Acid Bubbles (20 page)

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?

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, but 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.

She was dressed in the style you would expect from the 1930s, a very elegant slim dress, pearls and she was perfection. We decided to dance without any preamble, and as we joined the crowd on the small dance floor she gave me a very soft kiss. Nothing too much, this wasn't the right place. To my astonishment I could move around with the fluid motion of a ballroom dancer. My partner's abilities were equally refined. Together we floated through the crowds gliding around the carriage as it rattled on through the night's cool air. The classical interior was all elegance, and everything from the lighting to its sumptuous wood crafted interior glowed, shimmering as if in a heat haze, though the temperature in the carriage was, as always as in this universe, perfect.

In this world most things were never less than astonishing and I loved being here. The feeling in the air that night was one of celebration. Something indicated it was the right time for a gala evening. The whole proceeding had a joyous feel to it. We danced, chatted with others, talked between ourselves, and drank a few delicious champagnes. It was uninterrupted pleasure carrying on like this for several hundred miles as the wheels clattered along the shiny rails taking us ever further south. In all the miles I hadn't seen any sign of a briefcase, or, for that matter, a large dog.

A large tuba roared out its bass sounds blown by a very well dressed red-faced man. We danced nearer to him now. To catch my undivided attention my magical partner tweaked the end of my nose playfully and pointed into the mouth of the tuba. I, like a fool, looked… I was deafened for a few seconds by long low roars of wind. Then it was almost silent as quickly as it had been loud. I could faintly hear the band playing on above me. Looking up out of the mouth of the tuba I saw lights in the carriage and people dancing by. Jennifer smiled down at me with that look in her eye that said, “Got you!”

For the first few seconds I feared sliding down the tube into smaller spaces until I was trapped, wedged solid, in a narrow pipe. When I'd adjusted to the darkness I was in the same space as usual, and I could see O‘Duke resting in a corner watching me with luminous eyes. My little friend the Lylybel was nowhere to be seen until, of course, she caught me completely by surprise by coming from nowhere and tapping me on the shoulder. I turned almost angry at being caught out, and I was amazed to be confronted by a very elegant different Hysandrabopel. What had made this change between now and our previous meeting? Then I realised she was almost as tall as me, taller, in fact, than Jennifer.

Her attire was not as elegant as my lovely partner waiting high above in the carriage. Pixie was wearing what appeared to be a very expensive business suit including handmade shoes, and some form of college tie complete with a tie pin. She was every inch the successful businesswoman, or should that be businessman the way she was dressed. Who knows?

“Would you like to dance?” she asked.

“We have no music,” I said. The pixie clicked her fingers, imperceptible at first, but then pressure waves built up pushing the air. The molecular dance that was sound slowly filled the space with exquisite harmonies, a far richer sound than produced by the band in the carriage above. That's before she turned the intrusive sound from above off. This private bag music flowed around both of us as she grabbed me in a very formal stance. At first with her attire I thought she was going to be the man, and I was going to have to dance the woman's part. Thankfully this didn't happen. We started to glide around in the darkness, the only light coming from the carriage above.

As we moved with astounding elegance in the darkness, I thought I could sense the hint of an aroma coming from the pixie. This aroma became whatever you wanted it to be as long as it was nice. You imagined chocolate, there it was for you to smell, and if this got too much, your imagination might wander towards vanilla or strawberry. This is how the system worked, or it's what I remember of how the system worked. I forced myself to try imagining something disgusting. This didn't seem to do anything. The previous fragrances continued without allowing in anything noxious. I did think of Marmite, and that worked. The pixie must've liked it!

We danced for a time so compressed or for so long I cannot remember. Pixie was now resting her head very gently against my shoulder with her eyes closed humming a little song to herself. This resting of the head didn't seem to be romantic. It was almost medical as if she were listening to my chest; which was more disconcerting than it being a romantic gesture. I knew deep down she's a slippery customer and the thought of her listening to my heart had me worried.

“What are you doing with your head on my chest? Are you listening for something?” I asked.

A reply was not forthcoming. Silence answered my question. Not loosening her tender embrace around my body she continued to hum along to some private tune, all the while with her beautiful hair resting against my chest, and her right ear pressed hard against my sternum. Whatever she was listening to I didn't like it! With quite a sudden movement she stood back, looking at me.

“I was listening to see what kind of stomach you've got. Is it a strong stomach or a feeble squishy stomach that lets you down all the time? You know, weak.” After a pause she continued, “I don't want you yukking up all over my beautiful history bubble constructions because I'd like to have a nice clean experience to watch,” pixie said.

We'd danced on for an age or so and there were no bubbles anywhere to be seen. I was beginning to wonder if anything was going to happen, or were we just enjoying the night dancing to a twirling fast waltz? It wasn't the true waltz rhythm we understand though the dance itself was similar and a lot more fun.

I noticed as we twirled around we were starting to make a long trail of very tiny bubbles. They came from below our feet but not exactly beneath our feet. This was more of a moving up through the floor and oozing out of the pattern of footprints we were leaving. It looked as if we were dancing across a Milky Way of stars that glistened, very small, all very bright and effervescent like champagne. These were nothing like the previous bubbles I'd become accustomed too, and to break one of these sparkling delights would be a joy. These bubbles didn't look like they were going to burn me to death.

Dancing in a sea of bubbles was the eventual outcome of our waltz. The entire floor had become covered to the depth of several inches in glistening bubbles, so bright my eyes were continuously dazzled. This brilliance, this shine, was almost unbearable. It also had another quality. It seemed to be springy underfoot like the floor had disappeared to be replaced by this soft sea of very fine bubbles. This was the moment I pushed them aside with my elegant dancing shoe. I was shocked by what was revealed. The whole floor beneath this trickery was one grey bubble, thankfully not too dark, but to be this big and grey it must've started life very black, very small, very bad, not a bubble to be messed with!