Acid Bubbles

by Paul H. Round

  I mentioned that she could ask her mother if she’d seen my cheque book somewhere, because I’d lost it. These were the only word spoken. She didn’t ask me when I would be around again so perhaps she was going off me. I just wondered why I had been so attractive in the first place. Should I have asked? I knew the answer. I’d been shallow and she had a body I wanted to touch, and obviously a mother who I desired.

  Back in my broken flat it looked like a bomb had exploded ripping the building apart. The signed prints of Mike and Jim remained on the floor torn apart by shotgun blasts, and the rest of the place totally wrecked by my frantic search. I had to do something. I’d either hidden all the money and drugs, or they’d been stolen from me and I was being fixed up to take the fall. In my panic I was thinking of the safe warmth in the old family home. This got me to thinking about visiting Jane and laying everything I knew out in plain terms, a third-party eye view might reveal something I’d missed.

  The flat was so shattered a complete redecoration was necessary. It would have taken a week to tidy. Picking all the glass up and vacuuming from top to bottom would solve nothing. Then it struck me. I hadn’t looked in the vacuum cleaner. Who would? I wasn’t sure where I kept it but vaguely recalled seeing one somewhere in the kitchen during my search.

  Sure enough it was in a cupboard covered in the debris from my previous frantic searching. Of course the only place you can hide anything in a vacuum cleaner is in the bag. Sure enough, in all the dusty filth of matted hair, fluff and God knows what, I found an envelope. The thick brown manila envelope contained a lot of money, a lot of money by 1973 standards. This gave me something to flash in front of the gang, some money to suggest I had more, or to run with! Not the ten thousand pounds, it was, however, one thousand pounds, wrapped with a seal announcing the bundle contained fifty £20 notes. The seal was handwritten, and not in my handwriting? So some money existed, but where was the rest?

  I’d had a bit of luck, but I didn’t want to carry the money and decided to push it up behind the back of the kitchen sink. In the narrow space the fat envelope would wedge nicely. Nobody would bother searching because the flat was already in tatters. I secreted the money after peeling off £40. The search continued.

  I was convinced more money was concealed somewhere. Finally I gave up physically exhausted by the constant uninspired searching. I was like a blind man searching for one strand of brightly coloured hay in a barn. I was blinded by amnesia. I was leaving to see Jane but couldn’t lock up, the flat was a shattered mess and with my chances of long-term survival did it matter? Habits die hard. I’ve always locked doors and the shattered door swinging loosely on its hinges begged to be secured. I was trying to figure out some way of securing the door when a voice from behind broke the silence.

  “I wouldn’t bother with that if I were you, I’ll only kick in again. Might have a look round. Might even go to the toilet on your poxy sofa,” Dave said. At his comment the lovely Hartley Sparrow accompanied by the weasel burst out laughing. I was immensely relieved I’d hidden the thousand pounds, or to be more precise the £960. I didn’t know what these two wanted but money was certainly one of their primary desires.

  It looked as though Dave didn’t have Millicent with him. They were making a rare social visit, though I did notice they both sported rather sturdy boots. The shotgun was less worrying than the boots which would make less noise as they used them on me. He could only kill me the once, but beating me to death with his brutal boots would take longer. I held onto the bleak hope that the sadistic Dave would prefer to shoot me in the stomach and watch me bleed to death burning in my own stomach acids. I’m sure he would‘ve enjoyed either method, like a stroll in the park with a tasty relish of extreme violence.

  I wondered if I could walk past them, so I strode with no confidence down the hallway towards them. I expected them to bar my way. They both stood aside like gentlemen courtiers and ushered me through. I was wondering if they were going to trip me at the top of the stairs, cosh me on the back of the head, or like big children spit over the balustrade on to my hair. None of these things happened. I walked past them, down the stairs and outside. My Ford Cortina GT GLX2 litre had a big white arrow painted across the shattered windscreen. The aerosol painted arrow pointing down into the car with a word written above. All it said was “Look”.

