Yar, me hearties!
Ah head back up tae the office where ah see Cream Shirt wi a heavy bandage taped across his neb, talking on the radio, no doubt tae polis or port security. He puts the receiver down, and looks like he’s about to chastise me for vanishing.
— How are you? I get in first, full ay bogus concern.
— I’m fine … thanks for your help there … but where have you been?
— Looking for Mark and trying tae calm down some of our more irate passengers. An elderly lady was very distressed by the violence. I thought it prudent to sit with her for a bit.
— Yes … good thinking … God, there will be hell to pay when Mr Benson hears of this. He cringes at the thought. — I’ll see you down in the bar.
— Righto, I say wi a crisp salute. Outside the doors, on the glass — strewn deck, an open-mouthed flycatcher pushes a brush along with the gusto of a crippled sloth on Mogadon. Fuck me, there are so many community-care types working on this boat that somebody even vaguely normal immediately becomes indispensable whether they like it or no.
So ah go back doon tae the wrecked boozer, and there’s Nicksy, without his bow tie and his waistcoat open, sat at the bar sipping a Scotch. The barman, who introduces himself as Wesley from Norwich, isnae giein a flying fuck, he’s happy to be in one piece, so I help myself to a malt ah dinnae intend tae drink and faux-toast Nicksy. — Slàinte.
There’s nae sign ay wee Charlene, and where is that cunt Renton?
3. Car Deck
Ah love this idea ay huvin what the fitba pundits call a ‘rovin commission’: sortay no being stuck in any one role. So ah’m taking it on masel tae walk roond the vessel, chattin tae people as ah go, making sure that everything is shipshape. Schopenhauer said that a man can only be himself so long as he’s on his Jack Jones, while Nietzsche reckoned all truly great thoughts are conceived by walking. Ah could see masel as a ship’s captain ay the people; huvin a wee stroll aroond checking cunts oot, perhaps inviting a pretty lady or two tae join us at the captain’s table, while ah entertained them wi racy tales ay nautical life in the port ay Leith.
Ah’m a seafarin man: it’s in ma blood. Ah’m thinkin that Sick Boy wid just love tae be in ma shoes right now, though he’s probably workin some scam ay his ain.
Raised voices comin fae above signal aggro, which means work, so ah head doon, away fae the action, descendin the metal staircase tae the bowels. Doon below us, there’s tons and tons ay parked motors n lorries. A gadgie in a boiler suit shouts fae the landin above that ah shouldnae be doon here. Story ay ma life. Always somewhere ah shouldnae be. Like Planet Earth. — Aye. Right. Catch ye later, ah wave, carryin on ma merry wey.
A metal clang comes fae above, soundin like the crashin ay a giant cymbal. Ah feel the engines below me pumpin up the ship, drivin it on across the North Sea. Ah hit the bottom, tae the rows ay vehicles. Ah’m well blissed out; it’s good gear, this broon. So ah’m sittin doon between some cars. Time passes, or it doesnae. Whae cares? Ah start tae idly key a smart estate motor then ah think, fuck it, the class war can wait, the class As cannae. Eftir a bit ah’m roused by the sound ay footsteps and chatterin as people descend and get intae their motors. Risin, ah haul masel up the metal steps back onto the decks and ah go intae the bar, which is totally trashed. — Have ah missed anything exciting? ah smirk at Sick Boy and Nicksy.
The Cream Shirt gadge is here, giein orders tae the staff whae ur tryin tae clean up. One ay the barrow girls is daein her Mrs Mop routine on a trail ay thick droaps ay spilled Roy Hudd. Cream Shirt’s taken a healthy lick across the snout. He clocks me and goes, — Where have you been? Then he inches closer, showin me his burst neb. — Have you been drinking?
— Ah felt really sick, ah say, aw torpid and heavy-eyed, — ah think it’s the flu. Had tae lie doon for a bit. Drank tons ay that Night Nurse. Tell us that stuff doesnae knock ye oot, ah say, lookin tae Sick Boy for backup.
He steps in wi a reluctant, — If you have a wee lassie’s constitution, then aye.
It just aboot throws Creambo off the scent. — If you were sick you should have come to see me or your supervisor.
— That’s the problem, ah concede, — ah dinnae seem tae be oan anybody’s list but, eh … wisnae sure whaire tae go tae, eh, no … ah tell the cunt, sliding intae the slack-jawed schemie defence ay contrived ignorance, a tried and tested method for exasperating authority figures.
— Julian! Cream Shirt calls over Beige Blouse and as sure as Songs of Praise comin oan the telly when you’re brutally hung-over, the cunts cannae reconcile ma name oan their poxy lists. — Right, well then, we’ll have you in the kitchen, working with Chef, the Cream-Shirt-lifting arse bandito pouts in petty triumph.
Aw-aw … hate comes tae toon …
Not good news. But I’ll sort that later, as now we have time off and ah want tae hit ma scratcher. Sick Boy’s hearin nane ay it but, he’s got his Amsterdam party heid oan. — We’re half an hour away from the most fun place on Planet Earth, and you’re going to lie in a box in the sweaty bowels of a docked ship, feeling sick and indulging in half-hearted, feeble attempts at masturbation? Fine. Be my guest. Lightweight!
Ah feel pit oan the spot, cause there’s a few gazes oan me, and that wee Fawcett-Plant’s one ay them, a twinkle in her eye and a crease on her lips.
— Okay, ah hear myself concede. — Ah need some speed but.
One — nil, Williamson.
Nicksy’s reluctant but Sick Boy’s leadin the charge wi gusto. Ah learn that the Fawcett-Plant lassie’s called Charlene, and she sleekitly says, — I’m up for it.
Ah realise that the spawny bastard’s probably went n pulled her. Ah suppose it wis inevitable.
— C’mon, you party-pooping cunts, Sick Boy says, — we’ll get some speed and suss out the situ.
— I dunno, Nicksy goes, — Marriott might want us to, you know … He looks towards Charlene.
She takes the hint and says, — Right, I’m gonna get changed. See you in fifteen minutes?
— Sound, Sick Boy says to her, then snaps at Nicksy, — Fuck Marriott. I’m no that sure about this deal, Nicksy, ah want tae check it oot first.
— Goat tae agree, ah’m noddin. — This is our first night off. Ah’m no hanging aboot wi that junky fag and listenin tae his gangster bullshit. Cunt’ll jist huv tae cool his fuckin jets fir a bit.
Ah thoat Nicksy might be miffed, cause he set aw this up, but he doesnae seem tae gie a fuck. — Okay, he shrugs. — I gotta say that he’s getting right on my farking tits, he looks around the bar, — in yer farking face all the time.
So we get changed, then we’re off the boat and oantae the choo-choo tae the Dam. It’s me, Sick Boy, Nicksy and the lovely Charlene, who’s all made up, and wearing what looks like really expensive threads. It’s like she’s some yuppie gaun tae a presentation or something, but she’s goat her Sealink holdall wi her. As she goes tae the lavvy, Sick Boy whispers tae us, — What’s gaun on there? She fuckin DS or what?
— Naw … dinnae be daft, ah goes.
He raises his eyes, then a slow look ay concentration creeps ower his coupon. — Anyway, listen, ma thinking is that we’re daein this erse about face. We should be punting Swanney’s white Edinburgh skag tae these trolls doon here.
Nicksy looks witheringly at him.
— Sorry, mate, nae offence, but ye ken what ah mean, Sick Boy smiles.
Charlene returns with some coffees, which is very thoughtful, as it helps get the speed doon. I crash a wrap, and we aw take a big dunt, except her, she’s content wi a wee dab.