The Acid House (26 page)

— Do you, Martina Devenney, take Ronald Dickson to be your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, forsaking all others so long as you both shall live?

Tina looked a bit reluctant, as if it had at last dawned on her that this was serious shite she was getting intae. Eventually she managed to cough out, — I do.

Anyway, they were duly pronounced catatonic and wife.

We went to the Capital Hotel for the meal and Ronnie fell asleep during my speech. It wasn't a particularly inspired speech, but it scarcely deserved that sort of response.

At the reception I got a stance up at the bar with Raymie Airlie and Spud Murphy, two space cowboys of the highest order.

— Crimson style, bantam prince, Raymie observed, looking round the bar.

— You took the words right out of my mouth, Raymie, I smiled, then turning to Spud, — still skag-free, ma man?

— Eh, yeah... until there's free skag, ah'm skag-free, ken, catboy?

— Aye, me n aw. Ah went a wee bit radge the other week thair, but ah dinnae want tae git a habit, ken? Ah mean, how bad is that, right?

— Yeah, habits are nae fun, likesay. Sortay full-time occupation, catboy, ken? Sortay diverts the attention fae what's gaun oan.

— Mind you, it's the jellies that's fuckin every cunt now. Look at Ronnie. His ain fuckin wedding fir fuck's sake . . .

Raymie sighs and sings a chorus of Echo and The Bunny-men's 'The Cutter', then puts his tongue in my ear. I peck him on the cheek and pat his arse. — You're raw sex, Raymie, raw fuckin sex man, I tell him.

The
PATH
, Big Moncrief and Roxy come over to join us. I do some intros. — Awright boys, yous ken Spud n Raymie, eh?

Looks of suspicious acknowledgment are exchanged. My bevvy and druggy mates never really hit it off.

— Funny thing though, the marriage stakes n that, ken? Good if ye kin work it oot, likesay, Spud ventures, breaking an uneasy silence.

— The only thing that marriage is good for is sex oan tap, Moncrief says, with more than hint of belligerence.

Roxy puts on a Glasgow accent: — But ah like tae go oan the boatum sometimes.

We all laugh at this, except Moncrief. One thing about hard cunts that I've never understood: why do they all have to be such big sensitive blouses? The Scottish Hardman ladders his tights so he rips open the face of a passer-by. The Scottish Hardman chips a nail, so he head-butts some poor fucker. Some other guy is wearing the same patterned dress as the Scottish Hardman, and gets a glass in his face for his troubles.

We move onto television. — Telly's fuckin shite, says Mon-crief, — the only thing worth watchin oan the fuckin telly is they nature programmes. Ken wi that cunt, what's his name, that David Attenborough cunt.

— Aye, agrees Spud, — that cat's got the gig sussed, likesay. That's the kinday job that would be right up ma street, man, ken wi aw they animals, likesay. Freaky that would be, ken?

We spraff on all night, too drunk to dance with the wizened aunties and shaggable cousins. I drop some acid and note that Roxy's taken something. He's drunk, but he's taken something. Spud's given him one of those Supermarios. That's far too much for the Rox. He's an alcohol man. He's shaking his bowed head and babbling, — Ah kilt urn! Ah fuckin kilt urn, and he's close to tears.

I was struggling with the acid as well. It was not a good idea. These Supermarios; fuck me the whole world could be a hallucination the colours are clashing and reverberating and Tina's face is sick and vampire-like in that dress and Roxy's babbling and there's a polar bear running around on all fours...

— Spud, d'ye see the bear, man? I asked.

— It's no a bear, man, it's a sortay bear-dug likesay, sortay half-man half dug but wi a bit ay bear in it, ken?

— Raymie, you saw it, you ken it wis a bear?

— Yes, I personally thought it was a bear.

— Fuck me! Raymie! You've just said something straight, something sensible.

— It's just the acid, he tells me.

Roxy's still shaking his heid; — That perr boy . .. that fuckin blind boy... they took his eyes... ah took his life ... fool's fuckin gold . . . ma soul's sick, made sick for fool's fuckin gold ... tell ays that's no sick . ..

— This acid is mental shit... Spud says.

