Filth

Masonic Outings

It’s there! Waking up from a maddening half-pished sleep and seeing the fuckin thing! It’s slithering out of my arsehole, lying across my hips. I touched it. Its black eyes. Its hooked, sucker mouth. Like a stick of tagliatelle with a head. I went to grab it only for it to be sucked up my arsehole like you eat a piece of spaghetti . . .

. . . and we are awake. I am awake. On the couch. The video’s on: the ones that Hector The Farmer got for me. Vibrator Massacre: the dykes who do the young lassies in the woods.

I can’t fuckin well breathe . . . I’m falling apart at the fuckin seams . . . we’re falling apart . . .

These cunts are trying tae kill us with this OT cutback because they know we cannae kip during the fuckin night, never could. They know we need very little sleep and that all we do in darkness is think and think and think. In order to stop thinking we have to fuck and then you get the complications; financial in the case of hoors, social in the case of slags.

I’m sitting up and waiting, praying for the light. I get through by reading ‘Tam o’Shanter’. It’s an apt that I’ll be asked to toast the haggis at the Lodge Burns supper this year, especially after the mess auld Willie McPhee made of it the last time. I know he’s done it for over fifty years, and it’s the only thing he lives for, but it’s getting beyond a joke and it’s time the auld cunt left the crease and embarked on that long walk to tae the pavilion. Eventually the light comes and I sleep for a few hours.

Then I’m up and into work. It’s the Christmas Party the night. I take some more of Rossi’s laxatives. We’ll flush this fuckin thing right out of Bruce Robertson, every last trace, sure we fuckin well will. It’ll be an early start the day alright; I want the first bevvy sank before midday and nae fuckin nonsense aboot deid coons or any ay that shite.

At the station everyone’s in a party mood. Inglis has already had a few, probably been drinking alone in the sad way of the closet homosexual. That, an inspector? I don’t fuckin well think so. A bum inspector, maybe. He’s fuckin well gettin it, I kid you not. The graffiti was only a start. Soon everybody’s gaunny ken what kind of a nancy-boy’s been sharing their cutlery in the cannie.

Karen Fulton and Amanda Drummond are the only fanny around so the prospects aren’t looking good. That big hoor the Size Queen has apparently been transferred up to the South Side. Karen says something about Clell’s hip, and Lennox asks: – What albums does he have? What clubs does he go tae? It’s above every spastic’s heid though.

Drummond coldly says that Clelland has been taken into the Royal Edinburgh Hospital, the Arthur Dow clinic. Apparently he tried to top himself again, while in the hospital! Pills and voddy job!

This puts me in high spirits.

We leave the office and we go to the restaurant for the Christmas curry. – This is the only kind ay networkin wi the wog community that ah’m interested in! Gillman says, raising his pint of lager. Cheers!

– Merry Christmas everybody! I toast loudly, raising my glass and cutting off Drummond as she’s about to pull Dougie up about his comment.

After the meal, we head up the street on a pub crawl. A loud party of pricks in suits and similarly power-dressed fanny stagger out of a Cockburn Street pub, struggling to keep their footing on the slope and the ice. One fat-chopped wanker with an Arthur Scargill hairstyle throws up in the gutter, sending kidney beans everywhere. A horse-faced bird looks at us in embarrassment and another rotund figure chides the puker in a high, squeaky voice, – C’mon Hank! Too much Christmas spirit!

This is a right spastics’ convention. I thought that I was with a sad bunch, but there’s always somebody worse than you. I spot Drummond giving a disapproving Toalesque gesture and this immediately instils a surge of goodwill in me for those part-time seasonal drinkers whom I had instinctively hated. I pull some Kleenex out from my jacket pocket. I always keep them handy for wanking purposes as you never know when the tight-arsed cunts at HQ supplies will run short. I hand the boaking mess a couple. – There you go mate.

– Thanks, the squeakoid says on his behalf.

– Office do? I ask.

– Aye, Standard Life.

