FILTH

***Contains some profanity***

Roland had sat at his window all morning. The view wasn’t anywhere near as clear as he would have liked, but then what could he do three flights up with that grimy, ill-fitting pane having long since morphed into its homophonous twin? Thrice he’d complained to the council. The last time he’d been more emphatic with regard to the damp and the mould, but would they listen? As for the state of the communal stairs – well, that’s the residents’ responsibility, sir, please refer to page four, section ten of your tenant’s agreement…

Sir. Said with a sniff-come-sneer, and with the added threat that if he failed to keep ‘his house’ in order then he’d only have himself to blame when he was earmarked for eviction.

He’d cleaned those stairs when he’d first moved in, put notes through his neighbours’ doors suggesting they draw up a rota. One had been returned with the words fuck you, weirdo, scrawled on the back, while another had come bagged up looking like snow on a pile of stinking-fresh human faeces.

He knew why, of course. It had all been that girl’s fault. Cindy. Anyone would think that after twenty years, people would have forgotten. But not round here, not in Gillirig. Besides, what had he done that was so terrible anyway? Exaggerated a bit – well, everyone did that, didn’t they? As for the holes he’d drilled in the bathroom wall, it wasn’t as if he’d even seen much.  Not once she’d poured all that foam into the bath. But off she’d run to that ill-bred, would-be mobster, Carver with his steroid-fuelled limbs, garlic breath, and missing teeth… They were good holes too. Perfect circles. He’d been proud of the way he'd managed to align the ones in the airing cupboard just so, to match with the missing black dots on the white speckled paper.

He hated Carver. The way he’d trashed his former residence, and caused his face to bleed. It had all been so unnecessary. His beautiful apartment overlooking the public gardens, he couldn’t stay there after that; the landlord had kicked up such a fuss. And then he’d lost his job at the bus depot. Luke Hepworth, nightshift manager, had received complaints. Nothing to do with his work - Roland was one of the most meticulous cleaners they’d ever had - but the women, one of whom had got to know Cindy well since her arrival in the town, were up in arms, threatening industrial action.

I mean, Roland, you must admit, you do come across as a little strange, coming into work like you do, in a suit and tie, and then there’s the way you always seem to be watching, breathing down your co-workers’ necks. I’ve also heard that you got a little too close for comfort last night when one of our female employees was bending over.

He’d tried to explain that he was merely ensuring that the woman in question did the job properly, so that when the drivers picked up their vehicles in the morning, the wheels would be spotless. But apparently, that was beside the point. So, Luke had been hearing stories? Well, he’d heard plenty of tales about him. His shenanigans with that fiancée of his, for instance. The way they’d driven her husband, who’d been too old for her in the first place, into an early grave.

He'd blown any chance of a reference then, and hadn’t worked since, unless he could count those government schemes. A week or two at a time sitting in front of a computer learning how to compile a CV and apply for jobs he was completely unsuited to. No one sat next to him. No one spoke to him, or if they did, they called him ‘Rigma’, his boyhood nickname, dreamt up by Carver when his face had been covered in acne – just like the town’s famous Rigma Roll, that sickly lemon icing drizzled sultana and chopped cherry bun.

Yes, he hated Carver, and he hated that bun. Cindy too, even though she was long gone. But there was fun in learning to hate. He knew that now. Filth! He chuckled. Had an acronym ever been more apt?

Eight thirty, and the carpark below Roland’s window was filling up. To his left, the back of the frozen food store, to his right, the boarded-up launderette, the grubby disused toilet block across the way. The disabled could still get in there. He’d watched them use their special keys, although why they would wish to pose further risk to their health by doing so, was beyond him. The steps came next, all litter and mulch and dog’s dirt, leading up through an untidy clump of trees. Due to a lack of lighting, nobody used those steps by night, except the odd drunk on a weekend, too sozzled to care, or some not-quite-as-intoxicated young buck after a bit of how’s-your-father with some lass he’d picked up at the Euphoria club. The things they did were quite disgusting. He’d seen it all through his binoculars. Less so now, of course, that the streetlight by the toilets had as good as given up the ghost, and his window had become even more besmirched by the town’s dirty-weather pollution, but still he watched.

He couldn’t use his binoculars by day. Couldn’t use his phone to record things either, not since that man from upstairs had snatched it from his hand and crushed it underfoot - and that had been a real shame. He could have done with it last week when he’d seen Carver out there plying his illegal trade, and he could have done with it today. What was it with people smashing things up for no reason? Accusing him of all sorts, calling him the vilest of names. Filming? He hadn’t even noticed the little girl. He’d simply been coming up the stairs behind them, looking up artwork online.

