by Dave Watson
He went back to rolling the joint he was working on. He’d already prepared six for the evening ahead, so they wouldn’t have to build while they were tripping.
“Here we go,” Griff said, having found the section he was looking for in the vast collection. “Hendrix, The Doors, The Stones, Cream, Jefferson Airplane…”
“How much smokeables d’you think we should take the night, Griff?” Cairnsey asked him.
“Quarter of solid?” Griff suggested.
“How ‘bout just a half quarter solid and a bit extra green? It brings the trip on better.”
“Sweet.”
Cairnsey went back to his task, singing the theme from Rawhide under his breath.
“Rollin’ rollin’ rollin’…”
Griff continued his examination of the music.
“Think we should bring the Jefferson Airplane CD? Remember last time we were tripping with that on? Sam was convinced he could see white rabbits all over the shop?”
Cairnsey burst out laughing at the memory. Sam’s confused/worried/amused expression and the way he’d whipped his head from side to side, seeing rabbits everywhere, had reduced them to tears of hilarity.
“That was funny as fuck,” Cairnsey giggled. “Definitely take that one.”
“Cool, how about The Doors?”
“Mr Morrison and co? Couldn’t have a trip night without them. It'd be plain rude. Take that red and white greatest hits one. It’s got the version of The End from Apocalypse Now on it, with the helicopter sounds and the insects.”
“How about…” Griff considered, then; “Oh, shit! Have you got Magical Mystery tour?”
“Think so,” Cairnsey said. “Check the Beatles section, to your right a bit.”
Griff scanned through the CD’S going to the right and found it between Abbey Road and Sergeant Pepper's.
“Ya fuckin’ dancer!” he exclaimed with a huge smile, as though discovering lost Inca gold. Then he frowned.
“You're a thievin’ rat, Cairns. This is mine!”
“I know. Think you gave me a loan of it a few years back.”
“Ya bastard! I thought I’d lost it for good.”
“You would've done if you hadn’t found it just now,” Cairnsey replied with a smirk.
“Thievin' rat,” Griff said again, shaking his head. “Just you keep rolling those joints and I’ll see what else of mine you’ve got here. Tramp.”
“You can take your maw's knickers back,” Cairnsey said without looking up, “she left them here the other night.”
Chapter 11
As Cairnsey's car made its way north up the coast a few hours later, carrying its cargo of four eighteen year old boys, a crate of beer, a pencil case jammed with joints and other supplies, the atmosphere in the vehicle was good.
Cairnsey was driving with Phil next to him in the passenger seat. Griff and Sam sat in the back playing a game of switch. Sam was down to two cards while Griff sat with six and a frustrated expression on his face.
Sam was a jammy bastard at switch.
The Stones played on the car stereo. Time was definitely on Mick Jagger's side.
The sun rode high in the vast late afternoon sky the same shade of blue as Phil's Rangers top, and the sea rolled on by on their left as Cairnsey's dad's Peugeot followed the coastal road that would lead them to Bennane Head where they'd arranged to meet the dealer Ozay at seven pm. There was a bench on the cliff top there where some wit had carved Sawney woz ere on the left armrest then filled in the raggedly engraved letters with blood red paint, and this was the arranged meeting point.
Cairnsey had been surprised to find out when talking to the guy on the phone that afternoon that the dealer knew of the bench, seeing as he’d said he was from Barrhead near Glasgow, which was a good sixty miles away, and the bench was generally unknown to anyone who didn’t live locally. It was also close to their intended campsite; a small clearing in the woods a few hundred meters back from the road, and the convenience of it all seemed like a good omen it was going to be a good night.
Phil took a deep pull on the joint he held and proffered it towards the back seat where Sam relieved him of it.
“Cheers mate,” he said and threw down the ace of hearts on top of Griff’s four of clubs, changing the suit.
“Spades, last card,” he said holding up his one remaining card and smiling.
Griff inspected his six cards.
Not a single spade or an ace with which he could change the suit to something more useful and prevent Sam from winning the hand yet again.