I see Moncrief, sitting beside this plant monster. Moncrief's face is changing colour and shape. I see that he's no a human being. Denise comes over: — Taken any ay they Supermarios?

— Aye ... too much, man.

He buys one from Spud. Eight quid for this. My skin's been taken off. Eileen Eileen Eileen the Montparnasse Tower I had and lost love cause I was too young too stupid to identify and recognise it as such and it'll never come my way again not ever in a million fuckin years and I'll never make three score years and ten and anyway I don't want to without her what a mess that would be without Eileen who's at college in London I don't know what which one or at least was last year I hope you're happy now happy without your old smart cunt boyfriend who thought he was being entertaining but was just being an exasperating immature selfish prick not exactly a shortage of them never is and you were right to leave him as a decision purely rational. ..

— Whit's up wi Roxy, Denise asks.

— Too much acid. They Supermarios . . .

I grabbed Roxy's face in my hands. — Listen, Roxy, you're having a bad trip. We've got tae git ootay here. There's too many malignant spirits aroond here, Rox.

We were out of our faces, but we had to get out into the air. Olly gave me a disgusted look, but mere was a little bit of pity in it. — Don't fuckin pity me, I shouted, but she couldn't hear me, or maybe she could but I got outside with Roxy, my legs rubber. The PATH tried to follow us but I told him it was okay, and he goes back inside to look for a shag.

It was a cold and crisp evening, or maybe it was just the Supermarios.

—
AH KILT UM, AH FUCKIN KILT UM!
Ah'm gaun tae the polis... Roxy was in torment. His face seemed to be folding in on itself. . .

I grabbed his shoulders. — Naw yir no! Think fuckin straight! Git a grip fir fuck's sake! Us gaun doon's no gaunny bring that cunt back, is it?

— Naw ...

— Then thir's nae sense in it. It was a fuckin accident, right!

— Aye ... He grows a little calmer.

— An accident, I repeat. — Yuv goat tae keep control ay yir tongue. It's that acid. Jist dinnae fuckin touch it again, it disnae agree wi ye. Stick tae the bevvy. Ye'll be awright whin ye come doon. Ye cannae go spraffin shite like that aroond. Yill git us fuckin jailed man. Thir's nae such thing as truth, Roxy, no wi these cunts. The polis willnae bother a fuck. It's jist another couple ay bodies fir thaim. Makes thaim look better, thaim n aw they slimy politician cunts, whae can say that the polis are winnin the war against crime; how sick is that? Blind Cunt's death wis fuckin tragic, let's no make it even mair tragic by giein they cunts what they want. Wise up! It wis a fuckin accident!

He looks at me with fear in his eyes, as if he's realised for the first time what he's actually been saying: — Fuckin hell, yir right man. What wis ah fuckin thinkin aboot spraffin away like that... nae cunt heard ays, did they, Bri?
NAE CUNT HEARD AYS, BRI?

— Naw, jist me. No this time. But leave the fuckin acid alane. Right?

— Aye .. . this is mad. Ah took acid before, Bri, yonks ago. It was fuck all like this bit, this is fuckin mad. How fuckin mad is this, Bri?

— It's awright. Will go back tae your place and come down. Any bevvy in the hoose?

— Aye, loads ay cans. Whisky n aw.

It's strong acid, real head-fucking gear, but when we get to Roxy's we start drinking like there's no tomorrow. It's all you can do on acid, just thrash it out your system with alcohol. Pish is a depressant; it bring you down. You start to get control back.

It was imperative that Roxy didn't speak. I hadn't booted snow in Blind Cunt's face that night. I'd booted
him
in the face. The decisive blow was as likely to have been mine as it was Roxy's. It was wrong; just horrible, stupid, cowardly and reckless. I can't wreck my life for that one stupid mistake in the heat of the moment. No way. I just won't fuckin well do that. The Blind Cunt and the Smart Cunt; a tale of two cunts. Well that's that tale finished, I hope. Finished for good.

Fuckin hell, it's yon time again. I got a hell of a shock when Garland's signature appeared under the Edinburgh District Council logoed notepaper, inviting me along for an interview.

