Table of Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
THE SHOOTER
EUROTRASH
STOKE NEWINGTON BLUES
VAT '96
A SOFT TOUCH
THE LAST RESORT ON THE ADRIATIC
SEXUAL DISASTER QUARTET
SNUFF
A BLOCKAGE IN THE SYSTEM
WAYNE FOSTER
WHERE THE DEBRIS MEETS THE SEA
GRANNY'S OLD JUNK
THE HOUSE OF JOHN DEAF
ACROSS THE HALL
LISA'S MUM MEETS THE QUEEN MUM
THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS
DISNAE MATTER
THE GRANTON STAR CAUSE
SNOWMAN BUILDING PARTS FOR RICO THE SQUIRREL
SPORT FOR ALL
THE ACID HOUSE
A Smart Cunt Dedication
Chapter 1 PARK PATROL
Chapter 2 AFTERNOON TELLY
Chapter 3 ASSOCIATES AS OPIATES
Chapter 4 CONSTRUCTIVE DISCIPLINE
Chapter 5 SPEEDING
Chapter 6 CHRISTMAS WITH BLIND CUNT
Chapter 7 JELLIES AND COCK SUCKING
Chapter 8 PARANOIA
Chapter 9 PLASTIC SURGERY
Chapter 10 YOUNG QUEENS
Chapter 11 LOVE AND SHAGGING
Chapter 12 CAREER OPPORTUNITIES AND FANNY LICKING
Chapter 13 MARRIAGE
Chapter 14 INTERVIEW
Chapter 15 PISH
THE ACID HOUSE
Irvine Welsh is the author of seven works of fiction, most recently Porno.
ALSO BY IRVINE WELSH
Fiction
Trainspotting
Marabou Stork Nightmares
Ecstasy
Filth
Glue
Porno
Drama
You'll Have Had Your Hole
Screenplay
The Acid House
Irvine Welsh
THE ACID HOUSE
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ISBN 9781407019376
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Vintage 1995
30
Copyright © Irvine Welsh 1994
Irvine Welsh has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 1994 by
Jonathan Cape
First published by Vintage in 1995
Vintage
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
www.vintage-books.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-4090-2110-0
Version 1.0
For my parents, Pete and Jean Welsh,
for all their love and support.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some stories in this collection have appeared in the following magazines and anthologies: 'Disnae Matter' in Rebel Inc, 'Where the Debris Meets the Sea' in Pig Squealing, New Writing Scotland No. 10, 'Sport For All' in The Ghost of Liberace, New Writing Scotland No. 11. 'The Sexual Disaster Quartet' appeared in Folk, published by Clocktower Press.
Thank you to the editors: Janice Galloway, A. L. Kennedy, Duncan McLean, Hamish Whyte and Kevin Williamson.
Thanks also to the following whose inspiration, ideas, encouragement, and cruel slaggings have influenced this collection:
Lesley Bryce, Colin Campbell, Jim Carrol, Max Davis, Debbie Donovan, Gary Dunn, Jimmy Easton, James Ferguson, Tarn Ferguson, Adeline Finlay, Minna Fry, Janet Hay, Davie Inglis, Mark Kennedy, Stan Kieltyka, Miles Leitch, John McCartney, Helen McCartney, Willie McDermott, Kenny McMillan, James McMillan, Sandy Macnair, Andrew Miller, Robin Robertson, Stuart Russell, Rosie Savin, Colin Shearer, John Shearer, Bobby Shipton, George Shipton, Susan Smith, Angela Sullivan, Dave Todd and Kevin Williamson (again).
Special thanks to that soul-brother of the new salons of psychic insurrection, Paul Reekie, for permission to use his poem.
Extra-special thanks to Anne, for the lot.
Rave on.
When Caesar's mushroom is in season
It is the reversal of the mushroom season
As Caesar's mushroom comes in March
The mushroom season is in September
Six months earlier
One half year
Equinoctal
Autumnal to vernal
Do you hope for more
Than a better balance
Between fear and desire
It'll only be the straying
That finds the path direct
Neither in the woods nor in the field
No robes, like Caesar's, trimmed with purple
Rather an entire street trimmed with purple
And every door in it
Wrapped in a different sort of Christmas paper
The September mushrooms of midnight
Show the rhythms of vision
Can't move for tripping over them
Wipe your tapes
Wipe your tapes with lightning.
PAUL REEKIE
'When Caesar's Mushroom is in Season . . .'
THE SHOOTER
— Lovely casserole, Marge, I remarked in between frantic mouthfuls. It really was good.
— Glad ya like it, she replied, her face screwing up in an indulgent smile behind her glasses. Marge was a good-looking woman, no doubt about it.
I was enjoying myself, but Lisa was pushing the food around her plate, her bottom lip curling outwards and downwards.
— Doncha like it, Lisa? Marge quizzed.
The child said nothing, merely shook her head, her expression unaltered.
Gary's eyes burned in his face. Little Lisa was spot-on keeping her gaze firmly on the plate.
