Free Acid Song by Bernard Beckett Page A

nobody will. That’s the point, don’t you see? We’re all too frightened.’
    ‘Maybe with good reason.’
    ‘I never thought I’d hear you say we should be frightened of the truth.’
    ‘I don’t even use the word truth.’
    ‘Very fucking convenient.’
    It was like this between them sometimes. It could turn personal without warning. Richard had never experienced it with any other of his colleagues. With them a vigorous disagreement was a sign of respect. With William it was more like being married.
    ‘Some people are saying you’ve changed, William.’
    ‘Why are using my name, Richard? Don’t you know that’s patronising?’
    ‘You did it before.’
    ‘I meant to be patronising.’
    ‘You’re avoiding the question.’
    ‘I didn’t hear a question.’
    ‘People are worried. That’s all.’
    ‘Of course I’ve fucking changed. How can that not change you? What am I meant to do, just get on with it?’
    ‘No, you’re not.’
    ‘You’ve never mentioned it before.’
    ‘I, it’s your business. I assumed, if you wanted to … You know where I am.’
    ‘I don’t want to.’
    ‘Okay.’
    Again they both waited, holding their breath, as if not certain that silence could be trusted to take proper hold. But it did, finding its place between the sipping.
    It went unmentioned. A Friday afternoon two years before. Richard was home with Elizabeth when they got the call. William’s car had gone off the road on the way back home to Eastbourne. The setting sun had blinded him as he came around the corner; he’d tried to brake suddenly, hit the accelerator.
    It was the most beautiful road in the city, the last place the sun visited, lighting up the houses that hid amongst the steep dark bush, making green the water that licked at the road. The car barely sank past its roof, but that was all it took. William went down five times, trying to free his wife. On the sixth attempt he blacked out, and bystanders dragged him to the shore. He’d changed. And it would not be mentioned.
    ‘Are you saying,’ William asked, bringing his fingers together below his nose, his thinking pose. The knuckles on his left hand were scraped raw from the concrete. ‘Are you saying that people can’t handle this information? Is that, in the end, your thesis?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I think you are.’
    ‘I’m saying …’ Richard thought carefully. What was he saying? Hewas slipping. ‘I’m saying that with information of this nature, it’s never neutral. It can’t be presented neutrally. We have a responsibility, when it comes to how we choose to present it.’
    ‘A responsibility to whom?’
    ‘To ourselves, primarily.’
    ‘That’s pompous.’
    ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘You know the problem with liberals, Richard? Their education compromises them. In the end, to be a true liberal, you have to trust your fellow man, and the educated never do.’
    ‘Did you see Wilson’s speech today?’
    ‘I heard a little on the news.’
    ‘He’s polling at eight per cent. That’s why I don’t trust people.’
    ‘What about the other ninety-two per cent? Don’t they deserve some credit?’
    ‘It always starts somewhere. One Nation, what does that even mean?’
    ‘It’s a party for those who have trouble counting.’
    ‘He talked about the “Asian Problem”. Did you hear that? Last night a group of skinheads put a Chinese student in hospital. He’s in a coma. It’s touch and go.’
    ‘You can’t make me part of that.’
    ‘I don’t have to. There’s already a link to your study on the National Front website…’
    ‘If we stopped to think how every new discovery might be interpreted, where would we be?’
    ‘I’m worried about you.’
    ‘Snap.’
    ‘Then walk away.’
    ‘That would be giving in.’
    ‘So give in.’
    ‘You driving?’
    ‘I’ll leave the car here and get the boat across.’ Richard held his glass out for refilling.
    ‘Thanks for coming.’
    ‘No, of course. I had to. Which is not to say