Skagboys (52 page)

I wasn’t feeling too bad at first; ah’d sorted myself out wi a ride for the shifts. I miss Lucinda, and ah cannae abide sleeping withoot a bedwarmer. That Charlene seems like a feisty wee banger, a no-questions-asked-or-demands-made fuck-artist. We’re chewing the shit, watching the passengers, who really are the dregs ay this planet, tramping onto the boat like cattle. Happily, though, there are one or two filthy-looking lassies in the mix. Then we’re off. Basically, we cabin staff, or ‘operatives’, are simply a presence designed tae monitor the ‘customers’, as the passengers are now redesignated.

Then ah was aware that ah wis starting tae get edgy, wondering where that cunt Renton was. He’ll have found a darkened, enclosed space tae entomb himself in, ay that I’ve nae doots. The words
holding out
are resonating in ma brain, when ah’m torn away fae Charlene and compelled tae follow Cream Shirt in his pursuit ay a mob of London lads who rush past us towards the bar. Ah hear the fractious singing that has been coming from that direction suddenly stopped by a shattering sound ay what can only be breaking glass. Then there’s shouting and Cream Shirt runs through the bar doors waving his arms in the air, as passengers panic and stampede outside.

Ah follow him in, through the retreating travellers. A rammy has kicked off on the other side ay the bar area. I think it’s West Ham versus Manchester United, but I know not and care less. Violence is an occasionally useful tool, but the recreational stuff is the vice ay losers like Begbie, whom I heard got a year for wounding some Lochend prick. This is all getting a little heavy though; a few clowns ineffectively windmill on the peripheries, and still more indulge in hollow gesticulation, but the main brawl’s like a tornado, with about a dozen bodies at the centre of it, having a proper toe-to-toe. Passengers panic, charging outside, kids and women scream, and straight fuckers indulge in pained protest about ‘animals’. Crème de la Shirt shakes my shoulder, pleading, — We have to stop them! They’re wrecking the place!

— I think I might just opt to pass on that one, Martin, and leave it to security, I inform him, as a glass shatters against the bar behind us. — Or the police? You know, people who get paid decent money tae risk life and limb in such situations?

— It says in your job description ‘any other reasonable duties as determined appropriate by management’.

— Right! ah trumpet, turning sharply away from the ruckus. — Is there a shop steward on this poxy fucking rust bucket?

Creambo briefly looks at me with a betrayed pout, but fair play, he’s certainly going for the Queen’s Industry Award, as he marches right intae the heart ay the Reg Varney. Ah cautiously follow, and all hell’s breaking loose as the last absenting passengers, stag lads who were on the verge ay steaming in but have now decided it’s too rich for their blood, pile past us tae get away fae the fracas. More glass smashes and beseeching, gullet-wrenched invitations to join the row fill the air. Ah should get the fuck ootay here, but this ah huv tae see, cause Cream Shirt is lisping, pouting and farting his wey right intae the middle ay the swedge, screaming, — STOP! STOP IT!

To my astonishment, some ay the football lads briefly pause, each too embarrassed tae be seen tae be the yin banjoing this midget, Cuban-heeled fag. They are obviously all actual, or aspiring, top boys, quickly realising that any hands-on involvement in a skirmish wi a short-arse nancy can only diminish their standing. Eventually a young ragamuffin foot soldier in a rather smart top steps up and panels Creambo with a sweet right hook, knocking him on his arse and bursting his nose open. The northern mob take this as their cue to withdraw, shouting threats as they inch towards the exit. Everything has just miraculously stopped.

— You want some n all, you cahnt? the kid asks me.

With that ugly crack ay fist against bone still resonating in my ear, ah can dae without pursuing that particular option, thank you kindly. Ah gesture towards some older lads, who thankfully tell the impatient young Jedi tae calm doon, pointing him in the way ay the retreating northerners. The few remaining passengers sit paralysed with fear, but the West Ham boys, with the possible exception of young Skywalker, seem too disciplined a mob tae have any interest in bullying civilians.

— I’m sorry we interrupted you chaps from your business, ah say appreciatively, but they’re away in pursuit of the northerners. Ah help Cream Shirt tae his feet and out ay the bar, taking care tae avoid that doubtlessly infected claret shooshing fae his smashed nose aw ower the sacred company garment that gies him his nickname.

— It’sth not on … he protests, holding a hand tae his shattered beak as ah escort him through double doors, — they’re wrecking the boat …

— Worry ye not, shipmate, ah urge, sliding ma hand inside his jacket and removing a wallet which ah slip deftly intae ma trooser pocket. That yin will be put doon tae the melee. — These boys will punch themselves out soon. Let’s get you doon tae sick bay.

