Filth (20 page)

What this means is that only that Estelle cow and her mate Sylvia are my means of getting anything on Gorman. I know he

I blast out Foreigner’s
Agent Provocateur
and anyone who hasn’t got this in their record collection is worthless scum, although
Inside Information
is actually a better album. It serves its purpose and it blows away some of the cobwebs. In particular the single ‘I Want To Know What Love Is’ is probably the greatest single ever, well, ballad like . . .

. . . you know I need a little time . . .

. . . a little time to think things ov-uh . . .

I head back to the office, or more specifically, to the cannie. Total’s there, and he looks in a good mood. He has the air of the washhoose bully who’s heard a satisfying piece of malicious gossip, but when he sees me he suddenly goes all serious, coming over and giving me a squeeze on the shoulder. I’m hoping that nobody noticed this gesture and I quickly glance around and to my dismay see Gillman’s face set in a pitiless mask of loathing.

– Bad luck on Saturday, Toal says in commiseration.

I didn’t know that Toal followed the fitba and I’m just about to criticise Stronach’s performance, when I realise that he’s talking about the guy I tried to save.

How does it make you feel?

– Thanks Bob, I nod. I think it might be a good time to arrange to see him, so I set up a wee meet in his office after lunch. His easy compliance sets up an expectation that I’ll get a result out of him regarding my holiday leave. Otherwise, going to the cannie was a mistake. The curry looked good, but turned out to be bland and tasteless. I ate it anyway, but then bought a sausage roll which I smothered in broon sauce and pepper.

Amanda Drummond and Karen Fulton spy me and come across with their salad on their trays. Fuckin salad at this time of year. I can see Fulton wanting to lose a few pounds, but Drummond for fuck sakes. That yin would have to move around in the shower tae get wet. Probably does a good gam though, that’s what they say aboot skinny birds. – It must’ve been terrible Bruce, Drummond shakes her head. She looks earnestly at me and asks, – Are you okay?

I nod, and split the sausage roll with a fork. Fulton gives a tentative, sympathetic smile.

– If you need to talk about it, Drummond lisps.

Aye, right. Tae you? That will be shining bright hen. Dinnae even insult me by pretending you gie a Luke and Matt.

– Not a very pleasant experience, it has to be said, I state in clinical tones, – but the show must go on. I have to see our good friend Mister Robert Toal. If you fine ladies will excuse me, I nod, rising and leaving.

I must try to save people more often. It seems to be not a bad device for attracting the fanny.

But it
is
time to go up to see Toal. He looks furtive as I enter his office unannounced and quickly does a bit of jiggery-pokery on his computer. The cunt’ll have his fuckin screenplay on there, and will have just switched it over on to some organisational chart or something. Chancing fucker. – Bruce, Bruce . . . how goes the case? he asks, regaining his composure.

– Bob, I think it’s basically cut and dried. Gorman and Setterington were in the area. I know that they were in that club that night. I’ve seen Gorman acting very friendly with Estelle Davidson. Gus is on surveillance. It’s really just a matter of hanging fire and hauling them in.

– Aye . . . the political nonsense has died a bit of a death now. The papers are bored and the top brass are a bit less jumpy. It’s as well we didnae panic. A wog’s a fuckin wog, eh, he snorts, shaking his head.

– Yeah, I say non-committally. This could be a test to draw me. I’m not getting into this with him. – Bob, I’ll come to the point mate. I need a break. I know you wanted leave suspended but I’m going to crack up if I don’t get away. The last thing I want to do is to go the way of Busby . . . and that thing at the weekend was the last straw, I almost plead. I hate that light blue paint on the walls in Toal’s room. Always makes the place look cold. There’s the smell as well, that terrible reek of stale tobacco which seems to have impregnated itself into Toal’s skin cells. I mean, I like a fag, but that cunt . . .

– Okay Bruce, okay. I can sanction special leave. I’m prepared to do that in your case only. Considering the unique circumstances, Toal looks searchingly at me, as if he expects some kind of reaction. Of course, he gets none. – Just make sure that everyone on the team is briefed to clean up this case in your absence, he continues, now quite snooty and authoritative as if I don’t know what’s changed the fucker’s mind. Eureka. That wee talk with Grand Master Frank Crozier has paid dividends. He must’ve put Toal in the picture. The bigger picture.

– Thanks Bob. Appreciated.

Toal kens the lie of the land alright. And Niddrie had better come through with that promotion. It’s my job. Yo ho ya cunt that ye are: a holiday followed by a promotion. Most importantly, that daft cow Carole should get her act together and get hooked up to the Starship Bruce Robertson, because that vessel is going places. And there might be very few berths available on that particular craft soon, especially seeing as the wey the fanny’s stacking up, I kid you not!

I bell Bladesey to tell him we’re on, then drive to the Lothian Road travel agent’s which specialise in late bookings to get sorted for the Dam, singing along to Curtis Stigers’ self-named debut album which yielded the classic singles ‘I Wonder Why’ and ‘You’re All That Matters To Me’. A tidy bird with a crop of long black ringlets for hair does the business for me, the only cloud on the horizon being that the direct flights are full and we’ll therefore need to change at Brussels. The lassie tells me that she’s never been to Amsterdam before.

– Maybe I’ll take you sometime, I smile, rubbing my five o’clock shadow.

She gives me a strained, cheerless grin back. By the time I’ve got it all booked and confirmed it’s been snowing again. My brogues scrunch the styrofoam beads of snow as I get back into the car and head for the East End. I park in Gayfield Square, near the local nick, then I buy a chicken supper from the Deep Sea which I ferociously gorge in the doorway of Bandparts. After that I hit Mathers for a pint. When I get into my third I decide that there is no way I’m going back to that shitehouse today.