Contemporary art, he liked it when it consisted of more than a blotch and a squiggle. And he wasn’t the only one. He could tell by people’s smiles as they got out of their cars and looked past the steps towards the great white building across from the old launderette. Some even had their phones out taking pictures. If only he could be so lucky.

He should have gone to the police, reported that man from upstairs, except how often had he reported Carver, only to end up in trouble himself? The last time they’d taken him in, held him overnight in a cell – and foul it was too – and all because the officer on duty wouldn’t listen. Said he’d had his fill of his ‘unsubstantiated accusations’, his ‘personal vendetta against this man on whom no illegal substances had ever been found, and whose alibis checked out every time’. Besides, hadn’t he lied to them in the past, and for personal gain? That mugging he’d dreamt up ten years ago had even made the local news…

Cindy. She’d been to blame for that. Her and her supposedly infallible system. Before he’d met her, he’d been happy enough popping into the bookies now and then to do his ten pence each way lucky fifteen. He didn’t know much about racing, but he did like horses with certain names. Clean Sweep, Fastidious, Shining Bright, and his all-time favourite, Roland’s Realm. It had won once or twice as well. He’d had three up that day when he’d spotted her, so classily dressed, legs crossed beneath the stool on which she sat writing out her bets. Long blonde hair, hourglass figure, an inviting smile and an oversized Gucci handbag. Fakery, all of it, although he didn’t know it then. He’d been collecting his winnings when he noticed her standing behind him.

At last! Her voice had sung out triumphantly as she’d waved her betting slip in the air.

Good win, was it? Must have a put a wad on that last race to be that excited.

Well, it took a long time, put it that way.

She’d had his curiosity roused from the start, not least of all when she’d invited him out for a drink. Up until then, it had always been him doing the asking, and never with any success. Too nice, he thought, too quiet, too impeccably dressed. Ooh Rigma, love the suit, gonna take your mama out…? Sarcasm en mass. Giggles from friends invited along on sham dates. Well, the joke would be on them one day.

Perhaps he’d been stupid, letting his guard down like that, inviting Cindy to stay – on a purely platonic basis, of course - but he’d liked her, trusted her. How could he not when she’d told him all about herself, that she’d left her tyrannical boyfriend back in Aberdeen, and had travelled down to Gilly to start a new life? Living hand to mouth, she said, reliant upon her system until she found work, but bed and breakfasts were so expensive…

The system itself was genius, he had to admit. Start off with a tiny stake, back any horse priced greater than evens. If it wins, do the same again. If not, double up, and keep on doing so till you score. The only downside (providing you held your nerve) was that you had to have a pile of cash to begin with. Not for him, he’d said, not then. He’d been far too risk averse, but he’d admired her gutsy attitude - kind of in the same way as he’d later admired Carver, even though he hated him. Which was why, one day, after Cindy had been gone a decade, and he’d been living in one of his previous hovels wondering how to possibly make ends meet on that pittance of a fortnightly Giro he’d just received, he’d strolled into the bookies thinking ‘fortune favours the brave’, and why by the end of the day he’d ended up penniless. No food in the fridge. No money to top up the electric. And no one to turn to for help. Not even the social. He’d only just received his benefit, no way would they give him a loan. Hence, he’d gone to the police, told them he’d been mugged, and just for good measure, he’d tried to implicate Carver. He’d been fortunate then. The slap on the wrist he’d received could have been a whole lot worse, and the cash he’d falsely reclaimed from the dole had simply been deducted from his fortnightly cheques over the course of the year. 

A quarter to nine. Roland opened the window a crack – didn’t dare push it further for fear the glass would fall out. There were kids in the carpark. The usual scruffily uniformed crowd heading towards the stairs where they pushed and jostled and dropped their paper bags and empty drinks cans, tossing their half-eaten breakfasts, less to the birds than onto one another’s heads. Except today, they were taking things more slowly, all with their phones out, some doubled up laughing. Best excuse ever this, for missing reg. What d’ya say we show old Letch? He’ll be in his fucking glory. Up the self-expressionists! Up the fucking liberated artists! Fucking arse…

Manners. Respect. They were sadly lacking these days. Still, the girl he’d had his eye on, the older one who looked like Cindy – the real Cindy, not the fake one – she was there, and she hadn’t joined in with the foul-mouthed jibes. Sixth form, he reckoned, for he’d spotted the prefect’s badge. And for all she was laughing now, snap-snapping away like the rest of them, in a week or two, perhaps even sooner, she would look back on those photos and realise their worth.