Ah, Standard Life. The citadel of spare fanny in Edinburgh. You dinnae qualify as a fully-fledged male native of that city unless you’ve fucked at least a couple of birds from Standard Life by the time you’ve hit your quarter century. Mind you, the fanny on display here looks far from impressive, probably senior minge. Forget the models-in-suits bullshit in they women’s magazines. Generally speaking, the further up an organisation’s hierarchy you go, the uglier the birds get. This isnae because tidy fanny have less brains than dogs, it’s just that tidy fanny wi real brains always take the short-cut by marrying wedge and getting sorted out with some plastic before heading off with a tidy settlement. I look around and decide that we must be near boardroom level here.

We head into the pub vacated by the Standard Life crew. I get them in, ordering myself a vodka and tonic water. I’ve got the horn set up and I fancy firing into somebody later on. Fulton’s the obvious candidate, but she’s taking things quite easy. No like last Christmas or Princess Diana’s funeral when I got her three sheets and rode her back at her flat in Newington.

– Not firing on all cylinders yet Karen? I ask, noting her nursing her drink.

– I’ve gone off the drink a bit, she says. Drummond looks approvingly.

– Mind after Princess Di’s funeral? We were three sheets then!

I couldn’t resist that one, and I drink in Fulton’s visible cringing.

– We ended up back at yours . . .

– Oh aye, Inglis laughs, – tell me more . . .

Fulton winces again, but Drummond interjects, – That was a very sad and emotional day.

– Aye, Gus says. – I watched that Mother Theresa’s funeral again the other night. Ah wis checking tae see what old tapes ah could record ower. Ah watched it aw the wey through again, but it wisnae as good as Princess Di’s.

– Papes though, what dae ye expect, Gillman says.

– Mind you, the papes usually ken how tae pit oan a good funeral, ah’ll say that for them, Gus comments.

– Calcutta but, fuckin wogs eh, Gillman rasps, – what dae ye expect. They cannae fuckin well run the country withoot us, ye dinnae expect them tae be able tae dae a funeral withoot fuckin things up.

– I don’t think . . . Drummond begins.

Gillman dismisses her with a contemptuous scowl. – Fifty fuckin years they’ve hud tae git it right. If they’d goat it right they widnae need any Mother Theresas cause they widnae huv any slums and poverty in the first place.

– Well, Inglis says cheerily, – we’ve goat our ain parliament now. Lit’s hope we make a better job of it!

– That’ll be a load ay fuckin nonsense n aw, I snort. – Whose fuckin shout is it? If we cannae git organised tae get tae the bar wir no gaunny be able tae run oor ain affairs!

Inglis takes the hint and gets them in.

We lose the disapproving Drummond after a few drinks, but Fulton goes as well, which fucks up the prospects of a gang-bang later. Still, that’s force fanny: no worth the cock that’s pokin it. The crawl progresses down through town, to the St James Oyster Bar. I end up necking with some tart who’s groping my arse, and I only decide not to take her back for a shagging when Lennox points out to me that she’s a total fuckin hound. I sneak out the door and we head down the road.

Inglis makes some comment about dubious ladies, and I decide that that proof is too lippy and he’s fuckin well getting it. I arrange for us all to have a late night drink up at the casino, which I know is closed for refurbishment. It’s now freezing and we’re walking through driving snow.

– Shite, I moan, on seeing the boarded-up doors, – it’ll have tae be one ay they arse-bandit places, I tell them, pointing to the Top of the Walk.

– Ah’m no gaun thair, Inglis scoffs. – Doon tae Shrubhill tae the masonic . . .

– What have ye goat tae hide? Ray laughs. He’s taken his pint out with him and is drinking it.

Inglis looks at Lennox as if it’s him that’s the graffiti artist. – You sayin ah have got anything tae hide likes?

– Naw, Ray shrugs and takes a sip from his pint, – ah’m sayin nothing.

I smile at that.

