The Acid House (22 page)

When we were finished he was covered in a largely grey-white evil sludge, partly coloured in places by orange beans, yellow egg yolks and green washing-up liquid. Penman came back from the kitchen and emptied the contents of a bin-liner over him. I tipped a couple of full ashtrays across him. The sludge rolled off him and seeped into the ugly red carpet. Still Ronnie wouldn't wake up. Denise then shat on his face; a huge, steaming, wet turd. By this time I was fearing for my own health. I was convulsing, with a crippling pain in my side caused by too much laughter, and Penman had almost blacked out after a giggling fit.

We took more pictures. I'd made myself sick, easy considering the mess, and what I'd had to drink, and vomited over Ronnie's unrecognisable face and chest. He looked like a mound of bac-terial sludge from a septic tank; a lump of toxic waste; a spillover from a council tip.

We laughed ourselves out and our adrenalin dipped simultaneously as we surveyed the mess.

— Fuck sakes, I said. — What are we like. How mad is this!

— Veitchy's gaunny be well pissed-off at us. His cairpit's fucked, Denise goes.

Penman looked a bit shat up. — Ronnie n aw. Ron's pretty radge. He hud a blade that time in the Burnt Post. Ye dinnae ken what any cunt whae's jellied'll go n dae whin thir cairryin a chib.

This was true. — Let's fuck off, I suggested. — Leave some money fir Veitchy n Ron. They can git cleaned up.

Nobody was putting up too many strong arguments for staying and facing the music. We took off and headed for Tollcross in a taxi. We got very drunk but were still thinking about chancing our arm and trying to get into the Citrus Club, when Veitchy walked into the pub. To our surprise, he took it okay, better than Ronnie apparently.

Veitchy looked really freaked, as in amazed, by the whole thing. — Ah've never seen anybody look like that in ma puff. It wis just fuckin crazy. Ah shat masel when ah came in and pit the light oan. Ah jist pit doon some auld newspapers, aw the wey tae the bathroom. It wis radge whin Ronnie woke up. He just shouted:
THE FUCKIN BASTARDS! THE FUCKIN CUNTS! SOME WLDE-O FUCKIN DIES FIR THIS!
Then he jist trails through tae the shower, n gits under it, fully-clathed likes, n hoses nisei doon. Then he walks oot soakin wet n goes: Ah'm away hame.

I looked at Denise n Penman. Sometimes mates are the last people ye kin trust.

— Ye git any coke, Denise asks Veitchy.

— Naw, jist these, he says holding out some capsules.

— Eckys? Penman asks. — No wantin eckys. Goat loads ay fuckin ecky ya daft fucker.

— Naw, it's ketamine. Special-Ks like. Ken?

— Ah'm no touchin thaim, Denise shudders.

Penman looks at me. — Ah'm game, he says.

— Might as well, I agree, -jist fir the crack like.

We each down one, except Denise, but within minutes he's begging Veitchy to sort him out as well. I start to feel heavy and tired. We're all talking shite.

The next thing I remember is dancing on my own in the Meadows at five o'clock on a Sunday morning.

I'm thinking about my life and that is always a very, very stupid thing to do. The reason for this is that there are some things that don't bear thinking about, some things that if you try to think of them they'll just fuck you up even mair.

I hear my auld man shouting at me, —
BRIAN! UP! C'MOAN! MOVE IT!

— Aye, jist comin. It's pointless arguing. I have to sign on today. Once the auld boy decides I should be up, then he won't stop.

I rise wearily. Derek's in his bed, stretching tae life.

— You no workin the day? I ask him.

— Naw. Day oaf.

Derek's doing well for himself. Planning to sit the Civil Service Executive Officer exam, or perhaps has already sat it. I don't know. The details of the working classes' trivial activities have never held much attraction for a man of leisure.

— Mind ay Ma, Deek? I can't believe I just asked him that.

— Aye, of course ah do.

— You wir jist six when she took off.

— Still mind ay her likes.

— Aw ... ah mean it's jist been a long time since ye talked aboot it... ah suppose ah mean since we talked aboot it, I said.

