Filth

Come In Charlie

The new area office in the South Side looks tatty already: those sticky-fingerprinted glass doors and that fag-burned public desk with the badly printed and faded posters on the noticeboard above it. There’s a smell of disinfectant, that strong institutional kind that looks like it’s been put down to conceal the smell of pish, even when it husnae. An old cow is giving the desk sergeant a hard time. It’s Sammy Bryce though, and Sammy’s too professional to let her faze him. – . . . I understand that, he’s saying, – but if it doesn’t have a crime number then there’s nothing we can do.

– How dae ah get a crime number? she asks.

– You have to report to the nearest local station to where the offence took place.

– But they said any police office . . . she’s almost in tears with frustration.

– Any police office if you have a crime number.

I wink at Sammy, not a bad guy for a uniformed spastic, and then I head upstairs to meet Davie McLaughlin.

D.S. McLaughlin from the South Side is heading up the investigation of Bladesey, who has returned from the bosom of his spastic family in Newmarket to find himself minus a wife and in our custody helping us with our enquiries. McLaughlin is a good choice on this one: a dirty carrot-topped bastard with a filthy fuckin pape name, not in the craft, an odious piece of racial vomit. It’s quite fortuitous as it’s an excuse for not pulling strings for Brother Blades. The pervert Brother Blades.

– So you know Cliff and Bunty Blades well? he asks.

Of course, we find it distasteful talking to a freckle-faced left-footer, but it’s serving our purposes. I slip on my concerned face. – Aye Davie, we’re friends of the both of them. I’ve kent Bladesey, eh Cliff Blades, for a couple of years, but I’ve only got to know Bunty recently. She was going through a pretty hard time with this sicko hassling her, so Bladesey wanted me to come around and give them a bit of support.

– Did you ever get the idea that he was the one making all those calls?

I give a slow, deliberate swallow. – Davie, I’ve been polis longer than I care to remember, and I’ve investigated loads of cases like this. At the time, I have to admit it, it was the last fucking thing on my mind, I shake my head. – Now I can see that this was how he was getting his kicks, enjoying the element of risk. He was wanking all over me! I smash my fist on to the table.

– Don’t give yourself a hard time mate, honestly, says the concerned Romanist. Seems not a bad guy, for a pape. – We all have to switch off and have our own lives. Sometimes we get blind spots about people.

– But I feel like a fuckin monkey Davie . . .

– Bruce, ye cannae go around in your private life thinking that every single pal you’ve got can or cannae be Jackie Trent in some way or another. If the truth be told, when we walk out that door, we all put the job on hold to an extent.

Maybe you do, but you’re a pape. As your family are probably all criminals, you have tae pit the job oan hold.

– I want to see him . . .

– I don’t think that’s a good idea Bruce . . ., the bead-twirler tells me.

– Just give me two minutes with him, I won’t fucking touch him, I swear.

– Okay, he says, raising those ginger brows. McLaughlin may be a Romanistic, anti-abortionist cunt, but he’s polis through and through.

I head down to the detention room where Bladesey is being held. A uniformed spastic stands over him, but departs as I come in.

Bladesey says nothing, but his eyes are burning and eager. He’s pleased to see me.This pathetic little bastard’s genuinely pleased to see me!

He really thinks that I’d be friends with a sad pervert. Best put him right. – You fuckin little cunt! I snap. – Fuckin piss-taking little fart . . . you fuckin strung me along from the start! All that fuckin shit about Frank Sidebottom! You were wanking off in my face ya fuckin cunt!

Bladesey’s now a picture of wretchedness. – No . . . he protests. He looks so bad, that it’s hard for me to keep looking at his eyes. I turn away briefly, but then the need for sport takes over, as it always does, and I glare at him.

– Bruce, you have to believe me, it wasn’t me!

– Don’t make me fuckin punch your heid doon through your fuckin shoodirs – right oot yir fuckin erse ya wee cunt! I move towards him, and he cowers away. I stop and turn, then do a full circle back towards him. I think of all the injustices I’ve suffered, more injustices than that wee cunt could ever know. Spreading my palms I plead, – Why mate? Why the fuck did you do this Cliff? Why did you Drag me intae it? I thought we were mates!

