Acid Casuals

by Nicholas Blincoe

  The police had signed their arrival and departure with blue-and-white plastic ribbons. Junk’s cabin had a criss-cross of police incident tape barring the door. Junk ignored it. He pulled it down with his free hand and swung his bag through the door with the other. He was here to entertain himself. From the few videos at his disposal, he could choose anything and watch it in silence.

  He could watch and wait or do whatever he felt like until the time was right. Fingering through the breast pocket on his jacket, he found the wrap. His chief priority was to maintain his edge. It was a pledge, a duty. Junk unfolded the paper into a flat diamond. Inside the amphetamine crystals were neatly packed into a powdery slab. Under the anglepoise light, the dusty crystals glittered with a blueish whiteness that Junk liked. He stuck the edge of his yale key into the powder and brought a fat globule up to his nose, his sinuses were already snapping and buzzing.

  *

  Junk staggered as he crossed the balcony. He had his bag strapped to his shoulder, dangling at his back. His hands were free to carry the crate of tonic water bottles that he’d found beneath the counter of the cocktail bar. As he manhandled the crate forward along the steel gantry floor, the video screens above his head played out scenes of molecular reality – disintegration, debruised particles in high-speed expansion, warped matter. Junk had reconfigured every myth of modern physics on his editing desk, using snippets of kung fu videos, disaster movies and snow boarding sequences. The tower block never collapses after the force of an explosion, it continues hurtling forward, creating new axes of energy displacement as it speeds across white space. The screens above the dance floor absorbed every image that Junk projected against them. Never think of a screen as flat; it’s a wave of quantum matter waiting to be surfed. Against the resonant silence, Junk’s heavy-footed limp struck dull notes off the steel mesh floor. Sound is only sluggish light – Junk’s video tapes bounced off every surface, re-animating the Gravity, passing through Junk as though he were already unsolid. His bruises, the cracked rib he’d only lately discovered, responded to the higher and lower ranges of the spectrum: the infra- and ultra-rays that he wished he could see as well as he could feel. Junk was cranked up, geared for the moment. Still, he took a test when he reached the balcony edge, stopping to balance the crate on the edge of the nearest table. When he was ready, Junk lifted the crate past his shoulder and up over the balustrade.

  The crate hit the dance floor below. Trampolining off the wood, the bottles that did not smash with the first impact bounced higher than the crate. As the crate hit the floorboards a second time, the glass blew out in froth and shards. The foaming tonic water held the explosion in a bubbling cloud, punctured by fragments of spinning debris. The huge sound decompounded in layers: the initial impact; the collision of crate, glass and wood; the echoes; the aftershocks; the returning echo. Beneath the floorboards, disturbed in his offices, Burgess must be staring upwards and asking, ‘What the fuck?’ If he caught Bernard’s eye, what would he register: shock, fear, confusion? Paranoia, sclerosis, sonic dyslexia? Junk waited to hear their feet on the cellar steps. He wanted to be ready, before they passed into view.

  He watched them come running across the stage area, stopping themselves at the edge when they saw the remains of the crate. They looked to each other to explain the scene and the damage; the video images that free-wheeled across the expanse of the club, the broken and scattered glimmers of glass and plastic. Blinking against the uncertain light, they turned their faces upwards and scoured the outer limits of the club. Junk had fallen back to the shadows, he needed time to unpack his bag.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Burgess shouted.

  Junk took a beat’s pause before answering, making sure that he was hidden before he emptied his bag on to the nearest table: ‘It’s me. Junk.’

  ‘Junk? What the fuck are you doing?’

  Bernard dropped from the stage to the dance floor. Junk stopped him there: ‘Hold it. You’re not coming up.’

  Bernard stopped and looked up again, trying to pinpoint Junk before he turned back to Burgess: ‘Do you think the bastard’s armed?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Burgess raised his voice: ‘Hey, Junk, have you still got that gun?’

  Bernard had pulled his hand clear of the pocket of his coat. He did have a gun. Junk could see the chrome finish on a flattish handgun.

  ‘Hey, Junk. Wait there, I’ll be back,’ said Burgess. He returned up-stage and disappeared through the rear door into the stairwell. Bernard remained, keeping talking, hoping that Junk would betray himself. He kept his piglet eyes fixed on the balcony.