Ah take the stricken brown-hatter downstairs and deposit him in the
medical
room, where a fat Hattie Jacques-type nurse is bandaging a nutter’s head wound. His two mates stand around sheepishly, smirking at each other as the wounded lad moans in a Manc accent, — Didn’t coom ere t’fight West Ham, — came over ere t’ave it wi Anderlecht …

— Wait here, Martin, I’ll see if I can try and calm things down, and ah leave Creambo, planning on heading straight back tae ma cabin tae crash. Ah’m no getting peyed enough tae try and separate bams hell-bent on smashing each other up. Ah could
never
be paid enough.

En route, ah stroll along the deck, counting oot the loot; forty-two quid, a bank card, n a picture ay a ludicrously bright-eyed gay nephew wi a blond cooslick spiralling heavenwards, like the ice cream on a Mr Whippy cone. Ah pocket the cash and chuck the rest into the cruel sea. It’s a great feeling tae know that ah’ve executed the perfect crime. The wallet will never, ever be found and probably every West Ham and Man U lad will be given the full cavity search by the Dutch polis at the Hook, when the avenging queen phones this yin in.

Getting back doon intae the cabin, ah chase some brown and slump intae a contented semi-doze. Ah mind ay some cunt knocking at the door, but no way was ah answering for a single soul. Ah know that Renton’s holding out on me for the simple reason that if ah’ve kept some percy back then he’ll undoubtedly have followed suit.

Rising at my leisure, determined tae track doon ole Ginger Baws, ah was surprised tae note that the ship was already berthed in the Hook and the cars had started rolling off. Upstairs the bar had been wrecked; a couple of donkeys and a chunky barrow girl are sweeping the floor as Beige Blouse snaps pictures ay the damage, presumably for insurance purposes. I see a squad ay Dutch polis at the pier, but it seems like they can’t be bothered tae make a single arrest, as the cockney mob pile off, chanting, ‘We are the bastards in claret n blue.’ A shocked queeny staffer tells me that one lad was taken tae hospital wi his throat cut; the sea air must have got some bam carried away.

Yar, me hearties!

Ah head back up tae the office where ah see Cream Shirt wi a heavy bandage taped across his neb, talking on the radio, no doubt tae polis or port security. He puts the receiver down, and looks like he’s about to chastise me for vanishing.

— How are you? I get in first, full ay bogus concern.

— I’m fine … thanks for your help there … but where have you been?

— Looking for Mark and trying tae calm down some of our more
irate
passengers. An elderly lady was very distressed by the violence. I thought it prudent to sit with her for a bit.

— Yes … good thinking … God, there will be hell to pay when Mr Benson hears of this. He cringes at the thought. — I’ll see you down in the bar.

— Righto, I say wi a crisp salute. Outside the doors, on the glass–strewn deck, an open-mouthed flycatcher pushes a brush along with the gusto of a crippled sloth on Mogadon. Fuck me, there are so many community-care types working on this boat that somebody even vaguely normal immediately becomes indispensable whether they like it or no.

So ah go back doon tae the wrecked boozer, and there’s Nicksy, without his bow tie and his waistcoat open, sat at the bar sipping a Scotch. The barman, who introduces himself as Wesley from Norwich, isnae giein a flying fuck, he’s happy to be in one piece, so I help myself to a malt ah dinnae intend tae drink and faux-toast Nicksy. —
Slàinte
.

There’s nae sign ay wee Charlene, and where is that cunt Renton?

3. Car Deck

Ah love this idea ay huvin what the fitba pundits call a ‘rovin commission’: sortay no being stuck in any one role. So ah’m taking it on masel tae walk roond the vessel, chattin tae people as ah go, making sure that everything is shipshape. Schopenhauer said that a man can only be himself so long as he’s on his Jack Jones, while Nietzsche reckoned all truly great thoughts are conceived by walking. Ah could see masel as a ship’s captain ay the people; huvin a wee stroll aroond checking cunts oot, perhaps inviting a pretty lady or two tae join us at the captain’s table, while ah entertained them wi racy tales ay nautical life in the port ay Leith.

Ah’m a seafarin man: it’s in ma blood. Ah’m thinkin that Sick Boy wid just love tae be in ma shoes right now, though he’s probably workin some scam ay his ain.

Raised voices comin fae above signal aggro, which means work, so ah head doon, away fae the action, descendin the metal staircase tae the bowels. Doon below us, there’s tons and tons ay parked motors n lorries. A gadgie in a boiler suit shouts fae the landin above that ah shouldnae be doon here. Story ay ma life. Always somewhere ah shouldnae be. Like Planet Earth. — Aye. Right. Catch ye later, ah wave, carryin on ma merry wey.