— Oi! You'll bleedin well eat that, my gel! he snapped ferociously. Lisa buckled as if his words had a physical impact.
— Leave er, Gary. If she don wan it, she don need ta eat it, Marge reasoned. Gary's gaze left the child. Seizing the opportunity, Lisa sprang from the table and left the room.
— Where do you dunk... Gary began.
— Oh leave er be, Marge snorted.
Gary looked at her and gestured manically with his fork. — I says one fing, you say another. No wonder I don't get no fuckin respect in my own bleedin house!
Marge shrugged sheepishly. Gary had a temper and he'd been really uptight since he got out. He turned to me, pleading for understanding. — You see how it is, Jock? Every fucking time! Treated like I'm bleedin invisible! My own fucking house. My own bleedin kid! My own bleedin mis
sus for Christ sakes, he moaned, pointing derisively at Marge.
— Take it easy, Gal, I said, — Marge's done us proud wi this spread. Great bit of scran, Marge. It isnae Lisa's fault that she doesnae like it, ye know how weans are. Different taste buds fae us n aw that. Marge smiled approvingly; Gary just shrugged and scowled into space. We ate the rest of the meal, punctuating our scoffing with stiff ritualised conversations; the Arsenal's chances for next season's championship were discussed, the merits of the new Co-op store in Dalston indoor centre were compared to that of the existing Sainsbury's over the road, the likely parent age and sexual orientation of the new manager who'd taken over Murphy's was ascertained, and the pros and cons of re-opening London Fields local railway station, shut down years ago due to fire damage, was passionlessly debated.
Eventually Gary sat back and belched, then stretched and stood up. — Nice bit of tucker, gel, he said appeasingly. Then he turned to me: — You fit?
— Aye, I replied, rising.
Gary answered the query on Marge's quizzical face. — Me n Jock ere, we got a bit of business to talk about, ain't we.
Marge's face set into a tense snarl. — You ain't thievin again are ya?
— I told ya I wasn't, didn't I? Gary aggressively replied. Her twisted mouth and narrowed eyes met his stare. — You promised me! YOU FUCKING PROMISED! All those fucking things you said . . .
— I ain't thieving! Jock! he appealed. Marge fixed her large pleading eyes on me. Was she begging me to tell her the truth or to tell her what she wanted to hear? Gary's promises. The number of times made, the number of times broken. Irrespective of what I said to her at that point, she be let down again: by Gary, or by some other guy. For some people there's no escaping certain types of disappointment.
— Naw, this is legit. Straight up, I smiled.
My bullshit was authentic enough to give Gary confidence. Taking on an expression of injured innocence he said: — There. You got it straight from the horse's maff, gel.
Gary went upstairs to take a slash. Marge shook her head and dropped her voice. — He worries me, Jock. He's been so uptight lately.
— He worries aboot you n the wean, Marge. That's Gal; he's a worrier. It's in his nature.
We're all fuckin worriers.
— You ready or wot? Gary poked his head round the door.
We departed for the Tanners. I made for the back room, and Gary followed me with two pints of best. He set them down slowly on the polished table, with great concentration. He looked at the pints and said softly, shaking his head: — The problem ain't Whitworth.
— He's a fuckin problem tae me. Two fuckin grands' worth of a problem.
— You ain't gettin my drift, Jock. Ain't him that's the problem, innit. It's you, his extended digit rigidly pointed at me, — and me, he said, drumming his finger heavily on his chest. — The fucking donkeys here. We can forget that dough, Jock.
— Like fuck ...
— Whitworth's gonna bullshit us, stonewall us, ignore us, until we just shut up abaht it, like two good little boys, he smiled grimly, his voice carrying a cold, implacable resonance. — He don't take us seriously, Jock.
— So what're ye saying, Gal?
— Either we forget it, or we make him take us seriously.
I let his words play around inside my head, checking and double-checking their implication, an implication in reality I had instantly recognised.
— So what dae we dae?
Gary took in a deep breath. It was strange that he was now so calm and reasoned, compared to his uptight state over the meal. — We teach the slag to take us seriously. Teach him a fucking lesson. Teach him a little bit of respect, innit.
How he proposed we did that, Gary made crystal clear. We would get tooled up and take a drive to Whitworth's flat in Haggerston. Then we would knock seven types of shite out of him on his doorstep and issue a deadline for the repayment of the money owed to us.
I pondered this strategy. Certainly, there was no chance of resolving this matter legally. Moral and emotional pressure had failed to prove fruitful, and, Gary was right, had actually compromised our credibility. It was our money, and Whitworth had been given every opportunity to repay us. But I was scared. We were about to open an ugly Pandora's box and I felt that events were spinning out of my control. I had visions of the Scrubs, or worse, concrete slippers and a dip in the Thames, or some variation on the cliché, amounting in reality to much the same thing. Whitworth himself would be no problem, he was all flash; mouthy, but not a man of violence. The issue was: how well was he connected? We'd soon find out. I had to go along with this. Either way I couldn't win. If I didn't go ahead I'd lose credibility with Gary, and I needed him more than he needed me. More importantly, someone would have my money and I'd be left skint and consumed with self-hatred for having capitulated so tamely.
