The Acid House (7 page)

The television screen flickered luminously in the darkness as the credits at the end of the movie came up. Not long to go now, Ian Smith noted, as he reached across to his dog-eared copy of
Halliwell's Film Guide.
With a yellow fluorescent pen, he highlighted the boldly-typed entry:
Goodfellas.
In small capital letters he wrote in the margin:

8.
BRILLIANT, ANOTHER MESMERISING PERFORMANCE FROM DE NIRO. SCORSESE THE UNDISPUTED MASTER OF HIS GENRE.

He then removed the video cassette and inserted another,
Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome.
Fast-forwarding it past the trailers, he scrutinised the grimly serious face of the Radio One disc jockey who described the certification of the film. Finding the appropriate entry in this most up-to-date but already well-worn copy of
Halliwell's,
Smith was tempted to highlight it now, prior to viewing the film. He resisted this impulse, reasoning that you had to actually watch the movie first. There were so many things that could happen to stop you. You could be disturbed by the phone or a knock at the door. The video could malfunction and chew up the tape. You could be struck down by a massive cardiac arrest. Such happenings were, he considered, equally unlikely for him, nonetheless he held to his superstition.

They called him the Video Kid in the office where he worked, but only behind his back. He had no real friends and had the sort of personality which defied familiarity. It was not that he was unpleasant or aggressive, far from it. Ian Smith, the Video Kid, was just extremely self-contained. Although he had worked with the Council's Planning Department for four years, most of his colleagues knew little about him. He did not socialise with them, and the extent of his self-disclosure was extremely limited. As Smith was not interested in his workmates, they reciprocated, not being concerned enough about this unobtrusive person to detect a hint of enigma in his silence.

Every evening, Smith rented between two and four videotapes at the shop he passed on the way home from work. The actual number rented depended on what was on television, and as a subscriber to satellite he had a lot of options. Additionally, he enjoyed membership of several specialist video clubs, which catered for old, rare, foreign, arthouse and pornographic films which were unobtainable from the shops but listed in
Halliwell's.
His dinner-break was usually spent making up a schedule of forthcoming viewings, which, once compiled, was never deviated from.

While Ian Smith occasionally watched a few soaps and a bit of football on Sky Sport, this was usually just filling in time if there was nothing satisfactory on offer on Sky's Movie Channel, in the video shop, or arriving through the post. He always kept the most recent
Halliwell's Film Guide,
religiously crossing off every film he had seen with a yellow highlighter pen, also giving it his own rating on an advancing scale of 0-10. Additionally, he kept a notebook to list any offerings too new to find their way into the 'bible'. Every time a new edition of
Halliwell's
came out, Smith would have to transfer the highlighted ticks across to the new text and throw the old one away. He often felt compelled to spend his lunch hours on this mundane undertaking. There were now very few films left unhighlighted.

As a broader concept, beyond the daily routine of work, viewing and sleep; time became insignificant for Smith. The weeks and months which flew by could not be delineated by changes or events in his life. He had almost complete control over the narrow process he imposed upon his existence.

Sometimes, however, Smith would become disengaged from the film and he 'would be forced to contemplate this life of his. This happened during
Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome.
The film was a disappointment. The first two Max efforts were a couple of low-budget cult classics. The sequel was an attempt to give Max the Hollywood treatment. It struggled to hold Smith's attention, the span of which always decreased as the night wore on. But it had to be watched; it was another mark-off in his book and there were not many left now. Tonight he was tired. Though anything but a reflective person, when Smith was tired, thoughts he normally repressed could spill into the realm of conscious cerebral activity.

His wife had left him almost a year ago. Smith sat in his armchair, trying to allow himself to feel the loss, the pain, yet somehow he couldn't. He could feel nothing, only a vague uncomfortable guilt at having no feelings. He thought of her face, of having sex with her, and he aroused himself and managed to come through minimal masturbation, but he could feel nothing else beyond the resultant reduction in tension. His wife seemed not to exist beyond a transient image in his mind, indistinguishable from the ones he relieved himself to in the more pornographic films he rented. He had never achieved climax as easily when he had actually been with her.

