Filth

Not Crashing

But I couldn’t crash.

So here it is, Merry Christmas, everybody’s having fun . . .

Some might be, but others, we have work to do. These OTA 1–7 forms won’t complete themselves, worse luck. So I’m out, bright and early, with Gus Bain and we’re cruising deserted streets, looking for a bit of action. The wide cunts will never ease up for something as trivial as Christmas, so neither do we.

It’s no difficult to find your fuckin fly-boys in this city. You’ve got the Leith ones, the Gorgie ones, the South Side ones and the Tollcross ones, although the latter two are fewer now thanks to the redevelopment of the city centre. Theatre and student types have colonised the South Side, with business sorts doing the same to Tollcross.

Ignore the Schemies: these cunts are a law unto themselves. As long as they stey oot ay the city centre, they can kill each other as much as they like on cheap bevvy, fags, drugs and high-cholesterol food. Zero tolerance of crime in the city centre; total laissez-faire in the schemie hinterlands. That’s the way forward for policing in the twenty-first century. Tony Blair’s got the right idea: get those jakey beggars out of the city centres. Dispossessed, keep away . . . we don’t want you at our par-tay . . .

Gus and I are both early birds. I couldn’t kip so that was me. If only I could sleep, but I get the voices in my heid at night and then I start thinking of that thing inside me, eating my guts out. Too many anxiety attacks at night. I wish it was daylight for twenty-four hours. Gus seldom sleeps as well, less so now that the promotion is on the line. We both want to be seen in early. I sometimes leave my car in the car park just to give that illusion. You don’t need to do fuck all, as long as you’re seen to be in early and to leave late. This tactic paid handsome dividends for Toal who was known as an incompetent officer. Look at that cunt now though. But he’ll fuckin well ken.

The first thing Gus said to me on this dull, cold morning was: – Merry Christmas Bruce.

– You n aw Gus.

Christmas Day. Gus wants to start early and finish early for the family dinner. I want to start early and never fucking finish.

– What’s yir plans fir the day then Bruce? he asks.

– The usual family stuff Gus. Yirsel?

– Aye, me too. Edith’s cooking a huge turkey. She’s got Malcom’s wife, Sarah, helping her oot. They’ve got the two wee ones. Then Angus and Fiona are coming over. They’ve just got the one wee lassie. Edith’ll be makin that mulled wine ay hers. We’ll aw be a wee bit tipsy this afternoon. I thought, best just get oot fae under everybody’s feet until it’s aw ready.

I nod knowingly.

I mind of Edith, Gus’s wife. I’ve met her a few times. A cheery soul. Her and mister big-cock Gus wi their family Christmas. Nae wonder the auld hag’s always got a dopey smile on her face. Any hoor gitting that length ay Gus’s fuckin well would. See her mind you: stinking carrion dressed as mutton. I almost feel sorry for auld Gus. It’s nae good huvin the biggest widdin spoon in the kitchen if you’re only using it tae stir the same auld fusty pot ay broth that has long since gone off the boil. So sayeth Bruce Robertson.

Anyway, we’re checking on a morning opening bar doon Leith. One part of the bar is full of polis from the Leith cop shop. Same rules apply in the early opening salons, Christmas fuckin Day or no. They’re mostly uniformed spastics who’ve just knocked off, therefore not worth talking to, but it’s fun to dish out the odd terse, serious nod which makes them para that there’s some internal investigation going on and some of the more corrupt cunts finish their drinks quickly and move on. We dismisseth them. I recognise a couple of faces from the craft; one cunt who I never even knew was polis.

We’re looking over at the other side of the bar which is populated by the criminal classes. I recognise one face at the pool table straight away. A Begbie, definitely. I’m not sure which one, Joseph or Francis or Sean or some other filthy pape name. They all look the same. I think it’s Francis, the worst one. A nasty piece of work. The bastard looks up, then turns away back to the table. That bastard’s so paranoid that if you were to casually ask him in a boozer if he remembers where he was when John Lennon was shot, he’d say that he was playing pool up The Volley and he had loads of witnesses.

But there’s no sign of my pal Ocky. Tisk, tisk, tisk, as they say in the comics. – Maybe get a bit of brekker in, Gus, then hit the spastic’s gaff. See if he’s still stoatin-the-baw.

– Right Bruce, Gus smiles.

Yep, auld Gus is a good old boy. A grandfaither who dotes on his grandchildren, but still one of the most feared interrogators in Christendom. That’s the great thing aboot cunts like Gus, it’s no just a job tae them. He’s a churchy guy and genuinely hates crime and law-breaking. His problem though is he can demonstrate a bit too much Christian compassion at times.

We hit a greasy spoon, a place we know down by the docks. Again, it’s always open, Christmas Day or no. Thank fuck for those places. – What do you think of Ray Lennox putting his name forward for the job? I ask.

