Filth (23 page)

I blurt out my fucking load into the condom up her arse. This cow’s erse grips my cock and as I pull free she still won’t surrender the condom. She pulls it out her own rectum. There’s little flecks of shit on the end of it. My knob’s as clean as a fuckin whistle though. Thank fuck, the dirty wee cloggie hing-oot.

I pay the hoor and tell her to fuck off and leave me alone. I fall into the bed and into a good sleep for about half an hour. When I wake up, I feel lonely and depressed and hit the minibar. After a couple of whiskies I go to knock up Bladesey but he’s out. Docile wee cunt. I get a notion to give Bunty a call, which I do from the cardphone outside in the street.

– Awright Coontay!

– Go away!

– Ya’ll miss me? I’ve been tellin Little Frank about yaw. E wants taw give your fanny a lickin, e does! I drop my voice and make it go breathless. – Ah do not . . . Then nasal again, – Yes yaw do!

– LEAVE ME ALONE! the hoor screams, then slams the phone down.

I head back into the hotel and upstairs to my room where I watch the Cartoon Channel and have a wee giggle to myself. I’m a wee bit disappointed that Bunty felt unable to take my advice and give me some sport. She’s probably feeling vulnerable with heman Bladesey off the scene. Ha! Anyway, it’s soon time to hit the pish, as I hear the man himself returning to his room next door.

– Awright Clifford, me old son? I smile, – Get any hooring done?

He smiles bashfully, – Eh, actually no . . . I went to the Rijksmuseum and saw Rembrandt’s
The Nichtwacht
. . . amazing picture.

– Any shagging in it?

– Eh no . . . it’s not a film it’s . . .

– Ah ken what it fuckin well is! Ah ken who fuckin Rembrandt is! I point to myself. Cheeky wee cunt thinks he’s fuckin smart. He knows fuckin nothing. The big zero.

We get out on the pish and I make the mistake of letting Bladesey bell Bunty. I was intrigued as to how my heat from across the street had affected her. Bad move. Even from the barstool looking at the back of Bladesey’s heid and his reddening neck I can tell that it’s a sair yin.

He’s shattered when he comes off the phone. The cunt’s shaking. – Bruce, he gasps, – I think actually I’m going to have to head back . . . Bunty’s upset, the caller was at it again. I should never have left her . . .

– No way! It’s yir fuckin hoaliday!

– She wants the number of the hotel. She thinks I’m in Scarborough. I had to sort of agree to go back . . .

– No fuckin way!

– I don’t know what to do . . . he puts his head in his hands.

I stiffly let my arm fall round his shoulder. – She’s makin your life a misery, eh mate.

– I seem to be able to do nothing right, he whines, – I’m either in her way if I’m there, or I’m neglecting her if I’m away . . . all Craig does is scowl and play that fucking techno music . . . what does she want from me Bruce? What does she want me to be like?

– Bladesey, listen. Ah’m yir mate, and mates back each other up. Ah’ll tell ye exactly what’s gaunny happen . . .

– I’ve got to go back . . . he starts.

I look into his large, shocked eyes. – You and I, I smile, – are going oot hooring. You are gaunny git that fuckin pole workin again, I point at his groin. – We are gaunny git you feeling hunkydory about one Brother Clifford Blades here. And when you swagger back intae that hoose in Corstorphine, the first thing you dae is git a hud ay her and gie her, I grin, protruding my middle finger, – the stinky pinky here. And ah’ll tell ye mate, she’ll be that fuckin well juiced up that the lips ay her fanny’ll part for you like the Red Sea did for Moses. You’ll be fightin her oaf wi a fuckin stick soon, I say, then I point at his groin again, – That fuckin stick.

– You really think that’s going to do me any good?

– Same fuckin rules mate, I nod knowingly, – same fuckin rules. I turn to the bartender, – Same again my friend.

I’ll tolerate no more talk from that sad loser about going home.

Still Carole

When I make up my eyes, I always feel a stirring through my body. I think it’s because it’s true what they say about the eyes being the gateway to the soul. And my soul is a very sexual one. You cannot deny your nature. Bruce taught me that. At times like this I am moved to touch myself . . . I love the feel of this silk blouse against my skin.