— Thir isnae that much tae talk aboot, he snorted, — she went, we stayed.

I didn't like that c'est la vie attitude, and wondered if he was trying to conceal something, then I wondered what. I supposed it was just because Deek was a bit thick. He'd probably pass the Civil Service Executive Officer exam though.

Downstairs the auld man had made a plate of toast and some tea. — You were in some bloody state again last night, he says sourly.

Actually, I wasn't in some state. I was a wee bit pished. Roxy, Sidney and I had broken into a chip shop in Corstorphine and stolen a load of confectionery and tobacco. We'd managed to fence a bit to the Rox's brother-in-law, who has an ice-cream van. Then we'd got a bit drunk. I know I wasn't in some state, for if I had been in some state I wouldn't have come home.

— Jist a few pints, I mused.

— If ye want tae make yirsel useful, come roond the scheme wi me n Norma collecting some names for this petition.

Now why didn't I think of that. A sound idea. I'd only be fuckin crucified, that's all. It's bad enough him trying to get me killed with his stupid, pointless activities, he now wants me to pull the fuckin trigger masel.

— Ah'd love tae, Dad, mibbe some other time, yeah? It's just this signing-oan shite the day. Then ah've goat tae go round the Job Centre. How's the campaign going?

— We went tae see that bloody councillor. That's nivir a Labour man. Ah've voted Labour aw ma life, but nivir again, ah'm tellin ye.

I took a hike into the city. It's fuckin miles, but I grudge paying fares. I'm skint. That chippie job paid sweeties, metaphorically as well as literally. I go and sign on. Then I head up to Sidney's gaff for a blow. It's weird how I tend to hang around with different people when in different drug scenes:

Alcohol:

The PATH, Roxy, Sidney, Big Moncrief

Non-opiate illegal drugs: (speed, acid, ecky, etc.)

Veitchy, Denise, Penman

Opiates:

Swanney, Raymie, Spud

But whatever scene, there's always Ronnie. That cunt is my penance for being a ... for some crime committed in a previous life.

That afternoon, I meet Penman who's fucked from a scene he was in over the weekend. His eyes are bleary and red. We do acid. Monday afternoon and we do a microdot. It's strong stuff n aw. — You know your problem man? he asks in a way which disconcerts me.

— Eh, I say, — ah didnae ken ah hud one . ..

— Ye jist illustrated it fir ays, man. Ye jist provided ays wi, as you might say, a graphic illustration ay what ah meant wi what you sais thair, ken?

— What dae ye mean? I ask, a bit nippy.

— Dinnae git stroppy, mate. This is mates talkin. Ah'm only sayin this cause me n you go back a long way. Right?

— Right, I agree, full of unease. I haven't been sleeping and I'm always para when I haven't been sleeping. It isn't the drugs that make me para, it's the lack of sleep that makes me para. The drugs only make it hard for for me tae sleep, so they're only indirectly responsible. If I could just get something to make me fuckin sleep . . .

— This 'ah didnae ken ah hud a problem' shite, Penman scoffs. — Wuv aw goat problems. Every cunt in this bar's goat problems. He sweeps his arm around the seedy pub. It wasn't easy to refute that proposition. — Every cunt in the world's goat problems.

— This isnae the maist representative sample ... I say, but he picks up on this and cuts in.

— There ye go again: 'this isnae the maist representative sample . . .' he mocks me, using a voice that sounds more like Denise's than ma own. — Ah'm tellin ye mate, yir awright, but yir too much ay a smart cunt. Point is, everybody laps up a smart cunt at one time or another. The smart cunt makes a joke, every fucker's chuffed tae bits. Then the smart cunt gits oan people's tits. Then the smart cunt gits a burst mooth. That's the way it works.

I sit flabbergasted.

— Now ah'm no saying that you've like, croassed that line. Aw ah'm sayin is that some cunts kin git away wi it mair thin others.

— Whit dae ye mean?

— Take Denise fir instance. Every cunt kens what he's like. So he gits away wi things thit you or me couldnae. One day though, he'll go too far ...

I was really para now. I'd never had Penman talk tae me like this before. — Any cunt said anything tae ye aboot ays?

