The Acid House Page 4

  — Chrissie's dead.

  — Oosterdok... it was Chrissie ...

  — Yes, it was Chrissie. I suppose you'll be happy now.

  — NAW MAN ... NAW! I protested.

  — Liar! Fucking hypocrite! You treated her like shit. You and others like you. You were no good for her. Used her like an old rag then discarded her. Took advantage of her weakness, of her need to give. People like you always do.

  — Naw! It wasn't like that, I pleaded, knowing full well it was exactly like that.

  He stood and looked at me for a while. It was like he was looking beyond me, seeing something that wasn't apparent from my vantage point. I broke a silence which probably lasted only seconds, but seemed like minutes. — I want to go to the funeral, Richard.

  — He smiled cruelly at me. — In Jersey? You won't go there.

  — The Channel Islands ... I said, hesitantly. I didn't know Chrissie was from there. — I will go, I told him. I was determined to go. I felt culpable enough. I had to go.

  Richard examined me contemptuously, then started talking in a low, terse voice. — St Helier, Jersey. The home of Robert Le Marchand, Chrissie's father. It's next Tuesday. Her sister was here, making arrangements to take the body back.

  — I want to go. Are you?

  He scoffed at me. — No. She's dead. I wanted to help her when she was alive. He turned and walked away. I watched his back recede into nothingness, then went into the flat, shaking uncontrollably.

  I had to get to St Helier by Tuesday. I'd find details of the Le Marchands' whereabouts when I got there. Anna wanted to come. I said I'd be a poor travelling companion, but she insisted. Accompanied by her, and a sense of guilt which seemed to seep into the body of the rented car, I drove along the highways of Europe, through Holland, Belgium and France to the small port of St Malo. I started thinking, about Chrissie, yes, but about other things, which I would generally never concern myself with. I started to think about the politics of European integration, whether it was a good or bad thing. I tried to marry up the politicians' vision with the paradox I saw in the miles of these ugly highways of Europe; absurd incompatibilities with an inexorable shared destiny. The politicians' vision seemed just another money-making scam or another crass power-trip. We ate up these dull roads before reaching St Malo. After checking into a cheap hotel Anna and I got roaring drunk. The next morning we boarded the ferry to Jersey.

  We arrived Monday afternoon and found another hotel. There were no funeral notices in the Jersey Evening Post. I got a phonebook and looked up Le Marchand. There were six, but only one R. A man's voice came down the receiver.

  — Hello.

  — Hello. Could I speak to Mister Robert Le Marchand?

  — Speaking.

  — I'm really sorry to bother you at this time. We're friends of Chrissie's, over from Holland for the funeral. We understand that it's tomorrow. Would it be alright if we attended?

  — From Holland? he repeated wearily.

  — Yes. We're at Gardener's Hotel.

  — Well, you have come a long way, he stated. His posh, bland, English accent grated. — The funeral's at ten. St Thomas's chapel, just around the corner from your hotel as a matter of fact.

  — Thanks, I said, as the line clicked dead. As a matter of fact... It seemed as if everything was simply a matter of fact to Mr Le Marchand.

  I felt totally drained. No doubt the man's coldness and hostility were due to assumptions made about Chrissie's friends in Amsterdam and the nature of her death; her body was full of barbituates when it was fished out of the dock, bloated further by the water.

  At the funeral, I introduced myself to her mother and father. Her mother was a small, wizened woman, diminished even further by this tragedy into a brittle near-nothingness. Her father looked like a man who had a great deal of guilt to shed. I could detect his sense of failure and horror and it made me feel less guilty about my small, but decisive role in Chrissie's demise.

  — I won't be a hypocrite, he said. — We didn't always like each other, but Christopher was my son, and I loved him.

  I felt a lump in my chest. There was a buzzing in my ears and the air seemed to grow thin. I could not pick out any sound. I managed to nod, and excused myself, moving away from the cluster of mourners gathered around the graveside.

  I stood shaking in confusion, past events cascading through my mind. Anna put her arm tightly around me, and the congregation must have thought I was grief-stricken. A woman approached us. She was a younger, slimmer, prettier version of Chrissie . . . Chris .. .