– I didn’t, I didn’t, we are! Bladesey begs, and then breaks down. – I digh-hi-dent . . . I digh-hi-dent . . . he chokes, biting into the sleeve of that checked jacket to stifle his sobs.

It’s pathetic watching a grown man cry in that manner. No fuckin pride. Do you see me break down like a fuckin wee tart, and all the shite I’ve had to contend with as well? Do you fuck! We cope. He deserves to die, to be forced into committing suicide and dying. Like Clell. Aye, if I had my way that would happen with the fucked up: a sort of psychic natural selection. I’d take over the fuckin do-gooding helplines and if one of those sad cases phoned up I’d say: I think you’re absolutely correct to feel such despair. Gie the world a brek and take your own miserable life. If you need any help I’ll be round in a few minutes. Bladesey. He’s fuckin rubbish. Me, hanging aboot wi that nae-mates trash? Huh! I think not. I’m starting to hyperventilate as I look down on him. – I wish I could believe you . . . I wish I could fuckin believe you . . . I’m fuckin oot ay here! I storm out the room knocking over a chair and I hear Bladesey crying, – Brooosss . . . as I depart.

Outside, I regain my composure. I thumb back towards the interview room. – Damaged. In the fuckin nut. Don’t give that spastic any fucking coffee, I hiss at the poor uniformed spastic who’s a little shaken.

– Right gaffer, he says meekly.

I like this officer. I like being called ‘gaffer’. It’s a term some spastics around this nick are going to have to get used to when that promo comes through! I kid you not! I say tatty-bye-byes to the tatty-muncher McLaughlin, thanking the Romanist for his assistance and confirming that, yes, retrospectively, I should have seen that we were dealing with damaged goods in the form of Brother Blades. I drive back to HQ. I’m soon at my desk studying Monica from Sheffield’s full paps, each little goose-pimple on them clearly defined. The photographer’s done the business with this one. A keen student of the game.

The phone goes. External. I skip a heartbeat and then feel a long tense drawing in my chest. I pick it up.

– Hello?

It’s Bunty.

– Bunty, I state.

– Have they got him?

– Yes. I’ve just been down there to see him.

– Still denying everything, I’ll bet.

– Yeah . . . to be expected. They all do it. Not a particularly pleasant experience, it has to be said.

– Yes . . . it must have been . . . Bruce, when can I see you?

– I’ve been giving that a bit of thought Bunty, and I think it’s for the best that we keep a low profile with our relationship, at least until this mess is cleared up.

– What . . .

– Bunty, this could cost me dearly. I’m a detective. I should have picked up that Cliff was suspect. I knew what he was like through the craft, with the videos and stuff. We . . . I could be a laughing stock on the job! There’s a promotion coming up. You get my drift?

– Bruce, I’ll be discreet about us until the time is right. I promise I won’t say anything. But you must come and see me Bruce . . .

– Of course I will, I say softly down the phone. – We’ve got something special, haven’t we?

I’ll be round to fuck you soon you big fat hoor.

– I think so, she says, her voice breaking, – but I’d never get in the way of your career, I’d never do anything to foul that up.

– Bunty, you don’t know how much it means to hear you say that to me. All my life I felt that I was meant for greater things but there was always something holding me back, some missing piece in the jigsaw. That missing piece, I can see now, is the love and understanding of a wonderful woman. That’s what you are Bunty, a wonderful woman. And you’ve suffered so much . . . I want to put that right . . .

– Oh Bruce . . .

– Just keep mum my darling, and I’ll be round to see you soon. That’s a promise.

– Okay Bruce.

– I’ll see you soon.

– Bruce . . . I love you . . .

Fuck off fatso. The moment Bladesey was banged up, that was you and me in the death throes of our relationship. Mind you, I might string this cow along for a bit longer; asks no awkward questions and keeps a good, clean hoose. She’d get a formidable crease oan a collar, that yin! – I love you too Bunty.

There’s a silence.

– I have to go, I tell her. I’ve got another call coming in. I have as well. It’s Shirley. Fuckin hell. I’ve heard ay the expression fanny comin oot the fuckin waws, but it’s certainly comin oot fae the receiver. I see Gillman over in the corner by the sink and he’s holding up my Hearts mug and guesturing at the kettle with his free hand.