  ‘You made a right fucking mess of my car, John Quay. I don’t dare to think about the fucking repair bill. And some of my boys are a bit shaken up. Know what I mean? A bit fucking nervy.’

  Junk kept to the shadows. The packages that he had taken out of his shoulder bag were ready on the table in front of him. Two packages: one large-ish, the size of a kilo sugar pack; one small enough to fit inside an envelope.

  ‘Are you still there, John Quay? Speak up. I want to know what you are going to do about my car.‘

  Junk kept his mouth buttoned, but he was still there. He felt as though he was all there. He bristled with energy, his pulse ran in time with images on the video screen. By the time Burgess reappeared carrying a gun, Junk was all set. He stared patiently down to the stage where Bernard and Burgess stood, but at a molecular level he was speeding.

  He had no idea what kind of gun Burgess was carrying.

  It looked like a scuba diver’s harpoon gun. It could have been a standard handgun, fitted with an incredibly long barrel or perhaps a shotgun that had been customised with the handgrip and trigger of a pistol. Burgess held it with one hand on the grip and the other half-way along the barrel. As Burgess racked it, Junk realised that it was an elaborate pump-action shotgun.

  ‘We thought we’d better get some firepower,’ said Burgess. ‘Now that Paul Sorel has been reborn as a killer tart and you’ve regressed to your gun-toting vigilante stage, I thought we should walk prepared.’

  Junk’s eyes flickered over the video screens. His tape was still running; a beautiful segue from a monster truck derby to Vietnamese fighting crickets. The smaller one was waving its feelers in excitement, as it took the other into a death-grip. Junk reached into the larger pack and sprinkled a handful of white powder across his face, blessing himself as he soaked it up. He wanted a ceremonial flourish to the storyboard. He needed to ritualise this coming scene.

  ‘What about Paul Sorel?’ Burgess waved his shotgun. ‘What’s the crack with him?’

  They were moving forwards. Bernard, passing over the dance floor to his right, was making for the steps. Junk ran his palm over his outstretched tongue and licked away the last of the powder. He was ready.

  ‘I said, hold it.’ Junk shouted. ‘You’re not coming up.’

  Bernard crouched slightly, now. He had his gun pointing up towards the balcony. Burgess crossed over to a pillar and took cover behind it.

  ‘Just tell us, Junk. Are you armed or not?’ Burgess asked.

  ‘No.’

  Burgess reappeared, visibly relaxed. He signalled over to Bernard, waving him towards the balcony stairs again. Junk shouted at them to stop.

  ‘Stay where you are. I’ve got something to tell you, Burgess. If you shoot me, you won’t hear it. If you come up here, I’ll throw myself off the balcony.’

  Burgess waved over to Bernard, stopping him: ‘Okay, what do you have to tell me, Junk?’

  ‘Wait. I’m coming to the edge of the balcony.’

  Junk walked into the light, they could see him now. He skimmed the smaller package over the edge of the balcony and watched it sail end-over-end towards the dance floor.

  ‘What’s that,’ asked Burgess. ‘A ransom demand?’

  ‘No, it’s yours. It’s the last of the coke you sent me to buy. I’ve come to hand in my resignation, I won’t be running errands for you any more.’

  ‘You’r
e resigning? Yeah? … You’re fucking fired, you twat,’ said Burgess as he dropped on to the dance floor. He walked over to the envelope and picked it up. ‘Nice thought, though. Offering me a golden handshake. What do they say: up in smoke or up your nose. Pound for pound, it costs more than gold. Don’t do it, doo be doo be doo.’

  Burgess unwrapped his cocaine: ‘You’ve not spiked this with Ajax scouring powder, have you, Junk?’

  Burgess licked his finger and dug the wetted tip into the coke. He examined the dust that stuck to it. He must have approved of whatever he saw. He rubbed his hands together, charged with anticipation.

  ‘What, there must be four, five grammes here, Junk.’

  ‘Six. I was ripping you off, these past years. I gave you a good deal this once, for old time’s sake,’ said Junk.

  ‘Nice gesture, coming up honest at the end. A bit bloody late, though.‘ Burgess paused; holding his gun and the envelope in one hand, he felt through his pockets with the other. ‘Hey, Bernie. Have you got a tenner I could borrow?’

