Lennox is shaking his head slowly in disgust. – We investigate crimes ay domestic violence. That’s assault and it’s against the law ay the land.

– Phah, Gillman sneers, and nobody sneers quite like him. If someone told me, in sincerity, that I girned like Gillman, I would die a happy man. I can tell it’s draining the blood from Lennox’s face at five feet. – Ah git enough fuckin mooth oan the job withoot takin it fi some cunt in the hoose. He looks to me, – Put this cunt right Bruce.

– I have to fly. I’m having woman problems, I smirk. – But this is a subject which needs further discussion. The bar

They nod affirmatively, Lennox with reluctance, and I, we, I . . . we’re all here . . . jump in the motor and speed towards the Jeannie Deans pub in the South Side. We decide to drive through Queens Park and we marvel at Salisbury Craigs’ imposing face which towers above us. This city of ours is truly beautiful and we like this part where there is not a scheme in sight. Why could we not simply move all the scum to the middle of nowhere, like Glasgow, where they would blend in more effectively? Come to think of it, that’s exactly what we did do, when we built the schemes. Sent them far, but not far enough.

We still have a wrap of coke on us and there must be a good half a G left and we rub a load of it into our gums and our face goes numb. We need it for this Shirley hoor, we know that she is going to make demands on us. We are not to be entrusted with the demands of the weak. It is not in our character.

Shirley is sitting on her own at a table in the corner of the empty bar. She looks like a hopeful hoor on a day shift. When we get closer we can observe her distress through her red, puffy face. Apparently our sister-in-law has been crying.

– Bruce . . . I had a smear . . . a cervical smear . . . there was something there . . . I have to go back for more tests . . .

– I’m sorry, we tell her, – but that’s just one of those things. No sense in getting all steamed up until you see what the other test results tell you.

– But I can’t cope . . . I’ve nobody since Danny left . . . I need you Bruce. I need somebody . . . I need support Bruce . . .

Just looking at her there, at her distress, just for a second, we wish we were stronger. I wish I was somebody else, the person she’s mistaking me for, the person whom she wants to mistake me for. The person who gives a fuck. – Sorry, we tell her. – I don’t see what I can do. You’ll have to sort it out.

I’ve been licking her diseased fanny. Oh my God.

Then I, we, start to think: no way should Stronach be getting his game in the middle of the park with that young boy languishing in the reserves, what’s his name, him that played towards the end of season. He’s fit now, so there’s no excuse for such poor selection.

– Bruce, please, she says, and grabs our hand in hers. We brush her away. – Sorry Shirley, we say, rising, as she starts the waterworks. – Nothing we can do. Urgent case, eh. Sort it out and keep me posted. Chin up! Ciao!

We dance across the floor in the pub, slipping deftly past two chairs and as we turn can see her round, dark, black hole of a mouth and she’s bawling something but we are spinning away out the door and she rises to follow us but we nash like fuck across the car park, humming the closing credits tune of The Benny Hill Show.

She’s still in hot pursuit screaming Brooosss and we realise that we’re running in the wrong direction, away from the car. We look back and slow down, regaining breath and then turning round, standing still and smiling as she approaches us breathing heavily. We then do a quick shuffle and sell her such a Charlie Cooke-style dummy that had she been a defender, she would, indeed, have had to pay to get back in the park!

Gotcha!

Emulate that Stronach!

She falls on to her knees howling in frustration as we, I, we dive in the car and start up the motor and we head down the road, watching her broken figure receding from us in the mirror.

Shirley brought it on herself. A disease of the fanny, divine retribution for her infidelities. We have our rash, that is our penance. We do not inflict our misfortune on others. We are not made that way.

Daft cunt.

Our, my, head is spinning but I feel euphoric and sick at the same time. There is no way that I can go back to the office and be harassed by hoors. It’s hoggers the morn: oot wi the old, in wi the new. Same rules for fanny as for everything else. We, I, radio in to Toal, telling him that we are following up several leads. I then head home, via stopping at the offie for more supplies, then driving out to Hector The Farmer’s place to pick up some books of a specialist nature which will be used to provide our, my, evening’s entertainment.

Hector’s buoyant when I get to his. He’s smoking that pipe, which always gives him an even more contented air. – You know Bruce, the best thing ye ever did was tae pit me in touch wi wee Claire. I’ve turned intae a right auld sugar daddy. Fantastic wee lassie.

My fuckin . . . I feel a surge of jealousy and remember that she’s just a hoor and it’s all commercial transactions. I have a quick malt with Hector and head off. As he shows me out that fuckin collie tries to jump me again. – Down Angus! It’s just Bruce!

He hauls the dug away and I drive off, still annoyed at Claire for going with that old bastard.

Women.

I can’t

Carole

Shirley

I can’t

Shirley, find somebody strong. This job, this life, it’s drained my strength. I don’t need a lame duck in tow.

Some bastard beeps me on the bypass and I think about giving chase but I don’t feel up to it.

Our coping capacity is low.

our appetite and all I want is more of the same, fuck eating anything now.

Coke for fuel, coke for energy. Have a coke and a smile. Coking coal. This is white, not black; clean, not filth. You never eat coke. You just snort it up.

Snort the whole fuckin lot of it up.

I’ve done the lot, so I try to have a wank to Hector’s vids in order to distract the coke craving, but I can’t concentrate. My whole body wants the blood my cock needs and I head up to Ray Lennox’s. I’m tanning it in the car, giving a daft spastic the V-sign as I cut him up. Cheeky cunt. Polis. Priority. I come upon Ray’s gaff and I batter the door polis-style until his dressing-gowned figure appears on the doorstep. – Ray, I smile, – sort me out with some posh. Pronto mate.

– Bruce . . . I can’t . . . he says.

– Sort ays oot Ray! Hogmanay the morn! I snap, grinding my bare teeth at him. The night is but young.

I hear a voice coming from inside the house. – Who is it Ray? What’s wrong?

– It’s nothing! he shouts back into the gaff.

That voice. It sounded like Drummond. I suppose plenty hoors have those irritating whingy tones. Maybe it’s that Trudi bird.

– Company Ray? I smirk.

– Wait there a minute, he says shaking his head before moving back in. Ootside in this cauld? My fucking arse. I step into the lobby. He’s gone for a second or two and returns, producing a gram. – That’s it Bruce, that’s my lot.

– Aye, you’ll ken, I say, then I head away, leaving him looking like fuckin Noddy. Cheeky cunt.

I get into the motor and I want to snort a line on the dashboard, but there’s too many cunts around. Desperation takes over and I do it anyway. It’s as strong as fuck. You have to test the stuff, save wasting police time putting it through the labs. One big snort. I’m trembling as I drive through the city back towards Collie. I don’t know what I want to do. I’ll probably hit the piss in a bit. I need to take the edge off this coke. Now. I need a drink now. I stop off outside a bar I used to frequent years ago, before we went to Oz. It’ll have to be one: we realise that our bank cards are at home.