The Acid House

  DID COLIN BRYCE GET HIS BRAINS FRIED BY

  LIGHTNING OR LSD?

  COLIN BRYCE — A VICTIM OF A FREAK ACCIDENT OR YET

  ANOTHER OF OUR YOUNGSTERS DESTROYED BY

  THE DRUGS MENACE?

  While the press seemed to know for sure, the doctors were baffled as to the nature of the young man's condition, let alone the possible causes of it. However, they could see signs of improvement. There was growing eye contact over the weeks, definite indications of intelligence. They encouraged friends and family to visit the youth, who it was felt would benefit from as much stimulation as possible.

  * * *

  The baby was called Tom.

  Coco, ya fudge cunts! Coco Bryce! Brycie! CCS! Hibs boys smash all fuckin opposition. Too true.

  Becks then, cunt.

  Jenny breastfed her baby.

  Phoah, ya fucker! This'll fuckin doe me. Coco Bryce, who he? Ma name's Tom, eh Tom!

  The child fed greedily, sucking hard on Jenny's nipple. Rory, who had taken some holiday time on top of his paternity leave, observed the scene with interest. — He seems to be enjoying himself. Look at him, it's almost obscene, Rory laughed, concealing the growing feeling of unease which swept over him. It was the way the baby looked at him sometimes. It actually seemed to focus on him and look, well, contemptuous and aggressive. That was ridiculous. A small baby. His baby.

  He reasoned that this was an important issue to share with some of the other Persons Of The Male Gender at his men's group. It was, he reasoned, perhaps a natural reaction at the inevitable exclusion of the male partner from the woman-parent and child bonding process.

  Phoah, ya cunt ye! Some fuckin jugs oan it!

  Jenny felt something small and sharp pressing on her stomach. — Oh look, he's got a stiff little willy! she exclaimed, holding up the naked baby. — Who's a naughty little boy? she kissed his plump stomach and made quacking noises.

  Lower, ya big fuckin pump-up-the-knickers! Git yir fuckin gums roond it!

  — Yes, interesting. . . Rory said uneasily. The child's face; it looked like a leering, lecherous old man. He'd have to see about this terrible jealousy, talk it through with other men who were in touch with their feelings. The thought of having a genuine hang-up to share with the rest of the group thrilled him.

  That night Rory and Jenny made love for the first time since she'd come home with the baby. They started gently, warily testing me tenderness of her sex, then became increasingly passionate. Rory, though, was distracted during his performance by sounds he thought he heard coming from the cot at the side of the bed. He looked around and shuddered, sure that he could see the outline of the baby, this baby only a couple of weeks old, standing up in the cot watching them!

  Ya dirty cunts! Doggy style n aw! Phoah . . .

  Rory stopped his strokes.

  — What is it Rory? What the fuck is it? Jenny snapped, angry at the interruption as she was chasing her first post-birth climax.

  They heard a soft thud from the cot.

  — The baby ... it was standing up, watching us, Rory said weakly.

  — Don't be bloody stupid! Jenny hissed. — C'mon Rory, fuck me! Fuck me!

  Rory, however, had gone limp, and he spilled out of her. — But... it was ...

  — Shut up for fuck's sake! She moved around, angrily pulling the duvet over them. — It's not an it, HE is a HIM. Your own bloody son! She turned away from him.

  — Jen, he put his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, its limp creepiness sickening her.

  After that, they decided it was time to put the baby in the room they'd made into a nursery. Jenny found the whole thing pathetic, but if Rory was put off that much, well, so be it.

  The following night the baby lay silently awake in its new location. Rory had to concede that he was a good baby, he never seemed to cry. — You never seem to cry, do you, Tom? he asked wistfully as he stood over the child in the cot. Jenny, who'd had a panic attack in the night due to the child's silence, had sent Rory through to check on him.

  Ah'm feart ay nae cunt. Whin ah goat cornered by they fuckin cunts at Cessnock whin wi pissed aw ower thum at Ibrox, ah jist goes: Come ahead then, ya fuckin weedjie cunts. Ah'm no exactly gaunny burst oot greetin cause some specky cunt's jive minutes late wi ma feed now, um uh? Fuckin tube.

  Could handle a fuckin Becks.

  * * *

  There was still no change in the condition of the youth in the hospital, although Dr Callaghan was now sure that he was using attention-seeking behaviour to meet his basic needs of food, changing and body-temperature regulation. Two of his friends, young men in hooded sweatshirts, came to see him. They were called Andy and Stevie.