– Look, c’moan, it’s jist for a fuckin drink, Dougie Gillman snaps.

Ray drains his pint and hurls his glass at a council gritting lorry. It smashes against its hull. – Spastics! he shouts.

We head into the club. The bouncer looks piercingly at us, but we get in as soon as he tipples we’re polis. It’s a drinking club full of all sorts of sad poofs. There’s the camp type, the seasoned scene-queens and the hard ex-cons who’ve got a taste for it in Saughton. There’s also a smattering of tourist puffs, wondering what the fuck they’re doing here. I go downstairs and spot the man of my dreams, Sinky, a mercenary wee Calton Hill rent-boy. I brief him on what to do before returning upstairs to the boys.

We’re having a good crack. Gillman’s already burst one queer’s mouth in the lavvy for looking at him funnily. After a couple of drinks, Sinky appears and heads down the floor towards Inglis. – PEA-TIHR! OH PEA-TIHR! he shouts camply, – LONG TIME NO SEE! Brought some friends along I notice!

– Ah dinnae ken you! Inglis shouts.

– Oh sorry . . . didn’t realise it was that kind of a scene . . . so exclusive . . . Sinky retreats, raising his eyebrows. – He can be sooo immature, he adds as an aside to several shocked parties around him. Gillman is looking at Inglis with sheer loathing and Lennox has moved slightly apart from him.

– AH FUCKIN DINNAE KEN HIM! Inglis squeals and makes to go for Sinky. I grab his shoulders. – Fir fuck sakes Peter, we’re polis! Dinnae cause a fuckin scene in here!

– Bit ah dinnae ken him! Inglis pleads.

– Well he seems take ken you, Dougie Gillman says, eyes narrowing into slits of hatred.

– You wrote that shite . . . Inglis accuses, his voice in exasperation going all high and fey like a pansy’s.

– Ah didnae write anything aboot ye, it wis probably one ay yir fuckin boyfriends . . . Gillman sneers, his chin jutting out.

– Ya cunt . . . Inglis swings at Gillman who steps back and bangs him on the side of the face. I grab Inglis and I’m hoping that Gillman will let fly again and smash that queer coupon, but Ray and Gus have got a grip on him and are restraining him. Gillman’s tidy and Inglis knows this, his struggle becoming more pathetic and those startled eyes making him seem more wretched than ever.

– Look, lit’s git oot ay here. Wir aw a bit pished. Lit’s jist git doon tae the masonic, I urge.

We stagger outside into the blizzard and Inglis is already away, a lonely figure trudging through the snow up Leith Walk. – C’moan Peter! Gus shouts.

– Leave the fuckin poof, Gillman says.

– Fuckin arse-bandit! Ray shouts after him.

– BIG FUCKIN NANCY BOY! Gillman roars, cupping his hands round his mouth. The rest of the boys might pass this off as just a load of drunken nonsense tomorrow, but Gillman’s tasted fag blood and he won’t let go of this now. We bay mocking lynch-mob laughter at the broken figure of the sodomite Inglis as his hunched back recedes up the Walk.

Ray has another glass in his hand. He chucks it in Inglis’s direction, but it falls a good few yards short and breaks with a muffled thud in the road, its impact cushioned by the thick snow.

phone in sick, because we knew the cunt was sick anyway.

So Gillman was the perfect man to send to the Forum. That latent Nazi was the man tae gie it tight tae aw they fuckin smart bastards. Toal’s doing his nut at me. The spirit of Christmas my arse. I look out the window at the snow falling. Christmas Eve and I haven’t even had time to go Christmas shopping thanks to this dead wog case. The snow’s really falling though, and Toal has a tree in the corner of his office. It’s nice and warm, and his voice is oddly lulling. It raises up a level of sharpness though. – Why Dougie Gillman? Why did you send him?

