The Acid House

She smiles, more composed now, — You're a real gent, Jim Banks, and you say the nicest things.

  All I can do is smile back.

  I was enjoying being with Marianne. It had been a long time since I'd been like this with a woman. Since I'd had that intimacy. We talked all night. No subjects were taboo and I was able to talk about Joan without seeming maudlin and bringing the company down, as would have happened had the Kennedys been present. People don't want to listen to all that on holiday. However, Marianne, with her bereavement, could relate to it.

  I talked and I talked, nonsense mostly, but to me beautiful, painful memories. I'd never talked like this to anyone before. — I remember on the boat with Joanie. I got into a terrible situation. There were some Dutch folk, lovely people, at the table next to us. We shared a table with a rather stand-offish French chap and a lovely Italian girl. Real film-star looks. Strangely, the French chap wasn't interested. I think he may have been, well, that way, if you know what I mean. Anyway, this was a proper old League of Nations. The thing was that we had this elderly couple from Worcester who did not like Germans one bit, thinking back to the war years and all that stuff. Well, I feel that those things are best left in the past. So old Jim Banks here decided to play the peacemaker . . .

  God, how I rabbitted on. My inhibitions seemed to dissolve with every sip of the wine, and we were soon on the second bottle, Marianne nodding conspiratorially at me as I ordered it. After the meal we proceeded to the bar where we had a few more drinks.

  — I've really enjoyed myself tonight, Jim. I just wanted to tell you mat, she said, smiling.

  — It's been one of the best nights I've had ... in years, I told her. I was almost going to say, since Joanie. It has though. This wonderful lady has made me feel blessed human again. She really is a fine person.

  She held my hand as we sat looking into each other's eyes for a few seconds.

  I cleared my throat with a sip of scotch. — One of the great things about getting older, Marianne, is that the impending presence of the grim reaper concentrates the mind somewhat. I'm very attracted to you Marianne, and please don't be offended by this, but I'd like to spend the night with you.

  — I'm not offended, Jim. I think that would be marvellous, she glowed.

  This made me a little coy. — Might be somewhat less than marvellous. I'm a little bit out of practice for this sort of thing.

  — They say it's a little like swimming or riding a bike, she simpered, a little drunk.

  Well, if that was the case, Old Jim Banks was about to get back in the saddle after a gap of ten years. We went to her room.

  Despite the alcohol, I had no problem in getting an erection. Marianne pulled off her dress to expose a body that would have done justice to some women many decades, never mind years, younger. We embraced for a little while, before slipping under the duvet and making love, first slowly and tenderly, then with increasing passion. I was lost in it. Her nails scored the flesh on my back and I was screaming, — By God Joanie, by God ...

  She froze like a stiff corpse underneath me, and punched the mattress in frustration as tears bubbled up from her eyes. I moved off her. — I'm sorry, I half moaned, half sobbed.

  She sat up and shrugged, staring into space. She spoke in a dulled, metallic tone, but without bitterness, as if conducting a cool and dispassionate epitaph. — I find a man I care about and when he makes love to me he's imagining I'm somebody else.

  — It wasn't like that, Marianne . . .

  She started sobbing; I put my arm around her. Well, Jim Banks, I thought, you've got yourself into another right blessed muddle-up here, haven't you?

  — I'm sorry, she said.

  I started to pull my clothes on. — I'd better go, I said. I walked towards the door, then turned back. — You're a wonderful woman, Marianne. I hope you find someone who can give you what you deserve. Old Banksie here, I pointed sadly at myself, — I'm just kidding myself. I'm a one-woman man. I exited, leaving her with her tears. I now had my business to attend to. There was to be no reprieve after all. I knew it was for the best; I knew it now more than ever. The kids, Paul and Sally, were strong enough. They'd understand.

  Back at my cabin I left Marianne a note. I'd left letters for the kids in the ship's mail with a videotaped recording, explaining what I intended to do. The note to Marianne didn't say much. I just told her that I was here for a specific purpose; I was sorry we'd got so involved. I had to fulfil my destiny, that was how I saw it.