– Shirley, I say curtly. I check for the Kit-Kats in my drawer. Still a few left.

– Bruce . . . I need to see you. I need to talk. I give Dougie the thumbs up sign.

– What about?

– I need to see you! Pleeeassssse . . .

This cunt’s gaun fuckin loopy oan ays here. – Alright, alright! Jeannie Deans, in half an hour!

– Be there Bruce, please don’t let me down . . .

– I won’t, we tell her. I won’t what: be there or let her down? Then, thinking of Bunty, not of how we feel about Bunty, but what we said to her, we say, – I love you.

– You mean that?

The even-handed approach. It enhances credibility both in policing and in relationships! – I said it. I’m on my way. See you soon.

– See you.

I put the phone down. What is that spasticated cow wanting from me? We have enough fucking trouble on our plate as it is. I go over to the kettle, where Gillman and Ray Lennox are in conference. – Gascoigne was right, and Best even said it as well. Thir’s never been a man, a real man, who hasnae slapped his missus. Aw that liberal airy-fairy bullshit. She steps oot ay line, she gits a bat in the mooth, that’s it.

Lennox is shaking his head slowly in disgust. – We investigate crimes ay domestic violence. That’s assault and it’s against the law ay the land.

– Phah, Gillman sneers, and nobody sneers quite like him. If someone told me, in sincerity, that I girned like Gillman, I would die a happy man. I can tell it’s draining the blood from Lennox’s face at five feet. – Ah git enough fuckin mooth oan the job withoot takin it fi some cunt in the hoose. He looks to me, – Put this cunt right Bruce.

– I have to fly. I’m having woman problems, I smirk. – But this is a subject which needs further discussion. The bar

They nod affirmatively, Lennox with reluctance, and I, we, I . . . we’re all here . . . jump in the motor and speed towards the Jeannie Deans pub in the South Side. We decide to drive through Queens Park and we marvel at Salisbury Craigs’ imposing face which towers above us. This city of ours is truly beautiful and we like this part where there is not a scheme in sight. Why could we not simply move all the scum to the middle of nowhere, like Glasgow, where they would blend in more effectively? Come to think of it, that’s exactly what we did do, when we built the schemes. Sent them far, but not far enough.

We still have a wrap of coke on us and there must be a good half a G left and we rub a load of it into our gums and our face goes numb. We need it for this Shirley hoor, we know that she is going to make demands on us. We are not to be entrusted with the demands of the weak. It is not in our character.

Shirley is sitting on her own at a table in the corner of the empty bar. She looks like a hopeful hoor on a day shift. When we get closer we can observe her distress through her red, puffy face. Apparently our sister-in-law has been crying.

– Bruce . . . I had a smear . . . a cervical smear . . . there was something there . . . I have to go back for more tests . . .

– I’m sorry, we tell her, – but that’s just one of those things. No sense in getting all steamed up until you see what the other test results tell you.

– But I can’t cope . . . I’ve nobody since Danny left . . . I need you Bruce. I need somebody . . . I need support Bruce . . .

Just looking at her there, at her distress, just for a second, we wish we were stronger. I wish I was somebody else, the person she’s mistaking me for, the person whom she wants to mistake me for. The person who gives a fuck. – Sorry, we tell her. – I don’t see what I can do. You’ll have to sort it out.

I’ve been licking her diseased fanny. Oh my God.

Then I, we, start to think: no way should Stronach be getting his game in the middle of the park with that young boy languishing in the reserves, what’s his name, him that played towards the end of season. He’s fit now, so there’s no excuse for such poor selection.

– Bruce, please, she says, and grabs our hand in hers. We brush her away. – Sorry Shirley, we say, rising, as she starts the waterworks. – Nothing we can do. Urgent case, eh. Sort it out and keep me posted. Chin up! Ciao!

We dance across the floor in the pub, slipping deftly past two chairs and as we turn can see her round, dark, black hole of a mouth and she’s bawling something but we are spinning away out the door and she rises to follow us but we nash like fuck across the car park, humming the closing credits tune of The Benny Hill Show.