— Let's sort the cunt out, I said.
— That's my man, Gary slapped my back. — Alway's knew you had the bottle, Jock. All you fucking Jocks, all fucking crazy! We'll show that cunt Whitworth just who he's fucking abaht wiff here.
— When? I asked, feeling a bit nauseous with excitement and anxiety.
Gary shrugged and raised an eyebrow. — Ain't no time like the present.
— You mean right now? I gasped. It was broad daylight.
— Tonight. I'll call for you at eight with a motor.
— Eight, I agreed weakly. I had been feeling big vibes of anxiety about Gary's unstable behaviour lately. — Listen Gal, there isnae anything other wan money between you and Tony Whitworth, is there?
— The money's enough in my circumstances, Jock. More than enough, innit, he said, throwing back his pint and rising. — I'm orf home. You should go too. You don't wanna be knocking back too much of the Jonathan Ross, he pointed at my glass. — We got a job to do.
I watched him lumber away purposefully, pausing only to wave at old Gerry O'Hagan at the bar.
I left shortly after, taking Gal's advice about the sauce consumption. I went up to the sports store in Dalston and purchased a baseball bat. I thought about buying a ski mask, but that would be too obvious, so I went to me Army and Navy and got a balaclava. I sat in my gaff, unable for a while to look at the purchases. Then I picked up the bat and began swinging it through the air. I pulled the mattress off my bed and stuck it against the wall. I thrashed at it with the bat, checking swing, stance and balance. The anxiety flowed from me as I swiped, lunged and snarled like a maniac.
It was not long in returning. It had gone eight and I thought that Gary may have had a bout of sanity and called the whole thing off, perhaps after Marge tippled that something was up and got on his case. At 8.11 on the digital clock radio I heard the car horn blast truculently outside. I didn't even go to the window. I just picked up the balaclava and the bat and went downstairs. My grip on the weapon now felt weak and insipid.
I climbed into the passenger seat. — I see you're prepared, Gary smiled. Even after he'd spoken, his face remained frozen in that strange smile, like a bizarre Halloween mask.
— What've you got? I feared that he'd produce a knife.
My heart stopped when, from under the seat, he pulled out a sawn-off shotgun.
— No way, man. No fuckin way. I moved to get out of the car. His hand fell on my arm.
— Relax! Ain't fucking loaded, is it? You know me, Jock, for fuck sakes. Shooters ain't my fucking scene, never have been. Credit me wiff a little bit bleedin sense, innit.
— You're telling me that gun is empty?
— Course it's bleedin empty, innit. You think I'm fucking daft? Do it this way, we don't need no violence. No aggravation, nobody gets hurt. A geezer inside told me; people change when you point a gun at them. The way I see it is: we want our money. We ain't bothered about hurting the cunt; we just want the dough. If you get carried away wiff that bat, you might make im into a bleedin cabbage. Then we got no money and a berth in the bleedin Scrubs. We terrorise him, we show him this — he waved the shoote
r, which now seemed like a pathetic toy, — and he's shiting pound notes at us.
I had to concede that it sounded so much simpler Gary's way. Scaring Whitworth was preferable to doing him over. Smash the cunt up and he'd possibly get a team together for revenge. If you scared the shit out of him with a shooter, the chances were that he'd know not to fuck with you. We knew the gun wasn't loaded, Whitworth didn't. Who would take the risk?
Whitworth's flat was on the ground floor of a 1960s systems-built maisonette block in a small council estate off the Queensbridge Road. It was dark, though not pitch black, as we parked the car a few yards from his front door. I debated whether or not to put on the balaclava, then decided against it. Gary had no mask, and besides, we wanted Tony Whitworth to see who was pointing the gun. Instead I concealed the bat under my long coat as we stepped out the car.
— Ring the fucking bell, Gary urged.
I pressed the buzzer.
A hall light clicked on, shining through the gap at the top of the door. Gary stuck his hand inside his coat. The door opened and a boy of about eight years old, wearing an Arsenal tracksuit, stood warily before us.
— Tony in? Gary asked.
I hadn't bargained for this. I'd made Whitworth into a cartoon figure, a mouthy ponce-spiv stereotype, in order to justify what we were going to do to him. I'd never imagined him as a real person, with kids, people who depended on him, probably even loved him. I tried to make a signal to Gary that this was not the time or place, but the young boy had vanished back into the house and was almost simultaneously replaced in the doorway by Whitworth. He wore a white t-shirt and jeans, and a beaming smile across his face.
— The lads, he grinned expansively. — Glad to see ya! I've got somefink for ya, if. . . he stopped in mid-sentence as his eyes grew bigger and the colour drained from him completely. The side of his face seemed to crinkle up as if he was having some kind of stroke.
Gary had whipped out the shooter and was pointing it straight at him.
— Oh no, please to god, I've got what you want, Gal, that's what I was trying to say . . .Jock . . .