to have some quality gear as I retrieve the goods while Brother Blades takes another piss at Edinburgh Airport, I’m a little disappointed that Bunty hasn’t had the opportunity of seeing the essentially depraved nature of the creature she married.

But there’s time enough for that.