The Acid House Read online

  I sprang up as two pigs came in and joined me. They brought in some chairs. A silver-haired but still fresh-faced pig told me to sit down. — Who gave you the stuff? C'mon, Jock. Euan, isn't it? You ain't a dealer. Who's knocking this gear out? he asked, his eyes filled with lazy tired compassion. He looked like a sound guy.

  THEY'VE GOT FUCK ALL ON ME.

  Another cop, stocky, bull-like and dark-haired with a kind of pudding-basin haircut snapped, — His fucking nigger friend. Old jungle-juice boy through there, innit, Jock? Well, you had better speak up, my son, cause we got the world's first black canary chirping away twenty to the dozen next door, and you would not, believe me, not like the song he is singing.

  They kept this up for a while, but they couldn't get to the place in my head I'd crawled into.

  Then one of them pulled out a bag of white powder. It looked good gear.

  — Little kiddies over in the school been using this gear. Who's been giving it to em, Euan? Silver Dream boy asks.

  THEY'VE GOT FUCK ALL ON ME.

  — Ah jist use now and again. Ah'vc no goat enough for masel, nivir mind any cunt else.

  — I can see we'll have to get a fucking interpreter in ere. Any cunt on duty tonight speak Jock? the black-haired cunt asks. Silver Dream Machine ignores him. He carries on. — That's the thing about you fucking scumbags. You all fucking use, don't you? Nobody sells it. It just grows on fucking trees, dunnit?

  — Naw, fields, I said, regretting it instantly.

  — What did you fucking say? he rose, knuckles white on the table.

  — Poppy fields. Opium. Grows in fields, I mumbled.

  His hand goes around my neck and he squeezes. He keeps squeezing. It's like I'm watching some other cunt being choked to death. Both my hands grab his arm, but I can't break his grip. Silver does. — Leave it, George. That's enough. Get your breath back, son. My head pounds remorselessly and I feel as if my lungs will never fill up to full capacity again.

  — We know the score, son; we've prepared a statement for you to sign. Now I don't want you signing something you're not happy about. Take your time. Look at it. Read it. Digest it. As I said, take your time. Anything you want to change, we can change, he cooed soothingly.

  The dark guy dropped the hostility from his tone. — Give us the wog, son, and you can walk right out of here with this. The best pharmaceutical gear, eh Fred? He waved the skag tantalisingly in front of me.

  — So they tell me, George. C'mon, Euan, make it easy on yourself. You seem a decent enough sort, underneath it all. You're in way over your head here, sunshine.

  — Jocks, Englishmen, don't matter none, does it? We're all white men. Do time for some bleeding Congo? Wise up, Jock. One more fucking shit-skin gets banged up, wot's he to you, eh? Ain't exactly a shortage of em, is there?

  The Met. The cunts with me white shirts. They did over Drew, down from Monktonhall to Orgreave for the '84 strike. Now they wanted Donovan. Wrong skin colour. They're fitting up the daft cunt as Mister Big. This statement reads like Agatha Christie. Don and I have crossed swords but he's alright. In fact he's more of a brother than I've ever had. But what was he saying about me? Solidarity, or was he talking me down the river? This fucking statement reads like Agatha Christie. What about Ange? She's probably blabbed to every cunt to save her skin. I'm starting to hurt, really bad. If I sign up, get the skag, I can fix myself up. Tell the story of how they got the confession to the papers. THEY'VE GOT FUCK ALL ON ME. Hurt. Poison Don. TOUGH IT OOT hurt skag GIVE ME THE FUCKIN PEN they'll pit Don away, pit him away fir fuck all Agatha fuckin Christie GIVE ME THE FUCKIN PEN.

  — Give me the pen.

  — Knew you'd see sense, Jock.

  I stuck the packet of powder, my thirty pieces of silver, in my tail. They ripped up the charge sheet.

  I was free to go. When I got to the reception, Ange was sitting there. I knew that she'd sold out as well. She looked at me bitterly.

  — Right, you two, a desk cop said. — On your way, and keep out of trouble. The two cops who'd interrogated me were standing behind him. I was glad to leave. Ange was so eager she walked into the plate-glass door just as the cop told us to watch out for it. There was a sickening smack as the glass and her head connected. She seemed to reel back on the balls of her feet, vibrating, like a cartoon character. I laughed through nerves, joining the guffaws of the cops.