  Bernard recrossed towards Burgess, holding out a ten-pound note. Burgess nodded his thanks as he took the note and the envelope over to the edge of the stage. He laid down his gun and took out a credit card. Once he’d opened the envelope and scraped part of the powder on to the stage, he chopped through the pile with the edge of his credit card to break down the larger crystals. Seeming satisfied with the grain quality, he formed it into a line and rolled up the note.

  ‘Hey, Junk,’ he shouted over his shoulder. Conspiratorially, was that it? Sartorially? ‘I never asked you, what do you think of the theory that drugs kill you?’

  ‘I never thought about it,’ said Junk.

  ‘You’re still alive – kind of.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m still alive,’ said Junk.

  ‘And you did a shit load of amphetamine. Which is pretty toxic stuff, even though I made it myself. Not too good for nasal membranes, tooth enamel, your liver. How’s your liver? … Cocaine should be better for you, considering it’s a natural product. On the other hand, it goes through so much treatment with hydrochloric acid – it’s probably just as noxious as speed. It would probably burn the roof off your fucking head if it didn’t have anaesthetic properties. What do you reckon?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t know anything about cocaine,’ said Junk.

  ‘No, I remember. You’re too low-rent for coke, you just run out and buy it for me. What kind of drugs do the scum do, Junk?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve not been doing anything for years.’

  ‘Not even those anti-psychotic drugs you were prescribed at the hospital?’

  ‘No. They were stolen,’ Junk admitted.

  ‘Fuck, no. Really? That’s like stealing a cripple’s wheelchair, isn’t it? Stealing prescription medicines off a nut. That is low.’

  Burgess paused, he was ready for his cocaine. His nose was edging towards the starting line, Bernard’s tenner hovering below his nostril. Then he pulled himself back once more. It seemed he was going to make himself wait. Using the rolled note as a baton to make his point he began harassing Junk again.

  ‘I asked about drugs killing you, because I’m not so sure. For instance, you’re not dead. I’m not dead. That kid who died the other night wasn’t killed by the amount of drugs he’d done. I’d say that people killed you. I’d say that Paul Sorel, in particular, is back here to kill me. What would you say?’

  ‘I’d say that you’re right,’ said Junk.

  ‘He’s going to kill me because I raped him.’

  ‘That’s the story,’ said Junk.

  Burgess returned to the line. From way above him, Junk waited for the vacuuming suck, the throaty gasp. Burgess’s face streaming with tears. But Burgess wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘Is that what you reckon? I raped Paul?’ Burgess was flushed, either with indignation or with coke-lust. ‘I tell you, that’s a sack of fucking shit. Isn’t that right, Bernie?’

  Bernard shook his head. ‘Yes, Chief.’

  ‘There you are. Bernard says it’s crap. What do you say?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just saying what I heard. Paul would come back for you and kill you, because of what you did to him.’

  ‘Fuck that. Fucking gossip. I did nothing. When he escaped from Risley, who set that up? Do you think Michael Cross did it alone?’

  Junk said nothing.

  ‘It was me that set it up. I got him out of Risley. I paid Michael to do it, I set up the whole fucking deal. So, you see, it’s shit. I did nothing except help Paul.’ Burgess took another preparatory pass over the pile of the cocaine.

  ‘But I tell you, if Paul does turn up now, then he’s a fucking dead man-stroke-woman.’

  Burgess went head down into the pile of powder. This was it. He swiped along the length of the line in one solid, five-second, inhalation. The burn at the back of his throat turned into an open-mouthed half-scream. There was no anaesthetising coolness to the powder, just the chemical aggression of speed. Burgess was staggering to his feet now: ‘What the fuck?’

  Bernard lifted up his pistol again and shot Junk.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  A burst of machine-gun fire raked the planks around Bernard’s feet, sending him rolling backwards to the edge of the dance floor. Giving him no time to celebrate his dead hit on Junk. He ended cowering beyond the wooden boards, taking cover beneath the eight-inch kerb that lifted the dance floor off the level of the club. As he went down, he saw Estela emerge from the cafeteria with her new machine pistol in her hand.