– Well, I can see young Ray’s point: it marks his card for the future.

– To me it shows lack of respect for the likes of us Gus. It’s his way of saying he doesnae rate us.

– You reckon?

– I thought that you’d be mair fucked off than anyone: a classic recruitment tactic to narrow the field. If you’ve a choice of three it’s harder than a choice of two. So it was me, you or Arnott. Forget Inglis. No way they’d take a pansy on.

Gus nods intently, concern starting to show in his eyes.

– Now Lennox goes and throws his hat intae the ring. What do the cunts on the board say? They go: It was bad enough with a choice of three, but now it’s four. So the standard tactic is to take the youngest and the oldest and knock them out, just don’t consider them, soas you only have to choose between two. I should be thanking the wee cunt, he’s just eliminated the favourite, that’s you, I point at him, raising my eyebrows in a baleful expression.

Gus looks flabbergasted. – What the fuck . . .

– It’s an auld ploy Gus; as I said, standard Personnel practices. Same rules apply. Probably been advised by that silly wee lassie Drummond. That’s how she goat her stripes, overhauling the Personnel procedures. C’moan Gus, you saw how tight her and Lennox were oan that daft race course. Pillay talk. That’s the new freemasonry for ye Gus, the wine-bar freemasonry. New Labour, New Freemasonry. That sort ay thing. They’re setting it aw up tae feather their ain nests.

Gus looks in shock as my spiel starts tae sink in. He’s just shaking his heid slowly, watching thirty-odd years’ service bubbling down the plug-hole.

– Five minutes they’ve been in here Gus, I remind him, shaking my head in disgust, – five fuckin minutes.

The eggs, beans, bacon, sausage, tomato, black pudding and tattie scones arrive. Gus though, seems to have lost his appetite. – Ye really reckon that’s his game? The words rip from his throat like an Elastoplast torn from a wound.

– Guaranteed, I nod. – Pass the ketchup Gus.

Gus is beelin on our way up the Walk. Yes, it’s a shame for the poor auld cunt, but he still needs to be kept in his place. Keep him on edge, keep him nippy and his confidence low and the daft auld cunt will strop oot and shoot himself in the fit long before this promotion interview ever comes to pass. Sure as night follows day.

We pull up outside a second-hand furniture shop in the Walk. Used to be auld Rab Vance’s place until Franco Begbie and Alex Setterington strolled in one day and retired the cunt. They just told him they were taking over the lease and that was that. Rab was a semi-jakey anyway (he went fully-fledged shortly eftir that) but essentially harmless even if as Clark Kent as fuck. It’s obvious that those cunts are selling drugs from there, just look at the fuckin dregs who come in and out: Keasbo Halcrow, Nelly McIntosh, Spud Murphy, Johnny Swan, Simon Williamson, Raymie Airlie, Juice Terry and every casual and clubby wee cunt under the sun. I don’t think those fuckers are in the market for old suites or used fridges. Begbie and Setterington think that they’re being subtle if they meet somebody in the pub on the corner or the caff over the road. Wrong! Their fetid erses are mine. But we’re not going to bust cunts like that oan something trivial, we’re going tae pit them away for good.

Especially Setterington. What him and his mates did to that wee lassie that time was out of order. Conrad Donaldson was defending him. Well, I got that cunt back, and I’ll do the same to old Lexo Setterington. No fuckin worries.

We get up to Ocky’s but he’s not at home. This is far from surprising, with the filthy wee stoat probably enjoying a family Christmas.

– Listen Gus, I’d like to keep tabs on Lexo. Don’t worry so much about Franco; that cunt’s so predictable. Thinks you need a passport to go past Pilrig. But watch Lexo. And keep a look-out for Ocky showing up.

– Will do Bruce. If that Setterington goes ehs Ma’s messages ah’ll ken aboot it.

Hardly anybody’ll be in the office today, and the phones’ll ring through to me. No way am I going to do a uniformed spastic’s job by going out to prevent a bloodbath at some dysfunctional schemie family Christmas or other. Toal should have sorted oot a rota for Serious Crimes staff. Toal. That cunt leads a charmed life. The screenwriter. It’s funny, but as much as I want to see the likes of Gorman, Setterington and Begbie banged up for life, I’d swap it all to see Toal and Niddrie reduced to jakey status.

Gus and I depart, having completed our overtime sheets. Christmas Day counts as double-time. Public holidays.

At home I have beans on toast for Christmas dinner. There is a message on the answer machine. A wee lassie’s voice, tired, strained. – Happy Christmas Dad.

I hope Santa was good to the wee shite, because I sure as fuck huvnae been.

