The Acid House (18 page)

— Skanko n Leanne's suppose tae be gittin engaged, she said, — that's what ah heard anywey.

This statement, though it elicited no response from Coco, sparked off an interesting line of thought for Kirsty. If he could remember nothing, he might not remember the status of their relationship. He might not remember what a pain in the arse he could be when it came to talking about their future.

Toilet.

— Number twos!
NUMBER TWOS!
the youth screamed.

A nurse appeared with a bedpan.

After he had shat, Kirsty sat on the edge of her boyfriend's bed and bent over him. — Skanko n Leanne. Engaged, she repeated.

He pushed his mouth towards her breasts and began sucking and biting at them through her t-shirt and bra. — Mmmmm ... mmmm...

— Get the tuck offay ays! she shouted, pushing him away. — No here! No now!

The sharpness in her voice made him wail. — WAAHH!!

Kirsty shook her head scornfully, spat out her gum, and left. If, though, as the doctors were suggesting, he was a blank piece of paper, Kirsty had realised that she could colour him in as she liked. She'd keep him away from his mates when he got out. He'd be a different Coco. She'd change him.

* * *

All Jenny's material on post-natal care hadn't quite prepared her for the type of relationship she and her baby were developing.

— Listen Jenny, ah want ye tae take ays tae the fitba oan Setirday. Hibs-Herts at Easter Road. Right?

— Not until you stop talking like a workman and speak properly, she said. The content of his conversation and the tone of his voice concerned her.

— Yes, sorry. I thought I'd like to see some sport.

— Em, I don't know much about the football, Tom. I like to see you express yourself and develop interests, but football... it's one of those terribly macho things, and I don't think I want you getting into it...

— Aw aye, I mean, so I can grow up like that wanker! Eh, my father? C'mon Mum, wise up! He's a fuckin toss!

— Tom! That's enough! Jenny said, but she couldn't help smiling. The kid was definitely onto something here.

Jenny agreed to take the child onto the East Terracing at Easter Road. He made her stand over by a heavily policed barrier which divided the rival sets of fans. She noted that Tom seemed to spend more time watching the youths in the crowd than the football. They were moved away by startled police who remonstrated with Jenny on her irresponsible behaviour. She had to admit the grim truth; great freak of nature and genius he may be, but her baby was a yob.

Over the weeks, though, Coco Bryce grew happier in the new body. He would have it all. Let them think that the old body in the hospital was the real Coco Bryce. He was fine here; mere were opportunities. At first he thought that he missed shagging and drinking, but he found that his sex drive was very low and that alcohol made his baby body too sick. Even his favourite food was no longer palatable; he now preferred lighter, runny, easily digested stuff. Most of all, he felt so tired all the time. All he wanted to do was sleep. When he was awake, he was learning so much. His new knowledge seemed to be forcing out much of his old memories.

* * *

An extensive programme of reminiscence and recall therapy had failed me youth in the hospital. Educational psychologists had decided that rather than try to get him to remember any-thing, he would learn everything from scratch. This programme paid instant dividends and the young man was soon allowed home. Visiting the surroundings he had seen in photographs gave him a sense of who he was, even if it was a learned rather than a recalled concept. To his mother's shock, he even wanted to visit his father in prison. Kirsty came round a lot. They were, after all, as good as engaged, she had told him. He couldn't remember, he remembered nothing. He had to learn how to make love all over again. Kirsty was pleased with him. He seemed eager to learn. Coco had never been one for foreplay before. Now, under her instruction, he discovered his tongue and fingers, becoming a skilful and responsive lover. They soon became formally engaged and moved into a flat together.

The papers took an occasional interest in Coco Bryce's recovery. The young man renounced drugs, so the Regional Council thought that it would be good publicity to offer him a job. They employed him as a messenger, though the youth, continuing and rapidly progressing with his studies, wanted to get into clerical work. His friends thought that Coco had gone a bit soft since the accident, but most put it down to his engagement. He had stopped running with the casuals. That was Kirsty's idea; it could get him into bother and they had their future to think of. Coco's ma thought this was great. Kirsty had been a good influence.

One evening, around eighteen months later, the young man known as Colin Bryce was travelling on a bus with his wife Kirsty. They had been visiting her mother and were now heading back to their flat in Dairy. A young woman and her chubby infant sat in front of them. The child had turned around and was facing Colin and Kirsty. It seemed fascinated by them both. Kirsty jokingly played with the toddler, pressing his nose.

— Tom, the baby's mother laughed, — stop disturbing people. Sit round straight.

— No, he's awright, Kirsty smiled. She looked at Coco, trying to gauge his reaction to the child. She wanted one. Soon.

The infant seemed mesmerised by Coco. His doughy hand reached out and played over the youth's face, tracing its con-tours. Kirsty stifled a laugh as her husband pulled his head back and looked self-conscious.

