Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

On deck it’s perma-party time as drunk customers sway blindly intae the intense junky-n-uptight-faggot staff. Sick Boy’s antagonism towards me and Charlene for us getting it oan quickly dissipated when he realised that the nice girls really do love a sailor, n that having yir ain berth oan a boat fill ay drunk hen-night parties is a terrific asset. He’s the only male whae has his ain cabin, due tae some scam he worked oot. He’d said tae Cream Shirt, — I have unusual sleeping habits, Martin, which might prove embarrassing if someone was put in with me. I’d be very much obligated if you could spare me and any other party that awkwardness, by allocating me a private cabin if possible.

The short-arsed buftie had looked sympathetically at him and said, — Leave it with me, I’ll see what I can do.

But up till now skagwise, we’d only taken a bit ay percy through the customs. Ah wis shitein masel, even when ah saw the boy Frankie, who we’d drank wi up the Globe pub. He was sound. But there was once ah was ready tae go through n he wisnae there, it was jist some other gadge. Ah bottled it n walked back, away fae the ship, before ah saw Frankie comin towards us. — Just went for a shit, he smiled cheerfully, takin ower fae the other boy, and lettin us through oan the nod.

A bigger problem for me initially was Chef. Well, no him really, he turned oot tae be an okay gadge when ye got tae ken him. It was the work and specifically the fuckin heat. Naebody who husnae worked in an industrial kitchen can have any concept ay just how constant and draining it is. Ah goat oan wi the graft but, largely thanks tae bein wi Charlene. She described us as ‘friends who fuck’. She went oot her way tae let me ken that she hud a felly who’d got pit away n that ah wis basically jist a subsitute ride.

So ah huv tae keep ma infatuation in check, n it isnae easy. Tae me she’s ma English female equivalent; a Kentish dockyard princess fae Chatham. N thaire’s the boy in the chokey tae consider. Charlene doesnae want tae talk aboot him, which suits me, but she sais he’s in fir thieving rather thin violence, which comes as some relief. But whatever anybody’s in fir, thir no gaunny take too kindly tae some cunt cowpin thair lemon curd. Ye cannae say it’s overly romantic but, shaggin oan a narray bed, but at least she’s as restless as me, and eftir we’ve done the biz, we go up oan the deck, no many clathes oan, jist enough tae be decent if any cunt sees us, n watch the rough, sickly dawn rise ower the port. Frozen flurries ay rain lash low breeze-block harbour and shipping buildings and whistle roond the vessel’s structures above and behind us. Big puddles swell oan the uneven stanes ay the dock. Solitary figures struggle against the wind, tying heavy ropes oantae bollards or simply walking between buildings wi clipboards. Charlene’s big hair’s whipped by the gales, and we stand in T-shirts n tracky bottoms, playin a game whaire we git so unbearably cauld, one ay us’ll shout SURRENDER and we’ll beat an urgent retreat, crab-walkin doon the loads ay narray stairs tae the mingin bowels ay the ship n that festering nest, before snuggling up and riding again.

So on Amsterdam shore leave eftir our shifts, we’re sittin in the Grasshopper, me n Sick Boy, while Charlene is playin pool wi they two chain-smokin Scouse lassies wi throaty laughs, passengers whae came ower oan the boat. Nicksy comes in, lookin like a frightened schoolboy, wi an itchy, bug-eyed Marriott, whae clocks the girls and isnae happy. He nods tae the door.

Ah look at Sick Boy. We apologise tae the lassies n follay Nicksy and Marriott ootside, tae a busy ootdoor cafe across the square, n take some seats. A waitress comes n we order coffee.

— It’s on tonight, Marriott says. — We take through ten gs each.

Ah’m aboot tae say, no way, but Sick Boy gets in first. — Sorry, shipmate. Nice offer, but on this particular occasion I’m forced tae decline.

— What? You … you farking what? You’re having a laugh … I’ve got the farking shit here, he nods to the Sealink bag at his feet, then zips it open, pulling it apart to expose five packets.

— As I’ve said, I’d love to help you out, but on this particular occasion , I’m forced tae decline.

— You farking … what am I meant to do with this farking shit? His constipated owl eyes take a crotchety scour at a couple ay backpackers sitting doon at the next table. One has a Canada flag wi the maple leaf stickin fae it. In Scotland we’ve been exporting every straight cunt tae Canada fir generations. Result? They’re boring fuckers, and we’re a drug-addled underclass.

— Not my problem, Sick Boy says snootily.

Marriott turns tae me in blind panic. — You ain’t gonna let me down n all, are ya?

— Now ye mention it: aye, ah tell him, as his chin nearly hits the cobblestones. The cunt looks like he’s deciding whether tae slap ma chops or burst intae tears. — Sorry, pal, nowt personal likes, ah lies, — but you’ve been railroading us intae this scene. Ah’ve been daein the sums in ma heid: grams, jail time, pay-off. It just disnae add up.

— There won’t be any farking jail time, he squeals in frustration, — I told ya about the customs geezers! It’s watertight!

— Then there should be absolutely no problem at all for you in finding suitably enlightened parties all too keen tae grasp this unique business opportunity yir presenting, ah goes, now really enjoyin masel, as ah clock Sick Boy’s widening smile.

Marriott starts hyperventilating and turns tae Nicksy. — You told me they was staunch, you cunt –

Nicksy goes fuckin radge. — Who the fark are you callin a cunt! He springs up and bends over Marriott, who skulks back in his chair. — I got farking well more to think about than you and your shitty farking drug deals, you scrawny farking two-bob wankah!

The Canadian backpackers, both white-faced, wholesome speckoids, turn roond in their seats, lookin oan anxiously. Nicksy boots the Sealink bag and it tips ower oan its side n one packet ay gear slides oot oantae the cobblestones. Ah have tae say that ah’ve never seen ten grams ay skag before in ma puff, and although it’s only the size ay a wee packet ay sweeties rather than the standard copin bag ay half a g, which is aboot two big gairden peas’ worth, ah just want tae fuckin well grab it! Marriott’s first though: he makes a gurgling sound n dives doon, scooping the packet intae the holdall and zipping it up in one manic motion.

We nod tae each other and get up, headin back ower tae the Grasshopper. — You ain’t heard the last of this, Marriott shouts, as the waitress comes ower with four milky coffees. We look back and laugh as the twitching imbecile tries to fish the guilders out ay his pocket tae pey her.

— You fucking well telt that choob where tae go, mate. Sick Boy raises Nicksy’s arm in the air, victorious-boxer-style, as we cross the square. — ICF!

— Got a feeling I’ll be needing all the contacts I’ve got ta get us outta this farking mess, he says ruefully, — but he was takin the farking piss, wasn’t he?

— Aye, ah agree, — but he’s a fuckin gobshite. He’s gaunny dae nowt.

— It ain’t him I’m worried about. Nicksy shakes his heid, then looks pointedly at me. — Ya don’t think that was his gear, do ya?

— Right … ah suddenly tipple, feelin a bit ay a prick, n git a sinkin sensation in ma gut.

— Gentlemen, I think our little stint at Sealink might be coming tae an end, Sick Boy declares, as he throws open the doors and we move back intae the Grasshopper. As Nicksy and I nod in agreement, he adds rakishly, — But right now there are ladies to be entertained, and entertain them we must!