  — You know, don't you?

  I stood gaping into space.

  — Please don't say anything to Mum and Dad. Didn't Richard tell you?

  I nodded blankly.

  — It would kill Mum and Dad. They don't know about his change ... I took the body home. I had them cut his hair and dress him in a suit. I bribed them to say nothing ... it would only cause hurt. He wasn't a woman. He was my brother, you see? He was a man. That's how he was born, that's how he was buried. Anything else would only cause hurt to the people who are left to pick up the pieces. Don't you see that? she pleaded. — Chris was confused. A mess. A mess in here, she pointed to her head. — God I tried, we all tried. Mum and Dad could handle the drugs, even the homosexuality. It was all experiments with Christopher. Trying to find himself... you know how they are. She looked at me with an embarrassed contempt, — I mean that sort of person. She started to sob.

  She was consumed with grief and anger. In such circumstances she needed the benefit of the doubt, though what were they covering up? What was the problem? What was wrong with reality? As an ex-junky I knew the answer to that. Often plenty was wrong with reality. Whose reality was it, anyway?

  — It's okay, I said. She nodded appreciatively before joining the rest of her family. We didn't stick around. There was a ferry to catch.

  When we got back to Amsterdam, I sought out Richard. He was apologetic at having dropped me in it. — I misjudged you. Chris was confused. It was little to do with you. It was nasty to let you go without knowing the truth.

  — Naw, I deserved it. Shite of the year, that was me, I said sadly.

  Over some beers he told me Chrissie's story. The breakdowns, the decision to radically re-order her life and gender; spending a substantial inheritance on the treatment. She started off on a treatment of female hormones, both oestrogen and progesterone. These developed her breasts, softened her skin and reduced her bodily hair. Her muscular strength was diminished and the distribution of her subcutaneous fat was altered in a female direction. She had electrolysis to remove facial hair. This was followed by throat surgery on her voicebox, which resulted in the removal of the Adam's apple and a softening of the voice, when complemented by a course of speech therapy.

  She went around like this for three years, before the most radical surgery, which was undertaken in four stages. These were penectomy, castration, plastic reconstruction and vaginoplasty, the formation of an artificial vagina, constructed by creating a cavity between the prostrate and the rectum. The vagina was formed from skin grafts from the thigh and lined with penile, and/or scrotal skin, which, Richard explained, made orgasmic sensation possible. The shape of the vagina was maintained by her wearing a mould for several weeks after the operation.

  In Chrissie's case, the operations caused her great distress, and she therefore relied heavily on painkilling drugs which, given her history, was probably not the best thing. That, Richard reckoned, was the real key to her demise. He saw her walking out of his bar towards Dam Square. She bought some barbs, took them, was seen out of her box in a couple of bars before she wandered along by the canal. It could have been suicide or an accident, or perhaps mat grey area in between.

  Christopher and Richard had been lovers. He spoke affectionately of Christopher, glad now to be able to refer to him as Chris. He talked of all his obsessions, ambitions and dreams; all their obsessions, ambitions and dreams. They often got close to finding their
niche; in Paris, Laguna Beach, Ibiza and Hamburg; they got close, but never quite close enough. Not Eurotrash, just people trying to get by.

  STOKE NEWINGTON BLUES

  I took my last shot in the toilet on the ferry, then made my way to the deck. It was amazing; spray in my face as squawking gulls chased the boat; a prolonged rush surging through my body. All hands on deck. I grip the rail and vomit acrid bile into the North Sea. A woman gives me a concerned glance. I respond with a smile of acknowledgement. — Struggling to find my sea legs, I shout, before retiring to the lounge to order a black coffee which I've no intention of drinking.

  The crossing is okay. I'm mellow. I sit in silence, no doubt a blank corpse to all the other passengers, but engaged in a meaningful inner dialogue with myself. I replay recent history, casting myself in a virtuous role, justifying the minor atrocities I've inflicted on others as offering them important insight and knowledge.

