— That was fantastic … fucking brilliant … she says, and that’s the sweetest symphony tae my ears cause ah’ve never had a lassie say that tae us before, well, jist once, and ah almost expect there tae be somebody else in the cabin she’s talking tae. — Where did ya learn ta give head like that?
Ah couldnae bring masel tae say an Ebirdeen hoor. — Oh, you know … jist got an aptitude for it …
— You certainly have, she purrs in appreciation, and the ego’s swellin up nicely, but ah’m sair as fuck in ma pish-tube. It burns like some cunt’s shot a laser beam up it, and ah’m way too buzzed tae sleep so ah ask her, — What did ye dae before ye worked here?
— Stole, she smiles, rubbing my earring as if she’s aboot tae thieve that. — Still do, and she points at the Sealink bag on the table.
Of course, the clathes; she’s a total pro tea leaf. Ah almost want tae tell her aboot the scam wi Marriott. But naw, ah leave it, and ah faw intae a weird, druggie kip in her airms, aware that the morning shift is gaunny come up soon and fuck us both.
Sure enough, the cauld morning brings in an atmosphere ay mistrust, poisonous hatred and paranoia. No wi me n Charlene, that’s barry, although she raises her knees intae ma chest tae effectively banish us tae ma ain cabin in the early hours. Ah climb ower Nicksy tae the top bunk n doze fir aboot forty minutes till the alarm pulverises me awake.
Naw, the bad vibes are roond the breakfast table in the canteen. Apparently, Marriott wis knockin oan ma door aw night n mornin. He’s no amused, his mawkit pus tripping him up. He lowers a tray containin a bowl ay cereal and a coffee oantae the table, then comes behind us and bends ower tae gie us an earfil. — I needed you cahnts around last night, he says in viper-like sibilation tae me, Sick Boy and Nicksy. — What would’ve happened if I had farking merchandise?
We look at each other, but say nothing.
— Keep on the farking case, he threatens, slidin intae a seat.
— Well, Sick Boy says, — a pleasant ‘good morning’ to you too!
Ah’m startin tae feel pit-oan n stalked-oot n aw. Like we’ve been railroaded intae this. Ah’ve been daein some calculations: amount taken through, time served if huckled and remuneration offered, n it aw jist disnae add up. This cunt seems tae think that he owns us. Well, he disnae fuckin own me.
— It ain’t meant ter be pleasant, Marriott says, and ah can see resentment burn in Sick Boy as the wasted auld skagbag looks searchingly at him tae make sure he can hud up his end. — Am I making myself clear, Simon?
— It’s this man you should be worried aboot. Sick Boy points at me, miffed that ah copped off wi Charlene, no doubt. — Mancanza di disciplina.
— What’s he on about? Marriott asks Nicksy.
— Fuck knows.
This cunt thinks we’re junkies like him. Dinnae think so somehow; there’s a big difference between a wee habit where ye smoke it and occasionally bang up, and being a total career drug addict, the soul-dead puppet ay some prick whae disnae gie a fuck aboot ye.
Marriott starts slavering on again, in that maundering self-obsessed smackheid wey. — As soon as you’re marked, you get the fuck back into town and start hustling for your fix, cause if you’re seen trying it on when Curtis is on shift, if he don’t get you, we farking well will, he says, bug-eyed, lookin and soundin about as intimidatin as Larry Grayson in a tutu. — Don’t give him any reasonable cause ta search yer or he’ll have you buck naked with his gloved hands up your arse pulling yer dinner through your intestines with half the Essex constabulary in attendance.
Ah catch Sick Boy rollin his eyes in a mock-theatrical gesture that indicates the idea isnae withoot appeal. Marriott reacts tae the chucklin conspiracy and goes genuinely dark; he’s no messin around tae try n get an effect any mair. — Then it gets really messy, cause the chaps find out and you’re welded into a leaky oil drum and lost at sea.