I had gone back down to London, but after the job at Ealing folded I did the Euro-Rail with Darren and Cliff. Darren and I ended up in Rimini. He's still there, doing barwork, security work, raving and shagging all the time. It was sound, but I had to come back for another wedding, my auld man's this time. They moved out of the scheme, into a Barratt box across the road in Pilton. It would be a slum within five years. The government wanted home-ownership to regenerate the area. It makes no real difference whether you pay rent to the council for a shit-house or mortgage payments to a building society for one. Stop paying the mortgage and you see exactly where the ownership lies. I had planned to head back to Rimini but got a chilly note from Darren saying that he had got into a big heavy lovey-shag scene with this woman and while I was welcome to stay in the gaff for a while ... blah blah blah. So I moved in with Roxy and put my name down for the parks.

— Hello, Brian, Garland extended his hand and I shook it.

— Mister Garland.

— Let me say, he began, — that the regrettable incident last year, I feel, on mature reflection, was a little out of character with you. I'm assuming that you've overcome all your, eh, depression problems?

— Yes, I feel on top of things now, Mister Garland. Health
-wise, that is.

— That's good. You see, Brian, you were a model SPO until that little problem with Bert Rutherford. Now Bert is the salt of the earth, but I'm prepared to admit that he can be a zealot. The patrol needs Bert Rutherfords, otherwise the service would collapse into apathy and disarray. You've been at the coal-face, Brian; you know what a dull job it can be. You realise that the parks tend to attract disaffected groups of youths, who are not there to use it as a place of recreation, but for more sinister purposes . . .

— I believe that to be the case, yes.

— That's why I want you back on the patrol, Brian. I need people this summer who know the ropes. Above all, I like you because you're a reader, Brian. A reader will never be bored. What are you reading these days?

— I've just completed Peter O'Toole's biography. I never realised he was from Leeds.

— Was he indeed?

— Yes.

— Good. So have you started on anything else?

— Yeah, I'm reading Jean-Paul Sartre's biography.

— Good. Biographies are good, Brian. Some seasonals read all those heavy philosophic and political works, books that by their very nature encourage discontent with one's lot, he said sadly. — After all, a beautiful day in a park. Life could be worse, eh!

— That's true, Mister Garland.

I was back on the parks. How weird was that?

I found myself in the City Cafe. I hated the place, but that's how it goes. The main reason I was here was that it was full of fanny and I hadn't had a shag in five months. That is far too long for someone my age; it's far too long for someone of any age. I always ended up here when I was feeling shite and wanting to feel better. That's probably why I hated it.

I'd been in there for about twenty minutes, drinking a coffee, when I felt someone sit beside me. I didn't turn around to see who it was until I heard the words: — No speakin?

It was Tina. I'd heard that she and Ronnie had split up recently.

— Awright, Tina?

— Aye, no bad. Yirsel?

— Sound, eh, sorry tae hear aboot you n Ron, but.

She shrugged and told me: — He goat really borin. It started when he goat that Nintendo system. Ah preferred it when he wis jellied; ye goat mair ootay urn then.

I knew that Ronnie had taken to that Nintendo game system like a duck to water. I thought that it was a positive step though, that it would give him an interest other man just being jellied all the time. — Did it no gie him an interest ootside ay drugs?

She looked at me with an ugly bitterness. — What aboot me? Ah should've been an interest! Him sittin thair plugged intae that telly, aw day n night, shakin like a leaf when ah came in fae work in case all wanted tae watch somethin other thin his silly fuckin games! Me workin aw day, then huvin tae watch him playin games aw night!

— What's he fuckin like? Ah might go roond n see urn, Tina. Try to talk some sense intae his heid.

She shook her head knowingly, recognising the impossibility of the task, yet warming to me for offering support. — Come n sit wi us, she suggested, pointing through the back.

— Is Olly thair?

— Aye, but it's cool, likes.

— Any of her friends around?

Tina raised her eyebrows in disdainful acknowledgement.

— Dunno, ah wis thinkin ay gaun doon tae the Pelican tae see Sidney n The
PATH
.

