The Acid House (15 page)

See that big skinny gadge wi the tartan skerf? Big Adam's aypil hingin ower the toap ay it? Ah'm jist gaunny huv a wee word wi the cunt.

Whit d'yis mean leave urn? Ah'm jist spraffin wi the boy, aboot the game n that, likesay.

Hi mate, been tae the rugby? Murrayfield, aye? Scotlin win, aye?

Fuckin sound.

Hear that Skanko? Scotlin fuckin won.

Whae wis it thi wir playin, mate?

Fiji. FIJI? Who the fuck's that?!

FIJI? Some fuckin islands ya doss cunt.

Aye?

Aye, well we're jist some fuckin islands tae these cunts, think aboot it that wey.

It's right enough though, eh mate?

Still, wir aw fuckin Scotsmin the gither, eh mate?

No thit ah ken much aboot rugby masel. S'a fuckin poof's game if ye ask me. Dinnae ken how any cunt kin watch that fuckin shite. It's true though, it's aw fuckin queers thit play that game.

Yir no a poof ur ye, mate?

Whit d'ye mean leave um? Jist askin the boy if eh's a poof or no. Simple fuckin question. Mibbe the cunt is, mibbe eh isnae.

Whair's it ye come fae, mate?

Marchmont!

Hi Skanko, the boy's fi Marchmont.

Big hooses up thair mate. Bet you've goat plenty fuckin poppy.

Naw? Bit ye stey in a big hoose bit.

No that fuckin big!

No that fuckin big, eh sais!

You stey in a fuckin castle!

D'ye hear the cunt? No that fuckin big.

Whit's it ye dae, mate, ye wurkin?

Aye, fuckin right ya cunt!

Aye ... bit whit dis that make ye? Whit's it make ye whin yir finished?

A fuckin Accountint!

Hear that Skanko! SKANKO! C'mere the now. C'MERE THE NOW, YA CUNT!

This cunt's fuckin tellin ays eh's an Accountint.

Eh? What the fuck you sayin?

Aye, right.

Well, a trainee Accounting

Trainee Accountant, Accountant, same fuckin thing; tons ay fuckin hireys.

Naw.

Naw, the boy isnae a poof.

Ah jist thoat that, mate, ken wi you bein intae the rugby n that.

Ye goat a burd, mate?

Eh?

Thoat ye sais ye wirnae a poof. Ivir hud a ride?

Whit d'ye mean leave the cunt? Jist askin a simple question.

Ivir hud a ride, mate?

Either ye huv or ye huvnae. Jist a fuckin question. Ye dinnae huv tae git a beamer.

That's awright then.

Jist a question, see.

Jist wi you bein intae rugby, ken.

That's ma burd ower thair.

HI KIRSTY! AWRIGHT DOLL! Be ower in a minute. Jist huvin a wee blether wi ma mate here, likesay.

No bad, eh? Tidy, eh?

Eh! You fancy ma burd, ya dirty cunt?

Eh! You tryin tae say ma burd's a fuckin hound? You tryin tae git fuckin wide?

Naw?

Jist is well fir you, ya cunt.

So ye like rugby, eh? Fitba's ma game. Ah nivir go bit. Barred fae the fuckin groond. Anywey, fitba's fuckin borin shite n aw. Dinnae huv tae go tae me game. Maist ay the action takes place before n eftir the game. Heard ay the Hibs Boys? The CCS? Aye?

Take the swedgin ootay fitba, it's fuckin deid.

Goan gies a song, mate. One ay they poof songs ye sing in the rugby clubs before yis aw shag each other.

Jist a wee fuckin song then, cunt!

Jist askin the boy tae gies a fuckin song. Nae hassle likes.

Gies a song, mate. C'Moan!

EH! SHUT UP WI THAT SHITE
! Flower ay fuckin Scotlin. Shite! Ah hate that fuckin song: Oh flow-ir-ay-Scot-lin ... fuckin pish. Gies a real song. Sing Distant Drums.

Whit dae ye mean leave urn? Ah'm jist askin the cunt tae sing. Distant Drums.

Eh?

Ye dinnae ken Distant fuckin Drums? No? Listen tae me, mate, ah'll fuckin sing it.

