𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒 ➢ JOHNNY ROTTEN

THREE

Marion swung her legs casually as she sat behind the counter at Acme Attractions, the thud of her boots keeping time with the dub reggae track playing from the shop's battered speakers. The shop was a vibrant contrast to the austere world outside, its walls a riot of colours and textures. It stood as a more humble, more genuine, counterpart to Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren's SEX boutique—a place that had never quite sat right with Marion. She had visited SEX before, usually in the company of friends like Keith and Sid. Sid, especially, was drawn to the place. But where they found fascination, Marion felt a disconnect.

It wasn't just the bondage gear and the shirts that screamed obscenities—it was the philosophy behind it, or the lack thereof, as Marion saw it. The statement was clear: two fingers up at the establishment. But SEX was a place where individuality was not so much celebrated as it was prescribed, commodified into something you could wear, a costume of defiance tailored for a price. And the prices—outrageous for what were essentially repurposed ideas, the old fifties stuff they claimed to reject, yet ripped off. Marion couldn't stomach the thought of forking out a week's wages for something she could make herself with a bit of ingenuity.

Marion had crossed paths with Vivienne and Malcolm a few times, brief encounters that left her with the impression of arrogance thinly veiled as avant-garde. There was something about them that grated on her—their air of superiority, their way of speaking as if they were the ordained prophets of a revolution.

Acme, in contrast, felt real to her. She respected the way Acme operated—second-hand gear that was original, not a riff on some fifties nostalgia that Vivienne seemed to have taken a particular shine to. Reggae tunes, courtesy of Don Letts, pulsed steadily in the background. Today, like most days, he was tucked away in his corner, immersed in his craft with a spliff burning lazily between his fingers. Next to Marion, Jeanette Lee was busy. She was effortlessly sorting through jackets to hang on the rack.

Marion met Don and Jeanette months ago when curiosity had first drawn her into Acme. Their shared love for reggae, their unpretentious approach to fashion, and a humour that matched her own had quickly cemented their friendship. Marion brought Sid in once in the hopes he'd find the same appeal she did. But his first visit was an odd one. Don was a man of strong opinions. He was no easy nut to crack, his respect hard-earned and rarely given freely, especially to those he deemed 'soft.' And Sid was Sid—endearing in his way but a bit lost. He and Don did not hit it off. Sid was very easy to push around, and quite gullible too.

Despite the initial friction, the shop had grown on him. He'd wander in, his gait a little aimless, his eyes wide and drinking in the scenery. He developed a quiet fascination with Jeanette, who navigated the store with an effortless grace that seemed to draw everyone in. Marion had watched Sid, with his half-awkward, half-adoring glances towards Jeanette. It was bittersweet.

Jeanette, now sensing Marion's brooding silence, decided to prod. "Long day, love?"

"You've no idea," Marion groaned, rolling her eyes.

Her shift at Rough Trade had stretched her thin. The record shop, a recent addition to Ladbroke Grove, was the brainchild of Geoff Travis. Geoff, only five years her senior, was a good boss—understanding and easy-going. Still, the day's work had left its mark, and Marion was visibly drained.

"How was the Clash the other night?" Jeanette inquired as she hung up the final jacket.

Marion leaned back, recalling the event. "They're good, yeah, but I think Keith's done with it. Dunno how much longer he'll stick around."

"Shit," Jeanette muttered sympathetically.

"Yeah," Marion said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Seems the whole band thing is weighing him down. Met Johnny Rotten though."