  According to the maps I consulted we were in the Adriatic now, no doubt about it. I tied the length of cord through the holes in the middle of the weights, and slung it over my shoulder. It was difficult to get the stretchy tracksuit bottoms over the weights and the rest of my clothes on. I fought into my waterproofs, barely able to walk by the time I left my cabin.

  I slipped along the empty deck, struggling to remain erect. The sea was calm and the night balmy. A couple of lovers enjoying the moonlight looked suspiciously at me as I shuffled past them to my spot on the starboard side. Ten years, almost to the day, Joan, when you slipped out and away from me, away from the pain and hurt. I lift one leg, with an almighty effort, over the barrier. I'll just get my blessed breath back, take one last long look at the purple sky, then allow my weight to shift and I'll spill from this rail into the Adriatic.

  SEXUAL DISASTER QUARTET

  A GOOD SON

  He was a good son, and like all good sons, he really loved his mother. In fact, he completely worshipped the woman.

  Yet he couldn't make love to her; not with his father sitting there, watching them.

  He got out of bed and threw a dressing-gown around his self-conscious nakedness. As he passed his father on his way out of the room, he heard the old man say: Aye Oedipus, yir a complex fucker right enough.

  THE CRUEL BASTARD AND THE SELFISH FUCKER GET IT ON

  She was a cruel bastard; he was a selfish fucker. They literally bumped into each other one night in a Grassmarket pub. They were vaguely acquainted from somewhere neither could remember. Or at least that was what they told themselves and each other.

  She was highly insulting, but he didn't mind as he was indifferent to everything except the eighty shilling he was tipping down his throat. They decided to go back to her place for a shag. He didn't have a place of his own; as his parents did everything for him, he saw little point in getting one.

  Sitting up in bed, she watched him undressing. Her face hardened in a contemptuous scowl as he removed his purple boxer-shorts. — Who dae ye expect tae satisfy wi that? she asked.

  — Masel, he said, getting into bed beside her.

  After the event, she bitterly disparaged his performance with a vitriol which would have torn the fragile sexual ego of most men to shreds. He scarcely heard a word she said. His final thoughts as he drifted into a drunken sleep were concerned with breakfast. He hoped she had plenty of provisions in and that she made a good fry-up.

  Within a few weeks they were living together. People say it seems to be working out.

  LOTS OF LAUGHTER AND SEX

  You said, when we embarked on this great adventure together, that lots of laughter was essential in a relationship.

  I agreed.

  You also made the point that a great deal of sex was of equal importance.

  Again, I agreed. Wholeheartedly.

  In fact I remember your exact words: laughter and sex are the barometers of a relationship. This was the statement you made, if I remember correctly.

  Don't get me wrong. I couldn't agree more. But no at the same time, ya fuckin cow.

  ROBERT K. LAIRD: A SEXUAL HISTORY

  Rab's nivir hud a ride in ehs puff; perr wee cunt. Disnae seem too bothered, mind you.

  SNUFF

  The television screen flickered luminously in the darkness as the credits at the end of the movie came up. Not long to go now, Ian Smith noted, as he reached across to his dog-eared copy of Halliwell's Film Guide. With a yellow fluorescent pen, he highlighted the
boldly-typed entry: Goodfellas. In small capital letters he wrote in the margin:

  8. BRILLIANT, ANOTHER MESMERISING PERFORMANCE FROM DE NIRO. SCORSESE THE UNDISPUTED MASTER OF HIS GENRE.

  He then removed the video cassette and inserted another, Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. Fast-forwarding it past the trailers, he scrutinised the grimly serious face of the Radio One disc jockey who described the certification of the film. Finding the appropriate entry in this most up-to-date but already well-worn copy of Halliwell's, Smith was tempted to highlight it now, prior to viewing the film. He resisted this impulse, reasoning that you had to actually watch the movie first. There were so many things that could happen to stop you. You could be disturbed by the phone or a knock at the door. The video could malfunction and chew up the tape. You could be struck down by a massive cardiac arrest. Such happenings were, he considered, equally unlikely for him, nonetheless he held to his superstition.