  I start to hurt on the boat train: Harwich — Colchester — Marks Tey — Kelvedon — Chelmsford — Shenfield THIS TRAIN SHOULD NOT STOP AT FUCKIN SHENFIELD — Romford EVERY INCH OF TRACK I WILL THIS TRAIN ON (What about Manningtree, where the fuck's Manningtree got to in all this?) TO LONDON Liverpool Street. The tube goes everywhere except Hackney. Too marshy. I alight at Bethnal Green and jump on the 253 to Lower Clapton Road. I shuffle down Homerton Road and into the Kings-mead Estate. I hope that Donovan is still squatting on the second floor. I hope that he isn't grudging about the Stockwell incident, water under the bridge by now, surely. I push past some harsh-faced domestic-pet-killing children who are aerosoling stylishly illegible slogans on the wall. So passé, so ghetto.

  — Watch it! Fucking junky!

  Should I fuck these children before, or after I kill them?

  I do nothing of the kind. It's yon time.

  Don's still there. That fortified door. Now I only have to worry about whether or not he's in, and if he is, whether or not he'll let me in. I rap heavily.

  — Who is it? Angie's voice. Don and Ange. I'm not surprised; I always thought they'd end up getting it on.

  — Open up, Ange, for fuck's sake. It's me, Euan.

  A series of locks click open and Ange looks at me, her sharp features more prominent than ever, defined and sculpted by skag. She bades me enter and secures the door.

  — Don aroond?

  — Nah, gone out, ain't he.

  — Any skag?

  Her mouth turns downwards and her dark eyes hold me Eke those of a cat that's cornered a mouse. She contemplates a lie then, noting my desperation, decides against it.

  — How was the 'Dam? She's toying with me, the fuckin cow.

  — Ah need a shot, Ange.

  She produces some gear and helps me cook up and take a shot. A rush shoots through me, followed by a rising tide of nausea. All hands on deck. I throw up on a Daily Mirror. Paul Gascoigne is on the front, winking and giving the thumbs up in traction and plaster cast. This paper is eight months old.

  Ange prepares a shot for herself, using my works. I'm not too happy about this but I can't really say much. I look at her cold, fish eyes, cut into that crystalline flesh. You could lacerate yourself badly on her nose, cheekbones and jawline.

  She sits beside me, but looks straight ahead instead of turning to face me. She starts to talk incessantly about her life in a slow, even monotone. I feel like a junky priest. She tells me that she was raped by a squad of guys and has felt so bad about it she's had a habit since then. I get a feeling of déjà vu here. I'm sure she's told me this before.

  — It hurts, Euan. It fucking hurts inside. The gear's the only thing that takes the pain away. There's nuffink I can do about it. I'm dead inside. You won't be able to understand. No man can understand. They killed a part of me, Euan. The best part. Wot you see here's a fucking ghost. It don't matter much wot hap pens to a fucking ghost. She taps up a wire, jabs home and convulses appreciatively as the gear pumps into her circuit.

  At least the rush shuts her up. There was something unsettling about her talking in that disembodied way. I look at the Mirror. Several flies are feasting on Gazza.

  — The rapist punters. Get a squad the gither, get the cunts, I venture.

  She turns towards me, shakes her head slowly, then turns back. — No, it don't work like that. Nobody is more connected than these guys. They're still doing it to women. One of them pulls at a club, brings the woman back. The rest are waiting and they just use her like a fucking hanky for as long as they want.

  I suppose to get close to understanding how it feels you have to think of about a dozen guys giving it Clapham Junction up your arsehole.

  — That's the last, she murmurs in wistful content. — I hope Don brings some back.

  — You n me both, doll, you n me both.

  It could have been hours or minutes, but Donovan did show.

  — What the fuck are you doing here man? He set his hands on his hips and thrust out his neck at me.

  — Good tae see you n aw, mate.

  It looked as if Don's skin tone had been diluted by the smack. Michael Jackson probably paid millions to get the same effect Don has from junk. He was like a Jubilee that the ice had been sucked out of. Come to think of it, Ange had been more pink in the past. It seemed that if you took enough junk you would lose all racial characteristics completely. Junk really did make every other feature of a person irrelevant.

  — You holdin? His accent changed from a high-pitched effeminate North London whine to a rich, heavy Jamaican dread.

  — Like fuck. Ah'm here tae score.