  — Stupid fucking slag, the dark cop sneered.

  Ange was in some distress when I got her out into the air. Tears were streaming down her face. An egg was forming on her forehead. — You fucking grassed him up, didn't ya? DIDN'T YA? Her eyeliner was running. She looked like Alice Cooper.

  It was a lame performance though. — You didnae, then?

  Her silence spoke volumes, then she wearily conceded. — Yeah, well, had to for the time being, didn't we? Mean to say, I just had to get out. I had it really bad in there.

  — Ken what ye mean, I agreed. — We'll git it sorted oot later. See a lawyer. Tell the cunt we made the statements under duress. Don'll walk oot laughin. Even git compensation. Aye, git sorted, then clean up, straighten oot n see a lawyer. A spell in remand'll dae Don good in the long run. Git him cleaned up. He'll fucking thank us fir it!

  I knew, even as I spoke, that it was all pie in the sky. I'd vanish; leave Don to whatever fate befell him. It just made me feel better to go through this scenario.

  — Yeah, get him cleaned up, Ange agreed.

  Outside the station mere was a group of demonstrators. It seemed like they had been on an all-night vigil. They were protesting about the treatment of young blacks by the local Old Bill, and particularly about Earl Barratt, a guy who went into the Stokie nick one night and came back out stiffed in a placky bag. Slippy fuckers, those stairs.

  I recognised a guy from the black press, The Voice, and made up to him. — Listen, mate, they've got a black guy in there. They've really done him over. They forced us tae sign statements.

  — What's his name? the guy asked, a posh English-African voice.

  — Donovan Prescott.

  — The guy from the Kingsmead? The smack head? I stood looking at him as his face hardened.

  — He didn't do nothing wrong, Ange pleaded.

  I pointed at him, projecting my anger at myself out towards him. — Fuckin publish and be damned, ya cunt! Doesnae matter what he is, he's goat as much right as any other fucker!

  — What's your name, mon, a sidekick asked.

  — What's that tae dae wi anything?

  — Come down the office. Get your picture taken, the Afri can guy smiled. He knew mere was no way. I'd say nothing to nae cunt; the polis would make it open season on me.

  — Dae what yis fuckin like, I said, turning away.

  A large woman came up to me and started shouting: — They holdin good Christian boys in there. Leroy Ducane and Orit Campbell. Boys that never done no wrong. That's the boys we're talking about here, not some dirty drug devil.

  A tall rasta with John Lennon specs waved a placard threateningly in my face. It read:

  ANDS OFF DE BLACK YUTE

  I turned to Ange and slid, trembling, away from the scene, a few jeers and threats ringing in my ears. I thought we were being followed for a bit. We walked off in silence and didn't speak until Dalston Kingsland Station. Paranoia City.

  — Where you off ta? Ange asked.

  — Ah'm gittin the overland, the North London line tae this mate Albie's in Kentish Town. Ah'm gaunny git sorted wi this pig gear, then it's down to the Bush. Civilised there, ye ken? I've fuckin had it wi Hackney, it's worse than back up the road. Too fuckin parochial. Too many self-righteous nosey cunts. Isolated, that's its problem. Nae tube. No enough social contact wi the rest ay the Smoke. A fuckin urban backwater.

  I was ranting. Sick and ranting.

  — I gotta come with ya. The flat's fucked. It'll be torched by now. The pigs wouldn't bother to secure the door.

  I didn't want Ange in tow; she had the bad luck virus really ba
d. Bad luck is usually transmitted by close proximity to habitual sufferers. There was little I could do or say, however, as the train pulled up and we boarded it, sitting opposite each other in crushed, sick silence.

  As the train started I stole a glance at her. I hope she didn't expect me to sleep with her. I'm not into sex right now. Maybe Albie would, if she wanted it. It was a disturbing thought, but only because all thought on matters external to me was disturbing. I'd soon be free from it all though; free from its niggling persistence, I thought, fingering the packet in my trouser pocket.

  VAT '96

  Fiona had been hassling Valerie to get us to come for a meal at her and Keith's for an indecently long period of time. We'd let things slide, the way people do, but eventually we got embarrassed making excuses and it seemed less hassle to actually set a date and go round to their place one evening.