  They called him the Video Kid in the office where he worked, but only behind his back. He had no real friends and had the sort of personality which defied familiarity. It was not that he was unpleasant or aggressive, far from it. Ian Smith, the Video Kid, was just extremely self-contained. Although he had worked with the Council's Planning Department for four years, most of his colleagues knew little about him. He did not socialise with them, and the extent of his self-disclosure was extremely limited. As Smith was not interested in his workmates, they reciprocated, not being concerned enough about this unobtrusive person to detect a hint of enigma in his silence.

  Every evening, Smith rented between two and four videotapes at the shop he passed on the way home from work. The actual number rented depended on what was on television, and as a subscriber to satellite he had a lot of options. Additionally, he enjoyed membership of several specialist video clubs, which catered for old, rare, foreign, arthouse and pornographic films which were unobtainable from the shops but listed in Halliwell's. His dinner-break was usually spent making up a schedule of forthcoming viewings, which, once compiled, was never deviated from.

  While Ian Smith occasionally watched a few soaps and a bit of football on Sky Sport, this was usually just filling in time if there was nothing satisfactory on offer on Sky's Movie Channel, in the video shop, or arriving through the post. He always kept the most recent Halliwell's Film Guide, religiously crossing off every film he had seen with a yellow highlighter pen, also giving it his own rating on an advancing scale of 0-10. Additionally, he kept a notebook to list any offerings too new to find their way into the 'bible'. Every time a new edition of Halliwell's came out, Smith would have to transfer the highlighted ticks across to the new text and throw the old one away. He often felt compelled to spend his lunch hours on this mundane undertaking. There were now very few films left unhighlighted.

  As a broader concept, beyond the daily routine of work, viewing and sleep; time became insignificant for Smith. The weeks and months which flew by could not be delineated by changes or events in his life. He had almost complete control over the narrow process he imposed upon his existence.

  Sometimes, however, Smith would become disengaged from the film and he 'would be forced to contemplate this life of his. This happened during Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. The film was a disappointment. The first two Max efforts were a couple of low-budget cult classics. The sequel was an attempt to give Max the Hollywood treatment. It struggled to hold Smith's attention, the span of which always decreased as the night wore on. But it had to be watched; it was another mark-off in his book and there were not many left now. Tonight he was tired. Though anything but a reflective person, when Smith was tired, thoughts he normally repressed could spill into the realm of conscious cerebral activity.

  His wife had left him almost a year ago. Smith sat in his armchair, trying to allow himself to feel the loss, the pain, yet somehow he couldn't. He could feel nothing, only a vague uncomfortable guilt at having no feelings. He thought of her face, of having sex with her, and he aroused himself and managed to come through minimal masturbation, but he could feel nothing else beyond the resultant reduction in tension. His wife seemed not to exist beyond a transient image in his mind, indistinguishable from the ones he relieved himself to in the more pornographic films he rented. He had never achieved climax as easily when he had actually been with her.

  Ian Smith forced his attention back to the film. Something in his mind always seemed to shut down a line of thought before it could cause him discomfort; a form of psychic quality control.

  Smith did not like to talk about his hobby at work; after all, he did not really like to talk. One day in the office, however, Mike Flynn caught him compulsively highlighting his Hal-liwell's, and made a comment which Smith didn't quite catch, but he did pick up the derisive laughter from his colleagues. Stirred, he found himself, somewhat to his surprise, rabbitting uncharacteristically, almost uncontrollably, about his passion and the extent of it.

  — You must like videos, Yvonne Lumsden said, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

  — Always liked films, Smith shrugged.

  — Tell me, Ian, Mike asked him, — what will you do when you've seen all the films listed? What happens after you've marked off the lot?

  These words hit Smith hard in the chest. He couldn't think straight. His heart pounded.

  What happens after you've marked off the lot?

  Julie had left him because she found him boring. She went to hitchhike around Europe with a promiscuous friend whom Smith mildly resented as a contributory factor in the break-up of his marriage. The only consolation was Julie's praise for his sexual prowess. While he had always found it difficult to come with someone, she had climax after climax, often in spite of herself. Afterwards, Julie would feel inadequate, worrying at her inability to give her husband that ultimate pleasure. Insecurity defeated rationality and forced her to look inwards; she did not consider the simple truth that the man she had married was an aberration in terms of male sexuality. — Wasn't it good for you? she'd ask him.

