Acid Bubbles (15 page)

I wanted to carry on drinking and playing footsie. She insisted we work on my education, so initially I had to suffer the strange process in order to become fully aware, and then life with this beautiful girl would become a reality. I looked down into the briefcase, once again into the breach, dear friends. It wasn't too hard the pixie was quite beautiful and from past experiences the bubbles were sheer delights. With this in mind I stared into the blackness with almost a longing to stick my finger into more of those shiny orbs. It was so amazing to journey into your past beautiful memories.

I looked inside. I was inside, in that black space again, with just its hint of parameters. The space was almost luminescent in a blackness I now realise could be just six feet or six infinities if that's possible. My little friend walked out of the darkness towards me. She was wearing the most curious outfit I had ever seen – on a pixie that is! Worn by a fireman from the United States in 1935 it might have looked quite normal. Worn by a pixie in a dark space, the shiny boots, black trousers, red jacket festooned with brass buttons, all that criss-crossing of leather belting, and a glorious metal helmet seemed almost the most ludicrous thing I'd ever seen. She also appeared to have white leather gloves on, in which she held the now familiar implements, except this time they appeared to be larger, not by a lot, but larger.

My little fire fighter went through quite an elaborate ritual this time. Her histrionics started with her moving her arm in an enormous arc before dipping the blowing device into the liquid. I am assuming this was liquid because never once did I ever see the actual inside of the ornate vessel. For all I knew it could be as empty as the strange black space I was standing in. Nevertheless, after what seemed like an hour of elaborate posturing, adjusting stances, and getting what appeared to be the lighting that came from nowhere perfect, my pixie friend puckered her lips and blew some bubbles.

It was like the first time. I was immersed in a whirlwind of brilliantly coloured translucent globes swirling around like a solar system with hundreds of planets. This time, however, I noticed in this cloud of brilliance some of the bubbles, only a few, were very dull. These were different in form, appearing as a dull translucent grey, nowhere near as shiny as the others. Not in any way as tempting a target for the finger. However, the thought occurred to me that I should try one of the dullards today, so I did. I poked it with my finger. At first the bubble reacted with a strange indifference to my finger, a little bit like a balloon held in somebody's hands. It flexed inwards, though I experienced little resistance. It gave me the strong impression it was held stationary in space. I was pushing into it, not popping it.

“Push it harder, don't be such a wimp!” Hysandrabopel the Lylybel encouraged. I'm going to call her pixie!

A further harsh push was all that was needed.

It popped.

The bubble had popped, and I was none the wiser. It was still very grey in the space I inhabited as if the bubble floated around in front of my eyes. Then it struck me that this greyness was biting into my body cold and wet. I was in fog on a cold night. It felt like February. I don't know why I say that, but that's what it felt like.

I was walking along a street, then I recognised where I was. I was walking towards my small block of flats built curiously in the middle of an executive housing estate. It towered over many of the houses, how did they get planning permission? The blocks modernism was a rather bland product of 1960s ugliness. I almost instantly understood what was inside the darker bubbles; the period between 1971 and 1973, the two years I'd never managed to recall.

So it could have been February 1972 or 73, if indeed it was February. Whenever it was it wasn't something I remember. It was, however, quite curious because my feet were very wet and muddy. I wasn't driving my car and I seemed to be out of breath hurrying along the pavement back to my flat, or should I call it an apartment this being an executive estate.

I was wearing a heavy dirty overcoat mud caked at the bottom. Inside there was a large object, the type of which I had no clue. Remember I was a mere observer unable to adjust the course of what was happening, so I had to be patient and discover what I was doing that night. This would be the first concrete thing I knew about myself during my lost time, other than hearsay. I had waited this long, surely I could be patient for a short while to discover something. This was no joyous return as the cycling trip had been. This return felt sleazy.

Inside the flat I removed from inside my overcoat a large bundle in a plastic bag. Placing this on the table I then proceeded to delve inside, removing wads of five and ten pound notes, to my surprise a large amount of them. For an incident I do not remember there was a lot of money around, and usually when it comes to money, in the present day at least, I remember. That night, however, remained a blank until this rewind experience. So I had to continue viewing, to reveal the truth, and this was an education, history I suppose.

I was counting the money out, all £4000 of it. In 1973 you could buy a house for less than that. There were two-bedroom bungalows going for £3650 so, as you see, it was a lot of money. I'd got it from somewhere, and I didn't think the somewhere was a bank, unless of course I'd committed a bank robbery! Besides, banks don't store money in large OXO tins! There were clues, and along with the money was a carefully made account listing all the transactions, monies paid, and goods delivered. I recognise the handwriting. It was my father's!

