Gillman smiles, in the cold manner of an assassin. It’s like looking in the mirror. But he’s never a Bruce Robertson and he never will be. He thinks I’m his only friend on the force; me, who wound him up like a clockwork toy and sent him into the coons’ den. Think again my simple friend. – Dinnae worry Dougie, I tell him, – we’ll get this nonsense sorted oot.
When I return, I find Toal back on the blower. He’s on about the lack of progress again, which means that Niddrie’s been on to him and somebody’s kicked Niddrie’s erse. Nowt surer. Not my problem sonny boy! Busy busy busy!
I head for the bogs with the paper to have a wank to Jilly from Bath. Somebody has written in magic marker over the graffitti in our favourite trap, new graffiti. My blood runs cold for a moment:
HALF-MAN
HALF-SPASTIC
ZERO COP
ROBBO COP
THE FUTUE OF LAW ENFORCEMENT MY ARSE
I can’t concentrate on Jilly from Bath now. All I see in my hand is a flaccid, flaky, itchy cock. I scratch and claw at my bollocks. Funny fuckin joke. Ha ha you cunts. I force myself not to think about who could have written this . . . Toal, Lennox, Inglis . . . but he’s no been in the day . . . Gillman . . . Bain . . . they lack the imagination . . . or perhaps a uniformed spastic who knows the contempt I hold those losers in . . . no . . . I force myself not to think of who it could be cause it means that they’ve won if you do that. Sorry, my sweet, sweet friend, Bruce Robertson is made of sterner stuff.
Nice try spasticworks!
Ha. No way, Jilly’s here . . . Jilly from Bath, you fuckin little hoor . . . Lennox spreading rumours . . . no, c’mon Jilly . . . your fuckin paps are gorgeous . . . would you like me to suck and lick them . . . Toal . . . claims to be above all that canteen culture as he calls it. . . . fuck them, c’mon Jilly, Robbo’s the boy to do it for you baby . . . I bet you shave your little cunt . . . if only you’d just slip off these little panties for Robbo . . . the future of law enforcement CHEEKY CUNT GILLMAN, represent him, me?! but naw, Jilly n me, Jilly n me, nae cunt else just that flesh; flesh she’s put intae newsprint all for Robbo, fuck aw the other spastics who read the Sun, they dinnae understand, this is our wee secret Jilly, our little love letter. . . . likes riding horses . . . I’ll fuckin bet . . . take it baby . . . take all of Bruce . . .
. . . I’m coming . . . I’m spurting mair muck than a Weedgie on amphetamine sulphate and Toal and Lennox and Clelland and Inglis and Lennox won’t stop me now, fucked youse ya bastards, fucked youse . . . Bruce Robertson, INSPECTOR BRUCE ROBERTSON YA JEALOUS INADEQUATE CUNTS!
That was a good one.
After a Christmas canteen dinner which isnae too bad (Ina’s pulled oot the stops, turkey and trimmings), Lennox and I decide to go out and get hammered. We enjoy a few civilised beers at the Lodge, then we’re back at Ray’s, and there’s a blizzard, but it’s inside his flat. The blizzard is one of cocaine. We are feeling weak and the drug is giving us the illusion of strength. We are telling Lennox of the conversation we have had with Toal and know that we are talking too much, yet to stop will leave gaps and into such gaps unwelcome thoughts will intrude. We have no alternative but to keep on. Lennox though, did not do the graffiti. We know that he would not be able to look us in the eye had he been the culprit.
– Ken what he says tae me, we ask Ray Lennox.
– Naw, Ray replies, chopping out another quality line.
– He goes: The craft’s changed. Ah goes: What dae ye mean?
– Fuckin spastic.
– And he turns roond and ye ken what he says tae ays then?
Ray shakes his head.
He goes: If ye dig yerself intae a hole, dinnae rely oan your connections in the craft tae pull ye oot ay it.
