We down our pints and head outside and I flag down a taxi and we’re off towards mine. The snow’s really starting to lie which means total chaos for the rest of us and serious OT for those traffic spastics who are regarded as the lowest of the low by the Serious Crimes boys. The taxi driver’s blethering away sociably, thinking, mistakenly, that this is going to earn him a tip. Wrong! Only an imbecile would think of giving an Edinburgh taxi driver a tip. Sorry, my sweet, sweet friend, but the same rules apply. When we stop and get out of the cab, I work off all my smash on to the cunt, counting it into his hands as his mouth becomes a fraught, shivering gash of disapproval.
– Bladesey, got any two pences? Two twos or four ones is all I need.
– There’s a five p, Bladesey says. I take it and drop it into the driver’s hand, taking back one penny. – There, I tell the cunt cheerfully, – that’s us square. Three pounds sixty pence.
– Thanks very much, he muses.
– Not at all, thank you very much, I smile. The fuckwit pockets the coins and speeds off as I open the gate.
– Did you not give the chap a tip? Bladesey asks.
– I would not give that spastic the shite off my shoe, I tell him.
– There’s a couple of chaps from the Lodge that drive taxis . . .
– Ah ken that good and well Brother Blades. Just because some fucking cowboy’s in the craft, it doesnae make him due a tip in my book. Same rules apply. A tip? These bastards, ah widnae gie them a bad tip oan the fuckin gee-gees. Do we care? Do we fuck!
In the kitchen I pour myself a good measure of twelve-year-old Chivas Regal and I fill a glass with Tesco’s Scotch Whisky out of one of these plastic bottles for Bladesey. I’m thinking that it’s our national drink and with him being an English cunt, he won’t notice the difference and he’s three sheets anyway. I could have pished in a glass and he wouldnae have kent any better.
After a while he looks a bit melancholy. – You’re so lucky with your wife. She seems to understand you, he bleats.
It looks like he’s ready to open up about his relationship with this big piece he married last year. Bunty, her name is. He worships the big cow: it’s Bunty this, Bunty that, wi the wee cunt. Of course, she seems to treat Brother Clifford Blades like shite. In my experience this means that the woman needs a good fucking or a better one than Bladesey’s capable of giving her. Same rules apply.
– It’s all a question of values, I tell him. – I mean . . . it’s like what you want out of life. Mind you, I’ll need to give this place a good tidy before she comes back! It’s like a midden!
– Mmm, you certainly will, Bladesey says, sipping at his whisky. I’m sure the cunt’s face screwed up a wee bit. Fuck’um. Cheeky wee bastard.
– What about your daughter Bruce? What school’s she at?
– Eh, Mary Erskine’s. Still at the primary likes.
– Actually, em, I’m, eh, having a bit of a difficult time with Craig. Bunty’s so protective of him. He’s never really accepted me. It’s not as if I’ve set myself up as a father substitute . . . I mean, I thought, play it all by ear . . . your daughter, you never have any problems with her, do you?
– . . . There was a wee incident . . . she was caught telling lies, silly wee lies, it was nothing major, it’s all behind us now . . . I tense up. I should not be telling that bastard any of my business. The best form of defence is attack . . .– Listen Bladesey, my auld mucker, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?
– Well, I . . .
– You and Bunty. Are you shagging her?
Bladesey looks at me, then averts his gaze. That cunt’s no daein any shaggin, no fuckin way. When he starts to speak, he seems embarrassed, but not offended, no that I gie a fuck. – Well . . . eh . . . actually, that side of things haven’t been too great lately . . .
I nod sternly as Bladesey coughs out his humiliation to me. This wanker actually thinks I care. Wrong!
– I suppose I’ve actually, eh, always been a bit of a loner . . . always had difficulty in making friends . . . that’s why the craft’s actually been so good for me . . . everybody’s accepted . . . Getting this job up here and meeting Bunty . . . well, I thought I’d landed on my feet. I mean Bruce, I don’t know what she wants. I never so much as raise my voice at her, even when she’s being rather unreasonable to me and I always provide. I mean . . .
I had better straighten the laddie out once and for all. – Listen mate, a bit of advice in the affairs-of-the-heart department. With women what you have to do is shag them regularly. Keep them well-fucked and they’ll do anything for you. Well-shod and well-shagged, that’s the auld phrase.
– You actually believe that?
– Course I do. All these stupid spastics at the marriage guidance counsellors: a load of fuckin shite. The root of a marital problem is always sexual. Women like to get fucked, whatever they make out. If you ain’t fucking the woman you’re supposed to be with then that creates a vacuum and nature abhors one of them. Sure as fuck some cunt’ll come along and fill the gap. Fill it with several inches of prime beef. And if she’s no daein it for you, you go and get your hole somewhaire else. I know that I could just go out now and get my hole like that, I snap my fingers in his face causing him to recoil in his chair, – if I wanted it likes.
– You really think it’s that easy?
– Course it fuckin well is. There’s fanny gantin oan it, I kid you not. In this toon, in every fuckin toon. Right across this big wide world, I sweep my arms across the room. – All you need to know is where to look. Now me, I’m a detective. I’m polis. A good polisman always knows where to look. And I’m good at my job. I’m maybe not the best polisman in the world, I tell him, waiting for him to nod empathetically, before snapping in dead seriousness, – but I’m certainly one of ’em.
Cause I fuckin well am.
– Well, I’m looking forward to Amsterdam, I must say, he says, looking flushed.
A sad wanker. No self-confidence.
– It’ll be fuckin magic Bladesey, I kid you not. Hoors of all colours, shapes and sizes. Slàinte!
Carole
The problem with Bruce is that he keeps it all in, I know that he’s seen some terrible things in his job and I know that, whatever he says, they’ve affected him deeply. He’s a very sensitive man underneath it all. His hard front fools a lot of people, but I really know my man. They don’t understand what a complicated person he is. To know him is to love him and I certainly know him.
What I know for instance, is that Bruce has an effect on women. I know that they find him attractive. I know because I’m aware of the effect I have on men. If you’re a sexy person I think you’re always very much aware of the sexuality of others. The sexual aura if you like. It becomes a common currency, a code, an unspoken language. Yes, some people just have that sort of glow around them and I know that Bruce certainly does.
I spend a lot of time getting myself ready because I always like to look good for him, and for myself too. There are some women who say that you shouldn’t dress to please a man, but when you love someone you revel in their pleasure and I’m guilty of that and I always will be.
I look at my own naked body in front of the mirror. I think, yes Carole, you’ve still got it girl. I think I’m losing weight. I put on my bra, clipping it at the front, then sliding it round and putting my breasts into it. I take a silky cream blouse from the wardrobe and put it on and button it up. I love the feel of this particular blouse on my skin. There’s a navy blue skirt here which goes well with it. I put on the skirt and look at myself in the mirror. Yes, definitely losing that bit of weight I put on; the skirt is hanging well. My face has a wide forehead, but this effect I can neutralise by wearing my fringe long. I admire my full mouth and nice big lips. Bruce always admires my lips, and my small nose and large brown eyes.