Filth (38 page)

– 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.