  — Fuckin shame, man, Andy gasped, — Coco's fucked. Jist lyin thair greetin like a bairn, eh.

  Stevie shook his head sadly, — Tell ays that's fuckin Coco Bryce lyin thair, man.

  A nurse approached them. She was a pleasant, open-faced, middle-aged woman. — Try to talk to him about some of the things you did together, things he'd be interested in.

  Stevie stared at her with open-mouthed bemusement; Andy gave a snigger followed by a mocking shake of his head.

  — You know, like discos and pop, that sort of thing, she cheerfully suggested. They looked at each other and shrugged.

  Too warm.

  — Waah!

  — Right, Andy said. — Eh, ye missed yirsel the other day thair, Coco. The semi, ken? Wi wir waitin fir they Aberdeen cunts at Haymarket, eh. Booted fuck ootay the cunts, man, chased thum back doon tae the station, back ontae the train, doon the fuckin tracks, the loat! Polis jist fuckin standin thair n aw, didnae ken what tae fuckin dae, eh no. How good wis it Stevie?

  — Fuckin barry, ya cunt. Couple ay boys goat lifted; Gary n Mitzy n that crew.

  — Waah!

  They looked at their screaming, unresponsive friend and fell into silence for a while. Then Stevie started: — N ye missed yirsel at Rezurrection n aw, Coco. That wis too mad. How radge wir they snowballs, Andy?

  — Mental. Ah couldnae dance, bit this cunt wis up aw night. Ah jist wanted tae spraff tae ivray cunt. Pure gouchin the whole night, man. Some fuckin good Es floatin aroond the now, Coco, ye want tae git it the gither man, n will git sorted and git some clubbin done ...

  — It's nae fuckin use, Stevie moaned, — eh cannae hear us.

  — This is fuckin too radge, man, Andy conceded, — cannae handle aw this shite, eh.

  Feed.

  — Waah! WAAAHHHHH!

  — That's no Coco Bryce, Stevie said, — no the Coco Bryce ah ken anywey.

  They left as the nurse came in with Coco's food. All he would eat was cold, liquidised soup.

  * * *

  Rory reluctantly started back at work. He'd grown worried about Jenny, concerned about how she was coping with the baby. It was obvious to him that she was suffering from some form of post-natal depression. Two bottles of wine had been taken from the fridge. He'd said nothing to her, waiting for her to raise the matter. He'd have to keep his eye on her. The men at the group would support him; he'd have their admiration, not just for being in touch with his own feelings, but also for his unselfish responsiveness to his partner's needs. He remembered the mantra: awareness is seventy percent of the solution.

  Jenny had a bad fright on Rory's first day back at work. The baby had been very sick in his cot. There was a strange smell coming from him. It was like ... alcohol.

  We do not carry hatchets, we do not carry chains, We only carry straws to suck our lemonade.

  Oh, ya cunt ye... ma heid's fuckin nippin wi that vino. Cannae drink as much as ah used tae, no as a sprog. ..

  The horrible truth dawned on Jenny: Rory was trying to poison their baby! She found the empty bottles of wine underneath the bed. That sick, warped, spineless fool... she would take the child to her mother's. Though perhaps it hadn't been Rory. A couple of workmen had been in, young lads, sanding and staining the woodwork: the doors and skirting boards. Surely they wo
uldn't have tried to give a new baby alcohol. They wouldn't be that irresponsible ... she'd get onto the firm. Perhaps even contact the police. It could be Rory though. Whatever, Tom's safety was all that mattered. That inadequate fool could bleat piteously about his sick little problems to the inspid like-minds in his pathetic group. She was leaving.

  — Who did it, Tom? Was it bad Daddy? Yes! I bet it was! Bad Daddy's tried to hurt little Tom. Well we're going away, Tom, we're going to my mummy's down in Cheadle.

  Eh? What?

  — That's near Manchester, isn't it Tom-Tom? It is! Yes, it is! And she'll be so pleased to see little Tom-Tom, won't she? Won't she?! Yes, she will! Will Will Will Will Will! She smothered the baby's doughy cheek with wet kisses.

  Git toe fuck, ya daft cunt! Ah cannae go tae fuckin Manchester! Goat tae pit this fuckin sow in the picture. Ah'm no her fuckin bairn. The name's Coco Bryce.

  — Look, eh Jenny ...