  We found Fiona in high spirits. She'd gained a promotion in her job which was in corporate insurance, selling policies to big businesses. Selling policies at that level was ninety percent public relations, which, in turn, as any candid PR person will tell you, is ninety-five percent hospitality and five percent information. The problem with Fiona was, like many career-minded people, she couldn't switch off her occupational role and could therefore be a crushing bore.

  — Come in! Wonderful to see you! Gosh! Gorgeous outfit, Val! Where did you get it? Crawford, you're putting on the beef. It suits you though. Has he been doing weights, Val? Have you been doing weights, Crawford? You're looking great, both of you! I'm going to get some drinks. Vodka and tonic for you, Val, sit down, sit down, I want to hear all your adventures, everything, gosh, have I got some things to tell you ... I suppose you want a Jack Daniels, Crawford?

  — Eh, a can of beer would do fine.

  — Oh, beer. Oh. Sorry. Gosh. We're all out of beer.. Oh God. Crawford and his beer!

  After making a fuss, she ticked me off for the cardinal sin of asking for a beer. I settled for a Jack Daniels, which Fiona had got in especially for me.

  — Oh Val, gosh, I must tell you about this amazing guy I met... Fiona began, before noticing our surprise and dis comfort.

  We didn't really have to say: Where's Keith? as our eyes must have done the talking for us.

  — Gosh, I don't quite know how to put this. Some rather bad news on the Keithy-weithy-woo's front, I'm afraid. She crossed the spacious room and lifted the cover from a glass tank which stood against the wall. She clicked on a light at the side of the tank and said, — Wakey, wakey, Valerie and Crawford are here!

  At first I thought it was a fish tank, that Keith had just shot the craw, and that Fiona, devastated, had transferred her emotional energy onto pets in the form of some tropical fish. With the benefit of retrospect, it was always an unlikely notion.

  Then I noted that the tank had a head inside it. A human head, disembodied, decapitated. Moreover, the head seemed alive. I moved closer. The eyes in the head were moving. The hair was spread around it, Medusa-like, made weightless by the watery, yellow fluid it was immersed in. Various pipes, tubes and wires were going into the head, mainly at the neck, but also at other points. Under the tank was a control console, with various dials, switches and lights.

  — Keith ... I stammered.

  The head winked at me.

  — Don't expect much in the way of conversation, Fiona said. She looked down at the tank, — Poor darling. He can't speak. No lungs, you see. She kissed the tank, then fussed at the smudge of lipstick she'd left.

  — What happened to him? Valerie took one step forward and two steps back.

  — This machine keeps him alive. Wonderful, isn't it? It cost us four hundred and thirty-two thousand pounds. She mourned the figure with a slow, conspirital deliberation and feigned shock. — I know, I know, she continued, — you're wondering how we can afford it.

  — Actually, I said icily, — we were wondering what happened to Keith.

  — Oh gosh yes, so sorry! It must be a hell of a shock to you. Keith was tearing down the M25 towards Guildford when the Porsche left the road. Tyre blow-out. Apparently, the car bounced across a couple of lanes, over the crush-barrier and straight into the on-coming traffic. So there's a head-on with this huge artic; the Porsche was a complete write-off, as you'd expect. Keith was almost finished; well in a sense he was. Poor Keithy-weithy-woo's. She looked down at the tank, appearing slightly strained and sad for the first time.

  — The health-care company man said to me: In a sense, your husband is dead. His body has been smashed to pieces. Most of his major organs are useless. However, his head and brain are still intact. We have a new machine which has been developed in Germany and pioneered in the States. We'd like your consent to give Keith treatment. It's very costly, but we can do a deal on the life insurance because he's technically dead. It's a difficult question, the health-care man said, and we'll leave the ethics of it to the philosophers. After all, that's why we pay our taxes to have them sit and deliberate in their ivory towers. That was what he said. I rather liked that. Anyway, he told me that their legal people still had a few i's to dot and t's to cross, but they were confident of, as he put it, getting a result. Do we have your consent, he asked me. Well, gosh, what could I say?

  I looked at Val, then down at Keith. There wasn't much to say. Perhaps some day, with the advances in medical science, they'd find a body with a useless damaged head and be able to do a transplant. There's no shortage of them; I was thinking of various politicians. I assumed that finding a healthy body to attach the head to was the reason for this sordid and bizarre exercise. I didn't really want to know.

