The Acid House (10 page)

The warden, Mrs French I think they call her, is looking me up and down. It's fairly obvious that she doesn't like what she sees; her gaze has a steely ice to it; it's definitely a negative evaluation I'm getting here.

— So, she says, hands on hips, eyes flitting suspiciously in that glistening yellow-brown foundation mask topped by a brittle head of brown hair, — you're Mrs Abercrombie's grandson?

— Aye, I acknowledge. I shouldn't resent Mrs French. She's only doing her job. Were she less than vigilant in keeping her eye on the auld doll, complaints from the family would ensue. I also have to acknowledge that I am less than presentable; lank, greasy black hair, a scrawny growth sprouting from a deathly white face broken up by a few red and yellow spots. My overcoat has seen better days and I can't remember when I changed into these jeans, sweatshirt, t-shirt, trainers, socks and boxer-shorts.

— Well, I suppose you'd better come in, Mrs French said, reluctantly shifting her sizeable bulk. I squeezed past, still brushing against her. Mrs French was like an oil tanker, it took a while for her to actually change direction. — She's on the second floor. You don't come to see her very often, do you? she said with an accusatory pout.

No. This is the first time I've been to see the auld doll since she moved into this Sheltered Housing scheme. That must be over five years ago now. Very few families are close nowadays. People move around, live in different parts of the country, lead different lives. It's pointless lamenting something as inevitable as the decline of the extended family network; in a way it's a good thing because it gives people like Mrs French jobs.

— Ah don't stay local, I mumble, making my way down the corridor, feeling a twinge of self-hate for justifying myself to the warden.

The corridors have a rank, fetid smell of pish and stale bodies. Most people here seem in such an advanced state of infirmity it merely confirms my intuitive feeling that such places are just ante-chambers to death. It follows from this that my actions won't alter the auld doll's quality of life: she'll scarcely notice that the money's gone. Some of it would probably be mine anyway, when she finally snuffs it; so what the fuck's the point of waiting until it's no good to me? The auld doll could hang on for donkey's years as a cabbage. It would be utterly perverse, self-defeating nonsense not to rip her off now, to allow oneself to be constrained by some stupid, irrelevant set of taboos which pass as morality. I need what's in her tin.

It's been in the family for so long: Gran's shortbread tin. Just sitting there under her bed, crammed full of bundles of notes. I remember, as a sprog, her opening it up on our birthdays and peeling off a few notes from what seemed to be a fortune, the absence of which made no impact on the wad.

Her life savings. Savings for what? Savings for us, that's what, the daft auld cunt: too feeble, too inadequate to enjoy or even use her wealth. Well I shall just have my share now, Granny, thank you very much.

I rap on the door. Abercrombie, with a red tartan background. My back chills and my joints feel stiff and aching. I haven't got long.

She opens the door. She looks so small, like a wizened puppet, like Zelda out of
Terrahawks.

— Gran, I smile.

— Graham! she says, her face expanding warmly. — God, ah cannae believe it! Come in! Come in!

She sits me down, babbling excitedly, hobbling back and forth from her small adjoining kitchen as she slowly and cum-bersomely prepares tea.

— Ah keep askin yir mother how ye nivir come tae see me. Ye always used tae come oan Saturday for yir dinner, mind? For yir mince, remember, Graham? she says.

— Aye, the mince, Gran.

— At the auld place, mind? she said wistfully.

— Ah remember it well, Gran, I nodded. It was a vermin-infested hovel unfit for human habitation. I hated that grotty tenement: those stairs, the top floor surprise surfuckingprise, with the backs of my legs already fucked from the sickening ritual of walking up and down Leith Walk and Junction Street; her standing oblivious to our pain and discomfort as she prattled on a load of irrelevant, mundane shite with every other auld hound that crossed our path; big brother Alan taking his exasperation out on me by punching me or booting me or twisting my airm when she wisnae looking, and if she was she didnae bother. Mickey Weir gets more protection from Syme at Ibrox than I ever did from that auld cunt. Then, after all that, the fuckin stairs. God, I detested those fuckin stairs!

She comes in and looks at me sadly, and shakes her head with her chin on her chest. — Your mother was saying that yuv been gettin intae trouble. Wi these drugs n things. Ah sais, no oor Graham, surely no.