  Burgess swung around, firing through his fears but blindly, racking and refiring without a hope. Estela ducked back behind the sheet of translucent rubber strips that hung like a curtain, screening off the Gravity’s cafeteria. A lucky shot thudded against the sheeting but Estela’s shadow continued walking along behind the curtain.

  ‘Paul,’ Burgess shouted. ‘Is that you, Paul?’

  ‘It’s Estela, now. Hey, I love this club. It has a post-industrial feel. I find that sympathetic. Where did you get the curtains? Are they the kind that surround welding bays in factories? That’s so cool, you know.’

  Burgess had pulled himself up on to the stage and taken cover behind a stack of speakers. Estela heard him rack his gun again. He reappeared behind a bass bin to let off another shot. He was not even close. Estela stepped out between the rubber sheets and shot off a chunk of the speaker cabinet with her Heckler & Koch MP5K. It had a thirty-two round magazine and she had extra in her bag. She could keep this up all night.

  ‘What do you think of this for a weapon, Burgess?’ she shouted. ‘I boosted it off a jackboy over in Moss Side.’

  She drilled open the front of the stage before ducking back behind the curtains. Bernard lifted himself from the ground and took a couple of shots at her. One hit a pillar by the side of her head. Then, the few lights went out.

  Junk must have managed to haul himself over to the lighting booth and pull the last of the switches. Only the light generated by the video show lit the club now. Estela had a choice. She could either attack from the front or return through the cellar bar, cut back through Burgess’s office and climb the stairs behind the stage, close by the door that Junk had left opened for her. If she did that, she would emerge right behind Bernard and Burgess. That would surprise them.

  Junk hit another button. Dry-ice began to fill the club. Estela opted for full-frontal exposure. She slipped out of the protective cover of the rubber sheeting and headed for the balcony stairs. If Bernard and Burgess continued shooting like that, they would only end up hitting each other. Burgess’s sight might be clearing, but the way he shot – he could fire into a sauna without hitting flesh-tones. He was still flailing about the stage, wondering what kind of poison he had snorted. When Estela reached cover, behind a steel column, she had the time to tease him:

  ‘How did you like the cocaine, Burgess?’

  ‘It was speed, you fuck.’ She heard him rack his shotgun; it was beginnin
g to sound like a spastic nervous reflex.

  ‘It was top quality speed, Burgess. You should know, you made it. Junk was just giving it back to you.’

  Junk sent a carbine of lights spinning out over the field of dry-ice, raking the clouds below with flares of red, yellow, blue. Somewhere below Estela, a shotgun crackled.

  ‘Who are you trying to hit, Burgess?’

  His voice came up through the cushion of smoke: ‘You, you cunt.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘What did I do to you?’

  He had stopped shooting now. He would be trying to work out where she was standing from the direction of her voice. He was still behind the speaker stack, Estela was sure. She circled the balcony and listened. Her high heels tapped against the steel mesh flooring. She could not pin-point Bernard. If he was below her, he could not get a clear shot.

  ‘How is Bernard? He has such a little itty bit gun, I bet he’s scared to death. Now that he’s playing with the big girls.’

  The dry-ice was beginning to clear and Bernard was no longer lying by the dance floor. She should be able to place him. He was so heavy, every step he made would be audible. The footsteps she could hear were too far away. From their sound, the time they kept as they walked in paired formation, it was the police.

  Estela waited until the first blue cap appeared before strafing the stage. One policeman flung himself backwards and made the cover of the door. The other tripped and sprawled across the floor. Where he lay, he could only be a yard or so from Burgess. Estela wondered what Burgess would do. If he was behind the speakers, crouching, clutching his shotgun, the policeman must be staring straight into Burgess’s speed-frazzled face.

  Bursts of rapid static, the crackle of a police radio. The policeman who had made the stairwell was asking for assistance. His partner lay spread-eagled on the stage, lit in a solitary pool of light. Junk was playing with the spotlights, lighting the policeman like a theatrical corpse, although the man was certainly unhurt. Estela could see his bottom rise in the air as he tried to wiggle up-stage commando-style. She aimed the Heckler & Koch at the speaker stacks, one more time. As the cabinet splintered open, the magnetic coils and the speaker cones flew out in pieces.