Monday night, Christmas bash. Private room at the Holiday Inn in the centre of town, well out of our patch. DJ playing all sorts of dance chart shit. Can't really expect him to play Dylan all night, can we? Still got the horrors of the karaoke to come. We're all expecting to hear Bloonsbury's drunken rendition of Can't Help Falling in Love for the three hundredth time, and a lot worse besides.
There's been a lot of ethnic cleansing in the world, but how come no one ever ethnically cleansed the fucker that brought karaoke to the western world?
It's just after midnight and already the party's beginning to break up. You get the sensible crowd who disappear home early, then you can guarantee the remaining hard core will be here until it's time to go to work tomorrow morning. There's always a lottery to get the day off, which I never win, but since Peggy kicked me out I spend half the year going into work straight from a long night before anyway. One more day just before Christmas doesn't make any difference.
The Super is long gone. The chocolates were hardly off the table and she was out the door. Her old man gets in from Washington tonight, so she's off back to the castle in Helensburgh to warm up the bed, though from what they say she'll probably be asleep by the time he shows up.
Herrod looks miserable. I expect Bernadette's got a chastity belt on him and has melted down the key. She's got her two kids and now there's no need for any further sex. Every time I meet her I wonder what the hell he was thinking. Not that the first Mrs Herrod was any better.
'Same again, Sergeant?' Dragged from people watching by the familiar chant. Raucous, bloody noise, Born This Way and a few poor saps making an arse of themselves on the dance floor. Including, I can't help but notice, PC Bathurst, absolutely stunning in a skin-tight white number. She's got a few of her type running after her but I think I might make a go of it myself, over twice her age though I am. Not quite drunk enough yet.
'Aye, no bother,' I say to the boss. He asks the same of Herrod then plods morosely off to the bar.
Taylor has been on edge all evening. Seems to think that if he lets his concentration slip he might end up in bed with DS Murphy from Westburn, as he did last year. Don't think he's told Debbie about it but it's plagued him ever since. I've said to him; if you're going to screw around behind your wife's back then it's the same as anything else. You've got to give it a hundred percent or it won't work out. He never listens. One drunken shag, then he fended Murphy off for a couple of months until she lost interest. He's spent the last year feeling like a total bastard, hoping that the wife never finds out. I suspect, however, that she might not even care.
Herrod drains a Bacardi and Coke. I mean, a forty-six year-old man drinking Bacardi and Coke, for God's sake.
'Jonah's been saying all month that he's not singing this year. It's offensive to the King, he says.'
I laugh, but have to admit to it being a snort by now. That's vodka for you.
'So what's he been doing for the last ten years?'
'Blaspheming. Says he's repented. Never again. The King is God, and all that shite.'
We both look over at Bloonsbury, the great Elvis apologist; three tables away, spectacularly fucked out of his face on cheap whisky and in the process of making a monumental idiot of himself over some young tart from out of our patch, who none of us has ever seen before.
'Who's that he's drooling over?'
Herrod shrugs. 'Some stupid bitch from Shettleston. Wee scrubber.'
'He's got a chance though.'
'No way. The man can't get it up when he's sober, never mind in that fucking state. His penis hasn't seen any action since Beattie walked out. Even then, it hadn't got behind enemy lines for about eight year.'
Bloonsbury rests a hand on the scrubber's knee, doesn't take long before he slips it under her skirt. The scrubber does not protest. Herrod grunts, shakes his head, and turns away. Jealous.
'Bastard.'
Taylor, the white knight, returns with the alcohol. Notice, with dismay, that he's moved onto orange juice. He parks himself, distributes the booze, looks morosely around the dance floor. In the midst of the tumult the DJ has for some reason stuck on that tragic ode to psycho-women everywhere, Someone Like You, sending most sane men running to the toilet to heave, and everyone else onto the floor in rapturous convulsions of concupiscence, slabbering all over each other and practically having sex where they stand.
'What's the matter with you?' I say to Taylor.
He doesn't notice. I repeat it. He looks round, shrugs.
'Just thinking about Debbie,' he says.
Have a horrible feeling that if I pursue my line of enquiry he's about to get maudlin and am in no frame of mind to listen to that. Change the subject.
'Herrod says that Jonah isn't going to do Elvis this year. Blasphemy, apparently.'
Taylor grunts. 'Fucking Elvis,' he says.
We look at Bloonsbury, his face now surgically attached to that of the scrubber. If she sucks all the alcohol out of him he might wake up to what he's letting himself in for. As it is, even if he doesn't submit to the full horrors which await him, he's still going to suffer the ridicule of all fair-minded men for snogging a pit bull in front of us all. Idiot.
'If we're lucky, he'll be too carried away with Lassie there,' says Herrod, 'and the singing will pass him by. What do you think?'
Neither of us answer. There's no way he won't sing. We descend into morose silence and watch the doings on the dance floor. I could be wrong, but it seems that Police Constable Forsyth is having sex with some minger from up our way. Hard to tell and I strain to see properly. They're clamped pretty close together, her skirt's bunched up and I'd swear he's got his dick out. I laugh, take a large drain of the vodka tonic and sit back.