– What’s that cunt on aboot? Lennox asks, exhaling in slow exasperation, his eyes wide and wired. That moustache is coming along. Bandito Lennox.
– Ah goes: What dae ye mean by that? He says: Just what I said. Dinnae rely on the craft tae dig ye oot ay a hole.
– Cheeky cunt, scoffs Lennox.
– See, he’s feart Ray. He’s feart ay our craft connections. Our influence in the craft. Hunts wi the hounds and runs wi the hares that cunt. Ken what eh sais as ah walked oot the door?
– Naw.
– Eh goes: Craft connections can only get ye so far.
– Eh! What a fuckin . . .
– But wait till ye hear this, then eh sais, wait till ye hear this yin, eh goes: Besides, you’re no the only one wi craft connections!
– Hah hah ha! What a fuckin wanker! That’s . . . that’s . . . ah mean, ye cannae take the cunt seriously.
– Exactly Ray. That’s what we felt like saying: You cannot be serious. Ah could hardly keep a straight face, ah kin tell ye. Ah just goes: Thank you, Brother Toal.
Ray smiles and then lets a silence hang for a bit. I can feel the cunt has been working up to something. – Listen Robbo, I’ve got something to tell you, he says, lowering his voice, – I don’t want you getting the wrong end of the stick, that’s why I’m telling you first. I want to get on in the department, but I’ve no real chance of a promotion over the next few years. Not enough experience.
You’ve just got your D.S. you cheeky wee cunt. Of course you huvnae goat enough experience. – I dunno though Ray. It’s how good you are that counts.
– I was even thinking of applying for the D.I. vacancy in the reorganisation myself. I ken I’ve nae chance, but it would be a good idea to give myself the experience of applying for some of those jobs, of going through a couple of promotion board selection procedures, just soas I know what tae expect when I am experienced enough. I’d hate to think that a couple of years or so down the line, when I was ready, that I’d fuck up, simply because I’d no experience of a panel interview. What do you think?
I think you’re a smarmy wee cunt. – Don’t see why not Ray, can’t do any harm, I nod.
Ray Lennox now, after our job. Ray Cuntybaws Lennox. Big Dick Lennox in the canteen and the club. Arselick Lennox in Toalie’s office. Shitey-drawers Shrivelled-knob Lennox when it come doon tae the action wi ma hoor ay a sister-in-law.
Treacherous Ray Lennox.
– Not a bad idea Ray, we wheezingly repeat, – can’t do any harm . . . puts a marker for the future.
– That’s it Robbo, just fly up a wee kite to let them know who Ray Lennox is, the cunt smiles and chops up more cocaine.
Criminal Lennox.
When he goes to the toilet I watch the hoor-house red cushion covers on his settee retreat under the implacable heat from the end of my cigarette. I do a few more of these, then turn it over.
Merry Christmas Mister Lennox.
Christmas Shopping
Cuntybaws Lennox, having dropped the bombshell that he’s trying to take my fuckin job, then has the audacity to all but chuck me out into the snow as he’s off to the paternal home for Christmas. Fuck’um: I need to Christmas shop anyway. They’re open late tonight. I have a pint in Alan Anderson’s old boozer, then repair to the bogs where I chop up a huge line on the cistern and snort it back. I need it to brave this shopping hell. I get down to the St James’s Centre. I have to use the coke energy to shop. Christmas fuckin Eve. Need tae get something for the bairn . . .
C&A’s catches my eye, as I need to get some new flannels. All my others are getting a bit smelly and I refuse to wear jeans as it’s the mark of a schemie. I grab a pair of fawn ones which look like my size, twenty-eight waist, medium leg, and I shakily hand over my credit card. The Visa credit limit is fucked, and I face up to the humiliation of the rejection. I pay it by Switch, and get the fuck out of here, loudly announcing as I go, – Cash flow, that’s all. Professional. Not a schemie. Man of wealth! Man of wealth!
But the vultures are circling. I can’t face that fucking Toys Я Us place. Where now . . . where now . . .