  The footpath didn’t pass the car. I had to walk twenty yards out of my way to look inside it. There wasn’t a dead dog on the seat, nor was there a dead cat, or even in Mafia parlance a horse’s head. No, one of them, I suspected Smiggy, had shit all over the front seat. It was a huge solid mass, quite the most disgusting thing I’d seen since leaving the farm. It festered there on the seat, and the most appalling thing of all: no toilet paper! My one dominating thought wasn’t the defilement of my car, but the dirty little sod hadn’t used toilet paper. I wouldn’t ever use the car again, or shake his hand!

  They were driving a green and white Vauxhall VX 490, and they didn’t offer me a lift. As I walked they followed me through the estate creeping along like kerb crawlers. I think they were delighted watching me get progressively wetter in the light drizzle. I did the alleyway trick again to lose them and it was easy. They were reluctant to leave the warmth of the car.

  In the next street I had a bit of luck, something that would hasten my getaway. A battered minicab with a mismatching coloured front wing was coming my way. These things are not supposed to be hailed, I stuck my thumb out in hope, and it stopped. The woman driving it I think was young, but she looked old, with a thin face, cracked lips, and thin hair.

  “I’m not supposed to pick people up. Give you a lift if you tip me well, she said.

  I was back in handmade shoes, and didn’t desire the walk. “Yes I’ll tip you generously, I need the lift.”

  Through my fog of disorientation I realised this was Sunday evening and I knew my sister would be avoiding the family circus around the table. I gambled that Jane would be with the other bikers. I was forced to revisit the oil and grease cafe, knowing she’d be hanging out there. The only bonus was some of the characters in there were tough, proper tough, though probably not as murderous as Dave and his metal girlfriend.

  The really murderous prospect in all my troubles was the frightening John Smith who wanted his cut of the proceeds, his percentage. He was an unknown, the real danger. He could kill me somewhere quiet after taking all I had, and claim later to Harry that I’d done a runner. I didn’t understand my relationship with John Smith and perhaps never will. I did feel safer in the aggressive atmosphere of the motorcyclists’ café than as a passenger in John’s car. Somehow I felt safer with my sister backing me. This, of course, was total illusion.

  It was late into the evening as I arrived at the cafe. Only a handful of motorcycles were outside glimmering in the wetness, illuminated by the neon lights and reflected in the cafe windows. It was difficult to see individually what make the bikes were. I did see a Triumph Trident which was a new machine and quite rare. My spirits lifted, Jane was in the cafe.

  As I entered the greasy place her boyfriend Steve rolled his eyes at me as if to say, “Here again, pest”! He did get up and go to the counter to get coffees for me and my sister. He then hung around the pinball machine looking hard and sexy. At least that’s what Steve thought he looked! Smoking and talking bikes with the other guys while waiting for my dominant sister, she was the boss. I was going to tell her every single fact I knew in the hope she could put two and two together. The lacy contents of, and my discovery in the underwear drawer would remain forever private, Perhaps?

  Jane’s theory was my amnesia was drug induced. It was possible John Smith or Harry the pockets sidekicks had dosed me the other night in an effort to steal the money, leaving me to take the blame in my drugged ignorance. They would be away scot free with everything. Another disturbing scenario was suggested: did I know everybody involved? Other people unknown to me could be tracking me down at this moment for their cut. Could it get any bett
er? Jane ran through the known facts for me one by one, even using a napkin to make notes. She started to use salt and pepper pots, and sauce bottles. It was beginning to look like a chess board, and I was beginning to look like the sacrificial first move, the pawn.

  This game of chess had a bit more spice. When the winner called checkmate the loser wouldn’t just have his king pushed over. (A bottle of HP sauce) No, the special loser would discover the joys and solitude of the countryside. This wasn’t a traditional chess match played in Iceland by grandmasters. This match was being played out by grand bastards and the ice wasn’t on the land but in their souls.