— People exaggerate, Gran, I said as a spasm of pain shot through my bones, and a delirious shivering tremor triggered off an excretion of stale perspiration from my pores. Fuck fuck fuck.

She re-emerges from the kitchen, popping out like a crumpled jack-in-the box. — Ah thoat so. Ah sais tae oor Joyce: No oor Graham, he's goat mair sense thin that.

— Ma goes oan a bit. Ah enjoy masel, Gran, ah'm no sayin otherwise, bit ah dinnae touch drugs, eh. Ye dinnae need drugs tae enjoy yirself .

— That's whit ah sais tae yir mother. The laddie's an Aber-crombie, ah telt her, works hard and plays hard.

My name was Millar, not Abercrombie, that's the auld lady's side. This auld hound seemed to believe that being referred to as an Abercrombie is the highest possible accolade one can aspire to; though perhaps, if you want to demonstrate expertise in alcoholism and theft, this may very well be the case.

— Aye, some crowd the Abercrombies, eh Gran?

— That's right, son. Ma Eddie — yir grandfaither — he wis the same. Worked hard n played hard, n a finer man nivir walked the earth. He nivir kept us short, she smiled proudly.

Short.

I have my works in my inside pocket. Needle, spoon, cotton balls, lighter. All I need is a few grains of smack, then just add water and it's all better. My passport's in that tin.

— Whair's the lavvy, Gran?

Despite the small size of the flat, she insisted on escorting me to the bog, as if I'd get lost on the way. She fussed, clucked and farted as if we were preparing to go on safari. I tried a quick slash, but couldn't pee, so I stealthily tiptoed into the bedroom.

I lifted up the bedclothes that hung to the floor. The large old shortbread tin with the view of Holyrood Palace sat in full magnificent view under the bed. It was ridiculous, an act of absolute criminal stupidity to have that just lying around in this day and age. I was more convinced than ever that I had to rip her off. If I didn't somebody else would. Surely she'd want me to have the money, rather than some stranger? If I didn't take the cash, I'd be worried sick about it. Anyway, I was planning to get clean soon; maybe get a job or go to college or something. The auld hound would get it back right enough. No problem.

Prising open the lid of the fucker was proving extremely difficult. My hands were trembling and I couldn't get any purchase on it. I was starting to make headway when I heard her voice behind me.

— So! That's whit this is aw aboot! She was standing right over me. I thought I'd have heard the clumsy auld boot sneaking up on me, but she was like a fuckin ghost. — Yir mother wis right. Yir a thief! Feeding yir habit, yir drugs habit, is that it?

— Naw Gran, it's jist...

— Dinnae lie, son. Dinnae lie. A thief, a thief thit steak fae his ain is bad, but a liar's even worse. Ye dinnae ken whair ye stand wi a liar. Get away fae that bloody tin! she snapped so suddenly that I was taken aback, but I sat where I was.

— I need something, right?

— Yill find nae money in thair, she said, but I could tell by the anxiety in her voice that she was lying. I prised, and it transpired that she wasn't. On top of a pile of old photos lay some whitish-brown powder in a plastic bag. I'd never seen so much gear.

— What the fuckin hell's this .. .

— Git away fae thair! Git away! Fuckin thief! Her bony, spindly leg lashed out and caught me in the side of the face. It didn't hurt but it shocked me. Her swearing shocked me even more.

— Ya fuckin auld ... I sprang to my feet, holding the bag in the air, beyond her outstretched hands. — Better call the warden, Gran. She'll be interested in this.

She pouted bitterly and sat down on the bed. — You got works? she asked.

— Aye, I said.

— Cook up a shot then, make yourself useful.

I started to do as she said. — How Gran? How? I asked, relieved and bemused.

— Eddie, the Merchant Navy. He came back wi a habit. We had contacts. The docks. The money wis good, son. Thing is, ah kept feedin it, now ah huv tae sell tae the young ones tae keep gaun. The money aw goes upfront. She shook her head, looking hard at me. — Thir's a couple ay young yins ah git tae run messages fir me, but that fat nosey yin doonstairs, the warden, she's gittin suspicious.