She’s still in hot pursuit screaming Brooosss and we realise that we’re running in the wrong direction, away from the car. We look back and slow down, regaining breath and then turning round, standing still and smiling as she approaches us breathing heavily. We then do a quick shuffle and sell her such a Charlie Cooke-style dummy that had she been a defender, she would, indeed, have had to pay to get back in the park!

Gotcha!

Emulate that Stronach!

She falls on to her knees howling in frustration as we, I, we dive in the car and start up the motor and we head down the road, watching her broken figure receding from us in the mirror.

Shirley brought it on herself. A disease of the fanny, divine retribution for her infidelities. We have our rash, that is our penance. We do not inflict our misfortune on others. We are not made that way.

Daft cunt.

Our, my, head is spinning but I feel euphoric and sick at the same time. There is no way that I can go back to the office and be harassed by hoors. It’s hoggers the morn: oot wi the old, in wi the new. Same rules for fanny as for everything else. We, I, radio in to Toal, telling him that we are following up several leads. I then head home, via stopping at the offie for more supplies, then driving out to Hector The Farmer’s place to pick up some books of a specialist nature which will be used to provide our, my, evening’s entertainment.

Hector’s buoyant when I get to his. He’s smoking that pipe, which always gives him an even more contented air. – You know Bruce, the best thing ye ever did was tae pit me in touch wi wee Claire. I’ve turned intae a right auld sugar daddy. Fantastic wee lassie.

My fuckin . . . I feel a surge of jealousy and remember that she’s just a hoor and it’s all commercial transactions. I have a quick malt with Hector and head off. As he shows me out that fuckin collie tries to jump me again. – Down Angus! It’s just Bruce!

He hauls the dug away and I drive off, still annoyed at Claire for going with that old bastard.

Women.

I can’t

Carole

Shirley

I can’t

Shirley, find somebody strong. This job, this life, it’s drained my strength. I don’t need a lame duck in tow.

Some bastard beeps me on the bypass and I think about giving chase but I don’t feel up to it.

Our coping capacity is low.

our appetite and all I want is more of the same, fuck eating anything now.

Coke for fuel, coke for energy. Have a coke and a smile. Coking coal. This is white, not black; clean, not filth. You never eat coke. You just snort it up.

Snort the whole fuckin lot of it up.

I’ve done the lot, so I try to have a wank to Hector’s vids in order to distract the coke craving, but I can’t concentrate. My whole body wants the blood my cock needs and I head up to Ray Lennox’s. I’m tanning it in the car, giving a daft spastic the V-sign as I cut him up. Cheeky cunt. Polis. Priority. I come upon Ray’s gaff and I batter the door polis-style until his dressing-gowned figure appears on the doorstep. – Ray, I smile, – sort me out with some posh. Pronto mate.

– Bruce . . . I can’t . . . he says.

– Sort ays oot Ray! Hogmanay the morn! I snap, grinding my bare teeth at him. The night is but young.

I hear a voice coming from inside the house. – Who is it Ray? What’s wrong?

– It’s nothing! he shouts back into the gaff.

That voice. It sounded like Drummond. I suppose plenty hoors have those irritating whingy tones. Maybe it’s that Trudi bird.

– Company Ray? I smirk.

– Wait there a minute, he says shaking his head before moving back in. Ootside in this cauld? My fucking arse. I step into the lobby. He’s gone for a second or two and returns, producing a gram. – That’s it Bruce, that’s my lot.

– Aye, you’ll ken, I say, then I head away, leaving him looking like fuckin Noddy. Cheeky cunt.

I get into the motor and I want to snort a line on the dashboard, but there’s too many cunts around. Desperation takes over and I do it anyway. It’s as strong as fuck. You have to test the stuff, save wasting police time putting it through the labs. One big snort. I’m trembling as I drive through the city back towards Collie. I don’t know what I want to do. I’ll probably hit the piss in a bit. I need to take the edge off this coke. Now. I need a drink now. I stop off outside a bar I used to frequent years ago, before we went to Oz. It’ll have to be one: we realise that our bank cards are at home.

FUCKEN STUPID SHITING CUNT!