I’m sitting in front of the fire with the telly on. It’s a James Bond film I’ve seen about a million times. Connery’s the Bond in it. He did the right thing: get tae fuck oot ay Scotland, and stey oot. Come back for ten minutes tae tell the daft cunts that they need a parliament, but dinnae stick aroond long enough tae vote in it! The daft cunts lap that up as well!

I heat up some beans and toss another couple of pages of Toal’s manuscript into the fire. It’s so satisfying watching them burn. My attention is caught by the next page though: INT. BILL TEALE’S OFFICE. DAY A stark, functional police office. There are family photographs on the desk. BILL TEALE is a handsome, refined middle-aged man who has worn well. TEALE is unlike a stereotypical cop: he has an urbane, intellectual air about him. A slim, attractive woman, ANNABEL DRAPER, enters his office carrying a report. [BILL] Annabel . . . [ANNABEL] Bill, about last night . . . [BILL] Annabel . . . last night was . . . I mean, this whole thing is getting out of hand. I never meant for us to . . . [ANNABEL] Say it Bill. Just say it. You said enough last night. But that was before you got what you wanted! [BILL] Jeez Anna, I . . . [ANNABEL] You never meant for us to fall in love Bill. [BILL] Goddamnit Anna, we have to be mature about this. I’m a married man. I’m old enough to be your father. And we’re professional police officers. Last night was . . .