Ian Smith forced his attention back to the film. Something in his mind always seemed to shut down a line of thought before it could cause him discomfort; a form of psychic quality control.

Smith did not like to talk about his hobby at work; after all, he did not really like to talk. One day in the office, however, Mike Flynn caught him compulsively highlighting his
Hal-liwell's,
and made a comment which Smith didn't quite catch, but he did pick up the derisive laughter from his colleagues. Stirred, he found himself, somewhat to his surprise, rabbitting uncharacteristically, almost uncontrollably, about his passion and the extent of it.

— You must like videos, Yvonne Lumsden said, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

— Always liked films, Smith shrugged.

— Tell me, Ian, Mike asked him, — what will you do when you've seen all the films listed? What happens after you've marked off the lot?

These words hit Smith hard in the chest. He couldn't think straight. His heart pounded.

What happens after you've marked off the lot
?

Julie had left him because she found him boring. She went to hitchhike around Europe with a promiscuous friend whom Smith mildly resented as a contributory factor in the break-up of his marriage. The only consolation was Julie's praise for his sexual prowess. While he had always found it difficult to come with someone, she had climax after climax, often in spite of herself. Afterwards, Julie would feel inadequate, worrying at her inability to give her husband that ultimate pleasure. Insecurity defeated rationality and forced her to look inwards; she did not consider the simple truth that the man she had married was an aberration in terms of male sexuality. — Wasn't it good for you? she'd ask him.

— Great, Smith would reply, trying, and invariably failing, to project passion through his indifference. Then he'd say: — Well, it's time for lights out.

Julie hated the words 'lights out' more than any other ones which came from his lips. They made her almost physically sick. Smith would click off the bedside lamp and fall into an instant deep sleep. She would wonder why she stuck with him. The answer lay within her throbbing sex and her exhausted body; he was hung like a horse and he could fuck all night.

That wasn't enough though. One day Julie casually walked into the sitting-room where Smith was preparing to view a video, and said: — Ian, I'm leaving you. We're incompatible. I don't mean sexually, the problem isn't in bed. In fact you've given me more orgasms than any of the other... I mean what I'm trying to say is, you're good in bed, but useless everywhere else. There's no excitement in our lives, we never talk... I mean . . . oh, what's the use? I mean to say, you couldn't change, even if you wanted to.

Smith calmly replied: — Are you sure you've thought this one out? It's a big step to take.

All the while, the prospect of being able to install that satellite dish his wife had resisted gnawed excitingly at the back of his mind.

He waited until a decent period had passed, then, convinced mat she was not returning, had the dish fitted.

Smith's social life had not exactly been hectic prior to Julie's departure and the purchase of the satellite dish. After these events, however, the minimal and token social ties he had with the outside world were severed. Apart from going to work he became a recluse. He stopped visiting his parents on Sundays. They were relieved, weary at attempting to force conversation, jumpy in the embarrassed silences to which Smith seemed oblivious. His infrequent visits to the local pub also ceased. His brother Pete and his best friend Dave Carter (or at any rate the best man at his wedding) didn't really notice his absence. One local said: — Never see what's his name in here these days.

— Aye, said Dave. — Don't know what he's up to.

— Pimping, protection racketeering, contract killings, probably, Pete laughed sardonically.

In the tenement block where Smith lived, the Marshal children would be screaming, fraying their distraught and isolated mother's nerves further. Peter and Melody Syme would be screwing with all the passion of a couple just back from honeymoon. Old Mrs McArthur would be making tea or fussing over her orange and white cat. Jimmy Quinn next door would have some mates round and they would be smoking hash. Ian Smith would be watching videos.

At work, one particular newspaper story was bothering people. A six-year-old girl named Amanda Heatley had been snatched from the pavement into a car a few yards from her school.