The music comes to a halt, couples detach, apart from Forsyth and his girlfriend who waddle over to a dark corner, and the DJ starts exhorting idiots to step up and sing. Everyone looks at Bloonsbury and the man does not disappoint. Accepting the rapturous and ironic applause, he removes himself from his hound dog and makes his way towards the microphone. Mumbles something to the DJ and turns to his audience. Winks and points at the wolf. Herrod and I laugh harshly. This could be even funnier than usual.
And then, as if Elvis is watching and can't stand to be blasphemed, we are treated to some divine intervention. A sober officer with a moustache walks through the room. Everyone looks at him. He stands out a mile. Makes his way towards our table. Me and Taylor look at each other and mouth 'fuck', just as Bloonsbury fluffs the first line of his song, smiling at the Rottweiler as he does so.
The moustache arrives. We are unimpressed. Bang goes my tryst with Bathurst that I've started to imagine is some sort of shootie-in. He stands at the table, looks down at us. The lot of the police officer: to get your life constantly interrupted by work, even when you're not having a good time.
He bends forwards, starts shouting into Herrod's ear. Herrod's face drops onto the table and he looks morosely over at Bloonsbury. 'Shall I stay?' he's warbling, and no you bloody well shan't, is the reply. You're obviously out of here, mate, with crime to investigate. Taylor and I nearly reach over and kiss each other. No pleasure greater than thinking you're about to be dragged off then finding it's some other poor sod who's in the soup.
Herrod gets up, head shaking and looking like a pishing wet day in Largs. Taylor and I clink glasses and watch him mince over to Elvis and mutter something at him. Then with a 'Fuck's sake' shouted into the microphone, Bloonsbury removes himself from the stage and starts the long trudge back to work. Grabs his coat, gives the stankmonster a grimace and he and Herrod troop out to the ribald cheering of the rest of us.
It's times like this that make it all worthwhile.
I survey the scene with renewed good humour. Constable Edwards gets up and starts a passable Robbie impersonation, taking his top off as he goes — really, these young plods should learn to keep everything undercover until they've got some chest hair — and I, flushed with unexpected romantic bravado, decide it's time to make my move on Bathurst.
I down the rest of the glass and excuse myself from Taylor. He nods, doesn't mind — he's smiling at last — and I worm my way over. She's standing with her back to the wall under a picture of John Lennon in a policeman's helmet — some clown's idea of a joke — and looking gorgeous with a glass of white liquor in her hands. She smiles at me and she's alone. Good start. Like scoring a goal in the first minute. I manage to stop myself doing that drunk thing where you lean on the wall next to the girl and drool on her. Keep a respectful distance.
'How you doing, Evelyn?'
A reasonable opening. Nothing fancy, nothing smart. Nice and easy does it.
She smiles and nods, not intimidated by having a drunk, forty-four year-old detective sergeant hitting on her.
'I'm fine,' she says. 'You? That's a nice jacket you're wearing.'
Two-nil.
I smile — there's a lot of smiling going on. I hope nobody's watching or they'll vomit. It's got to be done, though.
'Thanks. You're not looking too bad yourself.'
'You like this dress?' she says. No, not says, gushes. Her lips are moist, her nipples are hard and straining against the material, her eyes are showing glorious signs of intoxication.
'Like it? It's fucking stunning, Hen.' Hesitate, think about it; might as well jump in head first. 'You're fucking stunning.' I'm all charm, me.
She laughs. Three-nil. Think she's going to say something, but doesn't. Her eyes say it all though. She's gagging for it. Probably heard about me from at least fifteen other women at the station. I'm drunk, horny, and I feel about eighteen years-old. There's no stopping me now. Caution to the wind. Give it half an hour and I'm going to be lying back on my bed and this wonderful young thing is going to be on top and fucking the absolute life out of me, those fantastic breasts right in front of my face. Picture it. I mean, really.
'I was thinking of leaving here,' I say. 'You know. All this karaoke crap. Fancy coming back to my place?'
She laughs again. I could shag that laugh.
'I don't think so.'
What? Time. Slows. Down.
Three-one.
'Why not?' Try not to sound desperate.
'Well, it wouldn't be right.'
Three-two.
What's she talking about?
'Why?' Maintain control.
'Well… it'd be like shagging my dad.'
Fuck.
An equaliser, a winner and at least fifteen more goals just to rub it in.
She has the decency to look a bit embarrassed after that remark but once the ball's in the net, it's in the net. Contemplate a rearguard action, possibly a scorched earth policy, decide the better of it. Everyone's interests will be best served by a quick withdrawal.
I shrug. 'Right enough, then,' I say.
She laughs, looks embarrassed again, doesn't say anything. The final whistle blows, I turn my back and walk off. Imagine that every other bastard in the place is laughing at me. Find Taylor sitting alone at the table, looking morose again.
'Didn't get a lumber, then?' he says.
I nod, sneer, start to make my way to the bar. There's a bubbling annoyance in my head born of embarrassment. 'Want something stiffer this time?'
Taylor thinks about it, then says, 'Johnnie Walker.'
Right. I mince off to the bar, feeling like I've had my balls cut off and determined to get even more tanked out of my face than usual. Look to the middle of the floor to watch Edwards nearing the end of his Robbie Williams performance. Not surprisingly, he's bollock-naked and making a total arse of himself. He may have no chest hair, but at least his knob is in fine form.
Fucking idiot.