It had come as a shock when Cindy had thrown off that wig of hers to reveal the dark cropped hair beneath, and when she’d emerged from the bathroom all flat-chested, black widow tattoo on her thigh. ‘Window dressing,’ she’d told him. ‘Gets the guys every time’… He’d stared, lost for words, as visions of Jamie Lee Curtis in ‘Trading Places’ had flashed through his mind. Prostitution? He couldn’t have that! And later, she’d hit the roof for him even suggesting it. Still, whatever the truth, the fact remained she’d deceived him, targeted him in the belief that because he wore a suit and had told that little white lie about his job (well, he’d have made a far more competent manager than Luke, anyway) she could just go on right ahead and take advantage of his kind and generous nature. Besides, he didn’t believe her, not entirely. She had far too much to do with Carver. Helping him to illegally line his pockets was one thing, because in as much as he objected to her smoking it in the house, and had caused him to work many a long daylight hour scrubbing the stains from his walls, she did like her weed. But what if that lowlife was also pimping her out? Who knew what she was up to when he was at the depot? Or when she failed to come home at night? Soiled goods. Filthy. Why hadn’t he stood by his principles and shown her the door? Why had he let her get inside his head? Carver, that’s why. Fucking Carver…

Roland clapped a hand to his mouth. Soap. He needed to fetch the soap, rinse that bad, bad word away. Except he couldn’t leave the window. It was nine o’ clock now, and he had to wait. Had to be there to see.

And that’s all he’d ever wanted to do when he’d drilled those holes. To see. To know that if Cindy was doing all the vile things he imagined, then at least when she did come home, she was cleaning herself properly, washing away all that loathsome dirt. It would help put his mind at ease. Nothing perverse about it.

And he could have explained, had she not screamed at him like she did – calling him sick and twisted, using the most terrible language… And you, who think I’m prostituting myself when you couldn’t be further from the truth. So what if I steal a few wallets? Those men deserve to be robbed, sleazy, pervy bastards that they are, seeing women as nothing more than a piece of arse and a pair of tits. Dumb fuckers, the lot of them, don’t recognize a girl by her face, can’t tell that the one coming out of the toilets with the carrier bag instead of the designer handbag, and minus the slap and the breasts and the wig, is the same fucking chick they watched go in five minutes before… But you…! You need fucking help…!

And with that, his life was ruined…

Not any more though. Thanks to his art, and his learning to hate, he’d already worked out how to turn it around. The fun had started when he’d bought that board and those spray paints, and had sneaked out at night to replace the sign outside the bakery that sold those stupid buns. Home to the Famous Gilly Rigma Roll was finally no more, and for a while had become Gillirig: home to dubious tribute acts, Rob Stewart and The Rolling Stoned.

The back of the DIY superstore where he’d bought the paints had been next. But he’d been nice about this one. Most appreciative, in fact. Those five gold stars emblazoned above the words, does what it says on the tin, might even earn him a commission.

And now there was this. His piece de resistance. Sure, it had taken him half the night to complete, and had cost him dearly in paint, but it had been worth it. Not a soul to disturb him either. No one walked this way after dark midweek, not even the junkies or their dealers. The streetlamp had provided just enough light by which to see, and the powers that be had been ever so thoughtful when they’d decided that white was the perfect background colour for those otherwise uninspiring walls.

And while a few older residents and a couple of members of staff who occupied that building had shaken their heads and tutted, his work had, on the whole, been most favourably received. Captured on camera, many times over, and the day had hardly begun.

But now was when it really mattered. Quarter past nine, Carver time! And here he was, right on cue, heading down the steps. Roland watched him turn the corner. That typical he-man swagger, he’d never lost it. Still thought of himself as King of the Underground Hill.

Well, fuck me! Carver stopped, threw back his head and hollered. Now, what clever arse of a cunt did that…? Fucking legend! Fucking respect! Banksy, eat your fucking heart out!

He'd be grinning all through his Job Centre interview now, but Roland was grinning harder.

Not painting the town

Redundant

Just making work for idle hands

Beautiful… Roland rubbed his hands together. Closed the window. Next, he thought… Next…

The council headquarters would be just perfect for what he had in mind. He’d be caught, of course, arrested, put on trial, and if found guilty, which he surely would be, he’d get community service. He’d heard that the judge at the Sheriff Court liked to dish out sentences in accordance with one’s crimes, and cleaning graffiti from walls would suit him to a tee. But best of all, people would know exactly who he was. He had Carver’s respect now, so he’d have theirs as well. No more Rigma. No more Weirdo or Creep. And, from the royalties earned from his advertising campaigns (because the paint manufacturers and the DIY Superstore were bound to take him up on his kind and generous offer) he’d buy himself a house, higher up the hill than Carver, higher than where Luke Hepworth lived, and he’d have a polished plaque above his door: Home to Roland Grieve who drew the dole for twenty years, then painted it.