A dull, flat, monotone voice from BILL’s intercom cuts in. It belongs to Sergeant BRETT DAVIDSON. BRETT (V.O.) Chief, it’s Brett. We got a positive I.D. on the stiff. I think you oughta come and see this. [BILL] Okay Brett, I’ll be right out. He switches off the intercom. [BILL] (cont.) This is gonna have to wait young lady. [ANNABEL] Oh, very convenient. I suppose you . . . [BILL] I said that’s all Sergeant Draper! ANNABEL turns and exits furiously. What the fuckin hell are we gittin here! Does this shite mean that Toal’s fuckin legged Drummond, or is it just wishful thinking on the dirty cunt’s part? All of a sudden I’ve become interested in Mister Toal’s budding screenwriting career! I let the manuscript fall on to the floor, but decide against chucking it in the fire. Brett fuckin Davidson . . . dull, flat, monotone voice . . . . cheeky fucker! I pick it up and start to thumb through it for more Brett Davidson references but then I decide that if I do that, if I give in to my curiosity, then I’m letting Toal win. The purpose of knocking off the manuscript was to fuck Toal’s head, not to let him fuck mine. I have to be strong. The weak person would look at the script. I have to be strong. I put the manuscript into the fire, watching with rising panic as its bulk starts to blacken and shrivel from the edges. My hands grip the handles on the rocking chair. At one point the urge to No way can I stay in on my own. I drive into the deserted city, at a loss as to what to do. Then I get a flash of inspiration and head back out to the southern suburbs. Half way there, I realise that Clell’s no longer in the PMR, so I change course for Morningside and the Royal Edinburgh Hospital and its rather colourful annexe, the Arthur Dow clinic. There’s some right fucking comedians in this place. Poor old Clell is one of them. It’s funny, but I thought that Clell would be sorted after leaving Serious Crimes for Traffic, but it seems he’s been a bag of nerves. As if I care. The only reason I’m here is out of morbid curiosity and because I’ve fuck all else to do. – Good of ye to give up your Christmas Bruce, he says flatly. – Much appreciated like. I’m wondering whether or no he’s saying it cause he’s doped up or whether he understands exactly why I’m here. As if I give a fuck either way. He breaks into a wheezing rant, expecting me to just sit and listen, as if I’m a fuckin priest. – Serious Crimes . . . seeing aw that shite, dealing wi it day eftir day . . . it’s bound tae fuck ye up . . . I thought it had made me a bit harder and mair cynical . . . I thought I’d weathered it . . . come through it all . . . I clock a sexy looking bird in a nurse’s uniform. Phoa. – Tidy wee bird Clell! You’ve got it made in here! – . . . ah didnae cotton on tae the extent ay the damage . . . ah mean, two marriages doon the tubes in seven years . . . drinkin like a fish . . . ah should’ve seen it . . . – A wee darling like thon lookin eftir ye. Nae wonder ye want tae spend Christmas in here! – . . . it wis only when ah got the dream move tae Traffic . . . the third day at the desk I was scraping my pen intae the report sheets. . . . normality was so hard tae handle Bruce. . . . – Reckon she’s got a boyfriend? Mind you, tidy fanny like thon, bound tae. – . . . ah wis peyin the price Bruce . . . ah wis peyin the price. She’s a lovely, awright. Whoah-ho-ho! – Sorry Clell, what wis that? Aw aye, somebody has tae pit in the pest control shift. For aw the bollocks, I’d rather do that than be a deskbound spastic. Same rules. – Naw Bruce . . . it wisnae Traffic that wis the problem . . . it wis Serious Crimes. It wis huvin the space tae think again. Tae open up. They aw came back Bruce. Aw the corpses, aw the abused bairns . . . aw the twisted and broken people . . . and ah kept thinkin why? It shouldnae be like that . . . it shouldnae . . . why? He grabs my wrist and glowers at me, but I’m looking right past him at the nurse. She’s wearing these stockings which are probably tights but I choose to think of them as stockings and they have the seams which run right up the back of her legs defining those excellent calves and thighs and phoa . . . but I can’t say anything to Clelland, who’s still whispering ‘Why?’ intently at me. I feel like just telling him why. In two simple words: natural selection mate, natural selection. The twisted, broken people go to the wall and you are one of them my friend. Same rules. Clell was always a weak, sensitive, commie poof under that jokey exterior. Lacked the big-match temperament. Didn’t have the bottle. The Inglis factor is well at play here. Personally, I’d rather wade through a stack of bodies than a stack of forms any day of the week. It dawns on me that I don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel like that Rolf Harris fucker, or whoever it is, that goes to visit the bairns in hospital on Christmas Day. Only it’s the big bairns who are unfit to do a man’s job that I’m visiting. – Must go Clell, I say, forcibly freeing my wrist, – Carole’s pulled out aw the stops wi the turkey dinner this time roond. Call ays a traditionalist if ye like, but there’s something aboot that faimly Christmas dinner. – Jackie never came in . . . she phoned but . . . he says. – They tell ays that they fair dae the business on Christmas Day in these places. Yir in the right hands Clell, I tell him. I clock that wee nurse again. – Especially wi her there! Ah’d git a bedbath fae her . . . never mind a bedbath, ah’d git a fuckin enema off her! And return the fuckin compliment! Phoa! Anyhow, see ye Clell! Merry Christmas! Keep the pecker up, I wink departing, – Mine would be up anywey, in a place like this! Too right! As I leave the gibbering oaf I see the nurses start to serve up the Christmas nosh for some other enfeebled lunatics on the ward. They’re mostly stupid young cunts; anorexic, junkies and what have you, inadequates who can’t cope with life. They should sling the fuckin load of them oot intae the snaw instead of wasting the taxpayer’s dough pampering them wi turkey and trimmings served up by rides in seamed stockings. It’s a fuckin disgrace. We’d aw like that! I consider trying to take one of the dishes, but there’s too many staff around. Instead I go back hame and re-stoke the fire, Toal’s manuscript now reduced to a pile of ashes. I heat up some more beans which I spice up with curry powder and do some toast. I listen to that daft, smelly, rich auld cunt talk her usual shite at three o’clock. I’m a mason awright, and I swear allegiance to the crown as an institution, but as people the Royal Family are the saddest shower of spastics that ever walked the third planet of the solar system. Thankfully, for Christmas night there’s a do up in the club at Shrubhill. No many people in though, it being Christmas and that. Brother Blades is present though, and we both get three sheets. He has to hold me up for ‘God Save the Queen’. He’s droning on about Bunty, something about an argument and his mother but I can’t make out a word of it. I lose him and stagger out into the cold. The chill revives me a bit and I get a taxi from a guy in the Lodge and head back home. I get in and I snort back some more charlie and I’m tanning another bottle of Grouse. I stick on Van Halen’s Women and Children First as loud as it will go and play air guitar, specialising in the Jimmy Page chicken dance. Inbetween tracks I hear a loud knock at the door. Stronach and his wife are on my doorstep. He’s playing tomorrow, against Motherwell, I think. Boxing Day fixture. I can’t hear anything, because the next track’s started up and it’s really loud. I can just see the two mouths opening like fish. They’re both in their tracksuits. I raise my hand to silence them then I go through and turn the music down before coming back out. – Merry Christmas Tom! Julie! I shout. – God Bruce! Cool yir jets man! We’re tryin tae git some sleep! Stronach whines, his stupid belligerent face scanning for signs of me registering his plight. – Don’t fuckin trespass on my property Stronach! If you’ve a complaint to make about the noise level, call the fuckin polis! It’s Christmas fuckin Day! I push him in the chest and he jerks backwards off the doorstep. I slam the door shut in his daft face. That cunt’s got all fuckin year tae sleep. I work aw fuckin year. I try to watch some telly through one eye. There’s a Channel Four film on, where you get a brief flash of some wee French slag’s fanny, arse and tits. I think about that wee nurse again and I resolve to keep up these visits to my mate Clell, on a regular basis. It’s impossible to read the Teletext to see what’s due on, and just as hard to read the fuckin Radio Times. I’m cunted.