The Acid House

  — Why no, ah goes, — if yir gaunny git hung fir stealin a sheep ye might as well shag it n aw.

  We walked across the forecourt. Thir wis a pungent, shitey smell and Lozy's face crinkled up aw that satisfied wey n eh nods doon tae a river ay stagnant water thit wis bubblin tae the surface fae aroond the rim ay a rusty iron drain-cover.

  Calum turned back taewards the flats and raised baith airms in the air. Eh gave a double V-sign. — Game set and match, ya masonic bastard.

  Lozy goes: — The union boy'll chew ehs fuckin nuts oaf if eh tries tae take this yin tae a disciplinary.

  — Widnae git that far, ah sais, — we gave oor professional opinion. Whit's it the gadge thit took us fir the ONC at Telford College sais? The maist important skill in any trade is accurate problem diagnosis. Ah goat a fuckin distinction, ah pointed at masel.

  Lozy raised ehs eyebrows, the cheeky cunt.

  — Eh did, Calum backs ays up.

  — Aye, n that cunt Knoxie chose tae disregard oor professional advice.

  — Waste ay council resources, Lozy agreed. — Manderson'll nivir back that cunt up.

  We swagger through the centre towards the pub. That pint's gaunny taste sweet, right enough.

  WAYNE FOSTER

  Two Sparryheids sit at a table in a public house talking shite about the football. The Sparryheids are almost indistinguishable from each other with their soft brown feathery heads, open, tense, belligerent beaks and slimy liquorice eyes. The only thing that sets them apart is that one Sparryheid has a trail of black gunge weeping from the corner of his left eye, the result perhaps of some injury or infection.

  — Some trouble the day at the match, eh?

  — Aye, casual infiltrators. Shouldnae huv been thair, no at that end.

  — Ah heard it wisnae casuals, but. Ah heard it wis a couple ay boys thit wir in each other's company, arguing about Wayne Foster. One cunt goes: Git that fuckin English cunt oaf the park. The other boy sais: Gie the cunt a chance. So the first boy sais something back and one things leads tae another, one boy panels the other. Next thing ye ken, yuv goat a big fuckin swedge oan yir hands.

  — Naw, says one Sparryheid, with an unconvinced shake of his beak, — it'll be they fuckin casuals. No interested in the fitba, these cunts.

  — Naw naw. This wis aboot Wayne Foster. That's what ah heard.

  — Casuals, the unconvinced Sparryheid shakes his beak again. A few brown feathers float to the lino floor, — that's who it'd be. Fuckin troublemakers.

  — Naw, explains his friend, now slightly exasperated, — no this the day. Ah agree wi ye aboot the casuals, but wir talkin aboot this the day. This wis two boys chit kent each other. They started swedgin, then every other cunt jumps in. Frustration, ken. Frustration wi the way things are gaun. Ken?

  — Awright, mibbe, n wir jist sayin mibbe, it wis they boys n Foster, Wayne Foster — who's awright by the way; at least ye always git one hundred and ten percent fae Foster — mibbe it wis Foster this time thit started it, but it's usually they casuals.. . that's aw ah'm sayin.

  — Aye, bit no this time. This the day wis definitely this Foster thing. Ah heard two boys spraffin aboot it.

  — Admittedly Foster husnae goat that much skill. Fast as fuck though, man.

  — Foster . . .

  — Another thing aboot Foster, wi goat that cunt for fuck all. Derek fuckin Ferguson; three quarters ay a million fir that! A fuckin prima donna!

  — Naw, that's a fitba player, man.

  — Foster. That's the boy. See if they aw hud Foster's commitment. . .

  — Awright, awright. If ye could combine Foster's commitment wi Ferguson's class . ..

  — Aye, nods the other Sparryheid, — ah'll gie ye that.

  — Foster's commitment n speed wi Ferguson's class n vision.

  — Foster.

  — Right. Foster, ya cunt.

  — Aye. Wayne Foster. Right enough, the Sparryheid considers, before turning to his mate: — Another pint?

  — Aye.

  One Sparryheid goes up to the bar but the barman refuses him service as he, the barman, has sectarian leanings which make him averse to Sparryheided cunts. Additionally this barman has enjoyed the benefits of a classical education which makes him feel superior to most people, particularly Spar-ryheids, who he hates to wait on. There is another reason. She is in the bar. Worse still: She is in the bar with Her. The Spar-ryheid's keen vision is focused on these two women, who sit in the corner of the bar, deep in conversation. If She went home with a Sparryheid it would be the end for the Classical Scholar; as for Her, well she could do what she wanted.