I had no intention of going to the Pelican, but then I heard a voice coming from Olly's table. It was loud, overbearing, posh and grating: —
AND SHE'S A FREELANCE JOURNALIST WHO'S BEEN DOING A FEW BITS AND PIECES FOR
THE LIST.
SHE'S ONLY BEEN SEEING TONY FOR A COUPLE OF MONTHS BUT SHE WAS HAVING INCREDIBLE HASSLES WITH THIS FLAT SHE MOVED INTO, SO THE NATURAL THING SEEMED TO BE
...

I had every intention of going to the Pelican. Tina did as well. When we got down The PATH was there with this lassie who looked a bit radge; radge in the sense of not being all there. The PATH freely admits that the Government's Community Care policies have been the best thing that ever happened to his sex life. Sidney was chatting with these women who looked disinterested to the point of boredom. — Awright, boys? Nae Roxy the night?

He was there though, holding up the bar, spraffin wi some wee guy.

We just sat around, drinking and blethering. Sidney and Tina seemed to be getting on. By chucking-out time they were feasting on each other's faces. The PATH and his troubled accomplice vanished into the night, while I left with Roxy.

— Ah'm gaunny take ye somewhair, he said. — Secret desti-nation.

We piled into a taxi. It headed down to Leith, but then we continued, heading out to Portobello. We stopped in Seafield Road and got out: the middle of fuckin naewhair.

— Whair the fuck's this? Eh? I asked.

— Follow me.

I did. We went around the back of Seafield Crematorium and climbed over a wall. It was a long drop down into the darkness on the other side, and I twisted my ankle badly in the fall. I was too drunk to feel much pain, but I'd feel it tomorrow alright, nothing was surer.

— What the fuck's this? I asked as he took me around some of the graves. Some of the headstones were recent. — How's it they bury people here? Ah thoat it wis supposed tae be a crematorium.

— Naw, thir's some plots ay land. Fir families, likes. Recognise this yin?

CRAIG GIFFORD

— Naw . . .

— Look at the date.

BORN 17.5.1964
DIED 21.12.1993

— It's... the boy... I couldn't bring myself to say it.

— Blind Cunt, said Roxy. — That's the cunt's grave. It's time tae exorcise the cunt's memory at long last...

He had his cock out and was pishing. On Bli... on Craig's grave.

BELOVED SON OF ALEXANDER AND
JOYCE GIFFORD
WE WILL NEVER FORGET YOU

—
CUNT!
I shouted. I punched the side of his head.

He grabbed me, but I tore free from his grip and booted and punched him. This was not a good idea. He took off his glasses and fairly wired into me. Every blow I dispensed seemed puny, while every one he hit me with threatened to break me into pieces. My nose burst open, but thankfully the sight of my blood seemed to make him stop.

— Sorry, Bri, he said. — Nae cunt punches me though, Bri, understand. Nae cunt.

I stemmed the blood with one hand while holding him off in acknowledgment with the other. Roxy is a big cunt, but I'd always thought of him as a gentle giant. Huge cunts always seem that way, until one of them panels you. Still, at least I was pished. I realised then a sick and horrible truth: getting a kicking from some cunt is worse than killing some other cunt. The ugly fact of the matter is that this has become a governing principle for too many people. If I'd had a blade on me I would have used it on Roxy. I might have only felt that way for a few seconds, but that's all it would take. What a fuckin thought. How sick a species are we?

Craig Gifford.

If only Roxy knew.

If Roxy knew, I'd be the one who went down. He'd probably be pointing his finger at this dangerous psycho.

— It's no that bad. Sorry, Bri. Ye shouldnae huv punched ays though, Bri. Ma eye's gaunny be oot in the mornin. Ma shin as well, Bri, ye caught ays a beauty thair. Me n you swedgin though bit, Bri, tell ays that's no too mad.

The daft cunt's trying to make me feel better by cataloguing the damage I've inflicted on him. There's no victors in this type of gig; only those who lose the least. Roxy's lost the least, in terms of both physical injury and macho self-esteem. We both know it, but I appreciate him trying to make me feel better.

