LUCINDA IS MY ticket to the good life. It’s time tae stop fannying about and strike; get the ring on her finger, myself moved intae her Notting Hill pad on a permanent basis, then her right up the duff as an insurance policy. At which point her posh Ingloid old boy will have tae come round and acknowledge that Young Williamson is not going away. Then it’s all about sitting tight for a few years before stepping intae the family fortune. In ma pocket is the key that spells commitment with a capital K, the ring ah bought fae that semi-decent jeweller’s in Oxford Street.
She’s defo the sort ay girl you could take home to Mama, and ah might do just that, as Rents and I are feeling the pull ay Caledonia. The giro syndicate means one fortnightly National Express coach trip south tae sign on, and Nicksy is talking about leaving the flat and heading back tae his ma’s for a bit. Ah also want tae check in on poor Spud. He’s meant tae be in a bad way.
And Lucinda wants to slum it. It astonishes me that so many ay her friends have that thing going on. Tae the untrained eye, they perhaps look, act, smell and even talk poor, but somewhere along the yellow brick road, stuffed in a hidey-hole up ahead of them, a big stack ay unearned loot awaits. A pile that changes everything. A heap of dosh that says tae me: fuck off, you empty fake, whenever they drone on in their artificial cockney whines. She’s trying this shit on now, wi irony at the moment, but we both know that if ah gie her any encouragement at all, it’ll be shamelessly adopted as a stylistic device. She’s telling me that ah sound like Sean Connery, while displaying a worrying curiosity about Leith and the Bannanay flats. But if she wants scheme, ah can certainly dae scheme, and I have tae admit that the prospect ay pumping her on a mattress saturated wi the spunk stains and fanny juices of a hundred transients in a Hackney tower block does have a certain trash aesthetic. Then, in that post-coital moment, I shall bring out the ring, and we’ll head north tae meet Mama. There are faces (tae say nothing of fannies) ah miss back hame, and most of all, ah want tae make sure that the scumbag whose rancid cock dribbled me intae existence is not messing my mother about.
We get off the tacky North London Line at Dalston Kingsland, which has the one advantage that it’s effectively free, and head down tae the Holy Street Estate. Lucinda, for all her swagger, tightens her grip on my arm, confirming she’s just that wee bitty too soft for this terrain. Fear not, fair damsel, Simon’s here.
That thieving wee Charlene Fawcett-Majors-Plant chicky that Rents has been canoodling with is coming across the road. Our heads mutually swivel away; we pretend no tae notice each other. Ah’ve better goods on my airm than that wee hing-oot, thank you very much, although Lucinda’s daein ma crust in, slavering on about how it’s so ‘real’ around here. If ah wanted ‘real’ ah’d’ve steyed in Leith, but ah let her cling tae her rich bird’s delusions. But she’s caught Charlene and me pointedly ignoring each other: more suspicion-framing than any gushing acknowledgement. — Who was that girl?
— Oh, just this hostile bint Mark’s been shagging.
— What about that Penny? she says darkly.
— Exactly, I snap. — He has the morals of a sewer rat, that one. I think –
What in the name of fuck …
— What’s going on? Lucinda’s grip tightens on mine again, as a crowd has gathered below Beatrice Webb House. Following the line ay vision ah can see that someone is standing on a ledge ay the tower block, having climbed right oot the fucking windae! It looks like one arm is fastened inside, securing them to this world. And fuck me, it’s Nicksy. — Fuck sakes! That’s my flatmate! Nicksy!
— Simon, that’s terrible … what’s he doing …?
I have to admit that ma first instinct is a fervent hope that he jumps; simply in order tae place myself as a central player in the drama of a short and tragic life. Ah think ay that record collection divvied up between Rents and myself. A stake for a wee bit ay brown, exported back up the road. Cunts wouldnae ken what it was. Then ah realise that it’s no our place he’s hanging ootay, it’s right near the top. It’s that dippit wee pump-up-the-breek’s gaff!
Then ah spy her in the crowd, the doolally Marsha, surrounded by a group ay hungry-eyed black yute and some aulder Caribbean bloaters whae wirnae at the back ay the queue when the rice n peas wis daein its rounds. She clocks me and comes ower, eyes blazing and demented. — He came into my farking flat and started farking shouting! Then he climbed right aht the farking windah, innit!
— He’s a nut job, ah tell her.
Marsha looks at me in acknowledgement that ah couldnae gie a fuck, so she shouldnae really bother pretending tae, or at least no that much. Lucinda and her, two London ladies of different social standing, the posh and the impoverished, regard each other in mutual wariness and intimidation. Marsha turns back tae me and says, — You oughta be looking after him! He’s your flatmate!
— Que sera, sera, ah observe as the wee radge bird’s loony lamps blaze fae me back up tae the fourteenth floor. We’ve nothing more tae say tae each other.
Ah spy the ginger heid of the Rent Boy and approach his edgy, quivering back, though when he clocks us his sly eyes still briefly dance across Lucinda’s chest. — The polis telt us tae get ootside, he whinges. — They willnae let anybody in the stair. They’ve sent some cunt up tae talk tae um! Gear on the coffee table n ivraythin!
He now has ma full attention; ah slap ma heid in exasperation. — If he does anything stupid …
— Fuckin polis could turn the fuckin gaff ower, Renton snaps through clenched yellow teeth.
Lucinda pulls on my hand. — It’s okay, Simon, she reassures me, — the Metropolitan Police know what they’re doing. They receive proper training for these situations.
Receive proper training. Brixton. Broadwater Farm. Stoke Newington. David Martin. Blair Peach. Colin Roach. — Aye, they’re well up wi the game.
He’s still on that narrow ledge, hanging onto the frame. How the fuck did he git oot there? There’s a safety catch so you have to unscrew it tae open the windae past the point where somebody could step out. There’s a polis cordon at the entrance tae the flats; naebody can get in. One old munter is moaning that she has to get through cause her cat needs fed. It falls on deef polis lugs. What the fuck is that dipstick daein, aw this hassle ower a ten-a-penny wee spunk-bucket? Marsha was jumping around on the spot, now she’s weeping and being comforted by her sister. The wee bird’s a decent enough ride, but so damaged as tae be completely unfixable. He musht be able to shee that, Sean, surely? Love ish blind tho, Shimon. This shavyor complex, Sean, why do sho many people have it? Shearch me, buddy.
It’s hard to discern whether Nicksy wants tae jump or has decided it’s no such a good idea, and is too frozen up wi fear tae get back inside. Ah catch Rents muttering something that sounds like, — Fuckin attention-seeking cunt, and I couldnae agree more with the sentiment. Then he spoils it by adding, — If any cunt should be daein that it’s me, and he turns his chalky, spotty, druggie face tae us. — Charlene’s jist chucked us!
— Sorry to hear it, I say, twitching a bit, as you can see Lucinda’s wheels turning as if she’s thinking, I thought he was in a relationship with that Penny … The fucking ginger tramp has only been shagging her for a couple ay weeks; hardly Romeo and Juliet, ah would have thought. — I think he’s trapped himself. I squeeze ‘Cinder’s’ hand, pointing up at floor fourteen, tae divert her dangerous train of thought. Her eyes widen and her mouth forms a fraught, trembling oval.