  — Bit how no? asks the Sparryheid at the bar, how's it wir no gittin served? His beak is open at ninety degrees and his huge black eyes radiate anxiety.

  The barman is no ornothologist. The classics are his field, but even he can sense the Sparryheid's discomfort. However, he shakes his head slowly, refusing to make eye contact with the Sparryheid. Instead, he makes a grim, intense ritual of washing a glass.

  The Sparryheid at the bar goes back over to the table. — Wir no gettin served! he announces to his friend.

  — Eh! Whit for no?

  The Sparryheids move over to the other end of the bar to make an appeal to Ernie, the other duty barman. The Classical Scholar was head duty barman, and even if Ernie had the power to overide his decision, he would be reluctant to do so as he also enjoyed seeing Sparryheids distressed. — It's no up tae me, boys, he shrugged at the bemused beaks and went back to his conversation with two guys at the bar.

  The Classical Scholar looks over at the two women in the corner. In particular he looks at She; even more particularly he is unable to take his eyes off her glossy lips. He recalls that blow-job at New Year; that had been something else. There was always a tension in his mind and body; this was part and parcel of being a classical scholar in a world where the classics were undervalued. His depth and breadth of knowledge went unrecognised. He was forced to pull pints for Sparryheids. This caused depression, anxiety, tension. That blow-job at New Year; that had sucked all the tension out of his tightly-strung body, taken all the poisonous thoughts out of his head. He'd lain there for a bit, on the bed outside the coats; just lain there in a daze. When he recovered she'd left the room. He went through to find her but when he approached her she was cold and off-hand.

  — Please keep away from me, she had said to him. — I'm not interested in you. This is New Year. I'm a bit pissed. Understand, that was a one-off, okay?

  All he could do was respond with a bemused nod, stagger through to the kitchen and get drunk.

  Now She was in the bar with Her, a woman he'd gone home with previously; a woman he'd fucked. He didn't like Her, but the thought that he'd been with both of them made him feel good. Two women under thirty in the bar and he'd shagged both of them. Well, shagged one and got a blow-job from the other one. A technicality, surely. He replayed it: two women under thirty in the bar and he'd come with his prick inside a different orifice with each one. That sounded even better. But it didn't feel better for long because She was looking over at him and laughing; they both were. She held her hands up at the level of her chest, protruding index fingers a few inches apart. The other woman, Her, nodded negatively as they stole another glance at the Classical Scholar, then She put her fingers closer together until there was hardly any space between them and Her head bobbed approvingly, before they both collapsed into heaps of laughter.

  The Classical Scholar was far too sensitive a man to be treated in this manner. He went into the small room at the back of the bar and picked up an old hard yellow piece of soap from the dirty sink. He chewed a chunk off the cake and after wincing at the sickening taste, swallowed hard. It burned all the way down to his stomach in a slow, poisonous trail. He slammed a fist into his palm, curled his toes and began humming a soft mantra: — Slags slags slags slags slags ...

  Getting control of himself, he emerged to find one of the Sparryheids standing before him at the bar.


  — How's it wir no gittin served, mate? Whit huv wi done? Wir no steamin or nowt like mat. Jist in fir a quiet drink, ken. Jist spraffin aboot the match, ken? Wayne Foster n that.

  The best thing to do was not to even talk to Sparryheids. It was important to remember the golden rules of barwork as they related to Sparryheids.

  1. ACT DECISIVELY.

  2. REMAIN IMPLACABLY IN CONTROL OF THAT INITIAL DECISION, IRRESPECTIVE OF WHETHER THAT DECISION IS JUST OR NOT.

  3. NEVER ATTEMPT TO EXPLAIN TO THE SPARRYHEID THE REASON(S) FOR YOUR DECISION. BY JUSTIFYING OR RATIONALISING YOU MERELY COMPROMISE YOUR AUTHORITY.

  Those were the rules of the game. Always.

  He shook his head negatively at the Sparryheids. They uttered some curses and left.

  A few minutes later She stood up. Ernie, positioned at the other end of the bar moved over to serve her, but went back to chatting to a couple of customers as he realised she was heading for the Classical Scholar.