— Tom! The baby's mother laughed in mock exasperation, — You little pest. C'mon, it's our stop.

—
KOKORBIGH!
KOKORBIGH!
the child squealed as she scooped him up and carried him away. He pointed back at the youth, tearfully wailing as they left the bus, —
KOKORBIGH
!

— That's not Kokirbigh, she explained, referring to the dream demon that persistently plagued her son Tom, — that's just a young man.

Kirsty talked about babies for the rest of the journey, engrossed in the subject, never noticing the fear and confusion on her husband's face.

A NOVELLA

For Kevin Williamson,
rebel with several causes

I'd been living and working in the park for a month now, which was too radge. The digs were adequate and free. The wages were pretty shite but the poackle was good, if ye got a chance in the golf starter's box, which I generally did a couple of times a week. If I could get another month out of it before the cunts in the mobile tippled tae ma scam, I'd have a splendid bankroll the gither for London.

Inverleith was an okay park, dead central like. I couldn't have crashed in a park on the ootside of the city, that would've been a drag. I'd be better off at the auld man's place. The bothy I slept in was spacious and comfortable. It already had a Baby Belling, for my cooking, and an electric-bar fire, so all I needed to conceal was my mattress, which I crushed behind the boiler, the sleeping-bag and my black-and-white portable telly, which I could keep in the locker provided. I had a spare set of keys cut, so that after the mobile patrol picked up the set at the end of the shift, I could go for a pint then return and let myself in.

There were more than adequate toilet and shower facilities in the pavilion, which contained the footballers' changing-rooms as well as my bothy. So my outgoings were purely drink and drugs which, although substantial enough, with a bit of dealing, insurance and credit-card fraud, could be met fairly comfortably while allowing me to save. How good was that?

And yet it wisnae such a good life. There was the small problem of actually having to be on the job.

The great killer for the parkie (or Seasonal Park Officer as we were somewhat pompously entitled) was boredom. Humans tend tae adjust tae their environment and subsequently, in the parks, you become so inactive that even thinking of doing anything feels threatening. This goes for the essential duties of the job, which only take up about half an hour of the eight-hour shift, as well as any extras. I'd rather sit all day reading biographies (I read nothing else) and occasionally have a wank than go and clean out the changing-room, which would be just as dirty within a few hours as the next set of footballers came in. Even the prospect of a short trip to the cupboard a few feet away to switch on the thermostat becomes fraught with tension and loathing. It seemed easier, when my mind was set in this way, to tell six filthy teams of footballers that the showers were broken, or playing up, than to just go over and switch the cunts on. It was also a way of testing out how the Park Patrol hierarchy reacted tae such occurrences. The lessons learned could always be used in the future.

The players, for their part, reacted fairly predictably:

—
NAE FUCKIN SHOWERS! MOAN TAE FUCK! FIR FUCK SAKES!

—
YE PEY YIR FUCKIN DOUGH FIR THE FACILITIES
...

—
WE SHOULD GIT A REFUND! YE NEED SHOWERS FIR FUCK'S SAKE!

I find myself surrounded by seventy-odd sweaty players and nippy, rid-faced officials. At that point, yes, I wished I'd got ma arse intae gear and turned the showers oan. My strategy on such occasions is tae come out fighting and act even more disgusted with the shower problem than they are. Steal those clothes of righteous indignation.

— Listen, mate, I said, shaking ma heid angrily, — ah fuckin telt the cunts the other week that the immersion was dodgy. Ah'm fuckin well fed up tellin thum. That fuckin immersion. Sometimes it works fine, other times ye git fuck all ootay it.

— Aye, it was working fine the other week whin that other boy wis oan ...

— That's the fuckin tiling; jist cause it works two or three times oan the trot, they cunts think they dinnae huv tae bother gittin thir erses doon here tae huv a look at it! Ah telt the cunts fae the council tae send the engineer doon. Complete fuckin overhaul, that's what's needed. Ye need reliable showers in this type ay weather, ah telt the boy. Did they move thir fuckin erses?

— Aye, no these cunts, they widnae bother.

— Aye, bit the thing is, yous boys come doon here eftir the match wantin yir fuckin shower. It's no these cunts thit git the hassle; it's fuckin muggins here, I pouted tersely, thrashing my chest with my finger.

— Hud oan pal, said one of the skippers, — wir no sayin nowt against you.

— Aw naw, naw, naebody's blamin the boy, another player says to the skipper. They all nod in acquiescence, apart from a few cunts on the periphery, who moan away. Then one skipper stands up oan the bench and shouts: — Wi cannae git the showers tae work, lads. Ah know it's a pain, but that's it. The boy's done his best.

A series of loud hisses and curses fills the air.