— What sort of animal does that? Mike Flynn asked, in a state of indignant rage. — If ah could git ma hands oan the bastard... he let his voice tail off menacingly.

— He obviously needs help, Yvonne Lumsden said.

— Ah'd gie urn help. A bullet through his skull.

They argued from their polarised positions, one focusing on the fate of the kidnapped girl, the other on the motivations of the kidnapper. At an impasse, they turned to an uncomfortable looking Smith in appeal.

— What do you think, Ian? Yvonne asked.

— Dunno. Just hope they find the kid unharmed.

Yvonne thought that Ian Smith's tone indicated that he didn't hold out much hope of that.

It was shortly after this discussion that Smith decided to ask Yvonne out. She said no. He was neither surprised nor disappointed. In fact, he only asked her out because he felt that it was something he should do, rather than something he wanted to. An invitation to a cousin's wedding had come through the post. Smith felt that he should attend with a partner. As usual, he went home to a weekend of videos. He resolved that he would decline the invitation, and cite illness as an excuse. There was a bug doing the rounds.

That Saturday evening, his brother Pete came up to see him. Smith heard the bell but chose to ignore it. He could not be bothered freezing the action on
Point Break
as it was at a key scene where undercover FBI agent Keanu Reeves was about to be befriended by surfer Patrick Swayze and they were going to join forces against some formidable-looking adversaries. The next evening, the bell went again. Smith ignored it, immersed as he was in
Blue Velvet.

A note dropped through the door, which was not discovered by Smith until Monday morning, when he was ready to leave for work. It told him that his mother had had a stroke and was seriously ill. He phoned Pete up.

— How's Mum? he asked, guilty at not being able to instil more concern into his tone.

— She died last night, Pete's flat, hollow voice told him.

— Aw... right... Smith said, then put down the phone. He didn't know what else to say.

In the year since he got satellite television, Ian Smith had gained three stones in weight, just by sitting in the armchair and munching biscuits, chocolate ban, ice-creams, fish suppers, pizzas, Chinese takeaways, and convenience snacks from the microwave. He had even started to take the odd day off work on the sick so that he could watch videos in the morning and afternoon. However, on the morning he learned of his mother's death, he went into work.

There was a soft ache in his chest at the funeral; a contrast to the shell-shocked grief of his brother and the disbelieving hysteria displayed by his older sister. Smith's pain was at its most acute when he thought of the love she'd given him as a child. However, images from films kept interspersing with those memories, anaesthetising the pain. Try as he might, Smith was unable to sustain these reflections to an extent that their poignancy might hurt him. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, he sloped off from the funeral and headed home via two video rental shops, his chest pounding and mouth salivating in anticipation of being able to tick off another couple of entries from
Halliwell's.
He was getting closer.

Over the days that followed, he took advantage of his bereavement by using the special leave to watch more videos. He hardly slept, staying up all night and most of the day. On occasion, he took amphetamine, scored from his neighbour Jimmy Quinn, in order to keep him awake. His mind was not at its customary ease, however; images of Julie seemed to be sandwiched between his every conscious thought. He never thought of his mother; it was as if she had never existed. Eventually he came to inhabit a zone which embraced conscious thought, dreams and the passive viewing of the television screen, but where the boundaries between these states could not be easily discerned.

It became too much, even for Ian Smith. Barring work, his only forays outside his flat had been quick visits to the video shops and the supermarket. One evening he switched off the video and went for a walk by the Water of Leith, unsettled and unable to concentrate on his evening's viewing. A row of cherry blossoms by the landscaped bank of the stagnant river gave off a pleasing aroma. Smith strolled along as the twilight began to give way to darkness. His steps disturbed a group of youths in hooded tops who dropped their voices and sneaked furtive then brazenly threatening looks at him. Smith, blind to them in his thoughts, strode on. He passed the wheezing alcoholics on the benches, whose dislocated growls snapped at demons remembered or imagined; the empty cans of superlager; the broken glass; the used condoms and the dog shite. A hundred yards away an old stone bridge arched darkly across the still, rancid waters.