  She froze as she heard the voice coming from that small mouth which twisted unnaturally to form the words. It was an ugly, shrieking, cackling voice. Her baby, her little Tom; he looked like a malevolent dwarf.

  Fuck sakes. Ah've done it now. Stey cool, Coco, dinnae freak this daft hoor oot.

  — You spoke! Tom. You spoke .. .Jenny gasped in disbelief.

  — Look, said the baby, standing up in his cot, as Jenny swayed unsteadily, — sit doon, eh sit down, he urged. Jenny obeyed in silent shock. — You'd better no say nowt tae nae cunt aboot this, right? the baby said, looking keenly and sharply at its mother for signs of understanding. Jenny just looked bemused. — Eh, I mean, Mother, they would not understand. They would take me away. I would be treated like a freak, cut up oan a laboratory table, tested by aw they specky cunts ... eh, the people in white coats. Ah'm a sortay, eh, a sort of phenomenon, I've got eh, special intelligence n that. Right?

  Coco Bryce was pleased with himself. He thought back to the videos of Star Wars he'd watched avidly as a kid. He had to act cosmic to keep this gig going. He was doing alright here. — They'd want tae take ays away...

  — Never! I'd never let them take my Tom away! Jenny screamed, the prospect of losing her baby galvanising her into some sort of sense. — This is incredible! My little Tom! A special baby! But how, Tom? Why? Why you? Why us?

  — Eh, jist the wey it goes. Nae cunt kens, ah mean, it's just the way I was born, Mother, my destiny n that.

  — Oh, Tom! Jenny scooped up the baby in her arms.

  — Eh right! the child said with embarrassment. — Eh listen, Ma, eh, Jenny, one or two wee things. That scran, eh, the food. It's no good. I want what grown-ups get. No aw that veggie stuff that yous eat. Meat, Jenny. A bit ay steak, ken?

  — Well, Rory and I don't...

  — Ah'm no giein a fuck aboot you n Rory... ah mean, eh, yous have no right to deny me my free choice.

  This was true, Jenny conceded. — Yes, you're right, Tom. You're obviously intelligent enough to articulate your own needs. This is amazing! My baby! A genius! How do you know about things like steak though?

  Oh, ya cunt. Dinnae fuck up hen. This is a good fuckin doss yiv goat.

  — Eh, I picked a lot of it up from the telly. I heard they two joiner boys that ye hud in daein yir woodwork bletherin. Ah picked up a lot fae them.

  — That's very good, Tom, but you shouldn't talk like those workmen. Those men are, well, a little common, probably a bit sexist in their conversation. You should have more positive role models.

  — Eh?

  — Try to be like somebody else.

  — Like Rory, the baby scoffed.

  Jenny had to think about that, — Well, maybe not, but, oh ... we'll see. God, he's going to be so shocked when he finds out.

  — Dinnae tell urn, it's oor secret, right.

  — I have to tell Rory. He's my partner. He's your father! He has the right to know.

  — Mother, eh Jenny, it's jist this ah git a vibe offay that radge. He's jealous ay me. He'd shop ays, git ays taken away.

  Jenny had to concede that Rory had been unstable enough in his behaviour towards their child to suggest that he wasn't emotionally equipped to handle this shock. She would go along with this. It would be their secret. Tom would just be a normal little baby with others around, but when they were alone he'd be her special little man. With her guiding his development he would grow up non-sexist and sensitive, but strong and genuinely expressive, rather than an insipid clown who clings to a type of behaviour for limp ideological reasons. He'd be the perfect new man.

  * * *

  The youth they called Coco Bryce had learned to speak. At first it was thought that he was repeating words parrot fashion, but he then began to identify himself, other people and objects. He seemed particularly responsive to his mother and his girlfriend, who came to visit regularly. His father never visited.

  His girlfriend Kirsty had cut her hair short at the sides. She had long wanted to do this, but Coco had discouraged her. Now he was in no position to. Kirsty chewed on her gum as she looked down at him in the bed. — Awright, Coco? she asked.

  — Coco, he pointed at himself. — Caw-lin.

  — Aye, Coco Bryce, she said, spitting out the words between chews.

  His heid's finally fried. It's that acid, they Supermarios. Ah telt urn, bit that's Coco, livin fir the weekends; raves, fitba. The week's jist something toe get through fir him, and he'd been daein too much fuckin acid toe get through it. Well, ah'm no gaunny king aboot waitin fir a vegetable toe git it the gither.

  — 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.