Our fist slams the dashboard repeatedly until our hand is swollen and almost too sore to hold the wheel. Then we exit and go into the pub. A pocket of shrapnel: barely enough for a pint of lager. I feel like a fuckin jakey as I walk into this tiny dive of a public bar. There’s a small lounge separate from it next door, partitioned by a wooden panel and some frosted glass. From behind it I can hear the hee-hawing laughter of a four-bacardi slag, when I don’t even have enough to stand the cow one. I get the pint of lager up and throw two-thirds of it back in no time. There’s a party of auld cunts playing dominoes in the corner and a nae-mates fucker reading the Evening News at the bar. I recognised him as polis, Drylaw I think. I finish the pint quickly and exit the dive, getting in the motor and driving swiftly back to Collie. I’m focused all the way on the bank cards which are in the inside pocket of our jacket over the chair in the front room.

With great despondency we, I, we (we’re all here now) clock a car parked outside our house. It looks vaguely familiar. We consider double-backing, but we need our cards and our money. We ignore the occupant of the car, even now we recognise it as Chrissie and storm down the path. But she’s straight out after us.

– Bruce . . . I’ve tried to call you at work, she says. Her swine-like nostrils flare at me.

Why pick on Bruce all the time, there’s others too, why can’t they fuckin well dae anything . . .– She’s ill you know, she could be dying, we tell her. We produce our keys and put them in the lock.

– Who?

– Shirley, my sister-in-law. She’s ill. Same rules apply, we say, turning the lock.

– Too bad, she says, pushing in the door after me.

We try to repel her but she’s all over us like a cheap suit and she’s shouting, – C’mon, I want to turn off the gas for you, come on, and her hands in my flies. – God, this place stinks . . . c’mon Bruce . . .

It’s only fuckin well me, only me . . . I’m on my fuckin ain here . . .

I pull away, but she’s still coming on, this fucking cackling witch, her mocking, vicious hoor’s eyes; and I’m pulling her hands away, but I’m stiffening against my will. – Leave me . . . leave me . . .

– C’moan . . .

She’s got my cock out and she’s sucking me off and we are crying, crying for Shirley no no no crying for ourself and she’s got my belt off and I’m saying, – Naw naw but Chrissie, wait a minute, wait a minute Chrissie, and she’s diving out of her clothes and she gets the cord from her bag and wraps it round her own neck.

I’m shivering and trembling and I need my charlie, it’s in my pocket, and I need to see Shirley or Carole . . . she’s the one I need . . . and she’s tightened the belt around my neck before I can speak and her sharp painted nails dig into the foreskin of my semi she’s pushing me back on to the couch and it’s horrendous and she’s pushing her cunt on to it against my will and thrusting on to me and the friction’s hurting me and she’s choking me harder and I can’t breathe or speak as the grip tightens . . .

– Git fuckin harder ya silly wee poof! C’moan! Get it in! She’s rubbing and twisting harder and I’m getting harder and it’s going up, she’s enclosing me, and I want to fuck this bitch to pieces but there’s no way, cause although I’m hard now she’s fucking the life out of me, throttling it out of me and she’s screaming: – Turn off ma fuckin gas! Fuck harder! Move! Move! Turn oaf ma fuckin gas!

I’m choking and blacking out as I convulse and she’s screaming and growling and her teeth bite my bottom lip as she roars and bucks and crashes before she pulls away gasping and I watch my cock disintegrate.

She lies back and lights a cigarette. – Mmmm. That was great. What’s wrong Bruce? You okay? You’re greeting like a wee laddie!

– Shirley’s ill, I say. – My sister-in-law. She’s no well.

I’m crying for myself.

She looks at me and shakes her head. – You’re no fun any more Bruce.

– We hear voices Chrissie. Aw the time. Do you ever hear them? All our life we’ve heard them. The worms.

– What? What are you on about?

– We say this, they say that. We turn the records on loud. It’s like the messages in the records when they play them backwards. Like me and her. We’re together still, you ken that? It’s all of us . . . I, we, I hear myself singing in a low, tuneless voice, – Why not take all of me . . .

– I have to go, she says, pulling her clothes on. – Whatever it is that you’re on, you should lay off it.

We say nothing, we’re just willing her not to be there. Depart depart depart naebody asked you tae come

When she goes, we binge on the coke we got from Ray. After a few hits we wish the cow would come back cause I’d really show that cunt, but naw, my cock’s still as limp and sad as Ray Lennox’s that time with with Shirley.