I leave him, fuck knows how I get out of the cemetery, and head for the auld man's. I throw up down my front on the way. Confused, I go back to the old place in Muirhouse. The hoose was still a void property, it hadn't been let. I tried to kick the door down and I would've, had auld Mrs Sinclair next door not reminded me that my dad had moved.

I staggered off and threw up again. My front was a mess of sick and blood. A couple of boys came up to me at the shopping centre. — That cunt's ootay his face, one observed.

— Ah ken that cunt. You hing aboot wi that poof, eh mate?

— Eh... I tried to articulate a reply but I couldn't. I was aware enough, it just wouldnae come oot.

— If ye hing aboot wi poofs, that makes you a poof, that's the wey ah see it. What dae ye say tae that then, mate?

I look at the guy, and manage to ask, — Any chance ay a gam? They look at me incredulously for a few seconds, then one says, — Smart cunt!

— That's ma name, boys, I concede. I feel a numb blow and crash to the ground. I take a kicking I can't feel. It seems to last quite a while, and mat worries me, because you can usually judge the severity of a kicking by its duration. However, I take it with the passive, sick calm of an alienated worker putting in his shift and when I'm convinced it's over I stagger to my feet. Perhaps it's no too bad; I can walk easily. In fact, it seems to have cleared the mind a bit. Thanks, boys.

I cross the dual-carriageway, leaving posh Muirhoose, and get over to scruffy Pilton. That might no be how people see things now, but that's how it's always been tae me. Muirhoose is the newer hooses. Pilton's for the scruffs. It disnae matter what problems Muirhoose's got now and how much they tart up Pilton. Pilton's Pilton and Muirhoose is Muirhoose, always fuckin well will be. Fuckin scruffy Pilton cunts. These cunts that gave me the kicking were fae Pilton; that's these cunts' mentality. I've probably got fuckin lice jist through being in the vicinity of the dirty Pilton scruffy fuckin cunts.

I find the hoose and I don't know who lets me in.

The next morning I pretend to be asleep until they all leave for some twee little family outing: Dad, Norma and her loud, excitable daughter. I feel fucking shattered. When I try to get up I can barely walk. I'm covered in cuts and bruises and I piss blood, which shits me up. I have a bath and things start to feel a bit better, so I decide to have a sniff around. There's still a lot of stuff in packing cases. They are decorating this tawdry little egg-box of a home. I come across this small leather case which I haven't seen before, and I assume it's Norma's. It's not, however.

The case was full of photographs. Of me and Deek as bairns, of him, of my Ma. Photos I'd never seen before. I looked at her, with him. I tried to imagine I could see the hurt in her, see the discontent, but I couldn't. Not at first. Then I got to some photos which I knew were later ones, cause Deek and me were a bit bigger. In those pictures I could read it; with the benefit of retrospect it was all too easy; her eyes screamed pain and disillusionment. My tears spilled onto the tacky photographs. There was a lot worse in this leather case, however.

I read all the letters, every one. They were all really similar in content, only the dates differed. They ranged from a few months after she left right through to 1989. She'd been writing to him for eight years from Australia. All the letters had the same basic propositions repeated ritually:

I want to get in touch with the boys.

I want to have them over to stay.

Please let them write to me.

I love them, I want my children.

Please write to me, Jeff, please get in touch. I know you're getting my letters.

What happened in 1989, I don't know, but she never wrote back after that.

I copy down the address and phone number in Melbourne onto a piece of scrap paper. This is total shite. This is another load of shite to get through. There's always more, always more of this fuckin shite to get through. It never ends. They say it gets easier to handle the older you get. I hope so. I hope tae fuck.

It takes a while tae get through on the international direct-dialling. I want to talk to my Ma, a long talk, get her side of the story, at his expense as well. A guy answers the phone. I got him out of bed; the time difference; I forgot. He asks me who I am, and I tell him.

The guy was really upset. He sounded okay, I have to say that, the boy sounded okay. He told me that there was an electrical fire in their home. It was bad. My Mum died in it, back in 1989. She managed to get their daughter out, but she died of smoke inhalation. The guy was breaking down on the line.

I put the phone down. As soon as I put it down it started ringing again.

I let it ring.