Acid Lullaby (Underwood and Dexter)

by Ed O'Connor

  ‘What can I say?’ Fallon replied loudly. ‘She was out of control. I’ve got a gift.’

  ‘This calls for a celebration!’ Pieter Richter sloshed a shot of vodka into the nearest trader’s glasses. ‘To Max’s prick. For refusing to die quietly.’

  There was a wave of laughter. Max was loving it; the adoration of the little people. The control.

  Outside, Simon Crouch tried to control his emotions and took the tin foil sheet from Aldo.

  ‘What’s your idea, then?’ His voice was cracking.

  Aldo shot a quick look around him.

  ‘We fix the wanker. Spike his drink. Scramble his brain.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Am I smiling?’

  Crouch picked up one of the pills and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘What are they then?’

  Aldo smiled. ‘They are what you might call experimental. We call ’em “Lobotomies”. Active ingredient is a close relative of an old friend: lysergic acid diethylamide.’

  Crouch was dismissive. ‘You want to give this prick an acid trip?’ He handed the pills back to Aldo. ‘Waste of time. I want to kick his head in. Not send him to dreamland for a couple of hours.’

  ‘This is not ordinary acid. Your average street dose of LSD contains between twenty and eighty micrograms right? These little beauties,’ he held the three pills reverentially in the palm of his right hand, ‘contain two hundred micro­grams each. And I am reliably informed that there are one or two other chemical jack-in-the-boxes in there too. These are not recreational, Crouchie. These are strictly for basket cases. Even I wouldn’t take these. In fact, I suggest we both wash our hands once we’ve got shot of them. You want to mess this guy up. This will give him a permanent headache.’

  Crouch was uncertain. It wasn’t what he had planned. He had wanted to beat the stupid smirk off Fallon’s face; to feel the wanker’s jawbone snap at the end of his clenched fist. Perhaps there was still a way.

  ‘Will they kill him?’ he asked after a moment’s thought.

  ‘Doubtful. But he won’t be writing any piano concertos. He may have trouble tying his own shoelaces. Spike his drink. Isolate him and then when he’s losing the plot we’ll give him a working over. I know a place.’

  ‘Let me do it.’ Crouch took the pills from Aldo and returned to the pub.

  The traders were awash: bobbing happily on a frothing sea of lager. The bar was claustrophobic with their noise. Max was feeling the pace and placed his half-drunk Guinness back on the bar. Richter was the first to pounce: ‘Brits are such pussies!’ he roared.

  ‘What are you on about now?’ Planck growled at him.

  ‘You can’t take your drink, man.’ Richter gestured at Fallon’s guilty glass. ‘It’s common knowledge.’

  ‘Oh, and you Americans can? Don’t make me laugh.’ Planck snorted derisively.

  ‘I’m half German and half Japanese, man.’ Richter sneered in triumph.

  ‘And what a fucking combination that is!’ Planck shot back.

  Richter ignored the insult and turned to Fallon. ‘When are we launching this Fulton Steel deal?’

  Fallon was suddenly alert through the haze; like fog lights cutting through mist. ‘Wednesday. Assuming we get Board approval.’

  Richter sniffed. ‘Man, that is a candidate for Pig of the Year. I can smell the bacon already.’ He topped up Fallon’s glass with vodka.

  ‘It’ll work if you Cappuchino Warriors make an effort to sell the stuff,’ Planck boomed.

  ‘Listen, I’m all over this.’ Richter took a swig of vodka. ‘My clients are primed, man.’

  Planck was unimpressed. ‘You couldn’t sell a hand-job in a prison, mate.’

  Crouch was standing close by. He held the three pills in his left hand. He waited and watched Fallon’s brimming Guinness.

  ‘Hold up!’ Fallon shouted, trying to focus on his mobile phone. ‘She’s only sent me a message!’

  ‘Bunny boiler, man.’

  Fallon squinted at the LCD display. ‘Back home. Waiting.’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘I’m serious.’ He leaned forward and Richter and Plank huddled around him, straining their eyes to read the display. ‘I’ll tell you something else.’ Fallon produced a small, trans­parent plastic bag from his jacket pocket. It contained a small amount of white powder. ‘I snorted a couple of measures of charlie off her tits before we got going. Saved a little bit for her tonight.’

