— Not my problem, Sick Boy says snootily.
Marriott turns tae me in blind panic. — You ain’t gonna let me down n all, are ya?
— Now ye mention it: aye, ah tell him, as his chin nearly hits the cobblestones. The cunt looks like he’s deciding whether tae slap ma chops or burst intae tears. — Sorry, pal, nowt personal likes, ah lies, — but you’ve been railroading us intae this scene. Ah’ve been daein the sums in ma heid: grams, jail time, pay-off. It just disnae add up.
— There won’t be any farking jail time, he squeals in frustration, — I told ya about the customs geezers! It’s watertight!
— Then there should be absolutely no problem at all for you in finding suitably enlightened parties all too keen tae grasp this unique business opportunity yir presenting, ah goes, now really enjoyin masel, as ah clock Sick Boy’s widening smile.
Marriott starts hyperventilating and turns tae Nicksy. — You told me they was staunch, you cunt –
Nicksy goes fuckin radge. — Who the fark are you callin a cunt! He springs up and bends over Marriott, who skulks back in his chair. — I got farking well more to think about than you and your shitty farking drug deals, you scrawny farking two-bob wankah!
The Canadian backpackers, both white-faced, wholesome speckoids, turn roond in their seats, lookin oan anxiously. Nicksy boots the Sealink bag and it tips ower oan its side n one packet ay gear slides oot oantae the cobblestones. Ah have tae say that ah’ve never seen ten grams ay skag before in ma puff, and although it’s only the size ay a wee packet ay sweeties rather than the standard copin bag ay half a g, which is aboot two big gairden peas’ worth, ah just want tae fuckin well grab it! Marriott’s first though: he makes a gurgling sound n dives doon, scooping the packet intae the holdall and zipping it up in one manic motion.
We nod tae each other and get up, headin back ower tae the Grasshopper. — You ain’t heard the last of this, Marriott shouts, as the waitress comes ower with four milky coffees. We look back and laugh as the twitching imbecile tries to fish the guilders out ay his pocket tae pey her.
— You fucking well telt that choob where tae go, mate. Sick Boy raises Nicksy’s arm in the air, victorious-boxer-style, as we cross the square. — ICF!
— Got a feeling I’ll be needing all the contacts I’ve got ta get us outta this farking mess, he says ruefully, — but he was takin the farking piss, wasn’t he?
— Aye, ah agree, — but he’s a fuckin gobshite. He’s gaunny dae nowt.
— It ain’t him I’m worried about. Nicksy shakes his heid, then looks pointedly at me. — Ya don’t think that was his gear, do ya?
— Right … ah suddenly tipple, feelin a bit ay a prick, n git a sinkin sensation in ma gut.
— Gentlemen, I think our little stint at Sealink might be coming tae an end, Sick Boy declares, as he throws open the doors and we move back intae the Grasshopper. As Nicksy and I nod in agreement, he adds rakishly, — But right now there are ladies to be entertained, and entertain them we must!
Desertion
AT BREAKFAST THE following morning, Marriott greeted his deserting ex-comrades with an expression of loathing only a man compelled to make a solitary run through customs with fifty grams of heroin could hope to muster. Despite his success, he’d lost what felt like several pounds in sweat his gaunt frame could ill-afford. He resolved that he’d sort this problem out himself rather than call his boss; that would only incur Gal’s displeasure, and he’d still end up having to fix things. But a dark resentment flooded him. Once he’d found new recruits, he’d call in some favours and those arseholes would pay dearly.
Marriott’s brooding silence informed Renton, Sick Boy and Nicksy that vengeance was certainly on his mind. So, on returning to Hackney, they decided it was unwise to go back to Sealink. That Charlene had also opted to pack in the high seas made it an easy decision for Renton. Despite the fact he knew little about her, other than that she thieved for a living, came from Chatham and ‘usually’ lived in Kennington (he’d somewhat hopefully mixed it up with Kensington till she put him right), he liked her and wanted to learn more. They spent the next night together in Beatrice Webb House, Renton elated that Sick Boy had absented himself, presumably to Lucinda’s or Andreas’s, where he more often than not seemed to stay. On the mattress in the spare room, she tells him, after some morning love has warmed up their bodies, — I’m glad you ain’t goin back on that poxy boat either. I know what you were up ta … with that Marriott geezer n all that. Everybody talked about it.
— What? Renton is aghast, now even more relieved they had literally jumped ship. It wasn’t that they were discreet, he glumly realises; the stark truth is that nobody even cares. But that’ll change: the company’ll see to that. This is, after all, the epoch of the scab and the grass.
— Leave that shit, Charlene advises, head propped up on her elbow. Her tight features pinched together in the thin morning sun that spills through the wicker blinds give Renton the first impression that, despite her stub nose and elfin frame, she’s perhaps older than him. — You’ll do serious time if ya get yer collar felt for that. Blimey, I know something well dodgy when I see it. Benson had a security firm come in last week, ya know.
— But that was just tae review the procedures for dealing wi bother. Cause ay the riot wi the fitba boys n that.
Charlene narrows her eyes further. — You seriously think that’s all it was, you wally?
He doesn’t. Renton knows what’s happening at the company. But he’s led her to believe that it was this, along with Marriott’s rancour, which has sealed the deal for him. Doesn’t want to tell her that there’s no way he’s going back to Sealink if she isn’t. But what is she planning to do, in the long term? He certainly knows her immediate concerns, as they once again head into the West End.
Suited up, Charlene’s blonde mane is tied into a low ponytail, save for two tendrils hanging loose over each ear, curled into spirals and blasted stiff with hairspray. He’s dressed, at her promptings, in his solitary dark blue Leith Provi weddings and funerals suit. As he sits waiting in Carnaby Street, she steals him some black leather shoes and a light blue silk shirt with matching tie, a gesture that makes him almost cry in appreciation. Renton’s blown away by her professionalism, her Sealink bag lined with tinfoil to avoid setting off security alarms. Ducking down a side lane he replaces his old trainers and T-shirt, and steps back blinking into the light and shoppers. — Now you’re ready, she says, straightening the tie like it was his first day at school. They get to John Lewis’s in Oxford Street and fill up on goods, Renton swiping a Fred Perry for percy. In the toilets, he chases a bit of brown he’d recently procured, along with some good base speed, as he inspects his haul. He sits there for ages with the small window open trying to disperse various fumes. Finally emerging, loose-limbed and slack-featured, paranoid that Charlene has done a runner or got huckled, his expression lifts as his eyes meet her mischievous smile. They link arms and swagger out of the store, buzzing with their success.
They snog and grope all the way to Highbury & Islington, Renton sucking mucus down the back of his throat to avoid slathering it in Charlene’s face. The flat of his palm sits pushed against her stomach, secured by her skirt waistband, content to slide no further. Her hand grapples his thigh, her wrist rubbing against his drug semi-erection. While he’s making dizzy plans for the future, Charlene is being browbeaten by the nagging recollection that she loves somebody else and is supposed to be preparing to dump her Scottish consort. By the time they’ve left the Victoria Line for the overland to Dalston Kingsland, her guilt induces a coldness and distance, but Renton is both too skagged up and emotionally inexperienced to really notice or care that much about her mood swings. They get to Beatrice Webb House, and when the lift works they unleash simultaneous sighs of victory, disconcerted at how completely they’ve fallen into a joint rhythm.