Renton looks over cursorily, thinking that one isn’t too bad, before his eyes flick back to their original position. — You gettin the baboon vibe?
— Don’t be so immature and sexist. Just cause a chick’s had a kid doesn’t mean thir written off, Sick Boy scoffs.
Renton chooses to ignore him. — That wee honeybunch, he licks his lips, again acknowledging the girl with the big hair, his eyes pulling around in a guileful way that Sick Boy almost appreciates, — she’s gorgeous, he whispers, as they ascend another narrow set of stairs.
— She’s acceptable, Renton, no gorgeous. Sick Boy sucks more air into his chest, hoping some of it will reach his legs.
— Get tae fuck. Check that Robert Plant hair, Renton says, as the inductees struggle onto the next deck, fanning out in assembly. He sees Nicksy, scratching at one really red ear, but can’t locate Marriott anywhere.
— You are a highly disturbed young man, Mr Renton. You would say Robert Plant; I’d prefer to think Farrah Fawcett-Majors, Sick Boy tells him, as Cream Shirt, grasping a clipboard, glances their way. He’s started his spiel and, in face of the competition from the back, raises his voice a decibel, picking them out as potential troublemakers. — So when the alarm rings, we all have to be fully pursuant with our evacuation duties.
— Aye, but great hair, Renton nudges Sick Boy, — however ye look at it. Besides, fuck Farrah Fawcett-Majors: Kate Jackson’s the sexiest Angel. That husky voice …
Sick Boy looks to Cream Shirt, still blowing compressed hot air through those tight, pursed, cock-sucking lips that would undoubtedly make him a hit in fagland, now whingeing on about what to do if the boat sinks. Fuck aw that baws, if such an event occurs ye run tae the nearest lifeboat elbowing every cunt in your path ootay the fucking road. He edges closer to Renton. — We’re talking about a woman here, Rents. A sexy woman. We can debate Fawcett-Majors versus Jackson, or Plant versus Page, but the analogy you used in this context was disturbingly homosexual. Are you getting curious being on this boat, Rent Boy? he asks, as Cream Shirt stiffens, and once again picks up his volume. — … to know exactly where each evacuation station is situated …
— Fuck off, your cock would be the last yin ah’d suck, Renton says, and the Girl With the Big Hair hears this, placing her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.
— The last, perhaps, but I notice that you still fall short of ruling it out. Kind ay makes my point for me, wouldn’t ye say?
— Ah deployed a fuckin figure ay speech, ya cunt, Renton whispers. — Ah’m happy tae rule it oot, one hundred per cent.
The Girl With the Big Hair again looks round, this time checking them out, forcing Cream Shirt once more to raise his voice. — … under the 1974 Health and Safety at Work Act …
— Delighted tae hear it, Sick Boy says to Renton.
— Dinnae sound sae hurt then.
— Oh God, Sick Boy retorts in bitter sarcasm, — see it fae my point of view. I’ve always wanted tae gaze doon on your badly dyed heid wi the ginger roots while your rotten teeth grate on ma baws. That’s been a fantasy ay mine since ah was knee-high tae a grasshopper. Now it’ll never be. Boo-hoo. Woe is me!
His indignant tones soar further on this tirade, attracting the laughter of more inductees, and Cream Shirt has had enough of the distraction. — Perhaps … he looks at Sick Boy with what the recipient worryingly sees as bend-over-and-spread-em eyes, then back to his list, — Simon … might share his little joke with us? Seeing as it’s obviously more important than our health and safety on this ship!
— No joke, ehm … Martin, the self-styled Scots-Italian Renaissance man suddenly recalls how the overseer had introduced himself, — I was just saying to my friend that, as a son of a seafaring community, whose family have taken to the ocean for generations through whaling, the trawlers and the mercantile fleet, just how great it feels to be given this opportunity by Sealink.
Cream Shirt’s expression indicates that he again suspects he’s being messed with. However, Sick Boy remains poker-faced to the extent that the supervisor is actually moved. — Thanks, Simon … it might not be the best job in the world, he declares, with emotion, — but it’s not the worst. But this part of the induction is particularly important so I would urge everybody to give it their full attention.
— Of course, Martin, I let my excitement get the better of me, he smiles sweetly, — please accept my humble apologies.
Cream Shirt flashes a brief dinner-invitation grin that makes Sick Boy’s guts flip, before he drinks in Renton’s whispered admiration. — Vintage Sick Boy, especially the term ‘mercantile fleet’ instead ay merchant navy. I’ll jot that yin doon!
Nicksy has sidled up to Renton, going on about the meaning of life. — Wot’s it all abaht, Mark? Eh?
A good question, Renton thinks, as Cream Shirt drones on. — … the legislation was framed largely as an enabling act. It aims to place the responsibility for health and safety at work on every individual employee. Therefore, we are all, in some sense, health and safety officers, with the responsibility to …
We all have tae take responsibility, he recalled his dad saying, concerning Wee Davie. A thump of death’s uncompromising beat in Renton’s chest: the knowledge that he’d never see, or hear his brother again. He swallows a ball in his throat that isn’t there: you really were a long time deid, as the old saying went.
Thinking of Wee Davie makes him consider Giro the dog. He’s started barking in the night; a sharp, oddly rhythmic sound, suggesting Wee Davie’s cough. It’s taken over from that noise as the source of something beyond torment for Renton, more like a peculiar attestation. Now he’s the only one who’ll rise in the darkness to scoop food into the pup’s bowl. One night he realised Giro had been at the wraps of speed on the coffee table. — It’s no good you living with us, pal, he’d said sadly, lamenting that he was getting too fond of this animal. Renton admired the way that Giro could just get up; no need to wash, brush teeth, dress, he was just instantly ready to go out to the park. And he loved the attention the dog got him from girls in London Fields. Ain’t ee luverly!
That dug will get me a ride, almost in spite ay masel.
But Nicksy is bugging him. — What the fark are we doin here, Mark? I mean … really?
What the fuck does that cunt ken aboot the meanin ay life? Renton thinks, as Marriott’s now in his sights, standing motionless, hands clasped together in front of him.
— … so the first thing we need, Cream Shirt is saying, desperate to engage with a dozen pairs of eyes, — are two volunteers to be our designated health and safety officers … on the basis that a volunteer is worth two pressed men — or women, of course … he scans the blank faces, — … so please raise your hands if you’re interested …
All hands resolutely stay down and most heads bow to regard the green-painted metal floor of the deck. — C’mon, Cream Shirt begs, aghast, — it’s health and safety! It affects us all!
Still no takers: just a series of shifty sideways glances. With a bitter head-shaking sulk, Cream Shirt consults his clipboard, then scrutinises them again.
Renton now accepts he has the heebie-jeebies. He needs a little something.
Fortunately, Cream Shirt has arbitrarily designated a young man with constantly blinking eyes and lunar acne scars, and one of Sick Boy’s meaty-thighed, flirtatious barrow girls to the health and safety roles, mercifully ending the talk. A second supervisor minces alongside Cream Shirt and simpers in a high, fey sound, — Now if you’ll kindly adjourn to your cabins to get changed into your uniforms, we’ll assemble in twenty minutes in the canteen, where you’ll be designated to your workstations.