  We sat down to the meal. Fiona might have said the evening was a success, like a work-based task or a project which had to be completed. There were one or two minor blunders, like when I refused a glass of wine.

  — I'm driving, Fiona. I'd better screw the nut... I looked at what was left of Keith in the tank and mouthed an apology. His eyes flickered.

  While Fiona was darting around, in and out of the kitchen, Valerie bade her to sit down and relax. She almost told her she was running around like a headless chicken, but managed to change it to blue-arsed fly.

  However, the evening was not too excruciating and the meal was edible. We made small talk for the rest of the night. As we got ready to go I meekly and self-consciously gave Keith the thumbs up sign. He winked again.

  Valerie whispered to Fiona in the hallway, — One thing you didn't tell us, who's this super new man?

  — Oh gosh . . . it's so strange how things work out. He's the chap from the health-care company who suggested the treatment for Keith. Gosh, Val, he's such a ram. The other day he just grabbed me, threw me down on the couch and had me right there and then ... She put her hand to her mouth and looked at me. — Oh gosh! I'm not embarrassing you, Crawford, am I?

  — Yes, I lied, unconvincingly.

  — Good! she said cheerfully, then swept us back into the room. — One last thing I need your advice on: do you think that Keithy-kins would look better on the other side of the room, next to the CD unit?

  Val gazed nervously at me.

  — Yes, I began, noting that the couch was presently posi tioned directly opposite Keith's tank, — I think he definitely would.

  A SOFT TOUCH

  It wis good fir a while wi Katriona, but she did wrong by me. And that's no jist something ye can forget; no jist like that. She came in the other day, intae the pub, while ah was oan the bandit likes. It was the first time ah'd seen her in yonks.

  — Still playing the bandit, John, she sais, in that radge, nasal sortay voice she's goat.

  Ah wis gaunny say something like, naw, ah'm fuckin well swimming at the Commie Pool, but ah jist goes: — Aye, looks like it.

  — No goat the money to get ays a drink, John? she asked ays. Katriona looked bloated: mair bloated than ever. Maybe she wis pregnant again. She liked being up the stick, liked the fuss people made. Bairns she had nae time fir but she liked being up the stick. Thing wis, ev
ery time she wis, people made less ay a thing about it than they did the time before. It goat boring; besides, people kent what she wis like.

  — You in the family wey again, ah asked, concentrating oan getting a nudge oan the bandit. A set ay grapes. That'll dae me.

  Gamble.

  Collect.

  Hit collect.

  Tokens. Eywis fuckin tokens. Ah thought Colin sais tae ays that the new machine peyed cash.

  — Is it that obvious, Johnny? she goes, lifting up her checked blouse and pulling her leggings ower a mound ay gut. Ah thought ay her tits and arse then. Ah didnae look at them likes, didnae stare or nowt like that; ah jist drought ay them. Katriona had a great pair ay tits and a nice big arse. That's what ah like in a bird. Tits and arse.

  — Ah'm oan the table, ah sais, moving past her, ower tae the pool. The boy fae Crawford's bakeries had beat Bri Ramage. Must be a no bad player. Ah goat the baws oot and racked up. The boy fae Crawford's seemed awright.

  — How's Chantel? Katriona goes.

  — Awright, ah sais. She should go doon tae ma Ma's and see the bairn. No that she'd be welcome thair mind you. It's her bairn though, and that must count fir something. Mind you, ah should go n aw. It's ma bairn n aw, but ah love that bairn. Everybody kens that. A mother though, a mother that abandons her bairn, that's no bothered aboot her bairn; that's no a mother, no a real mother. No tae me. That's a fucking slag, a slut, that's what that is. A common person as ma Ma says.

  Ah wonder whae's bairn she's cairrying now. Probably Larry's. Ah hope so. It would serve the cunts right; the baith ay them. It's the bairn ah feels sorry for but. She'll leave that bairn like she left Chantel; like she left the two other bairns she's hud. Two other bairns ah nivir even kent aboot until ah saw them at oor weddin reception.

  Aye, ma Ma wis right aboot her. She's common, Ma said. And no jist because she wis a Doyle. It wis her drinking; no like a lassie, Ma thought. Mind you, ah liked that. At first ah liked it, until ah got peyed oaf and the hirey's wir short. That wis me toiling. Then the bairn came. That wis when her drinking goat tae be a total pain; a total fuckin pain in the erse.