If he was bullshitting or exaggerating aw ay us now feel disinclined tae call his bluff. Ah feel ma gaze shift tae ma lap, then tae Nicksy.
Marriott gets up, he’s hardly touched his cereal, but he rests ower the table, his knuckles white. — Keep in control or you ain’t gonna get any farking change outta me, he snorts and heads off.
Sick Boy’s shaking his head. — Who is that prick? What have you got us intae here, Nicksy?
— Well, you shouldn’t have signed up for it, Nicksy moans.
— I’ve signed up for sweet fuck all. The cunt outlined a proposition. It sounded good. Now it doesnae. End of. Ma buddy Andreas can get tons ay broon. If we’re haulin it through the customs for fuckin sweeties …
Sick Boy lowers his voice, as it seems it’s now Cream Shirt’s turn to hover. Presumably the boat is ready to fill up again and we should be preparing tae set sail on the high seas for merry England. He clears his throat, ubiquitous clipboard in hand, points to his watch, then pirouettes on his Cuban heels and heads off.
— Fuck, Sick Boy scorns, — cannae fuckin breathe on this boat without being accosted by faggots. The official economy, the underground economy, it makes nae odds; every cunt wants tae ram it up yir erse, he declares. — Aw well, better git moving. Another filthy morning beckons. Action stations!
Nash Stoorie Bomb
GRIM STUFF THIS wet and dreary morning, man, gaun tae see Franco in the nick, likesay. Ah’d arranged wi June, his ma n his brar Joe a time tae go in when naebody else wis thaire, ken. It’s a twelve-month stretch, but he’ll be oot in six. Aye, a couple ay Lochend boys were oan the peeve eftir the fitba, n Franco’s logic wis seein as Cha Morrison chibbed Larry, he hud tae slash two Lochend laddies. But the boy he goat wisnae really a mate ay Morrison’s n it turns oot that he’s Saybo’s cousin. So it’s caused a bit ay a split in the ranks, wi Saybo no gaun in tae visit the Beggar Boy in HMP Saughton. Aye, Ali saw um earlier that night, sais he wis defo oan the warpath.
So we visitors ur aw cauld n wet, as we pit oor stuff intae wee boaxes, oor keys n watches n that, no thit ah’ve goat a watch, likesay, but ye ken whit ah mean. They gie ye a wee token fir it, then we go through tae sit at they tables n chairs, wi the screws supervisin. Whin Begbie appears, ah huv tae say he looks in barry nick. Even mair filled oot through pumpin prison steel. The only thing he seems really gutted aboot is that Cha Morrison’s in Perth, he was really lookin forward tae lockin claws wi that cat. As he says hissel, that wis the only reason he wanted tae dae jail time. He asks us aboot Leith n that, then sortay jist starts giein us a right hard time for bein intae the gear.
Jist as ah’m kinday thinkin ay it bein a mistake tae come, it’s likesay he jist sortay gits tired ay it aw. — Listen, thanks fir comin … he goes, — it’s jist that it’s shite seein people visitin. Nowt fuckin happens in here, n ye end up no fuckin wantin tae hear aboot what’s gaun oan ootside.
— Right, man … ah nods, cause ye kin see the cat’s point, ah nivir liked people comin tae see me whin ah wis in Doc Guthrie’s, ken?
— So dinnae waste yir fuckin time visitin. Yi’ll no git any conversation oot ay me, he looks round tae whaire the guards are standin, — n it’s no exactly like wi kin git oot fir a fuckin peeve. Any news, go n see muh ma, n she kin fuckin well bring it in tae us.
Ah must huv looked a wee bit pit oot, n, well, sort ay underappreciated, man, cause he looks at whaire the plaster oan ma airm used tae be n goes, — Dinnae fuckin well pit that greetin-faced look oan, like um fuckin tellin ye oaf; ah’m no fuckin tellin ye oaf! It’s good ay ye tae come, right. Ah’m jist sayin: dinnae fuckin well waste yir time comin in n expectin a fuckin conversation oot ay me.