They head off, Renton stalling for a second or two, hoping to chat to the Girl With the Big Hair, but her attention is taken by the other supervisor, whom he’s dubbed Beige Blouse, so he heads down to the staff quarters in the bowels of the ship. When he reaches the cabin Nicksy’s already there, the Sealink bag at his feet, changing into his uniform. — Okay, bud?
— Farking not really, mate, and he pulls the cream shirt over his thin frame and buttons it up, adjusting the elastic on the bow tie for comfort, then the waistcoat, which is too big and hangs limply. — See ya up in the canteen.
— Righto … Renton elects to tough it out. He leaves the skag, the stash crushed into the toes of his trainers, and instead he takes some speed from a wrap in his jeans watch pocket. It’s the only way to get through this shift. Once the buzz kicks in, he heads up to the canteen to meet the others. He feels terrible, as if he’s papering over the cracks, the speed in some ways making the junk withdrawal pains keener, but the frenzied energy mentally distracting him.
Amphetamine pushiness gives him a wild swagger through several sets of swing doors into the staff area of the refectory. Fortune does indeed favour the brave, as it becomes clear that the roster’s designations have given Cream Shirt the impression that he’s in Beige Blouse’s team, while Beige Blouse seems to believe the opposite. Disinclined to disabuse either of them, or their rota, of this notion, Renton opts to stay non-assigned, deciding that he’ll walk the ship like a ghost.
A line has formed for the food. Renton’s not hungry but the lentil soup on offer looks edible and he feels that he should try to eat something. He rips the pish out of the chef, proud and military-stiff in his big hat and whites. — Awright, cookie boy? he barks, playing to the gallery, toxic speed energy notched up further by the gushing screams of queens, the appreciative chuckle of wideos, and a delectable smile from the Girl With the Big Hair.
Chef stands impassively: thick, black-rimmed glasses and red liver spots on his neck, a smouldering volcano in starched white linen. Renton suddenly feels, even through his drug arrogance, that this insolence just might be a mistake. This is confirmed when a veteran English homosexual cabin steward lisps, — Don’t fuck Chef out, mate, he’s a real bastard.
It’s a phrase Renton has never heard before; don’t fuck Chef out.
Nicksy’s gone and he can’t see Sick Boy, and the cute Fawcett-Plant lassie is chatting to one of the barrow girls, so Renton decides to forgo the soup and commence his wanderings, to get out of range of Chef’s cold, dangerous gaze. As he leaves, he hears him bellow at a kitchen hand, — Who is that cheeky little Scotch cunt?
As he climbs a staircase, Nicksy feels the weight of his breath in his lungs. At the top he looks outside the portholed swing doors to the sea. They are on the decks, the staff, waiting for the vehicles and foot passengers to embark. He spies Marriott leaning on the rail, smoking a cigarette, the burning eyes in his wrecked, cadaverous figure forever trained on them. Following the line of vision, Sick Boy is revealed chatting to that bird with the big blonde hair all over the place. Studying her small tits, tight curvy figure and all that hair flying in the wind, Nicksy’s thinking: tasty, but without a semblance of prurient lust.
— Got any hash? Sick Boy asks her.
— Yeah, a bit, she says, vainly trying to restrain her swishing locks, as the first cars roll over the ramp and eager foot passengers trudge up the bridge hoping in futility that the bar is already open.
Sick Boy overhears Cream Shirt saying to a languid sidekick, — It’s this bit that always gets me, as he grandly sweeps his arms, watching the passengers pile forward, — this is what makes me realise why I’m here.
Sick Boy stares at the passengers and decides that he already hates every last one of them. Then a chat of ‘Man-chis-tihr na, na, na …’ comes up as a gang of sallow, strutting youths around his age emerge onto the deck. He turns to the girl with the hair. — In that case, I’ll need to swing by your cabin later. I can’t sleep without a smoke.
— Okay, she says, her head whipping briefly to acknowledge the singing. — I’m Charlene.
— Simon, Sick Boy curtly nods.
Cream Shirt squeaks out instructions to the welcoming cabin staff, as the travelling British public stream onto the vessel. Nicksy sidles off, heading up another flight of metal steps onto the upper deck. After a spell, a farty-sounding siren blares, followed a little later by a rumble and shake as the ship’s engine starts up. The boat leaves the harbour slowly, picking up speed and being pursued by excited gulls as it reaches open water. Then he’s aware of footsteps behind him, followed by a shout: — Nicksy you cahnt!
He turns to see the floppy fringe of Billy Gilbert, an old West Ham mate, wearing a brown-and-cream Adidas top. He’s prominent in a squad of boys, who march along the deck towards him. They all share a coiled, alert look, like greyhounds in traps waiting for the doors to fly open and the mechanical bunny to bolt down the rail. Billy gives Nicksy’s uniform the once-over. — Nice threads, mate. High fashion is wot you might call it.
Cackles all round, as Nicksy sees another Ilford friend, Paul Smart, and a few more mob faces of his acquaintance. He doesn’t know what’s going on. — Fuck’s all this about?
— Gor blimey, you’re narky, Nicks. Ain’t they treatin you right on the Titanic here?
He sucks in some air and forces a smile. — Yeah, sorry, Bill, it ain’t so bad; a relatively honest crust.
— You off ta the game later?
— Thought I might, Nicksy lies. Although he’d read a piece in the Standard about it, he’d somehow thought the first leg of the forthcoming UEFA Cup tie was at Upton Park. — If I get finished in time after this bleedin shift.
— Great, see ya in the Bulldog then, Billy says, then rubbernecking, as if in anticipation of an ambush, — Heard there’s a load of Man U on this fucking boat.
— Ain’t heard nuffink. You planning on chasing them back to Surrey, then?
— Might just do that, Billy laughs.
A pasty-faced kid with a fringe, wearing a green Sergio Tacchini top, comes running towards them with urgency and squeaks, — There’s a load of Man U in the farking bar downstairs!
And the mob are off, stalking down the steps, surging past the ascending Sick Boy, Cream Shirt and some other members of staff, as Nicksy sharpishly heads in the other direction.
— That looks like trouble, Cream Shirt says. — Simon, could you and your friends … he looks at the sheet, — Mark and Brian, come with me? Where are they?
Sick Boy realises that both Rents and Nicksy, like Cream Shirt’s health and safety officer designates, have vanished. — I’m not exactly sure.
— The first sailing of the season and the place is crawling with hooligans, Cream Shirt hisses in distaste. — Let’s keep an eye on them and make sure they settle down.
— Eh, okay … Sick Boy says reluctantly. Cream Shirt has evidently taken some sort of a shine to him. He’s as yet unsure as how to work this in his favour, but highly intrigued at the prospect of being able to do so.
On deck Nicksy runs into a meaty-armed woman in a sleeveless quilted jacket. She seems in distress and tells him she’s lost her daughter. — Come with me, love, we’ll find her, he says, and he leads her away.