Cause it was me and Shirley and I let her down and I can’t blame the others.

I go to phone, but decide against it. I try to light the fire, but my hands are trembling. A bit of Toal’s manuscript has been preserved, brittle and dry. in BILL TEALE’s office. [ANDERSON] This psycho, you reckon he’ll strike again? [TEALE] What makes you so sure it’s a he? [ANDERSON] C’mon Bill. They usually are. [TEALE] I think that our mystery lady may have more to do with this than we imagine. ANDERSON looks visibly flustered. [ANDERSON] What makes you say that? [TEALE] Basically, there’s two things. One, she’s vanished off the face of the planet which means someone’s covering up for her, someone perhaps, who knows a lot about this investigation, and secondly

What the fuck . . .

What the fuck does this cunt Toal know? I should have read that script. Fuckin Carole!

Daft fucking cow.

Fuck.

I should have read that script. Knowledge is power, or so they say. But fuck it. Keep your head down and your heart hard and you’ll be okay. Slow breathing.

Slow breathing.

Easily done.

Our hearts are hardened in this business. They have to be as hard as our sponsors’ heads and that’s what fucks us up. They can afford to be hard because they can abstract it all and they can do that because they are removed from it all.

We, on the other hand, must pay the physical and psychic price so that these pampered rich cunts can flounce around unperturbed.

Naw, there isnae such a thing as a free lunch. We always pey.

This morning they come in the thin and miserable shape of Drummond. I am out on patrol with her. Why? I don’t know why. I can’t think straight. She is going on about the case: victims, suspects, scenes of crimes, reports, forensic, analysis, politics and I want to scream: SHITE. I DON’T FUCKIN CARE ABOUT THIS. I’M FUCKIN WELL DYING HERE!

Cause I am.

I can’t breathe in this fuckin car. That fuckin coke flares up my sinuses, my bronchitis. I’m coughing and shaking and the smell of her perfume is unbearable. She must be on the rag dousing herself like that. A pathetic cover-up job. It’s stinking like a hoor’s cubicle in the red-light district on a Saturday night at the height of the tourist season back in the Dam, this fucking motor.

This isnae Hogmanay . . . this is fuckin Halloween . . .

Out with her of all people. Cruising them. Looking for Ocky. Her. Never fuckin polis.

But we are fuckin polis.

We are sick and shivering and frightened. Lennox tried to poison me with that coke. It was full of shit. He’s trying to kill us. We feel like shouting at Drummond: SEE IF WE DIE IT’S RAY LENNOX’S FAULT, RAY DRUG ADDICT LENNOX, THE SAME RAY LENNOX YOU THINK THE SUN SHINES OUT HIS ARSE BUT YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT HE’S LIKE. HE WILLNAE FUCK YE LIKE THE WEY YE WANT, WE’VE SEEN HIS FUCKIN COCK AND IF WE DIE IT’S LENNOX THAT’S THE MURDERER

I’m hyperventilating. We are hyperventilating. I’m I’m I’m smelling that muthafuckin bacon fry . . .

Somebody phone the police. Help. Please.

– Are you okay Bruce?

– Yes. Okay I certainly am.

– Look, you can say it’s none of my business . . .

– I’m fine . . . honest. I’ve just been having a bit of a bad time, we tell her, gaining control of our breathing as sweat pours from our brow. We roll down the window and a frozen blast of air comes in.

– If you want to talk about it . . . she lowers her voice, adopting the Miss-Hunter-in-good-cop-mode-stance. Miss Cunter. I’d fuck her eyes oot now if I had the chance. Probably an arid-fannied spinster whose vagina tastes of Arizona soil.

But who does she think she is, to think that I’d take her into my confidence? – Don’t put on your Personnel hat Amanda. This is real poliswork. You have to cope, to get on.

My heid’s nippin tae fuck and I’m shivering. Polisworkpolisworkpolisworkpolisworkwhatwouldyoukenabootthathehhnnnnn

– It’s not my Personnel hat. I’m concerned about a colleague, that’s all.

– Is that all it is? I smile at her, trying to compose myself.

– Please, don’t flatter yourself. I think you’re a silly, pathetic man and I’ve no interest in you other than us having to work together.