— Well, that's the way it goes. It's no the boy's fault. He telt the council, another player says supportively.

They grumblingly get dressed; the daft cunts. That's their night fucked. They'll have tae go hame tae shower, rather than hitting the pub straight away to discuss the match and pontificate on the state of fitba, music, television, shagging and the embarrassment of mates in the modern world. The momentum for the night has been lost. The pub they go to, with its shitey beer garden, will experience lower than normal takings. Tough shit, in these recession-hit times. Girlfriends and wives will be met with sour expressions by partners who feel deprived of their night out with the boys. The men will sullenly head for the bathroom shower feeling despondent and cheated: a win which cannot be savoured, or a defeat which cannot be consoled and massaged by lager. Councillors and recreation officials will be harassed by the squeaky, rid-faced, menopausal, bloated, sex-ually inadequate turds who run the beautiful game at all levels in Scotland.

All this misery because the parkie can't be bothered clicking on a switch. That's real fuckin power for you. Take that, ya cunts! How crazy am I.

As the last of the players files out, I go intae the boiler-room at the back of my bothy and switch on the immersion. I'll need hot water for ma shower before I go oot the night. I do some push-ups and squat thrusts before settling down to another chapter in the book I'm reading: a biography of Peter Sutcliffe.

All I read are biographies; I don't know why, it's not as if I particularly enjoy them. I just cannae seem tae get intae anything else. Jim Morrison, Brian Wilson, Gerald Ford, Noele Gordon, Joyce Grenfell, Vera Lynn, Ernest Hemingway, Elvis Presley (two different ones), Dennis Nilsen, Charles Kray (Reg and Ron's brother), Kirk Douglas, Paul Hegarty, Lee Chapman and Barry McGuigan have all been consumed since I started working in the parks. I cannae really say I've enjoyed any of them, with the exception, perhaps, of Kirk Douglas.

Sometimes I wonder whether taking oan this job was a good career-move. I like it because I enjoy my own company and can get a bit ratty after too much social contact. I dislike it because I can't move around and I hate being stuck in the one place. I suppose I could learn to drive, then I could get a job which offered the two important features of solitude and mobility, but a car would tie me down, stop me from taking drugs. And that would never do.

Mr Garland, the parks boss, was a kindly man, liberal enough by parks standards. He understood the condition of the parkie. Garland had been through enough council disciplinaries to suss out the problem. — It's a boring job, he told me on my induction, — and the devil makes work and all that stuff. The thing is, Brian, that so few Park Officers show initiative. The slovenly Park Officer will do the bare minimum, then just slope off, while the more conscientious officer will always find work to do. Believe you me, we know who the bad apples are, and I can tell you this: their days are numbered. So if you make an impression, Brian, we could very well be in a position to offer you a permanent post with the Parks Department.

— Eh, right. . .

— Of course, you've not even started the job yet, he smiled, realising that he was leaping massively ahead of himself, — but while it might not be the most exciting job in the world, many officers make it worse than it need be. You see, Brian, his eyes went large and evangelistic, — there's always work to do in a park. The job needs walking, Brian. The children's swing park has to be kept free from broken glass. The teenagers who congregate behind the pavilion; I've found needles there, Brian, you know. . .

— Terrible, I shake my head.

— They have to be discouraged. There are forms we have to complete on damage and vandalism to Parks property. There is always rubbish to pick up, weeding around the bothy and of course the constant cleaning of changing-rooms. The enterprising Park Officer will always find something to do.

— I think it's better to do a good day's graft; makes the time pass quicker, I lied.

— Precisely. I admit that sometimes, especially if the weather is inclement, boredom can be a problem. Are you a reader, Brian?

— Yes. I'm a fairly avid reader.

— That's good, Brian. A reader is never bored. What sort of stuff do you read?

— Biographies mainly.

— Excellent. Some people stuff their heads with political and social theory: it can only cause resentment and discontent with one's lot, he mused. — Anyway, mat's besides the point. I'll concede that this job could be better. The service has been run down. We can't even replace the old mobile vans and intercom equipment. Of course, I blame our political masters on the Recreation Committee. Grants for single-parent black lesbian collectives to put on experimental theatre projects; that sort of stuff they'll always find money for.

— I couldn't agree more, Mister Garland. It's criminal, that sort of misuse of the poll-tax payer's money.

I remember that thoughtful, acknowledging nod Garland gave me. It seemed to say: I see a model Park Officer in the making. What's the cunt like.