  — Craig, she said to him, — I liked the way you handed those weird beaky guys with the feathered faces. They were giving us the creeps. When do you finish tonight?

  — Eh, half an hour.

  — Good, I want you to come back with me and my friend Rosalyn. You know Rosalyn don't you ... ha ha ha of course you do.

  — Okay.

  — Understand, Craig, we won't fuck you, you'll get nothing off us. You're quite a sexy man but you take yourself far too seriously. We want to show you something about yourself. Right? She smiled and moved back over to where her friend was sitting.

  The Classical Scholar wondered what they wanted him for. He would go, though. It could be enlightening. It didn't matter whether you were a Sparryheid, or even a Classical Scholar; mere were always lessons to be learned in life.

  WHERE THE DEBRIS MEETS THE SEA

  The house in Santa Monica sat tastefully back from Palisades Beach Road, the town's bustling ocean boulevard. This was the top end of the town, its opulence serving as the height to aspire to for the yuppie dwellers of the condominiums further down the Pacific coast. It was a two-floored Spanish-style dwelling, partly obscured from the road by a huge stone wall and a range of indigenous American and imported trees. A few yards inside the wall, an electrified security fence ran around the perimeter of the property. Inside the gate at the entrance to the grounds, a portable cabin was discreetly tucked, and outside it sat a burly guard with mirror-lens shades.

  Wealth was certainly the overall impression given by the property. Unlike nearby Beverly Hills, however, the concept of wealth here seemed more utilitarian, rather than concerned with status. The impression was that wealth was here to be consumed, rather than flaunted ostentatiously for the purpose of inducing respect, awe or envy.

  The pool at the back of the house had been drained; this was not a home that was occupied all the year round. Inside, the house was expensively furnished, yet in a stark, practical style.

  Four women relaxed in a large room which led, through patio doors, to the dry pool. They were at ease, lounging around silently. The only sounds came from the television, which one of them was watching, and the soft hissing of the air-conditioning which pumped cool, dry air into the house.

  A pile of glossy magazines lay on a large black coffee table. They bore such tides as Wide-o, Scheme Scene and Bevvy Merchants. Madonna flicked idly through the magazine called Radge, coming to an abrupt halt as her eyes feasted on the pallid figure of Deek Prentice, resplendent in a purple, aqua and black shell-suit.

  'Phoah! Ah'd shag the erse oafay that anywey,' she lustily exclaimed, breaking the silence, and thrusting the picture under Kylie Minogue's nose.

  Kylie inspected the image clinically, 'Hmm... ah dunno .. . No bad erse oan it like, bit ah'm no really intae flat-toaps. Still, ah widnae kick it oot ay bed, likesay, ken?'

  'Whae's mat?' Victoria Principal asked, filing her nails as she reclined on the couch.

  'Deek Prentice fi Gilmerton. Used tae be in the casuals, bit eh's no intae that anymair,' Madonna said, popping a piece of chewing-gum into her mouth.

  Victoria was enthusiastic. 'Total fuckin ride. Ah bet eh's hung like a hoarse. Like that photae ah goat ay Tarn McKenzie, ken fi the Young Leith Team, original seventies line-up. Fuckin welt oan it, man, ah'm telling ye. Phoah, ya cunt ye! Even through the shell-suit, ye kin see ehs tackle bulgin oot. Ah thoat, fuck me, ah'd gie ma eye teeth tae get ma gums aroond that'

  'Ye'd probably huv tae, if ehzis big is ye say!' smirked Kylie. They all laughed loudly, except Kim Basinger, who sat curled up in a chair watching the television.

  'Wishful thinkin gits ye naewhaire,' she mused. Kim was studying the sensual image of Dode Chalmers; bold shaved head, Castlemaine XXXX t-shirt and Levis. Although Rocky, his faithful American pit-bull terrier was not visible on the screen, Kim noted that his leather and chain leash was bound around Dode's strong, tattooed arm. The eroticism of the image was intense. She wished that she'd videotaped this programme.

  The camera swung over to Rocky, whom Dode described to the interviewer as: 'My one faithful friend in life. We have an uncanny telepathy which goes beyond the archetypal man-beast relationship ... in a real sense Rocky is an extension of myself.'

  Kim found this a bit pretentious. Certainly, mere was little doubt that Rocky was an integral part of the Dode Chalmers legend. They went everywhere together. Kim cynically wondered, however, just how much of this was a dubious gimmick, manufactured, perhaps, by public relations people.