I stashed the money rather carelessly underneath the refrigerator in a plastic bag. This, I assumed, was because the money wouldn't be staying there for long as it was destined for greater things, bigger profits, merchandise, or something. As a spectator to my own past without a clue as to the unfolding events, I still had an idea what this money would be used for. This didn't fill me with joy because it took me back into a vile world I once occupied that crippled my life.

I sat down in front of the television kicking back large amounts of Special Brew lager. I was lounging, and obviously not fazed by the amount of money I had in the flat, or what it was for. This TV watching consisted of some awful comedy programme which I remember vaguely from that period, though never really liked. This was disturbing because the other Peter liked it! I was starting to wonder how long this would go on because I'd been watching my rerun for about an hour and a half. Nothing had happened, nothing at all. I continued to watch television right through an old version of the
Nine O'Clock News
. Some of the items I still remember from all that time ago, Mr Edward Heath, the three-day week, the power cuts, and the adjusted incomes policy. All laughable now, although I'm sure it was quite serious in 1972 or whenever it was.

I was quite drunk and not paying attention to the television. It was just a background buzz. Also in the background was another buzzing, almost frantic and continuous. This was breaking through my drunken haze, so what was it? No, I don't know what it was. I was drunk, after all, very drunk. The buzzing continued, uninterrupted for some time, possibly three minutes. There were also drums playing or so I imagined. Synchronised anger was at the door.

Through this foggy haze of alcohol I connected a few brain cells realising somebody was at my door, somebody with an urgent desire to see me, somebody who couldn't wait. Was this what the money was for? Or was it something else, something unexpected? It sounded to me like it was something to do with the large amount of money. Much to my surprise, I got up, walked to the door, and without even looking through the spy hole I turned the handle opening the door wide. It was obvious the drunken Peter thought he was about to carry out a transaction.

In front of me stood a very powerful incredibly angry man with a very red face. Worst of all he was my father!

“You thieving little bastard! Where's my money? I know you've got it! Give me it or I'll break your neck! You are no son of mine!” said my father, John Jackson, farmer.

To my surprise I replied in rather a strange way. I was very free with my version of the truth, and I couldn't believe what I was doing to my own father. You've got to remember this was a replay, a video, a DVD, the real thing happened a long time ago, I replied: “What you on about, dad?”

“I know you've stolen my nest egg, my business capital, the aunties saw you crossing the fields. So give it back, now!” he said.

“I'm not giving it back. I'm using it in business. I'll make four times the money, well, three times the money in just a couple of days. It's my stake money, gets me in the game. Then, of course, I'll pay you back straight away with big interest and you can hide it somewhere else,” I said.

For long silent moments my father didn't respond looking me up and down as if I was covered in dirt, or worse still, pig shit from the farm. He was assessing me, of course, making sure I was his own flesh and blood, his son, the boy they'd loved so much, the boy who stole from his own family. A vile sibling taking money from his hard-working father, a man who'd worked hard to put this aside for his old age, and to avoid paying tax to a government who squandered it on stupid wars he disagreed with to the point of obsession. There would be no argument, because the money had to be returned.

“They kill the poor people who get in their way, make rich people richer, and politicians make their reputations by walking on the dead.” He didn't like politicians much, even less the ones who interfered with agriculture.

He continued “That money was earned. That money is money this bloody government would waste on something stupid. That money is for me and your mother's old age and not for your dirty deals.” My father's spat the word “deals” out.

He didn't mind selling produce on the black market, doing deals behind the taxman's back, but he was vehement in his disgust with me over selling hallucinogenic drugs to partygoers, and a bit of weed as well, actually resin, but this is just semantics and it was, whichever way you painted it, drug dealing .

“I'm not giving you the money back! This gets me in the game,” I said.

Watching this I was quite amazed. I'd always been slightly afraid of my father, but now I was not only admitting I'd stolen his money, I was openly stating I was using it to buy drugs then make a huge profit, before giving him his money back with interest. It was getting me in the game? I was so blatant to my father's face, so just watching this rerun of my life gave me the shivers. How could I have been this rotten, this hard, so bloody awful?

My father was eyeing me up and down. He was wearing a very grubby stained boiler suit, filthy wellingtons, a flat cap, and some form of vest-type shirt underneath. His stance was getting more aggressive, feet apart, arms spread, leaning forwards. Suddenly he lunged and grabbed me round the waist. I responded almost immediately by attempting to get him in a headlock. This was quite a revelation because I'd never remembered I was this strong or powerful. I was a young man, a very fit young man, going through a very sad moment wrestling with my own father over a drug deal.