I took up her cue. Talk about falling on your feet. — Gran, maybe we kin work the gither on this.

The animal hostility on her small, pinched face dissolved into a scheming grin. — Yir an Abercrombie right enough, she told me.

— Aye, right enough, I acknowledged with a queasy defeatism.

John Deaf's hoose wis weird. Ah mean, thir wis eywis some scruffy hooses in the scheme, bit nowt like John Deaf's. Fir a start, John Deaf's hoose hud fuck all in it; nae furniture or nowt like that. Nowt oan the flair, no even any lino. Jist they cauld black tiles thit ivray hoose hud, fir the underflair heatin thit nae cunt could afford tae switch oan.

Aw thit wis in John Deaf's hoose wis one chair thit ehs Grandfather sat oan, ben the livin-room. Thir wis a boax wi a telly oan toap ay it. The auld cunt jist used tae sit thair watchin the telly aw day n night. Thir wis eywis loads ay boatils n cans it ehs feet. The auld radge must've slept in that chair, cause thir wis jist one mattress in the hoose, n that wis in John Deaf's room. Thir wis nae beds or nowt like that.

The only thing thit wis in the hoose wis the white mice. Loads ay thum, crawlin aboot ivraywhair. John Deaf really liked white mice. Eh boat thum ootay Dofo's Pet Shoap, took thum back tae the hoose n jist lit thum go. Eh wis it Dofo's ivray Setirday. Whin they tippled tae what the cunt wis aboot, they knocked urn back. Aw he'd dae though, wis jist gie one ay us the money tae go in n git urn the mice.

So the mice ran aroond free. They jist multiplied, scurryin aroond the place, aw ower they black tiles. Sometimes eh'd hurt thum. Some ay thum goat crushed tae death, n thir wis one thit eh hud kicked thit hud baith ay its back legs broken. It used tae drag itsel acroass the flair wi its front legs. Wi used tae git a fuckin laugh at it. That yin though, that wis John Deaf's favour-ite. Ye could stomp any ay the wee cunts, bit eh widnae lit ye touch that yin.

Wi didnae call John Deaf John Deaf cause the cunt wis deef n dumb. Eh wis, bit that wisnae the main reason. It wis cause thir wis a John Hyslop n a Johnny Paterson n soas no tae git thum mixed up. That wis the main reason. Aw John Deaf could say wis ehs name, n chic eh wis deef. Whin eh moved intae the scheme, intae Rab's block, ye'd go up n say tae um: Whit's yir name, mate? n eh'd say: John. Then ye'd say somethin else bit eh'd jist touch ehs ear n go: Deaf.

So John Deaf it wis.

Ivray cunt kent um is John Deaf. The guy thit took us fir the fitba it Sporting Pilton used tae say: Ah want John Deaf tae play oot wide oan the wing. Ah want yis tae feed John Deaf. Remember, feed John Deaf, eh'd say tae us. Naebody could run like John Deaf. Eh wis really strong n aw. Eh'd go fuckin radge if some cunt did a sneaky tackle fae behind oan um, bit that wis the only wey ye could stoap John Deaf. The cunt's strength n speed wirnae real, believe you me.

John Deaf nivir went tae school. They didnae ken eh existed. Course, John Deaf wid huv went tae one ay they special schools, fir the deef, likesay that big posh yin it Haymarket, bit eh didnae go tae any school at aw. Ivray time one ay us wis skivin, we'd meet up wi John Deaf, sure as fuck.

Wi aw used tae hing aroond in John Deaf's hoose. It wis really mingin likesay, bit that nivir bothered ye sae much in they days. It wis like oor base, oor HQ. Ehs auld grandfather nivir hassled naebday, jist sat thair watchin the telly n drinkin ehs cans ay beer. He wis deef n aw.

Once whin wi wir in John Deaf's hoose, jist fartin aboot likes; wi couldnae find John Deaf or ma sister. Wi went up the stairs n heard noises comin fae the the big press whair the water tank wis. Whin wi opened the door wi saw that cunt John fuckin Deaf n ma sister. Thir fuckin neckin n John Deaf's goat ehs willy oot n eh's goat ehs hand up hur skirt.

