The Acid House Read Online Free PDF Page A

wanted to do was to alienate them from each other. If that happened, I'd never be shot of Chrissie without causing the unstable bitch a great deal of pain. Whatever her faults, she didn't need any more of that.
    I didn't deceive Chrissie; this isn't merely a retrospective attempt at self-justification for what was to happen. I can say this with confidence as I clearly recall a conversation that we had in a coffee shop in Utrechtesstraat. Chrissie was being very presumptuous and starting to make plans about me moving in with her. This was glaringly inappropriate. I said overtly what I had been telling her covertly with my behaviour towards her, had she cared to take note of it.
    — Don't expect anything from me, Chrissie. I can't give. It's nothing to do with you. It's me. I can't get involved. I can never be what you want me to be. I can be your friend. We can fuck. But don't ask me to give. I can't.
    — Somebody must have hurt you really badly, she said shaking her head as she blew hashish smoke across the table. She was trying to convert her obvious hurt into feelings of pity for me, and she was failing miserably.
    I remember that conversation in the coffee shop because it had the opposite effect to the one I'd wanted. She became even more intense towards me; I was now more of a challenge.
    So that was the truth, but perhaps not the whole truth. I couldn't give with Chrissie. You can never put feelings where they're not. But things were changing for me. I was feeling physically and mentally stronger, more prepared to open myself up, ready to cast aside this impregnable cloak of bitterness. I just needed the right person to do it with.
    I landed a job as a reception-clerk-cum-porter-cum-dogs-body in a small hotel in The Damrak. The hours were long and unsocial and I would sit watching television or reading at the reception, gently ssshhing the young drunk and stoned guests who flopped in at all hours. During the day I started to attend Dutch language classes.
    To the relief of Rab/Robbie, I moved out of his place to a room in a beautiful apartment in a particularly narrow canal house in the Jordaan. The house was new; it had been totally rebuilt due to subsidance of the previous building into the weak, sandy Amsterdam soil, but it was built in the same traditional style of its neighbours. It was surprisingly affordable.
    After I moved out, Rab/Robbie seemed more like his old self. He was more friendly and sociable towards me, he wanted me to go out drinking and smoking with him; to meet all the friends he'd vigilantly kept away from me, lest they might be corrupted by this junky. They were typical sixties time-warp Amsterdam types, who smoked a lot of hash and were shit-scared of what they called 'hard drugs'. Although I didn't have much time for them, it was good to get back onto an even footing with Rab/Robbie. One Saturday afternoon we were stoned in the Floyd cafe and we felt comfortable enough to put our cards on the table.
    — It's good to see you settled, man, he said. — You were in a bad way when you came here.
    — It was really good of you to put us up, Rab . .. Robbie, but you weren't the friendliest of hosts, it has to be said. You had some coupon on ye when you walked in at night.
    He smiled. — I take your point, man. I suppose I made ye even more uptight than ye were. It just freaked me a bit, y'know? Workin like fuck aw day and ye come in and there's this wasted cunt whae's trying tae git oaf smack ... ah mean I was thinkin, likes, what have I taken oan here, man?
    — Aye, I suppose I did impose myself, and I was a bit of a leech.
    — Naw, you wirnae really that bad, man, he conceded, all mellow. — Ah was far too uptight, likes. It's just, you know, man, I'm the sort of punter who needs my own personal space, y'know?
    — I can understand that, man. I said, then, swallowing a lump of spacecake, smirked. — I dig the cosmic vibes you're sending out here, man.
    Rab/Robbie smiled and toked hard on a