A metal clang comes fae above, soundin like the crashin ay a giant cymbal. Ah feel the engines below me pumpin up the ship, drivin it on across the North Sea. Ah hit the bottom, tae the rows ay vehicles. Ah’m well blissed out; it’s good gear, this broon. So ah’m sittin doon between some cars. Time passes, or it doesnae. Whae cares? Ah start tae idly key a smart estate motor then ah think, fuck it, the class war can wait, the class As cannae. Eftir a bit ah’m roused by the sound ay footsteps and chatterin as people descend and get intae their motors. Risin, ah haul masel up the metal steps back onto the decks and ah go intae the bar, which is totally trashed. — Have ah missed anything exciting? ah smirk at Sick Boy and Nicksy.

The Cream Shirt gadge is here, giein orders tae the staff whae ur tryin tae clean up. One ay the barrow girls is daein her Mrs Mop routine on a trail ay thick droaps ay spilled Roy Hudd. Cream Shirt’s taken a healthy lick across the snout. He clocks me and goes, — Where have you been? Then he inches closer, showin me his burst neb. — Have you been drinking?

— Ah felt really sick, ah say, aw torpid and heavy-eyed, — ah think it’s the flu. Had tae lie doon for a bit. Drank tons ay that Night Nurse. Tell us that stuff doesnae knock ye oot, ah say, lookin tae Sick Boy for backup.

He steps in wi a reluctant, — If you have a wee lassie’s constitution, then aye.

It just aboot throws Creambo off the scent. — If you were sick you should have come to see me or your supervisor.

— That’s the problem, ah concede, — ah dinnae seem tae be oan anybody’s list but, eh … wisnae sure whaire tae go tae, eh, no … ah tell the cunt, sliding intae the slack-jawed schemie defence ay contrived ignorance, a tried and tested method for exasperating authority figures.

— Julian! Cream Shirt calls over Beige Blouse and as sure as
Songs of Praise
comin oan the telly when you’re brutally hung-over, the cunts cannae reconcile ma name oan their poxy lists. — Right, well then, we’ll have you in the kitchen, working with Chef, the Cream-Shirt-lifting arse bandito pouts in petty triumph.

Aw-aw … hate comes tae toon
…

Not good news. But I’ll sort that later, as now we have time off and ah want tae hit ma scratcher. Sick Boy’s hearin nane ay it but, he’s got his Amsterdam party heid oan. — We’re half an hour away from the most fun place on Planet Earth, and you’re going to lie in a box in the sweaty bowels of a docked ship, feeling sick and indulging in half-hearted, feeble attempts at masturbation? Fine. Be my guest. Lightweight!

Ah feel pit oan the spot, cause there’s a few gazes oan me, and that wee Fawcett-Plant’s one ay them, a twinkle in her eye and a crease on her lips.

— Okay, ah hear myself concede. — Ah need some speed but.

One–nil, Williamson
.

Nicksy’s reluctant but Sick Boy’s leadin the charge wi gusto. Ah learn that the Fawcett-Plant lassie’s called Charlene, and she sleekitly says, — I’m up for it.

Ah realise that the spawny bastard’s probably went n pulled her. Ah suppose it wis inevitable.

— C’mon, you party-pooping cunts, Sick Boy says, — we’ll get some speed and suss out the situ.

— I dunno, Nicksy goes, — Marriott might want us to, you know … He looks towards Charlene.

She takes the hint and says, — Right, I’m gonna get changed. See you in fifteen minutes?

— Sound, Sick Boy says to her, then snaps at Nicksy, — Fuck Marriott. I’m no that sure about this deal, Nicksy, ah want tae check it oot first.

— Goat tae agree, ah’m noddin. — This is our first night off. Ah’m no hanging aboot wi that junky fag and listenin tae his gangster bullshit. Cunt’ll jist huv tae cool his fuckin jets fir a bit.

Ah thoat Nicksy might be miffed, cause he set aw this up, but he doesnae seem tae gie a fuck. — Okay, he shrugs. — I gotta say that he’s getting right on my farking tits, he looks around the bar, — in yer farking face all the time.

So we get changed, then we’re off the boat and oantae the choo-choo tae the Dam. It’s me, Sick Boy, Nicksy and the lovely Charlene, who’s all made up, and wearing what looks like really expensive threads. It’s like she’s some yuppie gaun tae a presentation or something, but she’s goat her Sealink holdall wi her. As she goes tae the lavvy, Sick Boy whispers tae us, — What’s gaun on there? She fuckin DS or what?