I look intently at Toal, his ridiculous bouffant hair. Toal. Thinks he’s an intellectual. His first fantasy was that he was a manager, after they sent him on that MBA course. That was bad enough. His second, that he’s a screenwriter, is just fuckin stupid. These, however, pale into insignificance beside his greatest and most damaging conceit, namely that he’s fuckin polis. I feel like laughing in his face. Instead, I fire out the spiel. – As the responsible officer, I have to consider the development of all the officers in my charge. Dougie Gillman was weak in the community relations area. I made a supervisory decision that he could improve in this area by guided exposure to community relations activity, so I got him to liaise with the Forum.

– Well, I don’t know what guidance he got, because they’ve only gone and filed a complaint against him. A serious complaint. Even worse, it was initiated by the San Yung woman, the one who ran the EO’s course with Amanda Drummond. Niddrie’s insisting on a disciplinary. I’ve had to inform Gillman.

I’m not in the mood for this. It’s almost tempting to tell Toal that I knew those dykes would be trouble, but I bite my tongue. – Well, we have a conflict of interest here. As Fed rep . . .

– Don’t even think about representing Gillman! Toal shouts.

– We’ll see, I tell him, standing my ground.

Toal rolls his eyes. – Look Bruce, things are bloody difficult here. We’ve got Arnott on long-term sick, OT cut-backs, and this racism thing. On top of that there’s a bloody jessie-boy in the hat for the inspector’s post!

– Are you referring to Brother Peter Inglis?

– Yes I am Brother Robertson, Toal squeals, unawares that he’s falling into my trap. – Look Bruce, I’m as liberal as the next man on the force, but I understand how cops think. I understand canteen culture. How can we have someone of his disposition, policy or no policy, leading brother officers?

– What do you mean? I ask.

– How many officers could take orders from someone like that? It would be a recipe for disaster. No way. I’m going to have a chat with Inglis, talk him out of applying. And I don’t want any Fed rep or craft-led objections.

I say nothing.

– This is professional concern not personal prejudice, Toal spits as if through an ulcerated mouth, every utterance causing distress, – . . . I won’t pretend that I don’t find the idea of men doing that to each other absolutely disgusting . . . but that’s by the way.

I give Toal a look which I hope says that should be taken as given by all right-minded people and the fact you felt the need to state it indicates to me that you might be a latent puff as well.

He seems to get the drift and coughs nervously, – But I’m far more concerned about the professional implications . . .

– I still don’t see what you’re on about, I tell him.

– Come on Bruce! If he was to get the promo, what would that do for morale? How can you have respect for a . . . I mean, how can you have confidence in a man who’s going to be constantly undressing you with his eyes, masturbating over images of you! It’s going to compromise everyone!

– This is a bit caveman Bob. The force in some parts of the country advertise in the gay press. We’re meant to be hot on non-discrimination with regards to sexual orientation.

– This isnae some parts ay the country! This is Scotland! Toal bangs his fist off the desk, and then looks mildly embarrassed.

I shrug, – He’s a brother officer in the force and the craft.

He shakes his head and composes himself. – Look Bruce, I know that you feel that because he’s up for the same job as you, you don’t want to be seen to be gaining advantage by undermining him. I appreciate your integrity on this issue. But I’m telling you straight: Inglis is last Tuesday’s Daily Record as far as promotion is concerned.

Toal has swallowed the bait, but I still nod sternly. Best let him think I’m far from amused at this. Inglis may be a sad pansy, but I still object to the general principle that Toal tells me anything. Anyway, I take my leave.

I meet up with Gillman in the office and we go to the Rag Doll and shoot some pool. He needs friends in the Fed and the craft. Or to think that he has friends in the Fed and the craft. – Dinnae worry about an internal polis disciplinary. Nae cunt’s gaunny dae nowt. Guaranteed, we tell him.

– Hope no, eh, he shrugs. This cunt acts like he really doesn’t give a fuck. – For a few coons? Problem is ye canny call a fuckin spade a spade, or in ma case a fuckin wog, he says humourlessly.

