Filth

You are a silly wee cunt. That is explicit, I would have thought. No way are you rocking B.R. spastic fa

The dopey dyke looks fazed by this and deflects the question. Standard tactics. She’s acting like a fuckin criminal. Polis? That? Ha! – Good point Bruce, she says patronisingly, – anybody else got anything to add?

– The biggest problem, Gus starts up, – and youse’ll no like me for sayin this, but it has to be said, the biggest problem is that blacks cause the maist crime, then he’s turning to me, – You worked in London for the Met, Robbo. Tell them.

– Well, I can only speak for my time in the Stroud, I say noncommittally. I look over at Ray Le

Chinky-drawers comes in, – What about Stroud Green?

– I think it would be inappropriate to get into the particular problems that one area may or may not have had, I tell her sharply.

– Fine, she says hesitantly. She didnae like that rebuff. But of course, it’s no real problem. If we won’t talk, then these fuckers are never shy about filling in the gaps. So we listen to a dull lecture, marking time until the coffee break, the heat from the radiator almost making us doze off.

Finally, we adjourn for coffee. Shitey wee fuckin biscuits, that’s all they give us with the coffee. I usually get a roll from the canteen or something from the bakers for my piece, but naw, that’s all forgotten about with this disruption for their coon-loving course. They think of no other cunt’s routine but their own. I take a coffee and stand over beside Clell. I deliberately keep away from Gus. A nice cunt, but he’s giving far too much away. Too far into that three score and ten to learn a new script. Careless, and that’s food and drink to these cunts. Le

We’re waiting on our young Mister Le

Clell, Gillman and I are joined by the wee chinky bird with the toff’s English-Yank accent. It keeps fuckin well changing. Probably been tae posh schools all over the world. I hate those privileged cunts. They think that you’re fuck all, that they can just use you tae clean up their shite, and in fact, most of the time they are spot-on. What they don’t know though, is that you’re always lurking in the shadows. The opportunity to pounce usually never comes along but you’re always lurking, always ready. Just in case.

Chinko’s been giein it loadsay fuckin mooth awright. The particular problems ay the i

I’d fuckin well gie her one awright. No much in the coupon stakes but a tidy body on it. High marks in curvature of arse. Never mind the mantelpiece when yir pokin the fire; that’s my motto, and it’s stood me in good stead. Same rules.

It’s as if she can read my thoughts, cause she sort of blushes and looks at the clock. – Well, she goes, – we’d better be making a move back.

Ah’ll fuckin well make a move on you in a minute ya cunt. Probably game as fuck n aw.

Le

Aye Le

So we get back into it. Clell’s playing the nice cunt, Gus is winding them up, and I’m keeping stumpf. It’s hot and I’m starting to feel a bit nauseous and shaky. My guts feel sick and heavy. It’s like there’s something in me, I can almost feel it growing, getting stronger. A tumour perhaps, like the one that did in the auld girl. Prone to it, our family. But she was . . . I’m starting to sweat heavily, a panic attack’s coming on.

I’m losing it.

Fuck that.

I’m not like Busby or any of those long-term sick-through-stress saplings that can’t handle the big time. The cunts here’ll never fuckin know, they’ll never fuckin ken cause I’m better than that, better than all of them, stronger than the fuckin lot of those cunts put together.

I excuse myself and go to the bogs. Inside the lavvy I’m shaking and my teeth are hammering together. I sit on the toilet seat. My arse is itching really badly. I want to sterilise those piles: some boiling water, a sharp pain and then that’s it. The bog paper is just that harsh council-issue garbage. Fuckin cunts! How do they expect me . . .

I give my piles a clawing until my eyes water. The pain is something to focus on. My breathing is slowing down and the shaking’s subsiding. I try to have a wank, attempting to picture the chinky bird, then Amanda Drummond, in the buff, but nothing’s coming to me. I should have sneaked out the paper. I don’t know who the shag was on page three, I haven’t seen her before.

When I get back in, I’m still a bit jumpy. All the eyes are on me.

– You don’t look very happy Bruce, Amanda Drummond says, – are you okay? Are you feeling okay?

Attack is the best form of defence. I look her in the eye. – I’d be a lot more okay if I knew what I was doing here. Like several of my colleagues I’ve been involved in a murder investigation: I’m trying to solve the murder of a man from an ethnic minority group. I’ve been taken off that to spend time here. I say this in such a way as to let her know that I don’t consider her to be on the case. – Answer me this if you can: what advances racial harmony most: this course or solving that crime? Cause we sure ain’t go

– Hear hear! Gus says, and starts clapping, and some of the other boys follow suit. Peter Inglis whistles.

This gies the hoor a beamer and a half.

– It’s not a question of one or the other, we need to do both . . . she says weakly, then adds with a bit of gusto, – as the strategy paper makes quite clear.

Oh, the strategy paper is it now? I wondered when we were going to get on to that particular pile of fucking pish. Well I’ve done my homework, dykeface, thank you very much. – I’m glad you mentioned that because if I could quote a circular from Perso

– Exactly. The fact that you’re here shows it has priority, she snootily retorts.

– Precisely. Conversely, the fact that we are not out there investigating the murder of a young man shows that that does not have priority.

– Hear hear! shouts Dougie Gillman. Nasty piece of work Dougie, but a brilliant interrogator. One of the few cunts on the force who would make a formidable opponent. Just as well he’s not thrown his hat into the ring for the inspector’s post. He respects the craft hierarchy.