  As we talked the Buck Rogers pinball machine was rattling away in the background. The ball being battered around mindlessly inside the machine, the final result it would fall down a black hole. The ball reminded me of the way I was rushing around, achieving nothing, bounced from one place to another. The ball was hard and made of steel, I wasn’t.

  I told Jane they were probably watching me right now, so could she give me a lift on the back of the bike. A terrifying thought! I was actually asking for this? Jane could take me to the town house, but first head in the direction of the farm to mislead my watchers into believing I was spending the night there, a place where I might be safe from their violent intrusions.

  I had to revisit the town house and I might not sleep at all this night. If I’d hidden £1000 inside the vacuum cleaner I couldn’t help but think there would be more hiding places. Some of my stash could be at the town house. I was haunted by the idea that my salvation in money and drugs may be only inches away. That thought drove me on.

  One problem was looking for the acid. I was looking for a large amount of pills, or I assumed it would be pills. I was a virgin when it came to acid. I must’ve known everything about the business until I woke up a few hours ago. Now all my knowledge of the hard street-life had disappeared, and I knew nothing of the laws of survival. God I was in a mess, confused and lost. The road ahead was something I wasn’t worried about in August 1973. I couldn’t see past The Cauldron tomorrow.

  What form was the acid I had hidden?

  Acid can take many obvious and some not so obvious forms. What was I going to find at the end of all this?

  Chapter 24 – Right here right now, under the ground, in terror, in ecstasy.

  I was in a far better place now, resting under the ground. No, I’m not dead! I was staying with a friend in a cave in the mountains. This is a cave with running water, electricity, and an almost constant temperature throughout the year, with little need for air conditioning in the summer, or much heating in the winter. When you say you’re living in a cave people conjure up something from the movies like The Flintstones or 10,000 BC. These twenty-first century caves have flat-screen televisions. This one also had the solitude and peace to focus on my great hidden battle.

  I was lying in bed, my body no longer invaded by wretched tubes. My hair was growing a little bit, but only a little bit, I couldn’t perceive if I was losing it quicker than I was growing it, but hope and sometimes hair springs eternal. This thought of hope springing eternal brought me back to thinking of Rachel and her beloved Abraham, who‘d spent horrifying months under the special attention of the voyeuristic torturer Heinrich Haussler, mind games now his particular new favourite blood sport. Sometimes I tried to speculate as to what Heinrich was thinking, what drove him to play these twisted games?

  Psychological games occupied much of Heinrich’s waking thoughts, keeping him amused during a difficult period in the war. During his active service he’d been much more of a soldier than his brother Maximilian, but after suffering severe wounds to his left shoulder and face on the Russian front he now fought a different war, the economic war, killing the so-called corrupters of the Nazi system, or in his case murdering for fun and profit.

  He preferred violent interrogations of captured soldiers. These Jews were easy, and since posted to this wretched camp Heinrich had become bored with easy deaths. Now he was experimenting. These tortures were much more satisfying when he practised them on academics. His ambition was to twist one so tight he’d die of a heart failure under stress. Abraham Wilson became his new object of amusement.

  Heinrich’s new diversion was Russian roulette. He’d found a very fine Austrian made revolver in a good suitcase. It was a beautiful smooth piece of craftsmanship with a six bullet chamber that when spun whizzed round with a beautiful crisp clicking action for several seconds. When a chamber was loaded with only one bullet, on most occasions it would stop near the bottom out of harm’s way. It also had a hammer lifter fitted which prevented the hammer going all the way to the cartridge case, so if the bullet was in a position to kill the little slider on the left-hand side of the revolver would prevent any unwanted accidents. The object of his interest was unaware of the gun’s special features.

