Thick though they may be, in a contest with the grinding, seg-ridden heel of Bruce Robertson’s shoes, there was only going to be one winner. I twist, grinning at the satisfying crack they make on the cobblestones. Then, with a piece of footwork so deft that it would have Tom Stronach hitting the rewind button on the VCR in appreciation, I flick the broken specs into the Herengracht and watch as its still waters claim them.
When I get back to the hotel Bladesey’s in a hell of a state, sitting on his bed. – Bruce . . . is that you . . . I can’t find my glasses . . . I don’t know what I’ve done with them . . . I had them last night . . .
– You were three sheets last night, I tell him.
– Yes, but I had my glasses . . .
– Listen Bladesey, come to think of it I dinnae mind ay ye having glasses oan last night. . .
– Oh my God . . . I can’t see Bruce . . .
– Never mind Brother Blades. Bruce Robertson will be your eyes. Ah’ll pick the hoors for ye son, dinnae you worry. Premium minge.
– But . . .
– The only butts that come intae it are the ones we’ll be fuckin doon that red-light district. Now fling that coat oan and let’s paint the toon red. It’s oor last day!
I’m leading Bladesey over to the red-light district. The hurdy-gurdy wheezes out some atmospheric Dutch music. The guy that winds it up has his hat out for change but he’s wasting his time with me. Every red cent is designated hooring and drugs money. Even grub is a luxury at the moment. I turn away from the outstretched cap and scramble to avoid an approaching bike as we’re standing in the cycle lane, but Bladesey’s too slow. It rams him, though not at force. The Cloggie cunt starts shouting at him: – Klootzak! Asshole!
I keep a tighter grip on him. The wee cunt’s shaking through pish withdrawal and fear. After a bit I steer him into a fat hoor’s den and leave him.
– Bruce, I . . . I . . . he stammers.
– Look after my mate doll, I wink at her, – he’s lost his specs and his mince pies arenae too good.
– I look after him good, she says in a Caribbean accent.
– . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . Bladesey moans.
– I take special care of you big boy, the hoor says, leading him into her den.
I then set out on my day’s hooring, leaving the wee cunt to find his ain wey back. I go back to my wee student girl. I got so carried away, I just clean forgot about my mucker Brother Blades. An oversight on my part.
When I return back to Cok City a few hours later, Bladesey’s home and he’s pissed off. He looks terrible.
– I told you to stay there Bladesey, where did you get to? I was worried sick!
– I . . . eh, actually eh, took a taxi . . . you were gone so long . . . she wouldn’t let me stay until you came back . . . the girl in the room . . .
– Well, you missed a good time, I tell him.
I was sorely tempted to leave the half-blind cunt in the Dam, but I decide that he has his uses. In the airport lounge bar at Schipol I wait until Bladesey’s gone to the lavvy then I put a porn movie and some of the charlie I scored earlier into his bag.
It’s a no-lose situation for me as we go through the Customs back in Edinburgh. I either have the pleasure of seeing Bladesey’s coupon as he gets huckled, leaving me to explain to Bunty that I wasn’t into Amsterdam, I was convinced that we were going to Scarborough, but Cliff insisted; or, alternatively, he gets off scotfree and I’ve got the some quality sniff and wallpaper-paste mix. It’s the later scenario as Bladesey strolls through the Customs with ease.
I’m more relieved that they didn’t open my bag; the flannels, shirts, socks and keks were kicking up a real eye-watering furore in there. While I’m obviously happy to have some quality gear as I retrieve the goods while Brother Blades takes another piss at Edinburgh Airport, I’m a little disappointed that Bunty hasn’t had the opportunity of seeing the essentially depraved nature of the creature she married.
But there’s time enough for that.
Post-Holiday Blues
My first day back after a holiday and that cunt Toal calls me into his office. There’s something different about that spastic, and it takes me a second to realise what it is. Then I see it: he’s dispensed with the Brylcreem and blow-dried his hair, back-combing it. A new Toal! A media-friendly, softer, slicker, more youthful trendy image for the modern law enforcement officer in a democracy. He looks like a fucking simpering poof, self-conscious and effete. That barnet will take some getting used to. Oh no you don’t Sister Toal. Same fuckin rules!