  Crouch stepped up behind them, brushed past Fallon’s back and dropped the three pills into his Guinness. Without stopping or looking back, he walked into the gent’s toilets and washed his hands under the cold tap. His heart was pounding. It had taken willpower. He had wanted to crash his fist into the back of Fallon’s head as he had walked past. For an awful moment he wondered if the drink had suddenly changed colour or whether it was frothing over the lip of the glass. Had anyone seen him? He hesitated and studied the gaunt lines of his face in the mirror, uncertain how to proceed.

  Back in the bar, Fallon was triumphant.

  ‘Told you, boys! She’s gagging for it.’

  ‘Jammy git.’ Planck was genuinely jealous. ‘I’ve got a beautiful wife and two beautiful kids but I’ve got to admit, I’d love to give her one.’

  ‘I’ll pop round later for another couple of lengths.’ Max steadied himself against the bar as exhaustion made the room wobble.

  ‘State you’re in you won’t be able to get your Y-fronts off.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Fallon replied in mock indig­nation. ‘I’m just warming up.’ He reached back and picked up his Guinness from the bar. ‘Tell you what though. My tongue feels like sandpaper.’ He gulped hungrily at the black liquid: two quick swallows. He gasped. ‘Christ, Richter, how much vodka did you put in that?’

  Richter shrugged. ‘A drop, man. Brits are pussies.’

  Fallon shuddered. ‘Tastes like petrol.’ He downed the remainder of his drink and winced as it seared the back of his throat.

  Simon Crouch edged past them, noting Fallon’s empty glass. Planck noticed him.

  ‘All right, Crouchie?’ he said.

  Crouch said nothing and headed for another corner of the bustling pub.

  9

  Liz Koplinsky sat in her Wapping apartment. She had just stepped from the shower and had decided not to bother getting dressed. Instead she wore her favourite blue bathrobe and curled up in its luxuriant folds on her sofa to watch her fish tank. The last vestiges of her hangover had abated. She had even chosen to risk a glass of cold Beaujolais from her fridge.

  She checked her mobile at 9.15 and again at 9.30. Max had not replied. She knew he was probably drunk and was unlikely to call. If he hadn’t gone to bed already. The previous night had been wild. She had been surprised by his ferocity and by her own energy. He had been an animal tearing at her clothes. She had let him shave her pubic hair too. It had driven him crazy. Perhaps he had worn himself out.

  Liz put her glass down on her coffee table and lay back on the sofa. She watched her favourite fish drifting across the giant tank. It was a Broad Tail Moor called Frankie. Frankie was jet black with a high dorsal fin and long, flowing tail. His eyes bulged out of his head. He scared the smaller fish. Frankie was funny.

  Liz drifted to sleep.

  10

  Max Fallon had an uneasy sense that all was not right. He felt dry. His throat was sore. The noise of the room seemed to wash strangely over him.

  ‘I need a Perrier.’

  A face is close to his. Richter.

  ‘You gotta go bang that chick, man.’

  ‘Igottabanger.’ The words all washed together. Max knew he had drunk too much. He could hear people talking about him. Whispering. He was anxious. He had to go.

  Fallon fell out of the front entrance to Corney & Barrow, stumbling down the stone stairway. He headed for the familiar lights of Fogle & Moore. His head was spinning and he was starting to feel panicky.

/>   The voice in his head:

  Under the milky ocean, under the milky ocean

  Something is not quite right.

  His heart was racing and his head sloshed as if it was full of water. Someone whispered in his ear. He span around. There was no one there. He stopped. Suddenly disorientated as the world moved around him. He had no control. He was in the eye of the storm. Clouds tumbled around him. He was sitting on the spindle of the kaleidoscope.

  The voice in his head:

  Under the milky ocean, under the milky ocean

  Something is not quite right.

  He tried to focus on the source of the sound but there was nobody there. He was frightened, dimly aware that something terrible was happening.

  The voice hissed:

  Under the milky ocean, under the milky ocean

  Something is not quite right.

  The voice was getting louder. He knew people were following him: that two hundred and sixteen eyes were tracking his movements.

  ‘Fifty-four Gods and fifty-four Demons. Shaking the mountain and churning the ocean.