  Don turned to Ange. You could tell he hadn't scored and was about to hit the roof at her for giving the last to me. Just as he started to speak, there was a bang at the door and although it held firm, after another couple of thrashes the frame split from the wall and the whole thing tumbled inwards. Two guys stood in the doorway with sledgehammers. They looked so mental I was almost relieved when a group of pigs stormed in and swarmed all over us. I watched the expression of disappointment on the face of one seasoned DS fucker. He knew that had we been holding it would have been a race to the lavvy to flush the gear away, but none of us had moved. Nobody was holding. They ritually turned the place over. One cop picked up my works and looked sneeringly at me. I raised my eyebrows and smiled lazily at him. — Let's get this rubbish down the fucking station, he shouted. We were bundled out of the flat, down the stairs and into a meatwagon. There was a loud crash as a bottle hit the top of the van. It stopped and a couple of cops got out, but couldn't be bothered giving chase to the kids who probably threw it from the balcony. They crushed us between their bulk, muttering the occasionally dark threat.

  I looked at Don sat opposite. The car whizzed past the Lower Clapton Road cop shop, then past Dalston station. We were going to Stoke Newington. A name station. The name on my mind and almost certainly on Don's was Earl Barratt.

  At the station they asked me to turn out my pockets. I did, but dropped a set of keys on the floor. I bent to pick them up and my scarf trailed on the ground. A cop stood on it, just pinning me there helpless, bent double, unable to lift my head up.

  — Get up! another one snapped.

  — You're standing on my scarf.

  — Get your fucking sick junky arse up ere!

  — I cannae fuckin move, yir standin oan ma scarf!

  — I'll give you fucking scarves, you Jock cunt. He booted or punched me in the side and I toppled over onto the floor, collapsing like a deckchair. It was more from the shock rather than the force of the blow.

  — Get up! Get fucking up!

  I staggered to my feet, blood soaring to my head, and was pushed into an interview room. My brain felt hazy as they barked some questions at me. I manage to mumble some weak replies before they threw me in the drunk tank. It was a large white-tiled room with perimeter benches and an assortment of foam and vinyl mattresses on the floor. The place was full of piss-heads, petty criminals and cannabis dealers. I recognised a couple of black guys from the Line, at Sa
ndringham Road. I tried not to make eye contact. The dealers up there hate smack-heads. They get hassled by the racists pigs for skag when all they deal in is blow.

  Fortunately their attention is diverted from me as two heavily-built white guys, one with a strong Irish accent, begin booting fuck out of a one-eared transvestite. When they feel they've done enough they start pissing on his prostrate figure.

  I seem to be there for an age; getting sicker and sicker and more and more desperate. Then Don gets flung in, sick and hurting. The polis who bundles him into the tank can see that the one-eared boy on the deck has been well fucked over, but he just shakes his head contemptuously and bolts the door. Don sits beside me on the bench, his face in his hands. At first I notice blood on his hands, but then I see that it is coming from his nose and mouth which are quite badly swollen. He'd obviously slipped on something and fallen down a flight of stairs. This tended to happen in Stokie police station to black punters. Like Earl Barratt. Don is shivering. I decide to speak.

  — Tell ye, man, ah'm a wee bitty disappointed wi the crimi nal justice system of this country, at least as locally administered here in Stokie.

  He turned towards me, showing the full extent of his kicking. It was quite healthy. — I ain't coming out of here man, he trembled, his eyes wide with fear. He was serious. — You heard about Barratt. This place is known for it. I'm the wrong fucking colour, especially for a guy with a habit. I ain't comin out alive.

  I was about to try and calm him, but it seemed that he wasn't far off the mark. Three black guys came over to us. They'd been watching and listening.

  — Hey brother, you hang around with this trash, you get what comes around to you, one guy scoffed. We were on a kicking. The guys started on about skag and dealers, working themselves up to unleash their fury on us. The kicking the whites had given the one-eared transvestite had obviously whet ted their appetite.

  It was cops to the rescue. As they grabbed us and crudely pushed us along, I thought about the frying pan and the fire. We were taken back into separate interview rooms. There were no chairs in the room so I sat on a table. I was made to wait for a long time.