Read The Acid House for Free Online Page B

junky!
    Should I fuck these children before, or after I kill them?
    I do nothing of the kind. It's yon time.
    Don's still there. That fortified door. Now I only have to worry about whether or not he's in, and if he is, whether or not he'll let me in. I rap heavily.
    — Who is it? Angie's voice. Don and Ange. I'm not surprised; I always thought they'd end up getting it on.
    — Open up, Ange, for fuck's sake. It's me, Euan.
    A series of locks click open and Ange looks at me, her sharp features more prominent than ever, defined and sculpted by skag. She bades me enter and secures the door.
    — Don aroond?
    — Nah, gone out, ain't he.
    — Any skag?
    Her mouth turns downwards and her dark eyes hold me Eke those of a cat that's cornered a mouse. She contemplates a lie then, noting my desperation, decides against it.
    — How was the 'Dam? She's toying with me, the fuckin cow.
    — Ah need a shot, Ange.
    She produces some gear and helps me cook up and take a shot. A rush shoots through me, followed by a rising tide of nausea. All hands on deck. I throw up on a Daily Mirror. Paul Gascoigne is on the front, winking and giving the thumbs up in traction and plaster cast. This paper is eight months old.
    Ange prepares a shot for herself, using my works. I'm not too happy about this but I can't really say much. I look at her cold, fish eyes, cut into that crystalline flesh. You could lacerate yourself badly on her nose, cheekbones and jawline.
    She sits beside me, but looks straight ahead instead of turning to face me. She starts to talk incessantly about her life in a slow, even monotone. I feel like a junky priest. She tells me that she was raped by a squad of guys and has felt so bad about it she's had a habit since then. I get a feeling of déjà vu here. I'm sure she's told me this before.
    — It hurts, Euan. It fucking hurts inside. The gear's the only thing that takes the pain away. There's nuffink I can do about it. I'm dead inside. You won't be able to understand. No man can understand. They killed a part of me, Euan. The best part. Wot you see here's a fucking ghost. It don't matter much wot hap pens to a fucking ghost. She taps up a wire, jabs home and convulses appreciatively as the gear pumps into her circuit.
    At least the rush shuts her up. There was something unsettling about her talking in that disembodied way. I look at the Mirror. Several flies are feasting on Gazza.
    — The rapist punters. Get a squad the gither, get the cunts, I venture.
    She turns towards me, shakes her head slowly, then turns back. — No, it don't work like that. Nobody is more connected than these guys. They're still doing it to women. One of them pulls at a club, brings the woman back. The rest are waiting and they just use her like a fucking hanky for as long as they want.
    I suppose to get close to understanding how it feels you have to think of about a dozen guys giving it Clapham Junction up your arsehole.
    — That's the last, she murmurs in wistful content. — I hope Don brings some back.
    — You n me both, doll, you n me both.
    It could have been hours or minutes, but Donovan did show.
    — What the fuck are you doing here man? He set his hands on his hips and thrust out his neck at me.
    — Good tae see you n aw, mate.
    It looked as if Don's skin tone had been diluted by the smack. Michael Jackson probably paid millions to get the same effect Don has from junk. He was like a Jubilee that the ice had been sucked out of. Come to think of it, Ange had been more pink in the past. It seemed that if you took enough junk you would lose all racial characteristics completely. Junk really did make every other feature of a person irrelevant.
    — You holdin? His accent changed from a high-pitched effeminate North London whine to a rich, heavy Jamaican dread.
    — Like fuck. Ah'm here tae score.
    Don turned to Ange. You could tell he hadn't scored and was about to hit the roof at her for giving the last to me. Just as he started to speak,