  'Fuck ...' gasped Kylie, open mouthed,'.. . what ah'd gie tae be in that dug's position now. Wearin a collar, chained tae Dode's airm. That wid dae me fine.'

  'Some fuckin chance,' Kim laughed, more derisively than she'd intended.

  Madonna looked across at her. 'Awright then, smart cunt. Dinnae you be sae fuckin smug,' she said challengingly.

  'Aye Kim, dinnae tell ays ye widnae git intae his keks if ye hud the chance,' Victoria sneered.

  'That's whit ah sais, bit. Ah'm no gaunny git the chance, so whit good's it talkin aboot it, likesay? Ah'm here in Southern California n Dode's ower in fuckin Leith.'

  They fell into a silence, and watched Dode being interviewed on The Jimmy McGilvary Show. Kim thought that McGilvary was a pain in the arse, who seemed to feel that he was as big a star as his guests. He was asking Dode about his love-life.

  'In all honesty, I don't have time for heavy relationships at the moment. Right now I'm only interested in all the overtime I can get. After all, one has to remember that trades fortnight isn't that far away,' Dode explained, slightly flushed, his thin mouth almost curling in a smile.

  'Ah'd cowp it,' Kylie licked her bottom lip.

  'In a fuckin minute,' Victoria nodded severely, eyes widened.

  Madonna was more interested in Deek Prentice. She turned her attention back to the article and continued reading. She was hoping to read something about Deek's split from the casuals. The full story had not come out about that one, and it would be interesting to hear Deek's side of things.

  there is hope for us all yet, as Deek is keeping an open mind on romance since his much publicised split with sexy cinema usherette, Sandra Riley. It's obviously an issue where Deck is keen to set the record straight.

  'I suppose, in a way, we loved each other too much. There's certainly no hard feelings or bitterness on either side. In fact, I was talking to Sandra on the phone only the other night, so we're still the best of friends. Our respective careers made it difficult to see as much of each other as we would have liked. Obviously cinema isn't a nine-to-five thing, and furniture removals can take me all over the country, with overnight stays. We got used to not being together, and sort of drifted apart. Unfortunately, it's the nature of the business we're in. Relationships are difficult to sustain.'

  Deek's social life is another area where he feels that he has had more than his share of unwelcome publicity. While he makes no secret of an enjoyment of the high life, he feels that 'certain parties' have somewhat exaggerat
ed things.

  'So I enjoy the odd game of pool with Dode Chalmers and Cha Telfer. All I can say is: guilty as charged. Yes, I'm in the habit of visiting places like the Spey Lounge, Swanneys and the Clan Tavern; and I enjoy a few pints of lager. However, the public only see the glamorous side. It's not as if I'm swilling away every night. Most evenings I'm home, watching Coronation Street and EastEnders. Just to illustrate how the press get hold of nonsense, a report appeared in a Sunday newspaper, which shall be nameless, stating that I was involved in an altercation at a stag night in Fox's Bar. It's not a boozer I use, and in any case I was working overtime that night! If I was in the pub as often as certain gossip columnists claim, I'd hardly be able to hold down my driving job with Northern Removals. With three million people unemployed, I've certainly no intention of resting on my laurels.'

  Deek's boss, the experienced supervisor Rab Logan, agrees. Rob probably knows Deek better than anyone in the business, and Deek unreservedly credits the dour Leither with saving his career. Rab told us: 'Deek came to us with a reputation for being, should we say, somewhat difficult. He's very much an individual, rather than a team man, and tended to go off to the pub whenever it took his fancy. Obviously, with a flit to complete, this lack of application caused some bad feeling with the rest of the team. We crossed swords for the first and last time, and since then, Deek's been a joy to work with. I can't speak highly enough of him.'

  Deek is only too willing to acknowledge his debt to the removal Svengali.

  'I owe it all to Rob. He took me aside and told me that I had what it took to make it in the removals game. The choice was mine. At the time I was arrogant, and nobody could tell me anything. However, I remember that exceptionally grim and lonely journey home on the number six bus that day Rob told me a few home truths. He has a habit of stating the transparently obvious, when you're so close to it, you can't see the woods for the trees. After a dressing-down from Rab Logan, one tends to shape up. The lesson I learned from Rab that day was an important one. In a sense, the removal business is like any other. The bottom line is, you're only as good as your last flit'