2. Reasonable Duties
I admit that ah’m a wee bitty too fond ay the Salisbury Crag for my ain good, but something’s flipped in Renton’s ginger dome. He’s an embarrassment, with his continually streaming beak, and that metallic nasal voice he seems tae have adopted; he’d suck the pish ootay a jakey’s crotch if he thought there was a buzz in it for him. He’s hiding; it’s so obvious tae see. From what? What else but his fears? His biggest fear? That the spazzy gene, which produced the fucked fratello, is apparent in him. Well realised, Rent Boy. Realised.
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.