Pants on Fire Read Online Free Page B

idea, too much whirling—I looked at the floor—no, too floory—at all the people—oh no, more conversation. Breathe. Breathe. Cigarette smoke, oh yuk. Pot smells, oh no! The music sounded terrifying. What was in that joint?
    â€œI think you had better come with me.”
    Now I really was going nuts—this voice sounded like it was right in my ear. It was. Antony Maybury looked into my face with a serious expression, raised his left eyebrow and gestured with his right for me to follow him. I did. There was something about Antony that made me trust him, even in my brain-fuddled state. Unlike my other new male friends, he didn’t grab my hand, but I followed easily in his slipstream along a corridor that ran past several rooms full of people, then round a corner and into another small room with nothing in it except big square cushions on the wooden floor. There were two picture windows framing a harbour view from a lower angle. Sparkly water. Yachts bobbing. Seagulls. The windows were open and a delicious breeze floated in. I pulled my pink feather hat off my head and practically fell onto the floor. I closed my eyes. The room went round and round. I groaned.
    â€œStay there, don’t move,” said Antony and left the room.
    It was a great relief to be somewhere relatively quiet, and the breeze was heaven, but I still felt really awful. I kept having great flashes of insight, which would disappear as suddenly as they had come, leaving no trace. It was like trying to hold on to passing clouds and it had a strange effect on time. Each great thought seemed to last an aeon and then when they were gone, it was as if time had never existed. Most unsettling.
    After what could have been two minutes, or several ice ages, Antony came back holding a huge bottle of Coca Cola, a glass with a slice of lime in it, a silver ice bucket, a flannel and a large dinner plate. He laid the cold, wet flannel on my forehead as he filled the glass with ice, then Coke, and handed it to me.
    â€œYou must drink this,” he said. “It’s the only thing that will make you feel better.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with me?”
    â€œSupersonic hydroponic.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMarijuana. Pot. Mary Jane. Hemp. Weed. Grass. Ganga. Spliff. Silly cigarettes. Whatever you like to call it. But more so. Did you, by any chance, have a little smoko with Jasper O’Connor?”
    â€œWell, yes, I did . . .” I was already on my second glass of Coke, which had suddenly become the most ambrosial drink the world had ever known. “I did have a few tiny tokes.”
    â€œWell, you’ve just had another Sydney lesson,” said Antony, sitting down behind my head. “That wasn’t a harmless little Portobello puff you just had. That was supersonic hydroponic Sydney weed, grown in water laced with all kinds of growth-promoting and mind-expanding chemicals. If you’re not used to it, hydro pot can snake you out like a bad tab of acid. It can be very unpleasant.”
    â€œYou’re not kidding. I thought I was going bonkers. Do you know, while you were gone, I thought of the most amazing thing to tell you about this party, but I . . . can’t remember it . . .”
    Antony threw back his head and laughed a very loud pantomime laugh.
    â€œHA HA HA HA HA. Oh, that is classic hydro psychosis. You feel as though the meaning of the Rosetta Stone has been made clear to you, and only you, if you could just remember what it was. It’s like being all sentient and having Alzheimer’s simultaneously, isn’t it. You poor little thing.”
    â€œBut Jasper smoked most of the joint, and it was the second one I’ve seen him have. If I’d had that much I’d be in hospital.”
    â€œJasper O’Connor is a famous pothead. He smoked pot all day, every day. People say marijuana is non-addictive. Jasper O’Connor and his like are proof that’s total bullshit.