Skagboys (41 page)

But now it’s time for business. We’re biddin tae enter the dual worlds ay modern employment: a legit job on the ferries and drug scamming through a contact ay Nicksy’s. Ah look at ma watch, signal tae the others, and we drink up and cross the road tae Liverpool Street Station. Sick Boy has one last snog wi Lucinda on the platform, before he follows Nicksy and me oantae the Harwich train.

— Unbelievable, he sais, shaking his heid in a strange mixture ay disgust n sadness as a million possibilities seem tae spin through his brain. — Thirsty work, though. He drums the table. — Is there a buffet car oan this fuckin train? Tell ye what, this cunt had better be oan the level, Nicksy, cause ah kin get hooked up wi Andreas in Finsbury Park any fucking time.

This constant Andreas stuff is really gettin oan my fuckin tits, but if I say anything, he’ll put it down tae jealousy. He really is such a total fuckin prick.

But Nicksy remains silent, sitting crumpled against the windae. — You awright? ah ask the cunt, wondering if he’s sick eftir that wee bit we chased this morning. My throat and lungs still huv that bad taint ay the foil.

— Yeah, he sais, — the thing is, Mark –

— Ship ahoy. The carriage door flew open and a scraggy gadgie wi bad skin stands before us. Must be aroond thirty-plus. Nicksy intros him wearily as Paul Marriott, an auld junky acquaintance ay his and Tony’s, whae’s been a seasonal oan the Sealink boats fir yonks. Marriott has a gammy leg and lurches up tae us, fawin intae the vacant seat beside Sick Boy. — Alroight, chaps? he enquires, in the tones ay that cat cunt, the purple fucker, thit wis Roobarb the green dug’s mate. Nicksy had explained that he wis basically the fall guy for the real gangsters further up the line, the sacrificial lamb that wid dae the serious jail time if it aw went erse ower tit. Tae be fair, he seems under few illusions aboot his status; his heavy habit means that he’s naewhaire near as risk-averse as a man intending tae transport a fair auld amount of class As should be. That said, he doesnae want tae go tae jail if he can help it, and he looks us ower with a keen eye. It’s obvious that need is something he can scent a mile away in others. He frowns at Nicksy’s punk gear. — That quiff’ll need flattened down before we go in to see Benson.

Nicksy says something under his breath aboot it no bein a quiff. Marriott doesnae hear or chooses no tae respond, looking mair approvingly at Sick Boy, who has his hair scraped back and tied in a ponytail. Poor Nicksy looks sweaty and strung-out, displaying aw the composure ay a spider trying tae get oot a bathtub.

— So what’s the story with this Benson character? Sick Boy asks, wi his usual taking-over air ay authority.

Marriott looks warily at the cunt. He seems tae suss right away that Sick Boy will either be an incredible asset tae him or a total cuckoo in the nest: there’ll be nae middle groond. — He’s the man you need to get past at the interview to get a start. Remember, he’s looking for cheap, seasonal labour, Marriott sais in his camp, skaggy whine. — His big catchphrase is ‘willing cooperation’. That’s what he wants in a start.

— Don’t we all, Sick Boy grins.

Ignoring him, Marriott carries on. — The ferries were union shops for years but Maggie’s mob fucked them over with new contracts after this privatisation lark and the split from BR. So no bullshit about industrial militancy, workers’ rights, n all that ‘it ain’t my job’ shit. What Benson wants is flexibility. He wants you to say you’ll work anywhere – kitchens, cabins, car decks – and you’ll do anything – cleaning up the puke, unblocking the shithouses. That you’ll do double shifts if he needs you to, and you’ll do it with a farking big smile on your face.

It suits me fine. Ah kin keep ma tongue in ma cheek n dae three-bags-full, if the rewards wir thaire.

— What aboot the gear? Sick Boy enquires.

— You sort out the employment first, then we worry about that later, he snaps, and looks accusingly round at Nicksy, who turns miserably back intae the windae.

The train snakes right intae the port at Harwich International Station at Parkeston Quay. We disembark and go practically fae the platform intae a warren ay prefabricated office buildings, merging with other anxious bodies, being ushered intae a sterile room. Although ah’m starting tae feel badger’s-erse rough, ah check oot the crowd. There’s about a dozen of us, and we look like the dregs, apart fae this cute lassie with crazy hair. We’ve a form tae fill in, then we get our individual interview wi Benson. He comes ower as hostile, a snowman wi hot coals for haemorrhoids. He’s flanked by a fat, middle-aged, personnel officer wifie.

Ah realise that ah’ve nae chance ay getting the job, so ah’m only half-heartedly responding tae their bullshit questions, when Benson says, — Well, as you’ve done a bit of short-order cooking, we’ll probably start
you
off in the kitchens. Just general portering duties, then see how things progress.

