He jerked himself free of the trance with a start like awakening. His stomach felt hollow with abrupt vertigo. Christ, that had been like acid; he hadn’t realised the dope was so strong. Maybe he needed a walk in the country, to calm his head.
That reminded him. He dialled, and at last Jim’s stoned voice said slowly and warily “Who is it?”
“ It’s Peter. Did you score that acid?”
Jim sounded lugubrious and muffled, as though talking in his sleep.
“ It’s supposed to be coming tonight.”
“ Oh, great. Will you keep me a tab? I’ll come around later.”
When Cathy came in, sinking on the bed as her bag of potatoes sagged on the floor, he said “Want to go out tonight?”
“ Oh, yes.” She sat up. “Where?”
“ Jim’s got some good stuff.” No need for her to know that it was acid.
“ Oh.” She sank back. “I thought you might mean to look at houses.”
“ Houses? Houses?” he gurgled in a strangled Monty Python voice. The cannabis forced him to observe his behaviour. It was a way of avoiding discussion, but he had to struggle to free himself of the voice; his throat seemed to contract around it. “Not tonight,” he said irritably.
“ The stuff won’t wait.”
“ Peter, for heaven’s sake. You’ll smoke all our money.”
“ Ah ha!” That was a cue for his Freak Brothers quote. “Dope will get you through times of no money,” he said and raised his voice as she trudged sighing to the kitchen, “better than money will get you through times of no dope.” It occurred to him that he needn’t feel mean for wanting his own room. Clearly she did too.
Chapter XXI
“ Are you coming?” Peter said.
It wasn’t worth making the automatic pun. Why should she bother to go with him? She moved about, rapidly tidying. He glared when she touched his comics. “You put them away so you know where they are,” she suggested.
“ I will later. Are you coming?”
Halfway downstairs she halted. Good Lord, surely she could bear staying alone in the flat. She had plenty to read. There was nothing duller than a roomful of people waiting to score. She might visit Frank and Angie. Peter wouldn’t have far to walk. Suppose he were stopped by the police? She was faltering outside Fanny’s door when the light ran out of time, and clicked off.
At once she was sure that Fanny’s room was occupied.
It couldn’t be Fanny. How could Fanny infect her with such fear? She felt as though she had been struck blind. She backed away, and found she had lost her bearings. She was afraid of falling down the precipitous stairs, but she was terrified of touching something in the dark. “Peter,” she called, holding her voice rigid. “Put the light on.”
The silence which surrounded her wasn’t quite silence. There was a faint creaking whose source she tried not to guess. Was it coming from more than one direction? Were Fanny’s and Mr Craig’s doors opening stealthily, trapping her between them? Who was creeping out to close in on her from both sides? “Peter, will you put the light on!” she cried.
The click was unexpectedly close to her. He had been tiptoeing upstairs, to pounce. Both doors were closed, and insisted that they hadn’t opened. Seeing her expression, he said “Hey, what trip were you on there?”
She tramped out and started the van. She barely waited for him to slide the door shut before she drove off. In the park trees were embedded in night, like fossils. She couldn’t have stayed alone in the house. Depression was gaining on her, slowing her time.
From Sefton Park Road she turned onto Croxteth Road. Traffic lights counted off the time it took her: green, amber, red. Couples with bottles converged on a tall house; aloft, music thumped. She wished she were going to that party, or one like it. She turned left into Hartington Road.
As she drove, houses and gardens dwindled on both sides. Doorbells of flats showed names less often. A door leaned out of a broken window as if it were searching for visitors. Grey faces peered through net curtains like cobweb; they looked unsure of themselves as ghosts. “Don’t park outside,” Peter said.
Fern Grove was closed off by pebble-dashed bollards like petrified tree-stumps. Eventually she found an open side road. She felt conspiratorial, but it was less exciting than dispiriting.
The house had no front garden. A swollen unkempt privet hedge concealed the front window. A path whose gravel held still underfoot led between a few patchy fist-sized stones to a large front door beside a stack of two bay windows. Red light smouldered through the curtains and through the panes of the door.
At last the bell brought someone into the crimson hall. His head looked boiling with wiry curls. Eventually his hand found the latch.
“ Peace, Jim,” Peter said. “You know Cathy.”
“ Yeah.” He sounded as though he wasn’t sure or didn’t care. Peter stepped in, glancing warily at the street, and urged her to be quick.
Red light filled the house, thick as jam. Her eyes felt coated with it; she had to prove to herself that she could breathe. Upstairs someone was singing – no, wailing: “Oh shit shit shit.” Was it a bad trip? Another voice tried to interrupt, low and soothing.
Jim gestured them loosely into the front room. In the clotted light, people sat on threadbare furniture or floor cushions. Their tangled hair looked like spaghetti dangling in the sauce of the light. “Hi” or “Yeah” they muttered, or raised lethargic hands. The dim walls were cluttered: mandala posters, science fiction book covers enlarged, posters for rock concerts, a large damp patch of wallpaper. Joss-sticks protruded fuming from small metal stands.
She sat with Peter on a cushion. Jim perched on a limping wooden chair. The bars of a feeble electric fire were indistinguishable from the light. Nobody said anything. Everyone watched a man whose hair swayed about his face as he rolled a joint. His movements were slow and careful as a celebrating priest’s.
Ten minutes later he licked the paper shut. In five more minutes he’d inserted cardboard in the mouth of the joint. A further minute passed before he lit the twisted end. He inhaled, closing his eyes prayerfully.
Everyone watched in a kind of stoned respectful silence. Incomprehensible wails seeped through the ceiling. When was Peter going to get down to business? Delaying was part of the ritual; you had to pretend you weren’t here to score, only to smoke. It might be hours before he asked Jim.
She refused the joint when it reached her at last; she was depressed enough. Someone split open a cigarette to roll another. Conversation began. Had it needed the cannabis to coax it out? The passing of the joint filled the long pauses.
“ They seized eight kilos on the docks today.”
“ Bad news.”
“ There’s supposed to be some Lebanese hash coming from London.”
“ Probably came through Liverpool first.”
“ That’ll put the price up.”
“ Thirty pounds an ounce.”
“ Bad news.”
“ Inflation.”
All that had consumed ten minutes. Words were slowing; heads nodded. One of Jim’s commune returned from the kitchen with a dish of biscuits: hash cookies, or a vegetarian recipe? His long nails were underlined with dirt. Cathy gestured the dish onwards without touching it. She thought of the health food cafe on Hardman Street, full of thin morosely virtuous young men.
Another joint was rolled. She felt cramped and utterly bored. Once she’d seen Fantasia at the Royal Court.