— Look mate, aw ah'm sayin is thit yir startin tae gie oaf a vibe, he takes a sip of his coke and puts his arm around ma shoulder.

— Ah dinnae go aboot thinkin ah'm better thin any cunt else, I plead.

— Look mate, dinnae go taking it aw personally. Ah'm jist sayin watch. Right? He shakes his head for a while, then lets it fall into his hands. — Aw look, he gasps in exasperation, — forget whit ah sais, it's jist the acid.

— Naw bit, you look, whit's the score? Whae's been sayin things?

— Forget it.

— Naw come oan, ah want tae ken. What's the fuckin score?

— Ah sais forget it. Ah wis oot ay order, right?

There is a hardness in Penman's eyes, so I feel comfortable deferring to him. — This fuckin acid man ... I observe.

— Aye, that's right... he agrees, but there is a meanness about him, an unsettling edge. I feel like bursting into tears and begging:
PLEASE BE NICE TO ME.

Penman had fucked up ma heid. Penman and the acid. When I started to come down I went back tae ma auld man's place and up tae ma room. I lay on the bed taking stock of my life with a cruel, self-loathing brutality: No job, no qualifications except O Grade English and Art, no romantic attachment now that she's away and definitely not coming back, mates who only tolerated me. Prospects pretty fuckin grim all round. Yes, I did have a certain outgoing social vivaciousness but the self-belief that drove me on in face of all overwhelming evidence to the contrary was now evaporating rapidly. Penman wrote my epitaph: A Smart Cunt. Nobody likes a smart cunt; a smart cunt who is also an accessory to murder has got real problems.

It could be the drugs, it could be Blind Cunt, or I could be going mental, but things are not right. When I get on a bus or go into a pub, people stop talking when they see me. On the bus nobody sits beside me. I am the very last person anybody will sit beside. Do I smell? I think I do smell of something. I sniff at my clothes, armpits, crotch. I take a shower. Am I ugly? I look at myself in the mirror for ages. I am ugly. No worse, I'm totally unremarkable. A completely bland face; no character in it. I have to get out of here, so I go to Roxy's.

— This Blind Cunt thing's fuckin ma heid, man, I tell him. — How fucked is it?

— It's drugs that's fuckin you up, he scoffed, — leave them alane and stay cool ya daft cunt.

— Ah might go doon tae London for a bit. This place gies ays the fuckin creeps. There's some tapped people oan the streets, man. Yir walkin hame and any cunt could be cairryin a knife, jellied oot thir box. That could be your life over, jist like that. Some cunt who gets a result fae the AIDS clinic: You tested positive. What have they goat tae lose? They could just grab a car and mow ye doon.

— Bullshit.

— Look at Blind Cunt, though. It happened tae him! We did it tae him! It could happen tae us. It should happen tae us. Justice n that.

I was shaking and my teeth were chattering. There was a raw core of queasy fear in the centre of my body which was spreading toxic shivers through my limbs.

— That's shite. Awright, so it wis mibbe a bit ootay order whit we did tae Blind Cunt, but that brain thing could've happened anytime. That's a time-bomb, that sort ay thing. Disnae make us murderers or nowt like that. The cunt could've goat up one morning and hud a yawn tae hisel and bingo! Goodnight Vienna. Jist cause it happened tae happen by coincidence when ah panelled the cunt means fuck all. Ah read aw aboot this brain haemorrhage shite in the library. It's a shame fir Blind Cunt but it disnae mean tae say that we should fuck oor lives up. Tell ays thit us gittin the nick's gaunny bring Blind Cunt back, cause that's shite!

— Aye bit... I started.

— Listen the now, Bri, he interrupted, his head shaking belligerently. — Dinnae shed any tears fir Blind Cunt. Tell ays he wisnae an annoyin fuck. That cunt would've got his eventually, the wey ah see it.

— Blind Cunt might have saw it a wee bit differently, I replied, suddenly realising the ugly irony of what I'd said. The poor bastard. I felt awful. Roxy didn't spare me.