“Fucker!” he moaned, and picked up a seventh card, knowing the game was already over unless Sam was bluffing.
“Out!” Sam proclaimed in triumph, and threw down the King of spades. “Pick up five just for being so shite at this game!”
Griff tossed down his cards face up.
“That’s four games in a row you’ve just beat me, ya spawny bastard,” he said.
“You're no kidding its four games in a row, mate. Sheer skill and instinct though. Spawny fuck all.”
“Shite.”
“Your deal, loser,” Sam said and chuckled. "The Rain Man in the film was fuckin' brilliant at cards as well. What happened to you?"
Griff picked up the cards and grumpily shuffled before dealing them out, eager for another chance to break Sam's stranglehold on the game. His impressive mental abilities, as varied as they were potent, did not include card counting it seemed. No matter how much he concentrated on the cards used in the game, trying to apply logic and win the game by mentally calculating odds, Sam won the vast majority of their contests.
“You're goin’ down this time, chump,” he promised.
“Bring it on ya wee bitch,” Sam retorted with a grin.
In the front seat, Cairnsey grinned at his mate's patter.
“We’ll need to get a few games going once the trips kick in later,” he said. “Always a good laugh.”
“Like poppers chess,” Sam said from the back seat, referring to their version of the game where the players had to take a whiff of amyl nitrate after each move. It wasn’t uncommon for the games to be abandoned after five or six moves, both players falling about, giggling and red faced, not even knowing whose turn it was.
Cairnsey laughed at the image. “Do we actually have any poppers?” he asked.
“Well, it just so happens,” Sam said with a sly smile and reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a small brown glass bottle with a white cap. “We’re fuckin’ jammin’.”
Jammin’ by Bob Marley started playing on the stereo and they all laughed.
No one paid any particular attention to the beat up black Ford fiesta that followed them along the coastal road like a shadow in the early evening sun.
Chapter 12
There was no one at the bench at Bennane Head at seven. Only a note pinned to the backrest written in a spidery freehand.
Cairnsey and co.
Sorry I couldn’t be here. Had some things to attend to at the last minute. Your goods are in the paper. B Will explain.
Eat, drink and make merry,
O
“What the fuck?” said Sam with a scowl.
“Our goods are in the paper? What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Phil.
“Let’s see it,” said Griff.
He held the sheet of A4 up to the light and scrutinised it closely. After a few seconds he nodded and chuckled.
“Old Ozay's a smart bastard. Check this shit out.” He pointed to the bottom left hand corner of the sheet of paper. There was an inch long horizontal line of tiny holes punched into the paper a few millimetres up from the bottom, with four smaller lines of holes running down off it at right angles to the edge of the sheet, creating four small tear off squares of different texture to the rest of the page.
“No way,” said Cairnsey, unbelieving.
“Our goods are in the paper,” Griff said with a shrug. “I’ve no idea how he’s done it but it looks like these are the trips.�
�
“How the fuck did he do that?” wondered Phil.
“Maybe cut out the shape of the four trips and attached them along the edges with PVA or something,” suggested Sam.
“Seems like a lot of bother, and risky as fuck too. Anyone could have found this,” Griff pointed out. “Right enough, if anyone else did find it they probably wouldn’t understand the message.”
“True,” Phil said. “Weird though. You’d expect to just get bumped if your man can’t make it. ‘Specially seeing as we don’t even know the guy.”
“Well, it looks like we’ve got our trips regardless,” Cairnsey said. ”You boys still up for it?”
Phil hesitated. “I’m not sure, man. Seems too easy, know what I mean?” he said uncertainly.
“Relax, mate,” said Sam, remembering Phil's earlier anxiety in the shop, “either they’re good trips or nothing happens. The guy hasn’t shown so we haven’t parted with any cash and I doubt anyone’s trying to poison us.”
“It’s not that,” Phil persisted. “It’s just a fucked up deal. It’s shady enough getting trips from people you know cause you’re never a hundred percent sure if they’re going to be any good, but we’ve never even met this guy Ozay.”
