Filth

A Society of Secrets

Bladesey’s hedge is cut more precisely than any of the others in the street. He’s neat, that’s what he is, is Brother Blades. Probably from a posh family but thick and thus only suited to prole white-collar work. Then again, could have come from an upwardly mobile, but not too upwardly mobile, working-class home where neatness and obedience is stressed as a virtue. And it is. Serve them all my days. This means that the same rules apply.

I drop in accidentally on purpose, seeing as I’m in the neighbourhood and all that shite. It’s a cheerless morning. There’s a pinch in the air but it doesnae look like snow. My lips are chapping a bit, but I’ve applied the greasy stick.

Bunty seems pleased to see me. She bades me enter and she’s got the kettle on. She’s wearing a thick angora sweater but these tits won’t be beaten, they still cry out for attention underneath it. She looks sour when I start to tell her what a great guy I think Bladesey is.

– Yeah, sure, she says with contempt in her voice. This is too much of a woman for you Brother Blades. I’m sorry, but yes, the same rules do apply. She puts a pot of tea on a green plastic tray with two cups and a jug of milk and bowl of sugar. It’s been a long time since I had tea served this way, outside of the office. Every time I go to make a pot at home, there’s always used teabags lying in it and in the sink, and it just got too much hassle cleaning it all up. Besides, I never mind to get milk, though there’s generally beer in the fridge.

I take a sip and raise my eyebrows.

– He’s weak. That’s what he is. No backbone, she spits a bitter elaboration.

Well, Brother Blades is in shit street alright. But I have to support the Brother here because to slag him off would show lack of character in her eyes, although I must do it as though I’m being loyal to him, rather than sincere, as that would show lack of judgement. – Cliff’s one of the best in my book, I tell her, forcing a look which I hope is pained and embarrassed.

– He’s your friend and you’re faithful to him and that’s good, she says, swallowing the bait. – I sometimes wish I had a friend who was as loyal to me. Is that this masonic brotherhood I hear so much about? She drops her voice a little and stares flirtatiously.

– Well, I hope you don’t hear too much about it, I smile back.

– Oh not a great deal of interest. It sounds intriguing though, a secret society.

– Not a secret society, a society of secrets, I wave my finger gently at her.

– Oh I see. And there’s a difference is there?

– Well, I don’t really know. But I do know one thing about the craft: it’s basically now a glorified drinking club for silly wee laddies if the truth be told.

– You don’t seem like the silly wee laddie type, she smiles obsequiously.

I’m getting the come-on here big-time. – It’s really just something that you get into on the force. It’s a way of meeting people who aren’t on the force, well, not necessarily on the force. You need that break from other policemen sometimes. We tend to be quite an incestuous mob, the shifts, you know. And the job can get quite demanding.

– Yes . . . I imagine you see some pretty distressing things.

– Yes, but you deal with it. It’s your lot and you have to show them all that you’re stronger than they are and you show that by not letting it get you down. Like you. You’re a very brave lady. You’re facing down this creep. Showing him that you’re better than him.

– Sometimes I don’t feel so strong . . . I just wish that Cliff could be more help. He’s not exactly a tower of strength, she says, giving a little bubble, breaking down slowly. For all her tough talk this hoor cannae stand the heat. The Bruce Robertson heat.

I’m over in one elongated stride and I’ve got her hands in mine. – You deserve somebody who could really look after you, a woman like you.

– Thank you for being so kind . . . it’s hard not to feel isolated . . . Craig’s at a difficult age . . . I just don’t seem to have much of a life I’m afraid . . . God, I’m feeling sorry for myself and I hate that . . .

I look deep into her eyes. – You’ll come shining through. You’ve got what it takes.

– You really think so? she says balefully. I love doubt in a woman. It’s nearly as sexy as determination.

– Listen. I’m going to say something here. Something I shouldnae say. No. I’m not, I tell her, shaking my head slowly.

– What? she says, sitting bolt upright.

– No. It’ll only cause bad feeling and complicate matters . . . neither of us need that at the moment . . .

– Please. Say what you have to. I want you to. Please. Her fingers ravel round mine and tighten.

