The Acid House by Irvine Welsh Read Free Book Online Page B

river? This fucking statement reads like Agatha Christie. What about Ange? She's probably blabbed to every cunt to save her skin. I'm starting to hurt, really bad. If I sign up, get the skag, I can fix myself up. Tell the story of how they got the confession to the papers. THEY'VE GOT FUCK ALL ON ME. Hurt. Poison Don. TOUGH IT OOT hurt skag GIVE ME THE FUCKIN PEN they'll pit Don away, pit him away fir fuck all Agatha fuckin Christie GIVE ME THE FUCKIN PEN.
    — Give me the pen.
    — Knew you'd see sense, Jock.
    I stuck the packet of powder, my thirty pieces of silver, in my tail. They ripped up the charge sheet.
    I was free to go. When I got to the reception, Ange was sitting there. I knew that she'd sold out as well. She looked at me bitterly.
    — Right, you two, a desk cop said. — On your way, and keep out of trouble. The two cops who'd interrogated me were standing behind him. I was glad to leave. Ange was so eager she walked into the plate-glass door just as the cop told us to watch out for it. There was a sickening smack as the glass and her head connected. She seemed to reel back on the balls of her feet, vibrating, like a cartoon character. I laughed through nerves, joining the guffaws of the cops.
    — Stupid fucking slag, the dark cop sneered.
    Ange was in some distress when I got her out into the air. Tears were streaming down her face. An egg was forming on her forehead. — You fucking grassed him up, didn't ya? DIDN'T YA? Her eyeliner was running. She looked like Alice Cooper.
    It was a lame performance though. — You didnae, then?
    Her silence spoke volumes, then she wearily conceded. — Yeah, well, had to for the time being, didn't we? Mean to say, I just had to get out. I had it really bad in there.
    — Ken what ye mean, I agreed. — We'll git it sorted oot later. See a lawyer. Tell the cunt we made the statements under duress. Don'll walk oot laughin. Even git compensation. Aye, git sorted, then clean up, straighten oot n see a lawyer. A spell in remand'll dae Don good in the long run. Git him cleaned up. He'll fucking thank us fir it!
    I knew, even as I spoke, that it was all pie in the sky. I'd vanish; leave Don to whatever fate befell him. It just made me feel better to go through this scenario.
    — Yeah, get him cleaned up, Ange agreed.
    Outside the station mere was a group of demonstrators. It seemed like they had been on an all-night vigil. They were protesting about the treatment of young blacks by the local Old Bill, and particularly about Earl Barratt, a guy who went into the Stokie nick one night and came back out stiffed in a placky bag. Slippy fuckers, those stairs.
    I recognised a guy from the black press, The Voice, and made up to him. — Listen, mate, they've got a black guy in there. They've really done him over. They forced us tae sign statements.
    — What's his name? the guy asked, a posh English-African voice.
    — Donovan Prescott.
    — The guy from the Kingsmead? The smack head? I stood looking at him as his face hardened.
    — He didn't do nothing wrong, Ange pleaded.
    I pointed at him, projecting my anger at myself out towards him. — Fuckin publish and be damned, ya cunt! Doesnae matter what he is, he's goat as much right as any other fucker!
    — What's your name, mon, a sidekick asked.
    — What's that tae dae wi anything?
    — Come down the office. Get your picture taken, the Afri can guy smiled. He knew mere was no way. I'd say nothing to nae cunt; the polis would make it open season on me.
    — Dae what yis fuckin like, I said, turning away.
    A large woman came up to me and started shouting: — They holdin good Christian boys in there. Leroy Ducane and Orit Campbell. Boys that never done no wrong. That's the boys we're talking about here, not some dirty drug devil.
    A tall rasta with John Lennon specs waved a placard threateningly in my face. It read:
    ANDS OFF DE BLACK YUTE
    I turned to Ange and slid, trembling, away from the scene, a few jeers and threats ringing in