I HEAR THE SOUND DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH OF DIS-TINT DRUMS

DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH

SING YA CUNT!

I hear the sound of distant drums. It's easy. You're the cunt wi degrees n that. Ye kin understand that.
I-HEAR-THE-SOUND-OF-DISTANT-DRUMS
.

That's better, hi, hi, hi.

Skanko! Kirsty! Hear the cunt! Distant fuckin Drums!

Barry. Right. Mine's a boatil ay Becks mate. The mate n aw. The burds ur oan Diamond Whites. That's Leanne, Skanko thair's burd ken?

Cheers, mate.

See Skanko, the cunt's awright. Sound fuckin mate ay mines, by the way.

Whit did ye say yir name wis, mate?

Alistair, right

That's fi Alistair.

Cheers, mate

S'at you away now, mate? Aye? See ye men.

Distant Drums, eh mate!

What a fuckin nondy cunt! Hud the daft cunt singin that auld song.

Distant fuckin Drums, ya cunt.

Becks then Skanko. Jist cause ay the the boy gittin yin, disnae mean tae say you dinnae need tae. Short airms n deep poakits this cunt, eh Leanne?

Cheers! Tae rugby cunts; fuckin poofs bit here's tae thum!

Something strange was happening over Pilton. Probably not just Pilton, Coco Bryce considered, but as he was in Pilton, the here and now was all that concerned him. He gazed up at the dark sky. It seemed to be breaking up. Part of it had been viciously slashed open, and Coco was disconcerted by what appeared to be ready to spill from its wound. Shards of bright neon-like light luminated in the parting. Coco could make out the ebbs and flows of currents within a translucent pool which seemed to be accumulating behind the darkened membrane of the sky, as if in readiness to burst through the gap, or at least rip the wounded cloud-cover further. However, the light emanating from the wound seemed to have a narrow and self-contained range; it didn't light up the planet below.

Then the rain came: at first a few warning spits, followed by a hollow explosion of thunder in the sky. Coco saw a flash of lightning where his glowing vision had been and although unnerved in a different way, he breathed a sigh of relief mat his strange sighting had been superceded by more earthly phenomena.
Ah wis crazy toe drop that second tab ay acid. The visuals ur something else.

His body, if left to its own devices would tend towards rubber, but Coco had enough resources of the will and enough experience of the drug to remember that fear and panic fed off them-selves. The golden rule of 'stay cool' had been mouthed by wasters down the decades for good reason. He took stock of his situation: Coco Bryce, tripping alone in the park at roughly three o'clock in the morning, lightning flashing from a foreboding sky above him.

The possibilities were: at the very least he'dbe soaked to the skin, at worst he'd be struck by lightning. He was the only tall thing around for a few hundred yards, standing right in the middle of the park. — Fuck sakes, he said, pulling the lapels of his jacket together. He hunched up and stole quickly down the path that split the massive canine toilet which was West Pilton Park.

Then Coco Bryce let out a small whisper, not a scream, just a murmur, through a soft gasp. He felt his bones vibrate as heat surged through his body and the contents of his stomach fell to displace those of his bowels. Coco had been struck by something from the sky. Had his last vision before he let go of consciousness not been one of the concrete path rising to meet him, he might have thought: lightning.

Who What When How
WHAT AM I
?

Coco Bryce. Brycey fae Pilton. Brycey: one ay me Hibs Boys. Coco Fuckin Bryce, ya radge, he tried to shout, but he had no voice with which to make himself heard. He seemed to be blowing limply in a wind, but he could feel no currents of air nor hear their whistle. The nearest he could approximate to any sensation was that of being a blanket or a banner, floating in a breeze, yet he had still no sense of dimension or shape. Nothing conveyed to his cauterised senses any notion of his extent; it seemed as if he both encompassed the universe and was the size of a pin-head.

After a while he began to see, or sense, textures around him. There were images alright, but there was no sense of where they were coming from, or how they were being processed, no real sense of him having a body, limbs, a head, or eyes. Nonetheless these images were clearly perceived; a blue-black backdrop, illuminated by flickering, sparkling shapeless objects of varying mass, as unidentifiable as he was himself.

Am ah dad? Is this fuckin deid?
COCO FUCKIN BRYCE
!