  Fifty-four Gods and fifty-four Demons. Shaking the mountain and churning the ocean.’

  He leaned against a metal rail by the edge of West India Dock. He was in West India. Where the fuck was that? He knew India and this wasn’t it. This was something else. Something altogether fucking else. He looked at the water. It wasn’t milky. It was fixed, brown. Rippled like frozen chocolate. It was like mud, frozen mud. Unreal, fucking unreal.

  ‘Fifty-four Gods and fifty-four Demons. Shaking the mountain and churning the ocean.

  Fifty-four Gods and fifty-four Demons. Shaking the mountain and churning the ocean.’

  The whispering was louder. It was right behind him. As if it was coming from the back of his head.

  ‘Who the fuck is that?’ he shouted. The wind rushed at his ears. It felt like he was falling from a plane and for a second he was: flailing in panic as the ground rushed at him. It hit him hard in the face. He was eating concrete. He tasted blood in his mouth. His eyes rolled up in their sockets until he was staring into the back of his own head. He forced them back downwards.

  Concentrate. Concentrate.

  He dragged himself to his feet using the rail. He couldn’t steady himself. The kaleidoscope was still whirling. The buildings rolling around him like giant, bright white sails of silk billowing in the wind. The mountain was rumbling, breaking in pieces, falling into the ocean.

  ‘Under the milky ocean/’

  The voices were snarling at him.

  ‘Under the milky ocean

  Something is not quite right.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Fallon screamed at nobody.

  ‘Fuck off!’ nobody screamed back at him.

  Suddenly there were teeth in front of him. Just teeth. He knew they were there: two rows of yellow teeth.

  ‘All right, mate?’ said the teeth.

  The teeth were talking to him. Teeth that could talk. Max tried to remember how to think. If the teeth could talk they must hide a tongue. But why didn’t the tongue fall out from the back of the teeth?

  ‘Feeling a bit peaky, Max?’ the teeth smiled. Max knew that teeth can’t smile. There had to be muscles. There had to be a face.

  ‘Don’t fucking bite me.’ Max was scared. The teeth had intelligence. The teeth were trying to trick him.

  ‘I just want to help.’

  The teeth were lying. The teeth were going to eat him.

  He could smell the drool of their excitement. Max sunk to his knees and waited to be consumed.

  Simon Crouch leaned over and admired his handiwork. He was impressed. Aldo hadn’t been exaggerating. Fallon’s brains would be scrambled egg after this. But he hadn’t even started on him yet. It was going to be a long night. With an effort, he hauled Max to his feet.

  ‘Come on, Maxy. Be a brave boy.’

  Fallon felt himself rising. The teeth had arms. The teeth were pulling him up to the maw. The arms had muscles. Muscles need blood. Blood needs a heart. A heart needs a brain. A brain needs a person. The teeth were connected to a person. The teeth were a person. Relief flooded through him.

  ‘Fifty-four Gods and fifty-four Demons. Shaking the mountain and churning the ocean.

  Fifty-four Gods and fifty-four Demons. Shaking the mountain and churning the ocean.’

  ‘Please stop saying that,’ Max said to the teeth, ‘I don’t know what it means.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything, dickhead,’ said Crouch.

  ‘The mountain is falling into the ocean,’ Max burbled, ‘that’s why the water is all brown.’

  Crouch dragged Fallon up to Cabot Square. Fallon hung against him; a dead weight.

  ‘You’ve got big teeth,’ Fallon giggled.

  ‘Shut up, you arsehole.’ Crouch could see Aldo driving his car up from the Canary Wharf Car Park. The lights picked them out.

  ‘I was born under the ocean,’ said Fallon. ‘My mummy made me a god.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Crouch muttered.

  Aldo pulled up in front of them. Crouch opened the back door and Fallon clambered in.

  ‘This is a dirty fucking cab,’ said Fallon.

  Crouch jumped in and Aldo accelerated away.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Aldo.

  ‘All over the place.’

  ‘After what we put in his drink I’m surprised he’s with us at all.’

  Max was all over the place. He was in India kicking a foot­ball against a wall; he was in West India Docks wherever-the-fuck-that-was eating concrete while the mountain fell into the water, he was swimming underwater, he was having a shit.