— Blind Cunt saw fuck all, that's how he wis called Blind Cunt, he said, contorting his face in a cruel sneer.

Once again I wanted to leave. I was surrounded by demons and monsters. We're all bad people. There's no hope for the world. I left and walked along the disused railway line and cried my eyes out at the futility of it all.

I'm sitting holding my face together in my hands; or that's how it seems. I'm aware of people around me, their outraged gasps indicating that it's bad. I know that. The blood falls through my fingers and hits the wooden pub floor in steady, even drops.

Hobo and I were close mates once, a few years ago now. He didn't like me pulling him around, begging him to get me sorted out.

— Git ootay ma fuckin face, Bri, ah'm warnin ye, man!

I was given plenty of warning. I never took Hobo seriously enough. I always thought he was bit of a poser, him hinging aboot wi they nutters. By keeping that company, though, you can become a nutter yirself. He's far more a man of substance than I thought. Being proved wrong hurts almost as much as my face. My cells, my fucking sick junk-deprived cells hurt the most. I hit the smack heavily this week. Things were getting a bit much; I needed to blot it all out. Everything.

It took one sweeping motion of the glass. One motion and I'm here holding my face together, and Hobo's shouting defensively about junkies fuckin hassling him, and extracting himself from the bar as the collective wrath develops:

— That wis ootay order...

— Boy wisnae bothering nae cunt. . .

Hobo slips away. I've no resentment, no thoughts of revenge. No yet anyway; I've bigger fish to fry. I need something to get this fevered ape off my back. Let Hobo think I'm obsessed with him, scheming revenge . . . it's all divine retribution for Blind Cunt, and if so, I've got off lightly. I deserve to suffer . . .

Why did she go.

She goed because of the same reason you got a glass in your face man different manifestations of the same reason namely that you are a

Somebody's dabbing at my face with a hanky. — Better get him to the hospital, that'll need stitching. A woman's voice. I can see out of at least one eye. Not like poor Bli... No

A gothic angel of mercy; black hair, black eyes, white face ... it could be any old hound from the City Cafe . ..

I'm going down the road with her and some others, but I'm only aware of her, my sick body and the stinging air in my face. God, the wounds are fuckin sair now. — You got a weedjie accent? I ask this benign goth-dess.

I saw it on her lapel. The hammer and sickle badge of a Stalinist Goth. The one that kb'd me. The one that fag-hagged Denise oot.

— Ah'm fae Ayrshire, she said.

— What was it Burns said about Ayr: nae toon surpasses for honest men and bonnie lassies ...

— I'm from Saltcoats, not Ayr.

— Saltcoats... the Metro. Good club. Apart fae that though, it's no really got a lot going for it, has it?

— Oh aye? And whair dae you come from then?

— Muirhouse.

— Huh! you're in no position tae talk.

— Listen, at ma auld man's hoose he's got panoramic views across the Form over tae Fife. There's a golf course across the road, a nice beach a pleasant fifteen minutes' walk away. Additionally, there's a well-stocked library particulary strong on biographies of the famous...

More blood spurts out.

— Shh, she says, — you're stretching the wound.

It's getting sore. God, it's sair.

— Good! says the boy at me Infirmary. — That means it's not damaged any nerves. Quite a superficial cut, really. It only needs about eight stitches.

He sewed me up. Eight poxy stitches. I was right first time; Hobo was a namby-pamby blouse. Eight stitches. I laughed nervously, — Eight stitches.

I was brave when they put the stitches in. It looked quite good on my cheek; with any luck it wouldn't fade too much. My bland face needed a bit of character. The scar was a conversation piece. People would think I was a hard man. It's okay for Yul Brynner to say, in
The Magnificent Seven:
It's the guy that gave him the scars you have to worry about, he never drank in the Gunner, the shitein cunt.

The goth woman tells me she is called Oily. — As in Stan and Ollie? I ask.

— Oh, that's very good. Nobody's ever thought of that one before, she said, her tongue dripping sarcasm. — Actually, it's short for Olivia, she explained patiently. — The only famous Olivia is Olivia Newton-John and I hate her. So it's Oily.

