Acid Bubbles (25 page)
The last of his allies had disappeared. Abraham defended himself with an intense vigour against all accusations, pointing out the facts. “This is exactly what the Nazi bastard wants, my own people killing each other. It saves them the trouble of putting us into the gas showers then wasting fuel on the ovens.”
The next morning the Allied armies were tantalisingly close, everyone had a glimmer of hope. The prisoners could hear the guns a short distance away. The fact Abraham could hear gun's was to him a miracle. He was still alive, not murdered in the night by his own people, now he dreaded a visit in the next few minutes. The Nazi butcher Heinrich would beat him to death so close to liberation, so close to a new life, so close, so desperately close!
Some of the senior Germans started to disappear. Abraham went into hiding under the latrines in the filthiest place on earth with a stench so appalling he emptied everything in his stomach within minutes. He was lying in excrement, along with several others all there for their own reasons, for thirty-one hours, until he heard cries of happiness from some and cries from others. Through a very small crack in the woodwork at the bottom of the latrine house he could see a pair of brown boots with green trousers above them. The Americans not the Russians had arrived. This was a better form of liberation, everybody knew that, and he was alive, thank the gods he was alive. He had to slap his own face to confirm he lived. Every part of his body was numb from the hours in that filth.
A few of the camp guards were in captivity. Most of this ragtag beaten army were lower ranked men who had been ordered to stay and fight to the last man. This enabled the senior officers who would be brought to trial for committing genocide the opportunity to escape. Heinrich had forgotten all about his little games.
At this point, hiding in filth so appalling he made a vow to himself. With the excrement only inches away from his face and his whole body smeared in the vile beyond vile he swore if he ever saw Heinrich Haussler again, regardless of a prison sentence or the death penalty, he would kill him with his bare hands. He was sure that with good nutrition and renewed strength he could physically kill the war-wounded Nazi with his bare hands.
This thought made him glow with joy. It would be tremendous as he crushed life from him. He could almost feel his hands around Heinrich's throat, and no more twisted words could come from his lying tongue. If he ever saw Heinrich nothing would stop him destroying this harbinger of evil.
He realised it was this thought of revenge that had kept him alive through those thirty-one soul sapping hours.
And I thought I was having a bad time when I suffered some urinal incontinence!
On reduced medication I had started to indulge in a little alcohol. We are only talking a couple of small glasses of red, or a couple of small cans of beer and no more. I was still ingesting a lot of medication by normal standards. However, compared to where I'd been I was barely in the league of pill taking at all. With all the sitting around I was starting to find it difficult to sleep, a big change from some weeks earlier when I was sleeping eighteen hours a day.
The beers help me to fall asleep. After that it's up to the other dimension to suck me in. I believe with all honesty, even now, that these experiences were not coming from inside my head. They were sliding in from another dimension. It was the profound reality of the experience, everything down to the tiniest detail, windblown insects crawling on your skin, the wind ruffling your hair, dust puffing up around your toes if you walked barefoot on the dry soil. Everything was there in those dreams, and unlike the normal world your capacity in this dimension was to understand all the sensations at once. There was no need to cherry pick the moments. It was all there in one glorious bright instant. No wonder I wanted to go to sleep so much, balancing this against the fact that I now want to be awake and alive full-time.
I'd floated off this particular evening thinking of an incident concerning Mr Wilson. Every time he saw blond-haired blue-eyed muscular men of a certain age, he scrutinised every single detail convinced that one day he would come across Heinrich Haussler. The chances of this happening were incredibly slim, almost impossible. It was an uncontrollable urge inside him to stare and assess anybody who could have possibly been Heinrich. On occasions he would strike up conversations with them, sometimes quite surprised to discover they were Scottish or, on one occasion, Swedish. This was a constant gut reaction seeing the Nazi in every blond-haired man on the street. I had started to see Jennifer in the crowds, though on second inspection none of them looked remotely like her. She did only exist in that other dimension.
I was living in a conundrum, wanting to be in one place and wanting to be somewhere else. It was not an every night occurrence, however, joy of joys, tonight was one of those journeys of brilliance, tempered with trepidation over what the Lylybel would bring me. It wasn't always a joy to see this pixie, who assured me quite sternly that she wasn't one. Though she introduced me to my past memories and exacting the painful price, she was nevertheless captivating in her chameleon beauty, seemingly changing with the passing of the days, always recognisable but never quite the same. She was certainly the same person all the time. I think the mischief in her eyes changed with different stories. Her manner would reflect something she didn't know about but could sense coming.