– In your absence Amanda Drummond’s been taking the leading role in the investigation. I’ve decided, after a great deal of deliberation, that I want this state of affairs to continue.
I feel my holiday euphoria evaporate in the face of the heat from Toal’s bombshell. My response is unformed and undignified. – A silly wee . . . I stammer.
– I expect you to give her full co-operation. Bruce, since you’ve been away the media have got interested again. The Forum’s been making a lot of noises. It seems that you’ve been a bit lax on the community relations side. It’s exactly that area that Amanda’s strong in. It’s horses for courses Bruce, Toal nods semi-apologetically. – You’ll have to go with me on this just now, he snaps truculently, as I feel the words Listen Brother Toal dry in my throat.
I can only stand there like a fag-hag outside the bogs of some nancy-boy meatpacking disco just before last orders as Toal picks up the phone. – Amanda, Bruce’s back. Can you come up here and brief him on what’s been happening?
He puts the phone down.
– Look, eh, Gus Bain has filled me in . . . I start. I just want to go. I need to take stock before I can face that gloating dyke Drummond.
– Gus isn’t on the ball Bruce, he’s going nowhere, Toal says impatiently.
That makes me feel good as I had Gus marked down as almost a serious rival in the promo stakes. It’s out of order though, Toal badmouthing the auld cunt like that.
Good news for me but. I’m feeling a bit more up as Drumsticks comes in and gives me a look of distaste and it makes me feel even more comfortable that she evidently hates doing this as much as I do. – Hi Mandy, I smile.
– Did you have a good holiday Bruce? she asks with a forced civility for Toal’s sake.
– Not bad at all.
– Holland, wasn’t it?
– Yes. It’s a regular jaunt. A very civilised country.
– The landscape’s a bit flat though, isn’t it? Toal interjects.
– I like it, I shrug, – it provides an interesting contrast with Scotland’s more rugged terrain.
– What is there to do there? Drummond probes. She wants me to say ‘hoors and drugs’ in front of Toal.
– It’s a very relaxing place. You can sit in a café and just watch the world go by with a nice coffee, I shudder slightly as the hangover kicks in. Fuckin cunts are trying to wind me up. But what do they know? Nothing, zilch, sweet fuck all. Sum total: the big fuckin zero.
– I’ve heard that Amsterdam has a lot of drug problems, Toal says, looking at me challengingly.
– Yes, that’s the downside of the city. It’s far too liberal and as a result it does attract scum. Anyway, enough idle banter about holidays, what about the case? I say coldly and briskly, making Toal and Drummond look like the frivolous lightweights they are. Toal looks a bit narked that I’ve stolen a mark on him. He’d better get used to it because once I’m promoted, that’s the way it’ll be. Fucked if I’m taking any of his bullshit then.
Drummond starts rabbiting on a load of shite which, however you dress it up, amounts to fuck all has happened since I’ve been away, just as I guessed. How the fuck did they ever expect to make progress with a case like this in the absence of the main player? That’s the problem with this wee team of ours: too many Stronachs, no enough Dalglishs.
– . . . and Valerie Johnston, the girl on the cloakroom, has stated that Alex Setterington and David Gorman were
definitely in the club that night.
Drummond’s wearing a white blouse and has a darker coloured bra on which is visible through it. I’d gie they tits a wee squeeze, only as a personal favour to her, mind you. That would gie her something to frig aboot! She catches where my eyes are and ostentatiously does up her jacket. Aye, you wish ya fuckin daft cow.
– So what we have to do is to pull in Setterington and Gorman for questioning, she continues.
– I don’t think that would be the way to play it Mandy, my sweet, I pleasantly interject, and she goes to pull me up but I talk over her, raising my voice, – Setterington and Gorman are hardened criminals. They’re veterans of questioning. They’ll give away Scottish Football Association, and they’ll have a smartarsed lawyer like Conrad Donaldson doon here straight away. I note Toal’s mouth puckering in resigned distaste at the acknowledgement of my point. – If they know we’re on to them, they’ll just close ranks. I know these bastards. I think we should keep them under observation, see what they’re getting up to. One of their mates is a grass and I can lean on him.