Now she gits called a slag n that makes me look a right fuckin cunt, nae two weys aboot it. So ah pills hur away n pushes hur doon the stairs, tellin hur tae git tae fuck. She wis shitin ursel n so she fuckin shoulduv been, cause there wis me thinkin: see if the auld man kent aboot it... Bit anywey ah punches John Deaf in the mooth n wi starts swedgin which wis a bad fuckin move oan ma part because ay John Deaf's strength, n eh gits oan toap ay ays n ehs knockdn fuck oot ay ays, batterin ma heid oaf they black tiles. Ah suppose it wis then thit ah tippled tae how auld John Deaf wis. It wisnae sae much the size ay ehs willy, because it wis still oot, wi this cunt oan toap ay ays, or the baws wi hairs oan thum. It wis mair the bumfluff oan ehs face, n ehs strength. In spite ay ehs wee height, it came tae ays thit John Deaf wisnae the same age as the rest ay us. Eh wis mibbe sixteen; mibbe even mair. Whin ah realised this, that's whin ah really shat ma keks. Ah'm greetin ma eyes oot, ah wis only aboot eleven likes, n ivray cunt's sayin: Eh's hud enough. Leave urn.

Bit John Deaf's deef, right?

Anywey, it wis some fuckin doin ah goat. It only stoaped whin some cunt drags John Deaf oafay ays tae git um tae go doonstairs. Ah dunk it wis Cammy, bit ah'm no really sure. Anywey, whaeivir it wis, eh starts pillin John Deaf doon the stair. John Deaf didnae resist, ah suppose eh could tell fae the boy's face thit somethin wis wrong.

Ah staggers tae ma feet, ma sister tryin tae help ays up. Ah pushes hur ootay the road. Dirty cow deserved tae be shopped tae the auld man. Ah wis thinkin, mibbe ah will, mibbe ah willnae, cause ah thoat thit ma Ma n Dad wid'uv went radge.

Whin ah gits doonstairs, thir aw crowded aroond the grand-faither's chair. Thir's a big pool ay pish under it. The auld gadge's heid's twisted tae the side, ehs eyes ur shut, bit ehs mooth's open. White mice ur walkin aroond the edge ay the puddle ay pish. One wis in it, the cunt wi the broken back legs, draggin ehsel through it. Making sure thit John Deaf wisnae noticin, ah brought ma heel doon hard oan the wee cunt. Ah kent John Deaf liked that moose, n that wid help tae pey the cunt back fir the doin eh'd gied ays. Whin ah looked doon, the moose wis still alive, bit sortay split open. Its spilled guts wir trailin in the pish; bit it wis still dragging its boady forward.

Ah didnae ken whithir or no the auld cunt in the chair wis deid, bit eh wisnae far oaf it. Ah wis really sair, especially ma heid, bit ah wis happy, because ah kent thit they'd take John Deaf away cause ay the auld cunt bein deid, or half-deid.

They did n aw. John Deaf nivir came back tae the scheme. Thir wis loads ay stories gaun aboot: like the auld gadge wisnae really John Deaf's grandfather n they baith slept oan that one mattress, if ye git ma meanin. Ah widnae pit it past thum, that's aw ah'm sayin oan the subject. It's jist talk bit, n the only two people thit really ken whit went oan in that hoose cannae tell any cunt aboot it.

Ah nivir sais nowt tae ma Ma n faither aboot ma sister n John Deaf. She kent tae watch ur mooth aroond ays bit, n no gie ays any lip. They soon worked oot thit somethin wis wrong though, n whin they asked ur aboot it, she started greetin. Thing wis, ah wis the cunt thit goat the fuckin blame! Me! The auld man sais thit ah wis a blackmailer, n ah blackmailer wis the lowest ay the low, specially wi faimly n that. Eh telt ays this story aboot how this poof eh kent in the army wis blackmailed n the perr wee cunt kilt ehsel. So ah gits leathered n she gits aw this sympathy oafay thum. Fuckin ootay order man, ah'm tellin ye.

Ah wis gled whin they took that John Deaf away. Ah hated the radge. Ah've nivir been the same since that doin eh gied ays, ah kin tell ye.