Savage Night (8 page)

He'd thought at first that Martin was gay, the way he wore cravats all the time. That Effie was like his, whatever they called it … beard.

"Oops," Grant said, indicating something behind Park, with a nod.

Park turned. Ah. Bloke in a cap and vest, with handcuffs and CS spray accessories, no doubt been standing there getting a good eyeful of Park's own accessory. A gazer. And no shame about it either. If this was a public toilet, here was one cop who'd get done for cottaging, no question.

Grant was looking at Park. At the cop. Back at him. Trying not to laugh.

The cop said, eyes still on Park, "You need to go home."

Like bollocks he did. The night was young and he was conscious. Liz was free. He was looking forward to snuggling up with her later. But not now. It was far too early. "Fuck off," he said.

"'Scuse me?"

"You heard."

The cop eyed him up. Likely wondering if he needed to call for backup or if he could handle Park all on his own.

Probably could, too. Park's stomach felt full with all the drink. Maybe he could knock the cop's hat off and heave in it. Maybe he should ask first. Be polite, wouldn't it?

The twat was still standing there looking at him.

"What?" Park said.

"You just urinated in a doorway, pal."

Pal
. Park hated being called somebody's pal when he clearly wasn't. Really got him steamed. Anyway, he did what he always did when he was accused of something: denied it. He said, "Not me,
pal
."

The prick sighed, like Park was the one being the prick, and said, "I saw you."

"No, you didn't."

The cop placed his hands on his hips, shook his head. He said to Grant and Martin, "You pair with him?"

Park said, "Leave them alone, you bully."

Grant said, "Dad. Shhh."

The tosser ignored Park. Spoke to Grant, "You need to get him home."

"Not going home," Park said. "Got more drinking to do."

"You don't."

"Do. Just said so. You should listen."

"You're drunk."

"Nope."

"You want me to take you down to the station?"

"Like to see you try."

See how brave he was now. Showing off, the cop was. Probably fancied Martin. Waving his authority about like it meant something when everybody knew it meant cock all. Policemen liked a bit of GBH but only on their own turf. Get them outside, quiet street like this, they didn't fancy their chances one on one. Or one on three if you counted Grant and Martin.

The black-capped wankbastard took a step closer. And another. Such balls. William Wallace, he was. The original Old Bill.

Pretty close now. Trying to look hard. And him just a wee guy, too, no bigger than Grant. Had his work cut out. Glass jaw, no doubt, no matter how tight it was clenched. Hands at his side now like he was some cowboy about to reach for his gun. Only he didn't have a gun. Just a truncheon and a can of doctored deodorant.

Sorry, not a truncheon. A baton, they called it. Extendable. If the cop didn't back off, Park would take it off him, extend it fully, and ram it up his arse for him.

That'd teach him to accuse an innocent person.

The cop came to a halt. "You can't urinate in doorways."

"Didn't," Park told him.

"You were clearly doing so. I saw you."

"Not me." Park paused. "You must have imagined it. You see anything?" he asked Grant and Martin.

"Wasn't looking," Martin said. Grant shook his head.

"Been taking drugs or anything?" Park asked the cop.

The runty wee tosspot ignored him, pointed to the puddle on the ground. "So what's that?"

"Puddle."

"Exactly. A puddle. A puddle of urine." He pronounced urine to rhyme with wine.

"Could be anything," Park said. "Puddle of water. Clear soup. Perfume."

"It's urine."

They stood in a group looking at the puddle.

"If you say so," Park said. "Hard to tell without sniffing it. Want to get on your knees, have a go?"

"I don't need to," the cop said. "It's fucking urine."

"Maybe," Park said. "Not mine, though." He winked at Grant."Not mine urine." Rhyming it with wine.

"It's fresh."

"If you say so."

"It's still trickling down the pavement."

"So it is."

"You're still denying that was you?"

"Right."

The cop sucked his lips in and said, "You were facing the door."

"That a crime?"

"Why were you facing the door if it wasn't in order to urinate?"

"Interesting door," Park said. "Just having a good look at it."

"Jesus," the cop said, his fingers clenching and unclenching by his side. "Go home."

"Nope. I'm going drinking."

"You're not."

"Going to stop me, are you?"

"Mr Park," Martin said. "Andy. Give it up."

"Right. Give him my name, why don't you, Martin?" Park shook his head, said to the cop, "Come on, then. Let's see what you've got."

The cop's facial muscles were all tight. "Take him home, please," he said, this time to Martin. Then to Park: "If I see you again tonight, Mr Park,
Andy
, you're in the cells." And he started to walk away.

Park said, "Don't turn your back on me, you dickless coward. Hey, I'm talking to you. Come back here and clean up your piss."

The cop stopped. Turned. Spoke slowly and quietly: "Go home before I lose my temper."