I give Bladesey another bell at his office and confirm that I’ve booked up. I think about calling Bunty from somewhere but I don’t want the daft hoor giein Bladesey it tight because I want that wee cunt out on the pish the night to celebrate our trip to the Dam. He’s reluctant, but I tell him, if he gets his hole from somebody else (some chance) it’ll make him feel better about himself and he might be more attractive to Bunty. If this had any chance of happening and working, no way would I have told him. Actually. I’m starting tae sound like the cunt now. Actually.

So I meet Bladesey in the Guildford and we fling back a few pints followed by a trip to the Indian in Hangover Street. Bladesey has chicken korma, which is par for the course for a wee pansy like him, while I rip through that beef vindaloo like there’s nae tomorrow.

We head up to the Ritz Ballroom, tonight being the night for the divorced and separated, i.e.: slags that are desperate for it. And there they are on the flair strutting together round their handbags as Billy Joel’s ‘Uptown Girl’s belting out: all stretch marks and crow’s-feet and ragged necks and flab, but fuck it, mutton or lamb, it’s aw fuckin meat tae Bruce Robertson, rag week or no, the bloodier the better!

So we take some seats, Bladesey and I, next to these two boilers and they are up for it when we offer to buy them drinks. The dark short one has a nasty look, the look of a cow who’s bitter about men; a pseudo lesbian. Probably been with some fucking criminal type who knocked the dopey slut around and it was her own fault because she had neither the brains nor personality to find somebody better. Slags like that can’t accept home truths so they often turn dykey. This red-heided hoor though, she looks a game bitch.

– So what’s your name then?

– Michelle, she says.

– Where do you hail from Michelle?

– Kirkcaldy.

– So it’s Michelle the Fifer? I ask. The silly cow giggles, burps then puts her hand to her mouth. Fuckin sow’s three sheets. Her mate still has a sour puss on her. Don’t fancy Bladesey’s much. – So you’re Michelle Fifer? What about your pal? Is she Demi Moore?

– Naw, this hoor says, as the red-head still giggles. The women who come here are so close to hoordom, it’s a mere point of detail. Demi Moore. Semi Hoor. I like that, Semi Hoor.

– Well you’re like a semi hoor, I tell her.

– What? she says, struggling to hear over the nigger music that’s replaced Joel.

– You’re like Demi Moore, I shout.

My flattery fails to cut through her lesbian bitterness. Bladesey’s trying to chat to her, but he’s just making a cunt of himself with his actually this and actually that. I decide to steam the red-heid. – How would you like to go out some time, for a meal maybe?

– Sorry, no, she shakes her head.

– C’mon, we could have a good time, I tell her. – What’s your number?

– Look, we’re just out for a quiet drink, okay?

– Aw aye, I say, looking disdainfully around the meat market, – just the sort ay place that ye’d go for a quiet drink, eh.

She scowls at me, then turns back to Semi Hoor. That wee cunt Bladesey’s talking to the both of them. All I can hear is actually this and actually that.

I go up to the bar to see if there’s any stray minge about. I wink at a brown-haired lassie in a green dress but she just looks away in an expression encroaching on disgust. It makes me feel good, so I throw back a nip at the bar. I could handle a bit of charlie right now.

There’s a guy who looks like Father Jack out of
Father Ted
and he’s with a young, foreign-looking bird. I wonder how much she cost the dirty auld fucker. It makes me think that Carole had better watch. It’s easy these days to upgrade old models with newer, Eastern ones. I was reading in the Sunday paper about some old cunt who used to work for the Electricity Board who traded in his old banger for some premium fresh minge. We’re no necessarily talking big bucks either; a Ratners’ ring and a plane ticket can do the job in some instances. Of course, she’s off by the time the ring falls apart, but you’ve had your use of her by then. This bird with Father Jack kens the score; grinding up against him, fussing over him, selling illusion as well as sex. For that you pay a lot more. Virtual reality? The rich have had it for fucking years.

I see that Bladesey’s still deep in conversation. I go back over and push in beside him. – Bladesey, wee word mate . . . I say. He shifts over.

– What’s up Bruce? Nice girls eh, he smiles.

– Watch these cunts. I thought I knew them from somewhere. I know their fellas. Scumbags. Bad bastards. They catch you chatting up those slags, they’ll fuckin have you.

– Honestly? But they seem . . .

– Fuckin tellin ye man. Keep away fae that trash.

Bladesey loses a bit of interest after that. The slags go away up to dance together, ambling pedestrianly around their handbags. – Bruce, he slurs, a wee bit drunk, – mind if I ask you a question?

– Fire away, I snap harshly enough for him not to make it
too
personal.

– What made you join the force?

– Why did I join the force? I repeat, – Oh I’d have to say that it was due to police oppression. I’d witnessed it within my own community and decided that it was something I wanted to be part of, I smile.

I’m certain that Bladesey’s wallet is in his jacket pocket. When he hits the bogs I slip it out, removing the best part of two hundred quid which I saw him take from the cashpoint earlier. I quickly replace the wallet.

Bladesey comes back and we leave to go into the now pissing wet streets. It’s still so cold though. The winds stinging my chafed lips and I think one of my brogues is starting to let in. I nod ahead where a couple of spare fanny are making their way up the road. They look quite young but they might be impressed by the coin. Does nae harm tae fire in.

– Awright girls! I shout.

They turn round. One’s no bad at all. Again, Bladesey’s I don’t fancy. – No bad, the good-looking one says with a cheerfully defiant wariness. I’m instantly well into her: about five-five, dark hair with a fringe, a small turned up nose and lips nicely glossed. It’s always a good sign when the honey acknowledges first, because the dog’ll generally fall into line, few hounds being that choosy about what goes up them.