Drummond has lost the moment and Toal’s nodding vigorously. – I agree Bruce, he says, – these are crafty bastards. We need to have hard evidence before we make any move on them. This informer you know, do you reckon he’ll come up with something?
– A racing certainty, I smile.
– Good, says Toal. – Right Amanda, keep on with the surveillance. Bruce, could you hold on for a minute?
Drummond coughs a nervy: – Certainly Bob, and departs, kip as rid as my cherry eftir a night’s hooring, and Toal’s probably ready to tell me that the inspectorship is as good as mine.
– Do you have a problem with Amanda? he asks.
– Not at all, I tell him.
– She’s complained to me about your manner. Do you have to refer to her in that condescending way? Her name’s Amanda, it might be better if you called her that, rather than Mandy my sweet.
Fuckin stroppy dyke.
– C’mon gaffer, I smile, using the casual but respectful tone to soften Toal up, which it does, – she’s being far too uptight. I’m just being friendly and informal, that’s all.
– Bruce, you’re a good and experienced officer, but you’re going to have to relate better to all other officers, particularly if you become an inspector. These things are important in the modern police force, mark my words, Toal reprimands, sweeping a hand through his bouffant hair, but it’s a gentle reprimand and he can’t keep the underlay of complicity out of his voice.
– I hear what you’re saying Brother Toal, but it takes two to tango. I suggest you have a similar word with our Msss Drummond.
I’d like to turn of the gasssss for Mssss Drummond, fuckin well turn it off for good.
Toal sits up in his seat somewhat pompously, as he tends to do when I play the craft card, – I have spoken to Amanda and made her aware of her responsibilities.
I’ll fuckin well bet. That wee slag thinks that crawling up Toal’s erse is the way on to the fast track. Wrong!
Later on I’m in the cannie, catching up on some of the gossip and the wee cow comes over to me. – Bruce, can I have a word? She nods to the corridor. A uniformed spastic from the craft raises his eyes. This wee cunt’s goin tae rub ma face in it already about her new role. No way am I taking any bullshit fae the likes of Drummond.
– I don’t know if you’ve heard Bruce, but it’s Gus’s birthday tomorrow, and we’re planning a wee surprise party for him. In Serious Crimes.
So that’s all it is. Nae cunt telt ays, Lennox or any of them. Bastards. – I was aware of that, I say haughtily.
– Just making sure, she smiles, and turns to leave. – See you later.
She thinks that she can get roond me wi the softly-softly approach. Wrong. Same rules apply. I head back downstairs but it’s typical post-holiday blues and I’m hating it at this shitehoose.
I’m sifting through the papers on my desk for the case file and I see out of the corner of my eye that a woman has come into the office with Drummond and Hazel the clerical. She looks vaguely familiar. Drummond’s pointing over at me.
The woman has a wee laddie with her and they tentatively approach my desk, following Drummond.
– Bruce, my colleague informs me, – somebody to see you. It’s Mrs Sim.
Who the fuck’s this
– I came last week, the woman says meekly, – but they told me you were on holiday. I wanted to thank you personally for everything that you did for Colin. She turns to the wee boy. – This is a good man Euan, this is the man that tried to help your daddy . . . she stifles a sob.
The wee boy keeps his head bowed, but raises his eyes up at me and pushes out a smile. He’ll be about ages with Stacey.
– His heart was bad . . . it was a family thing . . . hereditary. I’m watching her lips moving. – He never let it bother him. He was a good man, she whimpers and sobs and Drummond’s got her hand, and she looks back at the wee laddie and then at me, – . . . and this is a good man. This man tried to help your dad son, tried to help him when the rest just stood by and gawped . . . he tried so hard for your daddy . . .
How did you feel
– . . . I just wanted to say thank you Sergeant Robertson . . . Bruce . . . I just wanted to say thank you for trying to help him . . .
– I’m sorry I couldn’t save your husband, I tell her.
– Thank you . . . you did all anybody could. Thank you. This is a good man Euan, she sniffs, as Amanda leads her away, looking back at me in a deep, soulful and human way.
Gus comes over and grabs my shoulder tightly. – Perr lassie. An awfay Christmas for her and the wee felly.
She doesn’t know, the woman: she just doesn’t know.