Please. Police. Me.

I inhale sharply, then let it out with a long, slow pant. – Right. I will. It’s breaking me up what this freak’s doing to you because I’ve got strong feelings for you. There, I said it, I’m sorry, I shrug. I pull our hands apart. Then I stand up and raise my palms in a surrender gesture. I turn away and let a long silence hang. I go to the window and pull back the net curtains. There’s a white Nissan Micra on a double fucking yellow line. M reg. Where are the traffic spazmos?

– Bruce . . . it’s okay . . . I hear a thin voice from behind me.

I go and sit on the couch. I put my head in my hands and let my elbows rest on my knees. I put on a low, pained voice and say, – There’s nothing I can do or say . . . I’ve messed things up.

– No . . .

I hear her getting up and coming towards me. I feel her light touch on my neck. She’s massaging me, her thumbs kneading at the red liver-spotted back of my neck, and she’s crying in heavy, halting sobs. – I don’t know what to say . . . she bleats.

I look up at her and let a tremble come into my voice. – Just tell me that you don’t feel anything for me, just call me a creep, no better than the scumbag who phones you up . . .

– . . . No . . . No . . .

– . . . because that’s what I am, a dirty, filthy, sick creep, talking like that to the wife of a friend, when she’s emotionally distressed, when she doesn’t know her own mind . . .

– No! No! I do! I do know my own mind Bruce! I want to be with you!

I pull her on to my knee, fuckin hell, there’s some weight on this hoor, and move her red, swollen face to me. Holding it a few inches from mine, I slide at her tears with the edge of my finger, like the windscreen-wipers on the Volvo. – Ah’m gonny brush these tears away hen, believe you me, ah’m gonny brush them away. Same rules apply, I whisper softly.

At that point I hear a crackling from inside my pocket. I give her a disappointed look.

– Foxtrot calling Z Victor BR, come in BR, over.

– Roger Foxtrot, over, I groan wearily.

– Specify location, over.

– Twelve Carrick Glen Gardens, Corstorphine, over.

– Please proceed to HQ, over.

– Roger Foxtrot, I’m on my way, over and out.

And I was, after I fucked Bunty in the bedroom. I took my time though, you always do with new fanny. What I usually do with a new bird is hole up with them for a weekend and spoil them with loads of foreplay, champagne, takeaways and undivided attention to all the preposterous shite they drivel. That usually does the trick for getting into them on a casual basis for months. The best thing to do is to give a new bird the very best possible time, and then she knows you have the capacity to do that again and she’s always looking inwards blaming herself for not being able to reactivate that passion in you. The best lovers ken that you only need tae be a good lover once with one bird. Get it right the first time and then ye can basically dae what ye like. Eventually they tipple that you’re just a selfish cunt, usually eftir a few years ay fruitless self-analysis, but by that time you’ve generally had your fill and are firing into somebody else.

Bunty is a powerful woman, but Bladesey obviously hasn’t been doing his homework satisfactorily. I thought she’d take some satisfying but the dirty cow went off like an incendiary device. I suppose after Bladesey any performance would be more than suitable. As I get dressed after, I’m conscious of the smell coming from my flannels. I hope Bunty didn’t notice. I should have fucking well minded to put on the fresh ones I got from C&A’s . . . fuckin stupid bastard . . . what’s the point of getting them if you don’t wear them . . .

Fortunately, she doesn’t appear to notice, and we say our lovers’ goodbyes and I head off.

When I got back to the station it was only Gus wanting to know about the sweep for the fitba and the fantasy fitba league.

Shearer’s goals last week at Tottenham put me in a nice position, just behind Peter Inglis and some uniformed spastic. I’m ready to pounce. Behind Peter Inglis. Mind you, ye dinnae want that cunt behind you!

I’m thinking that I could handle another shot at that Bunty and I call her to arrange to come round to mines tomorrow, which I instantly regret, a real sign of weakness that was. The problem with hoors is not so much the getting into their keks, but the keeping them at arm’s length afterwards. Life can become complicated, which is fine; only simpletons live simple lives. Trouble is, mine’s is complicated enough right now.