Filth

Gus nods intently, concern starting to show in his eyes.

– Now Le

Gus looks flabbergasted. – What the fuck . . .

– It’s an auld ploy Gus; as I said, standard Perso

Gus looks in shock as my spiel starts tae sink in. He’s just shaking his heid slowly, watching thirty-odd years’ service bubbling down the plug-hole.

– Five minutes they’ve been in here Gus, I remind him, shaking my head in disgust, – five fuckin minutes.

The eggs, beans, bacon, sausage, tomato, black pudding and tattie scones arrive. Gus though, seems to have lost his appetite. – Ye really reckon that’s his game? The words rip from his throat like an Elastoplast torn from a wound.

– Guaranteed, I nod. – Pass the ketchup Gus.

Gus is beelin on our way up the Walk. Yes, it’s a shame for the poor auld cunt, but he still needs to be kept in his place. Keep him on edge, keep him nippy and his confidence low and the daft auld cunt will strop oot and shoot himself in the fit long before this promotion interview ever comes to pass. Sure as night follows day.

We pull up outside a second-hand furniture shop in the Walk. Used to be auld Rab Vance’s place until Franco Begbie and Alex Setterington strolled in one day and retired the cunt. They just told him they were taking over the lease and that was that. Rab was a semi-jakey anyway (he went fully-fledged shortly eftir that) but essentially harmless even if as Clark Kent as fuck. It’s obvious that those cunts are selling drugs from there, just look at the fuckin dregs who come in and out: Keasbo Halcrow, Nelly McIntosh, Spud Murphy, Joh

Especially Setterington. What him and his mates did to that wee lassie that time was out of order. Conrad Donaldson was defending him. Well, I got that cunt back, and I’ll do the same to old Lexo Setterington. No fuckin worries.

We get up to Ocky’s but he’s not at home. This is far from surprising, with the filthy wee stoat probably enjoying a family Christmas.

– Listen Gus, I’d like to keep tabs on Lexo. Don’t worry so much about Franco; that cunt’s so predictable. Thinks you need a passport to go past Pilrig. But watch Lexo. And keep a look-out for Ocky showing up.

– 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 fu

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 di

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. Co

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] A

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 go