Most of these dreams seem to entail some form of railway travel. It was never a great surprise to arrive in the other universe and to be standing on the station, or leaning on a level crossing gate, or even sitting in the sunshine outside a railway themed pub. On this occasion, however, I was wearing tweedy hiking gear from a bygone age. The day was not cold though you couldn't describe it as hot either, and the wind was blowing quite strongly, as always carrying the scents of a million flowers. In front of me on the bench was the inevitable pint of perfect real ale. I've never been a real ale drinker before. Now I was becoming quite an aficionado of the dark liquid. I burst out laughing as the pub sign bore the legend “The Steam Dragon”. The sign itself was a curious mixture of a steam train at full speed with its belching stack producing a very exotic twirling mist that formed the shape of a dragon engulfing the rear of the train transforming it into this mythical creature. The painting was the most perfect pub sign I'd ever had the pleasure of sitting underneath.
Jennifer looked ridiculous with the sturdy boots, woolly socks, enormous Boy Scout-style shorts, and what could only be described in today's language as a hacking jacket. The image she presented was straight out of some 1930s mystery novel. The only saving grace was that her hair was free to the wind reflecting all its subtle chestnut hews in the sunshine. I knew hidden in her modest backpack, a canvas affair, would be lodged some hideous hat I would laugh at. She, of course, would defend it as perfect for the day. Perfect if you wanted a laugh!
We had a typical pub lunch, the usual affair of bread and cheese, all topped off with an enormous amount of pickle thankfully washed down by another pint of particularly glorious real ale. We hung about outside the pub for a good half hour before marching off towards the moorland fell which was hidden by the bulk of the hostelry. As we rounded the back of the public house I was amazed to see such a daunting rock face with steep crags looming up in the middle of what was essentially rolling countryside. The sky all around was a brilliant azure blue, but the crag itself was topped with swirling clouds forming a constant moving picture of shapes as shadows danced around the pinnacles of rock.
It was the first time in this dimension I'd seen anything you could call threatening. The whole of this wonderful world was perfect. Now before me stood this grit stone monolith with its crown of swirling cloud and mist. The profound contrast with the rest of the country side made it look ominous. I think in our world it wouldâve just looked like another hill. Here it gave the impression it existed solely for the purpose of fell walking in a different weather to the normal perfection. There was no fear in me as we started out. The only thing scaring me was I knew Jennifer would put on some hideous hat!
The giant Irish wolfhound appeared out of the mist and fine rain to our right as we were three quarters of the way up the mountain, beyond the trees, walking across open moorland. It was carrying the briefcase in its teeth without any strain at all. This case must be weightless until it's needed, then assumes the proportions of weight and size necessary for the task in hand. The dog was wearing the strangest of hats that I feared would be presented to Jennifer. However, as it got closer the hat turned out to be the pixie dressed in what could only be described as a pantomime frog suit. All the while as they approached she was eating soup from a bowl using her webbed hand as a spoon. I was wondering if her fingers were burning. You could clearly see the steam rising from the little earthenware bowl. More disturbing than the soup eating was the constant supply of bread. All seemed to be plucked from inside the dogs left ear. A source that was strange and disgusting. The bread, however, looked white, fluffy and dry.
As the dog marched towards us with this strange creature perched on its head I was laughing with tears rolling down my face, or was it rain. I couldn't help myself. The appearance of the pixie was ridiculous. They stopped in front of us. I was concentrating hard on the bread eating exercise, looking deep into the dog's dark ear cavity every time the pixie fumbled to find some more bread. It was so dark I couldn't see anything until the bread was outside in the light. It appeared too materialised in her hand as it came out of the shadow. This magical appearance had me captivated, concentrating every time she put her hand into O Duke's huge ear cavity. I was watching the darkness; a sudden difference in the atmosphere told me I was standing in the darkness. At least in there it was dry! I was disconcerted with the thought of standing inside the waxy darkness of the great dog's ear. It was dark, there was nothing I could do and I couldn't detect any wax.
I didn't dare move because the pixie was quite devious. I could have been standing on top of a very thin wall, so I concentrated on my balance in this total blackness. I had to check several times to see if my eyes were open. Even if they were there was nothing to see. A flood of grey light came in from above. The briefcase was being opened and looming above me were the huge faces of Jennifer and the Irish wolfhound. The pixie was nowhere to be seen until she sprang down from high on the dog's head and plunged into the case feet first much the same as a giant frog, because now she was as big as me. Had I shrunk? I'm not sure, or had she grown? She landed with perfect accuracy directly on top of my head.
This had me lying stunned on the floor tangled up with a frog pixie. To my amazement the Lylybel still held the bowl of soup, but this time when she put her hand in and pulled it out again something was different. She formed a small O with her webbed thumb and forefinger. Her whole face appeared out of the frog's mouth, the enormously proportioned eyes were made of glass, all the time she had been looking out of the frog's nostrils!