I love

My head swoons. It’s as if Bruce were here with me.

Soon.

It’s time to go out. I’m just going out Mum.

Tell Stacey I won’t be late.

Bye.

The bar is large, ideal for people-watching. There are lots of little nooks and crannies to hide in.

Sitting here, alone here, I’m remembering when I first met Bruce’s parents. They were good people, from a mining village in Midlothian. This was before they were corrupted by that Scargill, who split up families and turned everyone against each other. Bruce doesn’t bear any grudges though, even though they were cruel to him and rejected him, their own son. That’s what these people want though: to split up the family. It’s not important to them but the way I see it, if you haven’t got family then you haven’t got anything. Bruce does too. It’s so unfortunate that Stacey’s said those horrible things, but we don’t blame our little girl, all children go through a phase when they tell silly wee lies. In Stacey’s case I think it’s been the wrong crowd she’s been hanging around with at that school.

Anyway, I must say that I look a treat and I know by the way that the guy behind the bar’s staring at me that he feels the same way too. Well, you can look but don’t touch my friend! I’ve got on my heels,
that
silk blouse and my pleated skirt. I catch myself in the mirror. Not bad Carole. Not bad.

I know what they’re thinking; a woman drinking on her own. They think I’m a prostitute or that I’m easy. All I’m doing is confronting them with their own desire. That’s what they cannot take.

They want me.

All those men, they all want Carole Robertson.

But there is only one man who can have me, although if he wants me to give myself to another man, I will, but only for him. He won’t want me to give myself to any man in this bar.

I have made my point lads, and now I depart, to see my daughter. I am a good mother and a good wife.

All eyes are on me as I leave the bar. I have made my point.

Outside my vision is blurred. All the shop signs and advertising seem as if they’re written in a foreign language. I don’t feel safe here. I must go to where I feel safe.

The Nightwatch

Morning has broken; not so much with a bang as with a whimper as Bladesey knocks timidly on my door and asks me if I want to come down for breakfast, Actually.

– Aye, but I’ll tell ye one thing Bladesey, ah’m no gaun doon there fir that continental breakfast shite. Ham and cheese and rolls? Fuck yon. There’s a British café in the Haarlemerweg. Let’s go.

We stride up along the Singel, feeling the bracing air blow away the morning cobwebs, and get into Barney’s Breakfast Bar. It’s full of fuckin student and crusty trash on tight budgets so I delight in ostentatiously flashing my wad around while I order the works: bacon, egg, sausage, tomato, mushroom, black pudding, toast and tea.

– You were AWOL yesterday Bruce, Bladesey chides. – Meet any interesting ladies?

– Yes, as a matter of fact. I met this Scots lassie in a bar. She was really nice.

– Was she, eh . . . a you know . . . lady of the night?

I look, in great irritation, at this wretched mess that has somehow insinuated itself into my life. – No. She was not. Do you think I can’t meet anybody other than a prossy? Is that what you think?

– No . . . not at all . . . he stammers apologetically.

I sit up in the chair. I’d better put this cunt right once and for all. – Well I’ll tell you something mate: I’ve had mair fanny than you’ve had hot dinners. And I’m talking quality fanny as well. Premium minge. And I’m no going that far back. Dinnae think that because I fuck hoors for convenience sakes that I have tae pey for it. Dinnae think that, I tell him, the cheeky cunt.

– I’m most terribly sorry Bruce . . . I didn’t mean to give offence. You got the wrong end of the stick. I just assumed, you know, it being Amsterdam . . .

– Well you assumed wrong, I curtly inform him, skinning up a large reefer of skunk and lighting it up as our breakfasts arrive.

We eat our meal in silence and I leave the little cunt to his museums and galleries. I’m off for porn and drugs.

I head over to the red-light district and a languid-looking bag of shit hisses at me, – Video show. It’ll be an ed-dew-kay-shon.