I’ve heard that line before. Usually mouthed by a cow with a wide-on who wants it filled. – You fancy me. That’s all there is to it. I can tell.

– Bruce, you’re an ugly and silly old man. You’re very possibly an alcoholic and God knows what else. You’re the type of sad case who preys on vulnerable, weak and stupid women in order to boost his own shattered ego. You’re a mess. You’ve gone wrong somewhere pal, she taps her head dismissively.

I’m seething in my seat. I start to speak, but the cow raises her hand and cuts me off. – You were out of order that time with Karen. She was on a low and drunk and you took advantage.

– You’ve really got a problem, you ken that? That was none of your business. Consenting adults, I tell her.

– She wasn’t in any state to consent or not to consent, Drummond clucks. – You think if she had been sober she would have went with you?

Cheeky fuckin hoor . . .– Fine, well she shouldn’t have fucking well drank then should she? You gaunny stop people fae daeing that next? She wanted a drink, so she had one. After she had a drink, she wanted a shag so she had one. Don’t talk to me like I’m a fuckin rapist. Why all this interest in Karen? You fuckin jealous? Is that it?

– Oh God, she tuts, rolling her eyes, – I’m not a lesbian Bruce, before you start with any more of your silly predictable responses. I have a boyfriend. He’s far better looking, more intelligent, sensitive, stronger and younger than you. In the sexual marketplace you’re not even Poundstretcher or Ali’s Cave to his Jenners. You’re a sad creature. I certainly don’t fancy Karen in any way shape or form, but I fancy you even less. You repulse me. Can I make it any plainer?

This isnae . . . this isnae . . .– Well why aw the fuckin concern for me . . . I hear myself bleat. This cow . . .– I’m not like that . . . I’m not like that ah’m no ah’m no ah’m no ah’m no . . .

– Because you’re my colleague and you’re a human being. You have to get yourself straightened out, and then you might just become the kind of person you imagine yourself to be, although God knows what that is.

What the fuck is this . . .

– I’m . . . I’m not so good at my job now . . . not so good . . . I’ve been in it too long . . . in Australia I was the best . . . my family don’t talk to me . . . cause of the strike . . . they’re a mining family . . . Newtongrange . . . Monktonhall . . . they don’t talk to me. They don’t let us in the house. My father. It was my brother. It was the coal, the dirt, the filth. The darkness. I hate it all. They won’t let us in the hoose. Our ain fuckin hoose. We tried. We really fuckin well tried . . . ah wis only daein ma fuckin job . . . polis eh. It was only the strike.

She turns to me, her teeth grinding together like she’s been up all night on the charlie as well . . .– Accept it. Deal with it, she snaps. – You have a wife, a daughter . . . don’t you?

– That’s all gone . . . I’m shaking my head, – she told lies . . . stupid lies . . .

– Who did?

– Both of them . . . stupid lies, we laugh, – It’s all gone wrong. Same rules apply. We used to be good at the auld policework. I’ll bet they told you that. Eh?

– Yeah, they told me, she says disinterestedly.

Well how would she know cause she’s never fuckin polis but if she could help us, if she could just try to understand like Carole used to . . . if we could explain . . .– There’s something wrong with us now. Something bad. Something . . . inside.

– Have you been to a doctor?

– He can’t do anything for us. Nothing. That’s it over, I tell her. Now I realise that I can’t talk to her. Her! Her of all people. I was weak, weak to start. – Same rules. Look, stop here. I’m getting out and I’m staking out Setterington and Gorman.

– Bruce, I don’t think you’re fit to work at the moment . . . she says.

I turn in the seat and look at her in a grim, tearing focus. That nosey cunt. Get a fuckin life of your own instead of nosing into other people’s. – I’m heading up this investigation Drummond! Don’t you ever forget that! GET ON WITH YOUR FUCKIN JOB AND STOP PLAYING THE AMATEUR PSYCHOLOGIST! I roar with violence and she cowers under the impact of my words and my hot slavering breath, stopping the car abruptly, her face crimson and her eyes watering. I jump out. She starts off at pace. Once she’s out of sight I get a taxi home and go to my bed where I see more demons forming in the swirling patterns of my artex ceiling.

The bed we used to share.

Time we acted.

It’s Hogmanay, and I’m going out tonight. Going out with Carole.