Ah’m totally fuckin astonished! There’s about six million cunts on the dole, and they’ve not only gied us the job, but there’s already the implicit offer ay a promotion! Ah briefly feel good aboot masel, until ah get oot n realise that every single fucker that trawled thair scabby erses along tae the interview has been signed up. It seems this fiasco wis merely a screening process tae weed oot any total bams previously sacked and daft enough tae reapply under a different name. Fuck knows how Marriott continually slithers through the net. Ah’m asking masel: what kind ay a fuckin job is this? The other punters were beyond real. No bein wide, but some ay they cunts looked as if they couldnae huv filled in the fuckin form on thair ain.

We’re asked tae stall while aw the individual interviews are finished. It’s only aboot half an hour but it seems an eternity. At one stage ah jist want tae tear through they plasterboard waws. Then Benson comes in tae address us, his lamps still scanning us all, lookin fir a wee exposure ay damaged soul. It’s like the Rolodex in his heid tumbles in rhythm: junkies, dealers n poofs … junkies, dealers n poofs … Me n Nicksy are trying tae queen it up a bit, like we’re an item, a genuine homosexual couple rather than frivolous fun-boys whose indiscriminate brown bombing might reduce the rust tub tae a hive ay infection.

We suspected that even here junkies were no-go, jist completely fucking
persona non grata
. Poor Nicksy: kent how he felt, ah wanted tae go n get sorted soon. A horrible fuckin itch was comin on.

Focusing on the windae behind Benson, ah could see
The Freedom of Choice
docked in the quay, a roll-on, roll-off, or ‘roro vessel’, as Benson refers tae it. His real mission, however, is tae gie us the party line: — It goes without saying that anyone found under the influence of, or in possession of, controlled drugs, will not only receive instant dismissal, but also be liable to prosecution.

Ah admire the affronted expression on Sick Boy. He’s flogged it tae Benson as the genuine article, squeezing oot some back-pedalling penance.

— Not that I’m casting aspersions on you ladies and gentlemen. It’s just that Amsterdam is not far from the Hook of Holland and … well, where people go when they’re off duty is their own concern, as long as it does not affect either the safety or the quality of service provided on this vessel …

He waffles on n ah’m tryin tae tune oot the rest ay his shite by focusing oan the erse ay that wee lassie wi the big sortay Robert Plant hair. Sick
Boy’s
eyes, predictably, are nailed tae the same spot, while Nicksy looks gaga, staring off intae space. Ah hear Benson saying, — Congratulations. You are now officially part of the Sealink family. I shall see you all early next year!

So we were in work. Three, four or six million unemployed, nae cunt kent cause the calculation methods changed wi the frequency ay keks, and the most motley crew yuv ever seen, a combo ay junkies, poofs and fuck knows what else, are engaged in gainful employment for the start ay the spring season at Sealink. Can’t wait to convey tae Mater and Pater the uplifting news that the ginger middle offspring has finally made good!

We take the train back tae London in a celebratory mood, crackin open some cans, as Marriott fills us in on the scam, aw businesslike and Mr Swinging Big Baws. We’re tae go tae the Dam, buy shit fae this gadge there, n take it back oan the boat. — That geezer on the desk, the one I pointed out, Marriott explains, though ah noticed fuck all, — Frankie, he’s the man. He drinks up in the Globe pub in Dovercourt. When we start I’ll take you lads in there to buy him the odd beer, so he gets to know yer faces. Just keep that fucker sweet and you’ll go through on the nod every time. He leaks me the rota details, cause it’s farking crucial to know which of those Customs and Excise cunts are on duty, particularly if a bastard called Ron Curtis is doing the supervisory round. Nobody can get to that cunt. If he rumbles anything we just go ta ground and suck up the pain, even if we’re as sick as hounds.

Ah’m finding it hard tae listen tae the cunt, so are the others. This speed is the business; I’ve done two fat lines up the hooter, and every time that steel wheel sparks on the points, the jolt goes right through the train n up ma spine.

Yee-hah! Roll along covered wagon, roll along
…

The festive vibe intensifies tenfold when a group ay pished lassies in Santa hats get oan at Shenfield. This blonde bird produces some Christmas crackers, and Sick Boy’s right in there, pullin one wi her, then pittin the purple crêpe party hat oan. — I know the Christmas cracker I’d like to pull, he teases lecherously, and as her mates cheer, he ducks in and whispers something in her ear. She jokingly punches his airm, but within a minute they’re snogging each other’s faces off.

Ah’m well sparked up n fill ay mischief, so ah cannae resist pillin oot ma lighter n settin Sick Boy’s hat ablaze.