– No way. Ah cannae mind ay the last fucker that got disciplined seriously on the force as a result of a complaint by a member of the public.

Gillman is a good old boy. I suspect that he knows that the best place for an instinctive man of violence is on the force, with total state back-up for when things get nasty. Most polis are just ordinary guys doing an extraordinary job, which makes it such a pleasure to come across a genuine psychopath like Dougie. I was impressed by the way he took out Inglis. Not the sort of man to let the belligerence of others deter him from his chosen course of action. All it means, of course, is that I have to do him. Gillman will be a worthy scalp. He’s in my sights. And maybe he’s just a wee bit more worried than I thought. – Ah do, he says, – Artie Hutton, for smashin that boy’s heid in in the cells. The boy nearly died. Emergency op saved him.

– But that was drugs, Artie had nae choice, I tell him.

– What, you mean the boy was under narcotic influence and was potentially dangerous? Gillman asks.

– New . . . I mean Artie. He had just come oot ay detox the week before for his coke problem. He had the heebeegeebees big-time and this spastic with a shrill voice started giein it loads aboot getting a fucking lawyer and making a fucking phone call when Artie was just trying to ask a few simple questions.

Gillman smiles, in the cold manner of an assassin. It’s like looking in the mirror. But he’s never a Bruce Robertson and he never will be. He thinks I’m his only friend on the force; me, who wound him up like a clockwork toy and sent him into the coons’ den. Think again my simple friend. – Dinnae worry Dougie, I tell him, – we’ll get this nonsense sorted oot.

When I return, I find Toal back on the blower. He’s on about the lack of progress again, which means that Niddrie’s been on to him and somebody’s kicked Niddrie’s erse. Nowt surer. Not my problem sonny boy! Busy busy busy!

I head for the bogs with the paper to have a wank to Jilly from Bath. Somebody has written in magic marker over the graffitti in our favourite trap, new graffiti. My blood runs cold for a moment:

HALF-MAN

HALF-SPASTIC

ZERO COP

ROBBO COP

THE FUTUE OF LAW ENFORCEMENT MY ARSE

I can’t concentrate on Jilly from Bath now. All I see in my hand is a flaccid, flaky, itchy cock. I scratch and claw at my bollocks. Funny fuckin joke. Ha ha you cunts. I force myself not to think about who could have written this . . . Toal, Lennox, Inglis . . . but he’s no been in the day . . . Gillman . . . Bain . . . they lack the imagination . . . or perhaps a uniformed spastic who knows the contempt I hold those losers in . . . no . . . I force myself not to think of who it could be cause it means that they’ve won if you do that. Sorry, my sweet, sweet friend, Bruce Robertson is made of sterner stuff.

Nice try spasticworks!

Ha. No way, Jilly’s here . . . Jilly from Bath, you fuckin little hoor . . . Lennox spreading rumours . . . no, c’mon Jilly . . . your fuckin paps are gorgeous . . . would you like me to suck and lick them . . . Toal . . . claims to be above all that canteen culture as he calls it. . . . fuck them, c’mon Jilly, Robbo’s the boy to do it for you baby . . . I bet you shave your little cunt . . . if only you’d just slip off these little panties for Robbo . . . the future of law enforcement CHEEKY CUNT GILLMAN, represent him, me?! but naw, Jilly n me, Jilly n me, nae cunt else just that flesh; flesh she’s put intae newsprint all for Robbo, fuck aw the other spastics who read the Sun, they dinnae understand, this is our wee secret Jilly, our little love letter. . . . likes riding horses . . . I’ll fuckin bet . . . take it baby . . . take all of Bruce . . .

. . . I’m coming . . . I’m spurting mair muck than a Weedgie on amphetamine sulphate and Toal and Lennox and Clelland and Inglis and Lennox won’t stop me now, fucked youse ya bastards, fucked youse . . . Bruce Robertson, INSPECTOR BRUCE ROBERTSON YA JEALOUS INADEQUATE CUNTS!