The black was becoming more blue; the atmosphere he was moving around in was definitely getting thicker, offering more resistance to his sense of momentum.

Coco Bryce

It was stopping his movement. It was like a jelly, and he realised that he was going to set in it. A brief panic gripped him. It seemed important to keep moving. There was a sense of a journey needing to be completed. He willed himself on and could make out, in the distance, an incandescent centre. He felt a strong sense of elation, and using his willpower, travelled towards this light.

This fuckin gear isnae real. Eftir ah come doon, that's it, that's me fuckin well finished!

* * *

Rory Weston's hands shook as he put the receiver down. He could hear the screams and shouts coming from the other room. For a moment, no more than a few seconds, Rory wished he wasn't occupying this particular space and time. How had all this happened? He began to trace the sequence of events that led to this, only to be disrupted by another violent shriek from through the wall. — Hang on, Jen, they're on their way, he shouted, running through towards the source of the agonised cacophony.

Rory moved over to the swollen, distressed figure of his girlfriend, Jenny Moore, and crushed her hand in his. The Parker Knoll settee was soaked with her waters.

Outside, the thunder roared on, drowning out Jenny's screams for the neighbours.

Jenny Moore, through her pain, was also thinking about the cumulation of circumstances which led her to be in this condition in this Morningside flat. Her friend Emma, also pregnant, though a month less advanced than Jenny, had caught sight of their waddling figures reflected in a shop window in Princes Street. — God sakes, Jen, look at us! You know, I sometimes wish, looking back to that cold winter's evening, mat I'd given Iain that blow-job instead, she exclaimed.

They had laughed at this; laughed loudly. Well, Jenny wasn't laughing now.

I'm being torn apart and this bastard sits over me with that stupid fucking expression on his face.

What did it take out of them physically? It was just another fuck for those bastards. We had it all to do, but there they all were telling us how to do it, controlling us
—
gynaecologists, fathers to be, all men; together in a sickly pragmatic conspiracy . . . the scumbags have already disengaged emotionally from you; you're just the receptacle to carry the precious fruit of their sweaty bollocks into the world, through your fucking blood. .
.
But you're being hysterical darling. . . it's all those hormones, all over the place, just listen to us, we know best. . .

The bell went. The ambulance had arrived.

Thank god they're here, the men. More bloody men. Ambulance-MEN. Where the fucking hell were the ambulance
WOMEN
?

— Easy Jen, there we go . . . Rory said with what was meant to be encouragement.

There WE go? she thought, as another wave of pain, worse this time than anything she had known, tore through her. This time the thunder and lightning of the freakiest freak storm to hit Scotland simply couldn't compete. She was almost blacking out with the pain as they got her on the stretcher, down the stairs and into the van. No sooner did they start up than they realised they wouldn't make the hospital.

— Stop the van! shouted one of the ambulancemen. — It's happening now!

They stopped the van by the side of the deserted Meadows. Only the flashing bolts of lightning; strange, persistently luminous and following awkward, uncharacteristic trajectories, lit up the starkly darkened sky. One of these bolts struck the ambulance parked in that deserted road as Jenny Moore was trying to push the offspring of her and her partner Rory Weston out into the world.

* * *

AW THIS IS NOWT TAE FUCKIN DAE WI ME

COCO

COCO BRYCE

BRYCEY

COLIN STUART BRYCE

I N STUUUUUAAAAAAARRRTTTT T T T B R COLINSTUARTBRYCE

Colin Stuart Bryce, or Coco Bryce, the Pilton casual, as he perceived himself to be, although he could not be too sure anymore, floated in the heightless void of gel, toward its white luminous centre. He became aware of something racing toward him at great speed, approaching from that far-off central point he had sensed. While the now thick and solidifying gel had begun to constrain the life-force that was Coco Bryce, this other energy source negotiated it with the ease of light travelling through air. He could not see this, only gain a notion of it through some strange, indefinable conglomeration of the senses.

It seemed to sense him too, for it slowed down as it approached him, and after hesitating, shot past him at speed and was gone, vanishing into the indistinct environment around him. However, Coco had a chance to sense what it was, and it was like nothing he d witnessed before, an elongated blue, glass-like, cylindrical-shaped force, yet in a bizarre way it felt human; just as he, Coco Bryce, still considered himself to be human.