I feel resentment rise in my chest. A semi-jakey standing ootside in the cauld working for sweeties, thinking that he could be part of a process of educating
me
, in any way shape or form. I stop and I give him a slow, evaluating look up and down which I can tell unnerves him.

– Video show . . . he repeats more warily.

– Any good? I snap in polis mode.

– It’s the best.

I look at the f25 sign behind him. – At twenty-five guilders it had better be. Or else I’ll be back mob-handed. Right?

He raises his hands in the air. – Hey, chill out man. This is Amsterdam. It’s the best video show you’re ever gonna see.

– Let’s hope so.

I enter and pay twenty-five guilders to a distracted gumchewing slut who obviously does tricks and is thinking about the bigger bucks to be made on her back later on. I go into what is an old-style film theatre rather than a series of coin-operated booths. It’s half-f and the show starts promptly. There’s no privacy for wanking, but it doesn’t stop an old cunt next to me, who’s got his cock out in a hanky and is chugging away by the time the first power-dressed actress who looks like Victoria Principal from Dallas gets felt up and fucked in a lift by two guys who stop it between the floors. I try to focus on the video but the picture quality is poor and auld cunt’s groans distract me.

However, it then goes into a mad sequence at an office party, where everybody is fucking themselves crazy. I think about the fanny I’ll fire into at our office parties this Christmas: that new young clerical bird for a start, then there’s Fulton, and of course, that big hoor the Size Queen, and even Drummond, for fucks’ sakes, if I’m desperate enough. I feel my hand go towards the lump in my flannels but, after a few tweaks of the cherry, I show my willpower, gritting my teeth and leaving it. No sense in running down the generator at this stage.

After browsing in a few porn stores I try in vain to find a hoor who looks like her, like my girl. I have her pants with me, in my pockets from last night. I can’t find anyone. I’m getting frustrated and it’s only going to get worse. I decide to go for a drink and resolve to try and find one who looks absolutely
nothing
like her. This tactic works because instantly all the rooms off the grey cobblestoned streets seem to offer endless possibilities. I find a likely girl. She’s got ginger hair and a badly pock-marked face. I get the old spiel, this time done without any charm, as she tells me that she doesnae kiss. I felt like saying to her that I had no desire whatsoever to kiss her pock-marked coupon, my lips are chapped ragged enough with the cold as it is. She undresses and wanks me for a bit, trying to tease some life into my cock, and I only get hard when I look at her pock-marked skin. Like the other hoors here, she seems not to mind my rash and eczema, though with her skin you’d expect some sympathy.

When I fuck her she’s giving it all the Ooohh baby, I’m so wet . . . oooh this is so good . . . and all that shite, which I enjoy. Again, it’s good that she takes a pride in her work and makes the effort. It’s definitely the hooring capital of the world is old Amsterdam. With this one though, after I’ve blown my muck into the rubber, her dead hoor eyes chill over mechanistically as she’s already preparing for the next customer and I head out to get a bite to eat.

I go to one of the nondescript pizza places on the Damrak which are largely unspectacular tourist rip-offs. After eating I head back to the room. I still have her panties in my pocket. From last night. I couldn’t ask that hoor I was with to wear them. I pull them over my head and sniff, filling my nostrils with her scent. I’m aware of the thudding sound of sobbing and a high, ugly moaning in the room.

I pull off the pants but the room’s empty except for me.

The Rash

The next morning I shit on the hotel’s traylike bogs. A pile of chestnuts faces me, foul of Dame Judi, but yielding no signs of the alien monster. I know it’s up there though, inside of me, twisting and growing, biding its time, like an Arthur Scargill in the healthy body politic of eighties Britain, the enemy within.

I get out and visit another couple of hoors, one Thai, one black. The black one looked at my balls as if she had never seen white meat before. Maybe it’s the rash, it’s definitely getting worse.

Worse.

I put in another shift of afternoon drinking, Heineken and geneva, before I scored some good, gum-numbing cocaine fae a guy in a brown bar. Then I was back out on the piss. That’s the thing aboot charlie: gies ye superhuman drinking powers. No that I need them.