Cairnsey laughed. “Mate, you’re supposed to get paranoid after you take your trip, not before. Tell you what, I’ll buzz Barnsey and see what the score is. He’s got to be ‘B’ on the note.”
He took out his mobile phone and made the call. It was answered on the second ring.
“Yeah?”
“Barnsey? Cairnsey here.”
“Awrite, mucker? Havin’ a good time yet?” Barnsey said with his annoying guffawing laugh that Cairnsey always thought sounded like Goofy.
“Not yet. We’re at the Head but your man isn’t here. D’you know what the score is?”
“Has he left a note?” Barnsey asked.
Cairnsey frowned.
“Aye. How’d you know?”
Again came that annoying idiot snort of laughter from the other end of the line. “Don’t worry about it, man. Daft cunt does it sometimes. Busy man y’ know? It’s sound though. You understand the note?”
“Aye.”
“Cool. Like a sais, don’t worry about it. It’s all good,” Barnsey reassured him.
“You know this guy well then? Never heard you mention him before,” Cairnsey asked.
“Well enough”, said Barnsey, and laughed again, for too long this time, as if he’d said something hilarious.
Cairnsey shook his head, wanting now to be off the phone. “Aye alright, whatever. Just seemed a bit weird y’know. Catch you later.”
And again Barnsey's ridiculous sounding guffaws came blaring over the line, way too loud this time, as if he was actually trying to irritate. It was so loud that Sam, Griff and Phil could hear it.
“Later on, pal,” he said, and hung up, still laughing.
Cairnsey turned to the others.
“Don’t know what that cunt’s on, but if it’s these trips then we’re in for a good night. He says it’s cool. Knew about the note and everything.”
“Ah, well then…” Griff said, sold.
“Still paranoid, Phil?” Sam asked him.
I do feel paranoid, Phil thought, and as he did, his scalp prickled and he had to repress a shudder. Half remembered images from his dream the night before flashed across his mind; fire, flesh, blood, but were gone again, dancing away elusively before he could grasp them. All he knew for sure was that something felt wrong, and the more he thought it, the harder it became to shake off the strange consternation. His mind was made up. This was no mood to be tripping in.
“Sorry to be a buftie, lads, but I think I’ll sit this one out. No feeling the best for it.”
“Ah, c’mon, man. Relax. We’ve had weird deals before,” Cairnsey said.
“Aye, mate,” Sam said, “It’ll be sweet. Don’t worry about it.” But he already knew that Phil wouldn’t be tripping that night.
Smiling wanly, Phil shook his head.
“You’re not changing your mind here are you?” asked Griff, knowing how stubborn Phil could be when he’d made a decision.
“Nope. You three split mine between you.”
“Fair do’s then,” Sam said.
“Your call, mate,” said Cairnsey, ending the discussion, and Phil was glad they hadn’t made a big deal about it.
"Don’t know what the script was with Barnsey there though," Cairnsey said. "Laughing his fuckin’ ass off.”
“Dodgy cunt,” said Sam.
Chapter 13
They pitched the two tents in the clearing in the woods, far back enough from the road so as not to be noticed by cars travelling the coast. Behind the Wall of Sleep played on the portable stereo they'd brought. Its laid back blues groove washed over the setting, heavy then soft by turns. Cairnsey was just hammering in the last ground peg when Griff said, “I have a cunning plan.”
“How cunning?” enquired Phil, who was feeling more relaxed after having a blast of Thai stick from Sam's bong. He was smoking it himself for now. The others would wait till after they’d taken their trips then start on the water pipe to help bring on the effect.
“So cunning you could pin a tail on it and call it a weasel.” Griff was a huge Blackadder fan.
“Do tell,” Sam prompted him.
“How’s about we take a wander down to the caves once the trips kick in? Get some ghost stories on the go.”
This was typical of Griff and the others chuckled. Any night they camped out, his impressive repertoire of urban legends and ghost stories would keep them riveted. This was a talent he’d obviously inherited from his family of storytellers and the others lapped it up.