  On a bitter cold February day he summoned Abraham to his office wondering how far he could push this little academic accountant. When he arrived Heinrich had prepared a black bread sandwich, not a sandwich in any modern sense of the word, more just a rude piece of bread topped by a sliver of very hard cheese, a meagre offering in a normal world. This morsel of poor food looked like nectar of the gods to poor Abraham. The German officer asked him if he’d like it, and made a further offer of great interest. “You can have one of these every day.”

  Mr Wilson concentrated on looking at the floor too afraid to speak, never daring to catch this man in the eye, never being able to judge the situation. A defiant look may draw a laugh or a bullet in the back of the neck. Heinrich explained his little game, and his experiments didn’t include a get out clause, unless death was the get out clause. Trapped, Abraham listening to this Nazi telling him he could eat this very tempting morsel every single day. The price was play Russian roulette, with Heinrich spinning the chamber, promising only to pull the trigger once each day.

  He would continue to do this throughout the next month. If the accountant managed to survive, he would receive two pieces of bread on the final day, and two pulls of the trigger! Heinrich explained he had no choice. His fate had been decided and he was to visit the office every single day for a morsel of food. The price of continued life was a daily gut-wrenching nerve-shredding game of Russian roulette. It was poor hard cheese to be earned in the hardest of ways. On some of the darker days Abraham prayed with fervour for a bang he would never hear.

  Those thirty long days started with a very dramatic demonstration. The pistol was pushed under Abraham’s nose whilst Nazi spun the chamber. There was no time to think. He pointed it straight to Abraham’s temple, and pulled the trigger… Click. He then spun it again repeating the exercise, but at the last moment pulled the gun to one side. Cordite exploded inches away from the Jew’s ear with an enormous bang. He lost his balance and fell over. His head was ringing and he’d become temporarily deaf in his left ear. He could hear laughing, loud raucous laughing!

  “I might not have to give much bread. I’ve never seen such a poor bargain,” Heinrich said, laughing. He continued laughing as he pointing his leather gloved hand to the door. Abraham left the office clutching his piece of black bread with a morsel of cheese. His prize had to be forced down in the corridor before anybody outside caught sight of it. He was desperately hungry. Strange thoughts of what thirty pieces of bread would look like haunted him. More food than he could imagine after a year of near starvation…

  Whilst I was lying in bed hoping I may survive, I was pondered what mind bending torture daily Russian roulette would be. Would I quickly crack and throw myself at the German in a frenzied attempt to inflict injury before he killed me? The other option was to listen to your hunger and keep walking into the office and take the food. This way you’d have a slim chance of life. Was going through the torture every morning after nightmare filled nights preferable to no existence? I think this is how Abraham saw it. Everybody was hungry, diseased, starving, and didn’t have his opportunities. To call this an opportunity is insane, b
ut the world Abraham existed in was.

  The crucial point Rachel told me was that Abraham was familiar with weaponry. He knew the Austrian make and believed the gun was fixed, though he had no certain way of knowing this. He came to this conclusion because on two occasions the German pulled the trigger twice, both times aiming past his head very close to his ear. With each of these explosive demonstrations he laughed loudly afterwards, and it was obvious t he didn’t expect his fine uniform to be splattered with remnants of bloody brains.

  I was drifting off again down into sleep. Reliving this horror was keeping me fighting but not away from the other universe. I want to be there, I didn’t want to be there, yes I did, or was it no? Of course I did. I was addicted.

  I could hear a train. Not another bloody railway station I was thinking, but I sensed movement, music and the crush of a crowd. We were on what in this parallel universe was a convincing version of the Orient Express or something equally plush. Everybody on board was dressed in all their finery. I was wearing some kind of dinner jacket that was not quite the thing we have here. It was somehow slightly less formal whilst retaining an air of refined elegance.

  When it all came into sharp focus, when I say focus I mean when everything in this universe joins together as one to give a complete experience, I was stunned. I could literally feel the air molecules blown out of the musical instruments because we enjoyed the full sound of a live band. You could practically taste every drink, and feel the pressure waves from the groups of people dancing. It was a glittering magical night made more so after I sensed Jennifer.