I could understand that. It must be bad shite to be a goth and get compared with Ms Neutron-Bomb. — What about Olivia De Havilland? I asked.

— Who?

— She was a film star.

— Before my time, I'm sure.

— Mine as well. It's just that ma auld man had the hots for her. Used to say ma mother was her double.

I saw boredom etched onto her face. Why had she helped me? — Eh, thanks for helping me, I said.

— That bastard Hobo. I hate that crowd. Forrester and aw that bunch. You know that Forrester raped Liz Hamilton? He fuckin raped her! she hissed. Oily hated someone who was the friend of someone who assaulted me.

— Listen, dae ye ken anybody whae can get ays some jellies? I asked.

— Nup! Ah widnae touch them fir anything!

I needed some. — Can I use your phone?

We went back to hers and I lay on the couch, strung out. I tried to phone Ronnie but he'd vanished. His Ma had seen nothing of him for weeks and seemed completely unconcerned as to his whereabouts.

Olly eventually got a hold of a guy called Paul who came along and brought me some Valium. I swallowed a few then smoked some blow. He left and Olly and I went to bed. I couldn't shag her though, I felt too sick. I had an erection but the idea of our bodies together was terrifying to me. I waited until she was asleep and I had a wank over her, shooting against her back.

The next day we had a good shag in the morning. It was barry having sex. She had a skinny body and it was therapeutic. It got the system going. In the afternoon we did it from the side, on the couch, so that I could watch the scores coming in on the videoprinter. I was happy.

5.40

PREM
Manchester City 1 Nottingham Forest 0 D2 Bolton 3 Gillingham 1

— Oh this is lovely baby... really fuckin beautiful. ..

Dl Newcastle 4 Portsmouth 1 SC1 Cowdenbeath O Raith Rovers 4 D3 Barnet 2 Colchester 2 SPL Aberdeen 6 (Six)*

— Oh babes .. . I'm coming... I'm coming... I start to rant.

— Hud oan, hud oan ... she twists and thrusts.

5.41

SPL
Aberdeen 6 (Six) Heart of Midlothian 2

— Ya beauty! Yes! Jesus Christ, ah cannae keep gaun . . .

—
OOOOOHHHH BRIAN I'M COMING ... OH MY GOD!

D2 Oxford United 2 Bristol City 1

PREM
Wimbledon 1 Tottenham Hotspur 1

PREM
Chelsea 2 Everton 1

— Ah'm gaunny keep going babes, you're gaunny get there again.. .

— Oh God Brian, keep fucking me ...

— Easy for Bri, doll, it's all too easy . . .

5.42

8C2 Arbroath 3 Stenhousemuir O D2 Southend United O York City O

... for Bri, when ah get intae ma stride ah kin fuck all night. . .

SPL Hibernian 3*

.. . ooh ooh
OOOHHH OOOHHHH

SPL
Hibernian 3 St Johnstone 1

...
AAGGHHHH!!! OH YA FUCKER!

God, the earth moved. How good was that. Glory glory to the Hi-bees.

We ate a Chinese takeaway and watched game-shows on the box that night. It was what I needed. Relaxation.

What I needed.

What did she need?

Olly had looked after me. Kindness was what I needed. What was in it for her? Perhaps some people are just basically good and kind. I thought of her and Denise. Of the time she knocked me back.

— Why did you knock me back that time?

— You were out of your face and totally obnoxious, she replied. -Just really-so-fuckin-boring . . .

I suppose it was a good enough reason.

She was not so happy when I mentioned Denise's name.

— I hate that sick little bastard. Fucking sick queer. He's been saying I went with him. Why would I go wi a poof? I'm no fuckin fag-hag. He's giein his mind a treat, the dirty wee prick. What does he think he's trying to prove by talkin shite like that?

I decided to drop the subject. My face was tight and numb. It was a sore numbness, not a comfortable numbness. It felt like it was made of badly sunburned tissue which had been crudely sellotaped together. It was worth it though. Yes, it definitely had a lot more character now and yes, it would be an interesting conversation piece. There was also the prospect of sympathy. On balance, it was for the best the way things had panned out.