“Capital idea, old Beane,” Sam said, lighting up one of the many pre-rolled joints.
Phil, who was in the process of filling up the bowl of the bong again with a goodly spread of grass, paused and frowned as a strong feeling of déjà vu hit him. A shiver rippled in his gut, and his throat, still hot from the first blast of Asian contraband, tightened.
“Aye, good call,” Sam was saying as he passed out beers from the large cooler they’d brought. His voice had taken on a compressed sound to Phil’s ears as his first hit from the bong started to take real effect. He’d always thought that after a few blasts on a pipe or bucket, sound, and particularly music, ‘felt like aural 3-D’ as he sometimes put it. And now his mind wandered, his déjà vu forgotten…
“Hello! Earth to Phil!”
He shook his head and looked up, a big dumb grin on his face. Sam was looking at him with some amusement. Phil realised his friend had been speaking to him, but he’d been intensely involved in an in depth mental evaluation of the benefits and drawbacks of 3D technology, and hadn’t been listening to him.
“Are you stoking that bong or what?” he asked him.
Phil laughed.
“Was in a wee world of my own there. Good grass,” he said, and went back to crumbling the sticky green shredded leaves into the small metal gauze bottomed bowl.
“Okay gentleman,” Cairnsey said, holding out the trips to Sam and Griff. “Good to go?”
“Damn right,” affirmed Sam, raising his can of lager.
Griff, for no reason he could think of, abruptly recalled the witch's grace Galbraith had read from A Study in Scottish Folklore the day before in history class, and he heard it coming from his lips before he even knew he was going to say it.
“We eat this meat in the Devil’s name,
With much sorrow and muckle shame,
We shall destroy both house and hold,
Both sheep and cattle in the fold,
Little good shall come to the fore,
Of all the rest of the little store."
They all looked at him, puzzled. Especially Phil, who felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck as Griff intoned the sinister sounding verse. Even Griff himself wondered where it had come from. He looked around at the bemused faces of his friends and shru
gged.
“Heard it in history yesterday. Guess it’s sort of appropriate, listening to Sabbath and all.”
“You scare me sometimes, Griff,” Sam said, mock seriousness in his tone. They had a laugh and the weird moment passed.
“Cheers, boys,” Cairnsey said and raised his own can of beer.
They toasted the trip, as was their tradition, then threw the small pieces of unmarked paper into their mouths and washed them down with lager to avoid the foul chemical taste.
Phil joined in the toast. “Have a good one lads,” he said, and lit up the bowl of the bong again.
Fifty metres back in the trees, out of sight of the campsite, three figures crouched behind a massive fallen pine tree and watched over the top of it as the boys set up the tents.
“D’ye want to get the cunt now, Eddie?” one asked.
Eddie Jannets shook his head and said nothing. He didn’t take his eyes off the campsite.
“C’mon tae fuck, Eddie,” the second one whined. “Let’s just do the bastard and get tae fuck. Ah cannae be arsed hangin’ about in these fuckin’ trees aw night.”
“Shut the fuck up you,” Jannets hissed, shooting John McCabe an acid look. His companion fell silent.
The first figure, Warren Kerr, or Bunny as he was more widely known, was nervous.
“There is four of them, Eddie,” he said uncertainly.
“Fuckin’ shitebag you, so ye are,” Jannets replied and gestured in the direction of the tents. “Cairns is the only cunt that can fight. Ah used tae boot that wee poof Anderson along the corridors in school, and Jim Densmore used to slap his wee fag brother about aw the time. An’ that other wee cunt Griff’s fuck all but a smart arse. They'll probably shite it n’ bolt.”
Bunny fell silent, brooding and thoroughly unconvinced. Jannets was out of control sometimes. He regretted answering his phone that afternoon.
“We’ll wait till it gets dark and they’ve had a smoke and a drink,” Jannets continued. “It’ll be easier once they’re wasted.”