  ‘Fifty-four Gods and fifty-four Demons. Shaking the mountain and churning the ocean.

  Fifty-four Gods and fifty-four Demons. Shaking the mountain and churning the ocean.’

  Max could feel his book pressing into his ribcage. He began to understand what the voices were saying.

  The security guard waved them through the Canary Wharf checkpoint and Aldo turned left onto the highway. Crouch started to relax.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked Aldo.

  ‘Back of Brick Lane,’ came the reply. ‘I know a place.’

  Crouch turned to Max. ‘Hear that, arsehole? We are going to kick your head in.’

  The teeth were laughing at him. Fallon joined in as the car roared towards the East End. He couldn’t stop laughing.

  It was hilarious. He was swimming in the milky ocean and he knew he was immortal. God swam up to him. God had his face.

  It was hilarious.

  The journey took less than ten minutes. Aldo parked in an alley adjacent to Brick Lane. There were people drifting past nearby but none paid them any attention. Crouch dragged Fallon from the car and, with Aldo’s assistance, hauled him giggling into the darkness. At the end of the alley was a yard surrounded on three sides by crumbling black walls.

  ‘What is this place?’ Crouch asked.

  ‘Used to be a match factory until the Nazis dropped a bomb on it. Nobody ever bothered to rebuild it,’ Aldo replied.

  The two men released their grip on Fallon and stepped back as he slumped to the floor. Fallon was oblivious to their conversation. He was climbing out of the sea, crawling up the side of the muddy mountain. Demons fluttered across his field of vision like butterflies. He swatted and snatched at them; laughing as they fell through his clumsy fingers. A story was playing in his head: a repeating loop that he couldn’t break. At the top of the mountain he lay back and listened to the thunder, flinching as the lightning struck at his body. Then, suddenly, Max Fallon saw the image of his dead mother.

  Aldo and Crouch went to work on Fallon with their feet and fists. They soon became extremely frustrated by their failure to make him scream. Max felt numb. He tried to touch the beautiful image before him. His mother’s soft eyes were filling with tears, her face glowing with pride.

  ‘You made me so happy,’ she said, ‘so terribly happy.’

  She plac
ed a tall hat on his head: it was covered with brightly coloured jewels.

  ‘Hello mummy,’ he said.

  ‘Do you remember who you are?’ she replied. ‘Do you remember the beautiful little boy who made mummy so proud?’

  Fallon was confused. Images rushed at him: pictures flashing past him down the motorway of his barely conscious mind.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ he said.

  She reached her arms around him and buckled a silver belt of moonlight glitter around his waist.

  ‘Do you remember now?’

  Fallon wanted to cry. ‘I remember,’ he heard himself say, ‘you made me into a god.’

  ‘You beat everyone. You looked so beautiful. You made me so very proud.’

  ‘Then why did you leave me?’ Max asked angrily. ‘You fell into the river and never came back. I climbed out of the water. Why couldn’t you?’

  ‘You were a little god. I was so proud.’

  ‘You’re making me sad.’

  ‘I want to dream now, Max. Sing me to sleep so I can dream.’

  Fallon felt himself sliding away from her; tumbling down the mountainside, grasping vainly at rocks and plants to slow his descent. He fell through the clouds and saw the glittering sprawl of London racing up towards him.

  He opened his eyes and stared into the black hearts of his attackers.

  11

  Ten hours later, Max Fallon awoke with a terrified start in his shower. He was naked apart from a single sock. He had no immediate sense of where he was. The floor of his shower was stained with his blood except to Max it appeared golden not red. He tried to focus through the lights that flashed across his eyes. It was as if he was having a migraine, areas of his field of vision were swamped in bright, spiralling lights. Max began to feel the pains in his arms and legs. He began to focus on the cuts and bruises that leaked his golden essence into the shower.

  After an hour he stood and, feeling more attuned with his surroundings, took an agonizing shower to wash the mess from his skin. He could only remember fragments of his experience the previous night: sticks flashing around him, smacking into him, faces he half-recognized contorted into terrible demons, itching insects crawling under his skin. He had been swimming at the bottom of a tranquil white ocean and then, as he climbed the mountain, a voice had told him he was a god.