The Acid House (16 page)

He felt elated as the light grew closer, more powerful, beckoning him. He felt that if he could get to it, everything would be all right. Hopeful, he willed himself on through the rapidly thickening gel. Propulsion, achievable purely through the exercise of will, was becoming increasingly difficult. No idea of where he was, of his shape, size, or his senes in the discrete categories of sight, touch, taste, smell, hearing, these seeming obsolete, yet him somehow able to experience the exploding kaleidoscope of colours beyond the gel that engulfed him; to feel the movement and the resistance to that movement.

It was growing darker. As soon as that awareness hit him, he noted it was pitch black. Coco felt fear. He had slowed down completely now, grinding to a halt. His will no longer served as a driving mechanism. The light was closer though. The Light. It was upon him, around him, in him.
LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT
LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT
LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT
LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT
LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT
LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT
LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT
LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT

LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT DARKER DARKER DARKNESS

Heaven or hell, wherever this is, ah'm fuckin closin in! Thir's gaunny be some changes aroond here, ya cunts! Coco Bryce. Pilton. Distinguished honours at Millwall (preseason friendly), Pittodrie, Ibrox and Anderlecht (UEFA Cup). Coco Bryce, a top boy. A cunt that messes is a cunt that dies. See if any cunt. . . if any cunt gits
. . .
if any cunt
. . .

His thoughts trailed out insipidly. Coco was frightened. At first the fear was an insidious quease, then it became brutally stark and raw as he felt great forces on him, crushing and pulling at him. It felt as if he was in the grip of a vice while simultaneously another power tried to tear him from its grasp. These forces, though, enabled him to define his body for the first time since this strange journey had begun. He knew he was human, all too human, too vulnerable to the powers that crushed and wrenched at him. Coco prayed for a victor in the struggle between the two great and evenly matched forces. The torture lasted for a while, then he felt himself being torn from the void. He had only sensed
THE LIGHT
before, but now he could actually see it, burning through his closed eyelids, which he could not open. And then he realised there were voices:

— It's a beauty!

— A wee laddie for ye, hen, eh's a wee cracker n aw.

— Look, Jen, he's wonderful!

Coco could sense himself being held up; could sense his body, where his limbs were. He tried to shout: Coco Bryce! Hibs Boys! What's the fuckin score, ya cunts?

Nothing came from his lungs.

He felt a slap on his back and an explosion of air within him, as he let out a loud, wrenching scream.

* * *

Dr Callaghan looked down at the young man in the bed. He had been comatose, but now that he had emerged into consciousness, he was displaying some strange behavioural patterns. He couldn't speak, and writhed around in his bed, thrashing his arms and legs. Eventually he had to he constrained. He screamed and cried.

Cold.

Help.

— Waaahhh! screamed the youth. At the foot of his bed he had a nametag:
COLIN BRYCE
.

Hot.

Help.

— Waaahhh!

Hungry.

Help.

— Waaahhh!

Need hug.

Help.

— Waaahhh!

Want to pish, shite.

Help.

— Waahhh!

Dr Callaghan felt that, through his screaming, the youth was perhaps trying to communicate; though he couldn't be sure.

* * *

On the ward Jenny held her son. They would call him either Jack or Tom, as they had agreed, because, she considered with a sudden surge of cynicism, that's what people like them tended to do. They were located in an eighties English-speaking strata where culture and accent are homogenous and nationality is a largely irrelevant construct. Middle-class, professional, socially-aware, politically-correct people, she reflected scornfully, tended to use those old proletarian craftsperson names: ideal for the classless society. Her friend Emma had announced her intention to call her child Ben, if it was a boy, so the choice had been narrowed to one of two.