I didn't get a choice in which bubble to pop. It would be just one made from the grey coloured soup, looking a little bit like chicken soup, or even worse chicken and mushroom soup. This is my least favourite in any world, and I was surprised such a culinary horror existed in this dimension. The bubble produced from the soup had all the flavour of something I wasn't going to like. This greasy grey bubble rolled slowly into the air. It floated as if suspended on grease or oil. This was the impression as it came clear from her hand. It burst almost like pus from a septic wound on the end of my nose. I was off into a past life none interactive video ride.
The 1973 me was walking towards an attractive and almost new small bungalow surrounded by well maintained shrubbery. The bungalow had a small ramp up to the front door. This was telling me something. However, I wasn't seeing any significance until I produced a key, opened the door and marched in as if I owned the place. I didn't own the place.
I was there to do business with the owner, Lenny the Helmet. This was the explanation for the wheelchair ramp. Lenny could walk, however being on his feet for more than a few minutes gave him a lot of pain in the knees and hips. He could jump out of the chair and lumber to the door if the house was on fire. Lenny preferred to sit in the chair most of the time. His house was adapted for this, though he could get in the bath, stand at the sink and other such things. He was a large man, and the chair gave him an even larger presence.
I was about to speak when Lenny gave me a look, as if to say, “Be quiet”. This startled me until the shadow behind my left shoulder moved. It was sunny outside. In the bungalow sombre shades prevailed with the curtains constantly closed to the prying eyes of the curious walking their dogs in the street. With business to be done you had to be careful. The shadow turned out to be my first meeting with the lovely Dave Hartley Sparrow and his friend Millicent. The very fact his gun had a name and he constantly referred to what it was saying gave this particular gunman a very nasty edge over anyone else who was an insane killer.
Thankfully the gun was held loosely down at his side. He wasn't pointing it at anybody, though in the twilight I did see Lenny's coffee table was now firewood and it hadn't been stamped on. Killed with both barrels, not a fate even a coffee table deserves, particularly when as I found out later Lenny was lifting a cup of tea from it at the time. Perhaps that was the reason. Lenny was using it for tea! He'd been unaware of Dave's approach. His stealthy entrance had been made through the kitchen door always left open for Lenny's Yorkshire terrier Mimzie, a dog with a bitches name. Lenny had a way of calling things what he felt appropriate. He wasn't about to call Dave anything other than Sir!
“Are you the guy who moves the stuff around for Lenny?” Dave said, addressing me, all the while strolling towards me until we were nose to nose. My space was being invaded, he knew it, and he knew I didn't like it. He had me figured as a soft touch in an instant. Dave knew I didn't carry any weapon. Lenny told him I carried nothing after he suggested he might have to shoot me as I came in. I was told this later though I wasn't convinced he'd use his gun in the middle of the day on a quiet housing estate. However, he'd shot a coffee table, twice!
I was considering if I should tell him I was indeed the man who moved the stuff around for Lenny. We worked more as a team nowadays with Lenny doing all the admin and handling the supply chain. I shifted it out to the dealers, never selling to anybody I didn't know or on the streets, always careful, always watching. I was putting it out there while taking as little risk as possible. I didn't get a chance to speak. The previous question was rhetorical. He knew who I was all along. Lenny had told him I was coming at 3pm and was always on time.
“You're working for Harry now,” Dave continued.
“Who's Harry?” I said. Dave looked across at Lenny and indicated with a wave of the shot gun he should speak.
Lenny filled me in on the details of our little team's demise. We were still going to be a team, but now playing for a different leader, and for a much smaller percentage. Dave had pointed out to Lenny that with the financial clout Harry could bring to the LSD game we would make as much money as before, if not more, that was a certainty. I realised we were no longer in control, and if this Harry person wanted some deal to take place in a high risk area, from the look of Dave Hartley Sparrow it would be impossible to refuse. It turned out Harry did like to have full control, and watch everything!
There was the sound of a car horn outside the bungalow. This was from a large black Rover saloon driven by Smiggy who now worked in a pawn shop owned by Harry the Pocket. And it was this slimy little piece of work that persuaded his boss of the large profits to be made in drugs, far more than fencing stolen property, or taking illegal bets on horse races, or even lending money at high rates of interest. All these other activities required more risk for much less gain than the large profits available in the early 70s from LSD. Weed could be shifted as well with very little risk and good profits. Other people could deal heroin or cocaine, LSD was something that could be produced in a laboratory at low cost. No need to smuggle it in from another country. Smiggy's sales pitch had delighted Harry, and the cherry on the cake was how little security our nascent drug business possessed.