Filth by Irvine Welsh Page B

pulled away fae her, like they were having an argument. I mind because I saw her earlier in the toilets, she was putting on her make-up next to me.
    – What was strange about her, Drummond’s asking. I don’t fuckin well like those fluorescent lights. All that seventies shite. Can we no get a fuckin decent office . . .
    . . . the Met . . .
    . . . Sydney polis . . . a decent office . . .
    But that wis New South Wales.
    – I dunno . . .
    No you fuckin well don’t know, that’s the fuckin problem you daft wee schemie trollope, you know fuckin nothing, nothing at all . . .
    – Was she young, old, big, small, dark, fair . . .
    Ma heid’s fuckin well splitting and I’m gonnae start shaking here . . .
    – She was a bit of a dog, Estelle says.
    I’m wasting my fuckin time with those slags. They ken nowt. That silly wee Roger Moore Drummond should realise that. Same rules apply. Polis? Her? That will be the day. I rise and leave.
    Drummond follows me out of the interview room. – Bruce, we need . . .
    – Yes, I raise my voice to silence her, – we need to follow this up but I’ve something I need to follow up and I’m running late . . .
    – Is there something I should know? Drummond’s irritated look is chilling me out. She’s as fucked off as I am. The only thing I can think of that she should know is the obvious one: she’s never fuckin polis.
    Moving backwards I point at her and smile, – We do need to talk Mandy my darling. Later though. I’ll give you a thorough briefing. Ciao.
    I leave the flustered dyke farting and shiting in the corridor and head up to Ray’s office in the D.S.
    When I get up to D.S., Clell’s there with a bottle of champagne and he’s pouring it into paper cups. He hands me one.
    – What’s the celebration?
    – I got my best ever Christmas present Bruce, a transfer from Serious Crimes to Traffic.
    Anticipating what I’m going to say he carries on, –Yes, I’ll be a pen-pusher in a dull, no-risk, no-fun job . . . and I can’t wait! I’ve had it Bruce. I’ll leave the Sweeney-type stuff to you cowboys! I’m hanging up my baton and cuffs and getting to know the simple beauty of this little felly here, he smiles, holding up a pen.
    – If that’s what you want, nice one, I say, raising my cup and loathing the smugness of the spastic. I drain it, and turn to Lennox. – Ready Ray?
    – Cool, Lennox says.
    I get a raging anxiety attack. I’ve got to get out of this place now. I’m bounding downstairs and out towards the car park and Ray has to get a bend on to keep up.

I Get A Little Sentimental Over You
    I’m happier by the time we’ve started up the motor. Just getting out of that shithoose restores your perspective. We take a slow drive down Leith Walk. I’ve got the radio on, as I’m reluctant to start an argument with Ray over rock. He’s a pedantic fucker when it comes to music and he kens nowt about it. Lyn Paul, formerly of the New Seekers is singing ‘I Get A Little Sentimental Over You’. Lyn’s solo career never really took off. I think about mentioning this to Ray but decide that it would be pointless. I mean, why bother? I’m feeling better though, more focused. My anxiety attack has abated, as it tends to do when the scent of the hunt takes over.
    We pull up outside Ocky’s flat and I get out and ring the bell. No reply. I hope we’ve no missed him with Drummond and her dykey casual moll pals wasting our time. We go back into the car and wait for a bit. There’s a baker’s on the corner, so Ray nips over and comes back with some sausage rolls with vanilla slices for dessert, washed down by strong coffee in a styrofoam cup. It gets rid of the taste of Clell’s cheap champers which merged with the bi-carb of Lennox’s pills to form a corrosive, acrid bilge in my gut. I burp.
    – Looks like we’ve got those jakeys in that new age crowd bang to rights Robbo. That fucking Sunrise Community, or whatever they call themselves, Ray’s telling me.
    –