One lassie puts her hand tae her mooth as the flames shoot up, spreadin instantly tae his hair wi a cracklin, burnin sound. The blonde lassie he’s snoggin wi pushes him away n screams.

—
What
the fuck — he shouts, feverishly pattin at his heid, as burnt bits ay the hat flake off n flutter ower the carriage.

—
Fi-uh … deh-reh-reh … ah take it you’ll burn
… ah sings.

— WHAT YE FUCKIN WELL DAEIN?! PSYCHO CUNT! FUCKIN STUPID BASTARD! FUCK! He lunges ower n punches us in the baws. — THAT WAS FUCKIN DANGEROUS, YA DAFT CUNT!

Ah folds like a razor bein snapped shut, laughin through ma sick pain. — Bastard … Crazy World ay Arthur Broo-ooh-oohn … ah protests.

— You’ll fuckin well pey tae git ma hair cut n styled! Stupid fuckin … Sick Boy mumps, preening himself in the reflection ay the gless windae, but he’s soon back tae the lassie, waving a dismissive back hand at me. — Keep over there. Fucking child.

– I farking despair, Marriott mumbles under his breath. Then one ay the Shenfield lassies, eyes wide and deranged, opens her gob and shouts, — I EHM THE GOD ORF ’ELL FI-AH AND I BRING YOU …

Nicksy n me take up her cue tae burst intae song: —
FI-UH … DEH-REH-REH, I take it you’ll burn
…

Sick Boy’s still glancin daggers at me but the blonde bird’s gittin the maist ay his attention. Ah’m chattin tae the singin lassie. She’s pished, but as cool as fuck. — Owzit them two get ta ave all the fun then, eh?

— They’re amateurs, ah tell her. — Ah’m gaunny snog your face off!

— Whatcha waitin on then?

Ah wisnae waitin, n no bothered at aw aboot ma cracked lips n snottery beak, ma tongue’s right doon her throat. Ah see, though, that Sick Boy’s one step ahead, as per usual; the cunt’s up and leadin the blonde piece through tae the bogs. When we come up for air, Marriott’s hacked off aboot being ignored, but Nicksy’s tellin him we got plenty ay time tae iron oot the details. The cunt kens it n aw; he’s just showboating. We start up another chorus ay ‘Fire’, but argue aboot the words in the verses, as our tins scud oan the tables n the peeves fly back. So we prepare tae hit the West End wi the Shenfield lassies, n Christmas has jist fuckin well started, big time!

Hogmanay

AH TURN FAE
the pish-yellay pages ay ma paperback novel, then deek oot the bus windae at the shimmering half-moon behind the pylons, cutting clean shadows oantae the concrete motorway sidings. It’s the dregs ay December and cauld enough tae freeze the dribbles in yir piss-tube, but the heating’s finally kicked in oan the bus and there’s sweat and condensation rivulets running doon the windae where ma heid’s been resting.

Nicksy n me are ignoring each other under the tepid glaze ay our personal overheid lights as the farts, growls, snores n cackles ay the jakeys oan the rancid coach erupt out ay the semi-darkness at us like the noises ay wild animals in a forest. It’s a cool silence between us though; we’ve kent each other long enough no tae fill the void jist fir the sake ay it. We baith like oor ain space, especially whin wir a wee bit fucked.

Sick Boy wis pretty keen for us tae take Nicksy up tae ours, tellin me how he keeps gaun oan aboot seein Matty, arguin it’s the least we kin dae after him puttin us up. He explained that he’d decided tae stey in London for New Year to go tae parties with Andreas and Lucinda as ‘the histrionics’ ay Edinburgh didnae appeal. He tells me he’s still nipped at Begbie’s ‘aspersions’ towards him, and isn’t inclined to hang out wi him till he gets at least some kind ay apology. Ah telt him no tae hud his breath waitin oan that yin. Ah’m happy tae leave him tae it: fuck being in England at Hogmanay.

As soon as the bus rolls intae St Andrew’s Square we head straight doon tae Montgomery Street, pickin up a cairry-oot on the wey. We’re an ooir late wi aw the traffic tryin tae git intae Edinburgh, cunts comin hame for the New Year, n it’s the back ay ten by the time we gits tae the Monty Street pad, which Spud and Keezbo have sort ay inherited. A perty’s in fill swing and we join in wi gusto. It’s a barry atmosphere, except thit Matty’s barely speakin a word tae Nicksy, whae’s aw ower him, but that wee cunt’s actin like he’s some stranger, instead ay the boy who took us under his wing n showed us London during the height ay punk. Ah’m hacked off wi that wanker. At least Franco’s pally. — So you’re fae London,
mate?
he asks Nicksy, — Ah shagged a bird fae London once, in Benidorm. Mind ay that, Nelly? Benidorm? They two London birds?