  — Great, Smith would reply, trying, and invariably failing, to project passion through his indifference. Then he'd say: — Well, it's time for lights out.

  Julie hated the words 'lights out' more than any other ones which came from his lips. They made her almost physically sick. Smith would click off the bedside lamp and fall into an instant deep sleep. She would wonder why she stuck with him. The answer lay within her throbbing sex and her exhausted body; he was hung like a horse and he could fuck all night.

  That wasn't enough though. One day Julie casually walked into the sitting-room where Smith was preparing to view a video, and said: — Ian, I'm leaving you. We're incompatible. I don't mean sexually, the problem isn't in bed. In fact you've given me more orgasms than any of the other... I mean what I'm trying to say is, you're good in bed, but useless everywhere else. There's no excitement in our lives, we never talk... I mean . . . oh, what's the use? I mean to say, you couldn't change, even if you wanted to.

  Smith calmly replied: — Are you sure you've thought this one out? It's a big step to take.

  All the while, the prospect of being able to install that satellite dish his wife had resisted gnawed excitingly at the back of his mind.

  He waited until a decent period had passed, then, convinced mat she was not returning, had the dish fitted.

  Smith's social life had not exactly been hectic prior to Julie's departure and the purchase of the satellite dish. After these events, however, the minimal and token social ties he had with the outside world were severed. Apart from going to work he became a recluse. He stopped visiting his parents on Sundays. They were relieved, weary at attempting to force conversation, jumpy in the embarrassed silences to which Smith seemed oblivious. His infrequent visits to the local pub also ceased. His brother Pete and his best friend Dave Carter (or at any rate the best man at his wedding) didn't really notice his absence. One local said: — Never see what's his name in here these days.

  — Aye, said Dave. — Don't know what h
e's up to.

  — Pimping, protection racketeering, contract killings, probably, Pete laughed sardonically.

  In the tenement block where Smith lived, the Marshal children would be screaming, fraying their distraught and isolated mother's nerves further. Peter and Melody Syme would be screwing with all the passion of a couple just back from honeymoon. Old Mrs McArthur would be making tea or fussing over her orange and white cat. Jimmy Quinn next door would have some mates round and they would be smoking hash. Ian Smith would be watching videos.

  At work, one particular newspaper story was bothering people. A six-year-old girl named Amanda Heatley had been snatched from the pavement into a car a few yards from her school.

  — What sort of animal does that? Mike Flynn asked, in a state of indignant rage. — If ah could git ma hands oan the bastard... he let his voice tail off menacingly.

  — He obviously needs help, Yvonne Lumsden said.

  — Ah'd gie urn help. A bullet through his skull.

  They argued from their polarised positions, one focusing on the fate of the kidnapped girl, the other on the motivations of the kidnapper. At an impasse, they turned to an uncomfortable looking Smith in appeal.

  — What do you think, Ian? Yvonne asked.

  — Dunno. Just hope they find the kid unharmed.

  Yvonne thought that Ian Smith's tone indicated that he didn't hold out much hope of that.

  It was shortly after this discussion that Smith decided to ask Yvonne out. She said no. He was neither surprised nor disappointed. In fact, he only asked her out because he felt that it was something he should do, rather than something he wanted to. An invitation to a cousin's wedding had come through the post. Smith felt that he should attend with a partner. As usual, he went home to a weekend of videos. He resolved that he would decline the invitation, and cite illness as an excuse. There was a bug doing the rounds.

  That Saturday evening, his brother Pete came up to see him. Smith heard the bell but chose to ignore it. He could not be bothered freezing the action on Point Break as it was at a key scene where undercover FBI agent Keanu Reeves was about to be befriended by surfer Patrick Swayze and they were going to join forces against some formidable-looking adversaries. The next evening, the bell went again. Smith ignored it, immersed as he was in Blue Velvet.