I took a quick shower before the mobile came. I was just in time; no sooner had I dried off and got dressed than I heard the Park Patrol van pulling up. The Park Patrol vans, the mobile, are the uniformed cunts. These fuckers are on the same grade as us, only mobile. Technically, they are supposed to check the smaller parks which are unstaffed by a Park Officer. Unofficially, it's a different matter. What they actually do is to police us; we who, I suppose by reverse definition, have to be called the stationary Park Officers. They make sure that we are on the job, at our official work-stations, and not in some pub. They caught one guy, Pete Walls, literally on the job last week at Gilmerton. He was shagging a schoolie in the bothy. They suspended him with pay, pending enquiry. The council really knows how to hurt you; giving you official licence to do what any parkie strives to do unofficially: not be mere but get paid for it.

I empty some roaches out the ashtray into a bin-liner as mobile Park Officer Alec Boyle steps out of the car. Boyle has his cap pulled down over his mirror-lens shades. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, he usually leans out the window of the car when it's at the lights, and he must spend a fortune on chewing-gum. All that's missing is the Brooklyn accent. What sort of shite is going through that cunt's heid is anybody's guess. A wee guy; a few inches too small and brain cells too few even for the polis. How fucked-up is he.

— What's this aboot the fuckehhnn showers? he asks.

— Dinnae mention these cunts tae me, Alec. Ah've been at the fuckers aw day. It's sortay like the pilot light keeps gaun oot, ken? Ah've goat it started now; but the water wisnae hoat enough for the fitba guys, ken? They wir daein thir nut.

— Ah ken that Jist hud the fuckehhnn Shark oan the radio. Gaun fuckin radge.

The Shark. Divisional Park Superintendant Bert Rutherford. He's on today. That's aw we fuckin well need. — Well, we'll huv tae git the engineer doon.

— He's fuckehhnn been doon but, couldnae find nowt wrong.

— How's it this always hus tae happen when it's me oan shift? I moan in the self-pitying way guys on the job here always do. — Ah think ah'm fuckin jinxed.

Park Officer Boyle nods empathetically at me. Then a reptilian smile twists his features. — Your mate Pete Walls, he's some fuckenhhn cunt, is he no?

I wouldnae really class Wallsy as a mate, just an okay guy I've done a bit of work on the golf with, a bit of poacklin. I suppose that's as good a mate as you can get, on the parks like. That's where the real money's made in the parks; on the golf starter's box. Every cunt wants in on that action.

— Aye, Wallsy wis caught wi his pants doon ah heard, I nodded.

— Stoat the baw, Boyle's face crinkled as he idly polished his shades with a hanky. The daft cunt doesnae suss that he's smearing snotters over the lenses, men he tipples and stops, vaguely self-conscious for a moment.

I spare his embarrassment. — Ah heard that the lassie wis sixteen; it wis his girlfriend. Getting engaged n that like. She just came in wi some sannys and it got a bit oot ay hand.

— Ah heard aw that shite. Disnae matter a fuck. That cunt's oot the door. Fuckehhnn dismissal joab.

I wisnae so sure about that. — Naw, ah'll bet ye a fiver he gets oaf wi it.

I had a feeling about this. The council was a very asexual organisation. If things got a bit steamy they'd bottle out. This was a potential Pandora's box that they might not want to open. Cha McIntosh at the union would find an angle. I thought mere was a very good outside chance that Wallsy would get off scot-free. Well worth a fiver.

— Git away, Boyle sneers.

— Naw, come oan. Bet ye a blue one.

— Done, said Boyle. As I shook his greasy paw, he assumed a conspiratorial expression and whispered, although we were in an empty pavilion in the middle of a deserted park, — Watch the fuckehhnn Shark. He's got his beady eye oan ye. Thinks yir a wide-o. He goes tae me: How's that boy at Inverleith? Ah goes: Awright, good lad likes. He said: Seems a bit ay a smart cunt tae me.

I set my face in an expression of contrived sincerity. — Thanks, Alec. Appreciate ye giein ays the nod.

Bullshitting wee cunt. The Shark might be oan ma case, then again, he might no. I didn't fuckin care. These mobile cunts always played games to keep you para and set themselves up in a better light. They were just as bored by the job as us; they needed to generate intrigue to keep the interest levels up.

He departed, screeching his car tyres across the gravel outside the bothy. I went to the local pub and had a voddy and a game of pool with a guy with a nervous tick. After this, I went back, had a wank and read another chapter in Peter Sutcliffe's biography. Boyle came back to pick up his set of keys and my shift was over. I left the park, but doubled-back after Boyle departed, letting myself back intae the pavilion. Before I prepared to set off intae toon, I set up my telly and bed, in case I was too wrecked tae dae it the night. Then I realised mat I was off for four days. In the parks you had five days on and two days off, the two days changing each week. My days were running intae each other, so I had a long weekend. This meant that someone else would be here the morn. I locked my stuff back up. It was unlikely that I'd crash here tonight. I usually crashed out in some cunt's gaff at the weekend, or at my auld man's.