I have a bash at the crossword. I can’t concentrate, and I decide to take an early finish. It’s Stronach’s testimonial match at Tynecastle the night, but no way will I go there and line that spastic’s pockets. It would be too much to see him poncing around full of himself. I can’t see there being much of a crowd. It’ll be Gary MacKay or Craig Levine size I should imagine.
So the evening finds me down at the Lodge listening to some referee twat who’s a building inspector with the district council. He’s holding court and it’s not a bad crack. Bladesey’s lost. He comes over to join us sporting his new glesses, but like most English cunts, he kens nowt about fitba. Ray Lennox appears with a couple of uniformed spastics, who aren’t wearing their uniforms but are still uniformed spastics and always will be. I nod to him to come over and he’s squeezing in beside me. I’ve tipped him off before about hanging around with these nonentities. Associate too much with losers and that’s exactly what you’ll become.
This referee’s some cunt. – So there I was at Ibrox and they need the three points to clinch the title. I mean, they’re about thirty points ahead so it’s a foregone conclusion, it’s mathematically impossible for them to be caught. It’s a gala day, and the families are all out, the bairns with their faces painted up, the lads looking forward to celebrating. Coisty’s put them one–nil up with a close-range tap-in at the back post. Ha ha ha. He’s some character. Suspicion of offside but Oswald Beckton’s flag stayed down. Oswald, Lodge 364. You’ll ken his face, the ref prompts.
There’s a few nods and knowing smiles around the table. – So anyway, the whole place goes up and it’s party-time. Everybody’s singing ‘we’re up to our knees in fenian blood’ and it’s a gala atmosphere. But then, with a couple of minutes left, a long ball gets punted through the middle towards the Rangers goal. This young lad nips inbetween Goughy and McLaren and they bring him down heavily inside the box. Now, it’s a blatant penalty, but of course there’s no way I’m going to give that and spoil the party. I mean, they’d’ve had to have gone to Firhill the next week to win it, stuck with a fifteen thousand capacity. How could I spoil it for them to lift the flag at home? They were going to win it anyway! By the length of Argyll Street! No way was yours truly going to be a killjoy.
Imagine what the boys in the Lodge at Whitburn would have said! My life wouldnae have been worth living. Spoiling a gala day out! So I waved play on.
– As ye do mate, eh, Councillor Bill Armitage said.
– I had to send off this tube for arguing. The ref’s decision is final. This arsehole wouldnae let it go, even after I’d booked him. There’s always one, eh!
– Fenian bastard, Bill Armitage scoffed.
– I don’t mind telling ye, the ref continues, – that it was a bit embarrassing watching it on Scotball the next day. The boys were great though, they kept the replays to a minimum and avoided any reverse-angle showings. Anyway, I spoke to the SFA observer at the match in the Blue Room afterwards and he understood the situation fully. Turns out that he’s in the same Lodge as wee Sammy Kirkwood. You mind of wee Sammy! He says to me.
I nod. Wee Sammy used to get me magazines. Good stuff n all, though not quite as good as Hector The Farmer’s. I’ll have to bell that auld fucker and see if he’s got any new gear.
– Anyway, thank God for the presenter. He said there was no way I could have seen the incident as I wasn’t up with play. The guys at the press were great as well, played the whole thing down, didn’t let on that the switchboards were jammed with callers. Passed off the odd one or two as token Tim bigots who would say that anyway.
– These cunts are paranoid, Armitage laughs.
– A chief sports writer for one of the dailies told me at the Lodge, he says: normally we’d have made a bit more of a song and dance about it but it does nobody any good to keep running Scottish football down.
We then listen to Armitage going on a bit about the new Scottish Parliament. – It’ll be a good thing; mair opportunities for our people. Of course we’ll have tae deal with the Papes, but there’s nothing new there. The party in Scotland’s always had that horse-trading between the Catholic mafia and the craft. Ah wouldnae mind gieing them anti-abortion legislation in exchange for some plum chairmanships of working parties or committees . . . particularly licensing, he grins. – It just means that some daft wee hairy that gets knocked up the duff has tae get oan the bus tae Carlisle tae get cleaned oot. Hardly a staggering blow, I would have thought.