"Oh, I'm scared now. Maybe so scared I'll piss myself. Or I would if I needed."

The fucker gave him the finger.

Park held himself back. Couldn't go around causing any serious damage. Although being arseholed took the edge off his reaction. And he was most definitely arseholed.

Cause he was so bloody happy that Liz was out of that shithole. Had to celebrate. Effie had said, "Go out, enjoy yourselves."

Which they'd done. Even Grant, who was on orange juices and cokes on account of looking too young to get served. He claimed he looked his age, but looking seventeen was no help.

"He's gone," Martin said.

And he had. The cop had rounded the corner.

"You know it's not his fault," Grant said.

"What you talking about?"

"You're taking it out on the policeman because of McCracken."

McCracken. Pissbastardfuckwankertwat. Grant was right. He might only look his age and be extremely short but he was a smart lad.

Park had visited Liz that afternoon.

***

She was lying on her bed, pillow over her face.

Mrs H said, "I'm Mrs H, how do you do? Shhh. She's sleeping."

He grabbed the pillow off Liz's face, chucked it at Mrs H.

Liz had a Tesco bag on her head. He pulled it off, nestling the back of her head in his palm. Her hair was warm and damp.

She was breathing, thank God. Eyes open. Unblinking. Looking right through him.

He said to Mrs H, "Did you do this, you witless old tit?"

"Language," she said. "Any more of that and I'll arrest you." Then she spoke some gibberish that sounded like German.

Park raised Liz into a sitting position, lifted her off the bed. She weighed scarily little and it was remarkably easy to move her into her seat.

She stared at him. Or through him, more like. He kissed her forehead. Leaned towards Mrs H, who was still spouting some crazy lingo. "What did you think you were doing?"

"Can't I help her sleep? Sometimes I sing to her. She likes that. But she likes the dark and the quiet better."

Park didn't want to leave Liz in the room alone with the old fuckwit. He took his wife's hand, encouraged her out of the chair, walked her into the corridor. She was happy to go where you led. As long as you moved slowly.

McCracken wasn't in his office. Park bumped into one of the nurses, a new one, didn't know her name, got her to track him down.

He went back to Liz's room, waited patiently. When McCracken arrived, Mrs H introduced herself to everybody again, then Park calmly told him what had happened.

McCracken said, "You don't need to worry about it."

"I don't?"

"Mrs H has a predilection for such antics." He folded his arms. "Don't you, dear?"

Mrs H said, "
Achtung
."

"What's a fucking 'predilection'?"

"A tendency. But it's never caused any harm, Mr Park."

Park balled his fingers, squeezed. "Is that right?"

"Sure. Mrs H doesn't want to hurt your wife. Correct?"

Mrs H nodded. "
Schweinwaffen
."

"Was the bag tied at the bottom?" he asked Park.

"No, but Liz could still have died."

"Don't get melodramatic." McCracken unfolded his arms, scratched his upper lip.

"Don't tell me what to do. I demand you move that senile loophead out of here."

"I already explained. That's not possible."

"My wife can't stay here."

"Fine," McCracken said. "Take Mrs Park away."

"That's it?" Park asked him.

"Seems to be."

"You really don't give a shit about her, do you? Wouldn't have mattered to you if she'd suffocated. She's just a vegetable as far as you're concerned. She'd be better off dead, right? That'd free up a bed for you, after all."

McCracken looked at Liz and said, "I can't comment on that."

"I bet." Park swallowed, shook his head. He said, quietly, "Get out of my sight."

McCracken stepped towards the door, paused as if he was about to say something, then walked out of the room.

Park bundled some of Liz's things together. However tight the space at Effie's, Liz wasn't staying here a minute longer.

Park called Effie. Told her what had happened.

"McCracken said she'd be better off dead?" Effie said. "I'll swing for that bastard."

"Don't worry," Park said. "He won't get away with it."

***

PARK LOOKED DOWN at the puddle in the doorway. A long thin strand of pee wove along the pavement.

"Come on, Dad." Grant grabbed his arm. Tugged.

"Where we going?" Park asked.

"Home to our beds."

"Ah, away and rub it." He grinned at him. "You getting some, son?"

"Fuck's wrong with you, Dad?"

Martin took his other arm.

"So," Park said, "this is gay. Where're we really going?"

"The copper was right," Grant said. "You've had enough."

He stopped. His son and future son-in-law, who was all right if a bit poofy, carried on a step, jolted, stopped too. Park said, "Don't want to go home yet." He sounded like a little boy, even to himself.

"So, what do you want to do?"

He thought for a minute.

"Come on," Grant said, tugging his arm again.

"Don't suppose we can go clubbing?" Park said.

"No." That was Grant. Martin shook his head.