We were uttering guttural noises at each other, most single swear words mumbled under the breath. I've no need to tell you what they were. You can imagine four-letter stuff of the worst kind. We wrestled and swore at each other for what seemed to be a few minutes. Whether it was that long I have no idea, I was fully involved in the fight. It wasn't really a fight it was a struggle for power to see if the old Farmer John still had it, or if that young upstart son was now going to be taking over, if not on the land in a different and more criminal field. If of course, those fields of activity exist at all in small northern towns? Sadly they do.

We came into contact with the table in my dining area and the tangled family argument fell on top of it causing a loud groan to emanate from the overstressed fake wood. Both of us were thrashing around with our bodies on the table, our legs hanging out in space. I had a few items on the table, one of them a very modernist vase-type thing with artificial flowers. My father released one arm grabbing out for this object. I don't know whether he was trying to stop it falling from the table, or grabbing it to bludgeon me. It fell to the floor breaking into countless small ceramic shards. The struggle continued, my father gasping out, “Give me the money you little cunt!”

I screamed he was a silly old twat for not understanding the profit would be good and quicker than fiddling the taxman. He was roaring back that this was filthy money. His money had been gained through hard work selling produce in the farming community; pure hard work in fact, something I wasn't experienced in.

The table collapsed. There was a huge splintering of wood, chipboard-type wood with a lovely G-Plan finish. We crashed to the floor on the tabletop like hitting the bottom of an elevator shaft. We came to rest with my father almost on top of me. As we hit the floor I thought he was going to crush the life out of me. Like me he was partially winded. I think he'd injured his arm or something. I could feel his vice-like grip around my waist slackening. He released it and lay on his back gasping and clutching at his arm in pain.

“I'm not going to go on like this. I'm not fighting you for the money, but just make sure you bring me back the exact, and I mean exact, amount. No interest! Do you hear me? The exact amount! Not one penny more!” All these forceful words my father forced out while fighting for breath.

Slow and ponderous my father climbed to his feet. I remained gasping on the floor looking up at him. It was then I noticed tears running down his old face. He was crying and I was too stupid to know why. Also dripping from him was blood, quite a bit of blood. I was starting to worry, so still winded I forced myself to my feet, and gasping for breath I asked in a stupid way, “You all right, dad?”

He looked at me through his tears and just mumbled something as he was leaving the room clutching his damaged arm. I had crossed the line, gone beyond the father-son argument, into a struggle for power, supremacy, and worst of all I was doing it on the strength of a good drugs deal. He left the room crunching through the broken shards, some of which were embedded in his bloodied right arm.

Then a curious thing happened. I got a strange sensation the bubble rewind was over, but somehow not over. I was correct as the room started to go dull grey in front of me giving at first the impression I was on the point of blacking out through lack of breath. This, of course, wasn't happening. I was back out in the fog again. Then it cleared quite suddenly and it was 4:30pm or thereabouts. It was obviously the same period with the same damp, bone-chilling weather, and I was walking towards the farm gates relieved the deal had gone well and I'd made money, lots of money! I was going to pay the old man back the full amount without interest, perhaps even try to beg forgiveness.

I was thinking about begging forgiveness when a police car approached coming down the track from the farm.

Panic set in! I was wondering if my father had confessed to his tax dodging and was handing me to the police for my drug dealing, all in an effort to save me from myself. This seemed logical to me. My father would see this as a salvation, in the short-term a hard lesson, but in the long-term serving me well.

The police car was not alone. It travelled in the company of another vehicle, both moving in a slow procession, splashing and squishing through the mud on that familiar potholed driveway. As they slowly passed me I could see my sister in the rear seat of the police car, looking very tired, with an air of resignation about her. She stared at me through the misty rear window, shaking her head from left to right, like this procession was on my behalf as if I were the instigator, the reason. The ambulance passed very slowly behind the police car. There was no rush, and inside I could see two or three vague silhouettes through the opaque glass.

Once out onto the smooth open road the sirens came on with the police car escorting the ambulance at speed towards the town and I presumed the hospital.

I was thinking of setting off in pursuit when everything faded to white and green. It was now dark outside and I was inside the hospital…My sister was sitting in solitude in the corridor with no other members of the family to be seen. My mother and George were not there, not in the corridor at least, thank goodness.

“Let's go outside for a cigarette. I don't want them to see you! Come on, get a move on,” Jane said. I couldn't detect any tone in her voice. It sounded so flat and detached.

I was stationary in some kind of catatonic fusion as if I were part of the hospital floor or, as people say, glued to the spot, after which Jane grabbed my arm and dragged me through a door out onto the fire escape. She seemed unable to speak so I asked, “Who's ill? Is it father with his bad arm? He's cut it and I hope it's not gone septic or something like that.” My sister burst into tears. She'd already been crying for a long time, it was quite obvious. Now she just roared, gasping for breath and blubbing.