That was a good one.

After a Christmas canteen dinner which isnae too bad (Ina’s pulled oot the stops, turkey and trimmings), Lennox and I decide to go out and get hammered. We enjoy a few civilised beers at the Lodge, then we’re back at Ray’s, and there’s a blizzard, but it’s inside his flat. The blizzard is one of cocaine. We are feeling weak and the drug is giving us the illusion of strength. We are telling Lennox of the conversation we have had with Toal and know that we are talking too much, yet to stop will leave gaps and into such gaps unwelcome thoughts will intrude. We have no alternative but to keep on. Lennox though, did not do the graffiti. We know that he would not be able to look us in the eye had he been the culprit.

– Ken what he says tae me, we ask Ray Lennox.

– Naw, Ray replies, chopping out another quality line.

– He goes: The craft’s changed. Ah goes: What dae ye mean?

– Fuckin spastic.

– And he turns roond and ye ken what he says tae ays then?

Ray shakes his head.

He goes: If ye dig yerself intae a hole, dinnae rely oan your connections in the craft tae pull ye oot ay it.

– What’s that cunt on aboot? Lennox asks, exhaling in slow exasperation, his eyes wide and wired. That moustache is coming along. Bandito Lennox.

– Ah goes: What dae ye mean by that? He says: Just what I said. Dinnae rely on the craft tae dig ye oot ay a hole.

– Cheeky cunt, scoffs Lennox.

– See, he’s feart Ray. He’s feart ay our craft connections. Our influence in the craft. Hunts wi the hounds and runs wi the hares that cunt. Ken what eh sais as ah walked oot the door?

– Naw.

– Eh goes: Craft connections can only get ye so far.

– Eh! What a fuckin . . .

– But wait till ye hear this, then eh sais, wait till ye hear this yin, eh goes: Besides, you’re no the only one wi craft connections!

– Hah hah ha! What a fuckin wanker! That’s . . . that’s . . . ah mean, ye cannae take the cunt seriously.

– Exactly Ray. That’s what we felt like saying: You cannot be serious. Ah could hardly keep a straight face, ah kin tell ye. Ah just goes: Thank you, Brother Toal.

Ray smiles and then lets a silence hang for a bit. I can feel the cunt has been working up to something. – Listen Robbo, I’ve got something to tell you, he says, lowering his voice, – I don’t want you getting the wrong end of the stick, that’s why I’m telling you first. I want to get on in the department, but I’ve no real chance of a promotion over the next few years. Not enough experience.

You’ve just got your D.S. you cheeky wee cunt. Of course you huvnae goat enough experience. – I dunno though Ray. It’s how good you are that counts.

– I was even thinking of applying for the D.I. vacancy in the reorganisation myself. I ken I’ve nae chance, but it would be a good idea to give myself the experience of applying for some of those jobs, of going through a couple of promotion board selection procedures, just soas I know what tae expect when I am experienced enough. I’d hate to think that a couple of years or so down the line, when I was ready, that I’d fuck up, simply because I’d no experience of a panel interview. What do you think?

I think you’re a smarmy wee cunt. – Don’t see why not Ray, can’t do any harm, I nod.

Ray Lennox now, after our job. Ray Cuntybaws Lennox. Big Dick Lennox in the canteen and the club. Arselick Lennox in Toalie’s office. Shitey-drawers Shrivelled-knob Lennox when it come doon tae the action wi ma hoor ay a sister-in-law.

Treacherous Ray Lennox.

– Not a bad idea Ray, we wheezingly repeat, – can’t do any harm . . . puts a marker for the future.

– That’s it Robbo, just fly up a wee kite to let them know who Ray Lennox is, the cunt smiles and chops up more cocaine.

Criminal Lennox.

When he goes to the toilet I watch the hoor-house red cushion covers on his settee retreat under the implacable heat from the end of my cigarette. I do a few more of these, then turn it over.

Merry Christmas Mister Lennox.