Savage Night (9 page)

Park said, "Not even a baby seal?"

***

HOME. YEP. BRILLIANT. Course, some people wouldn't call it home, cause he didn't have a bed there at Effie's, just a settee. But he'd experienced worse.

Not too long ago his bed was a pile of cardboard and a bunch of newspapers in one of the lanes at the back of Rose Street. Fine when it was dry. But there was nothing more depressing than soggy cardboard. Beat sleeping in cemeteries, though. He'd done that plenty.

Thanks to Yardie. Should never have chucked him out. Park had heard last week that he was back inside, six-monther for possession. Blow. Only enough for a couple of joints. Served the bastard right, though.

Park had finally agreed to stay with Martin and Effie. Just till he got himself sorted out. Not much room for them all. One bedroom. One small sitting room. One galley kitchen. One corridor bathroom. They managed, somehow. It'd be tough now with Liz staying. But they'd work something out. Christ, Park had lived three to a cell for one memorable four-month stretch. A cell originally designed for one occupant. Now
that
was tough.

You know, he probably should be getting home, like the lads said. See Liz.

"Don't know why we put up with you," Grant said. "Pissing in the street, man. Threatening cops. You're no kind of example, Dad."

"Don't know why I put up with
you
," Park said. "Slagging me off. Not letting me go drinking."

"You love him," Martin said. And he wasn't taking the piss.

Funny how he came out with stuff like that, matter-of-fact and all.

"Martin," Park said, "I love all my kids." Anything happened to any of them, he'd … well, he'd rip in half any bastard who messed with them. In a manner of speaking. Cause he couldn't actually do it. Even assuming he could rip through a human torso, as soon as he saw any trace of
nnnnngah
, that was him gone.

Like at Yardie's party, for instance.

Park had moved into Yardie's straight from jail. This was before he was homeless, long before he moved in with Effie and Martin. He was supposed to be staying with Yardie till he got his own place, which wasn't likely to happen cause he couldn't be arsed looking for somewhere.

He needed a job. He had a couple of computer qualifications he'd picked up inside, plus his previous experience in retail and all that bollocks. But nobody wanted a thief and a fireraiser working in their shop, especially when the thief had been sent down for nicking computer equipment from his place of work and then setting fire to the premises. Prejudiced fucks. It had been good stuff. State of the art. Hard to resist. And he'd had to cover his tracks somehow.

Anyway, a job was a long-shot, so he'd been planning on dossing at his mate Yardie's until he overstayed his welcome. One of the hardest things about sleeping rough was smelling damp and sour, like you'd left your clothes in the washing machine too long with the door shut. At Yardie's, he had access to running water and soap. No excuse not to smell nice. Technically, he was staying at his mate's mum's, Yardie not being the houseowner. He'd met Yardie inside. Yardie was black and twenty-five years old. Yardie's mum was white and over seventy.

Park had got a surprise when he first met her. But neither she nor Yardie ever explained and Park never asked. None of his business. If there was ever a Mr Yardie, he seemed to be long since gone.

Old Mrs Yardie couldn't have been kinder to Park. Truth was, he liked her a lot more than he liked her son.

They lived in a nice house. Money was tight but she coped. Only drawback, it was about ten miles west of Edinburgh. In the country.

Yardie threw a party one night when Old Mrs Yardie was off staying with her sister in Kent. He went to a lot of trouble, preparing fancy nibbles. Sausages on cocktail sticks and squares of cheese and Pringles with dips. That kind of crap. Park didn't think anybody would turn up cause the place was so bloody hard to find.

Martin and Effie had come along. Just engaged. All night, she fiddled with his hair, long and blonde. Hers was too short for him to play with. Martin was beefy, Effie looked like a boy with boobs. Martin wore a big collar. A cravat. Other kinds of 70s gaywear. There was lots of touching, holding hands, wistful smiles. Enough to turn your stomach if you were at all sensitive.

Park ignored it, butted in, started talking to Martin. Bloke might be dressed like a Frenchman, but he was a good listener. Could have had a good conversation going if Effie didn't keep sticking her tongue down Martin's throat every couple of minutes.

A while later, the lovebirds stopped pecking at each other long enough to join Park in taking the piss out of Yardie's mates, a bunch of mutton-headed blissed-up neds. Yardie was showing them his prize possession: a shitty little closet chain.

Closet chains were just like handcuffs but with a long chain between the cuffs. Several feet long usually. Designed to allow the wearer—usually a con attending a family funeral or wedding—to use the bathroom in privacy without the risk of him escaping through the window. He'd wear one cuff and his escort would be on the other side of the door wearing the other. Had to keep the door ajar to let the chain through, but that still gave the con a little dignity while he did his business. But Yardie's closet chain looked to be on the short side. Three, maybe four feet long. He'd nicked it from a prison officer's home. The screw shouldn't have had it there, so it never got reported stolen.

Yardie's mates had paired up, tried it on, and now two of them had the chain stretched tight about three feet off the ground and a third was about to jump over it. Park hoped he'd trip.

Effie pointed out the girlfriend of one of the mutton heads. Effie knew her vaguely. Rumour had it she swung both ways, Effie said.

Park got on well with lezzers. And this one was a looker, too. Not that he was going to hit on her, him being a married man and all, but there was no harm in saying hello. He left the happy-couple-to-be in the corner to snog for a while, grabbed a bottle of white wine and went off to talk to the dyke.

She wasn't very talkative, though. Any topic of conversation he brought up, she replied with a one-word answer. He thought long and hard and came up with a topic he was sure she'd be interested in. Muff diving. Told her it'd been a while, but that was something he'd always been good at. Did a mean butterfly kiss.

She dropped her drink and ran off.

Seconds later he was on the floor with her boyfriend looking down at him, clenching his fist and snarling. No, really: snarling. Park had never heard anything quite like it.

The boyfriend hadn't actually hit him. Just shoved him sideways onto the ground whilst Park was off-balance picking up the lezzer's glass. Pretty embarrassing. And totally uncalled for. Wasn't as if Park had been chatting her up.

But even if he was, it wasn't as if this guy was married to her. And she swung both ways, so he probably wouldn't ever be married to her, cause if he was, she'd only be able to swing one way. If that was technically possible. And if she swung both ways, then she'd need to be able to swing the other way, cause that was in her nature. Which is why she couldn't ever marry him. Stood to reason.

Not that Park managed to explain it to himself as rationally as this, cause he was fuming at the time and incapable of thinking clearly enough to put on his own trousers.

As he got to his feet, an audience gathered round, all the fun of jumping over a closet chain forgotten for now. Rage was thermalling through Park, heating him up from the inside till his face was all toasty on the outside. He felt a muscle tug in his cheek.

Park tried to hit the cocksucker on the point of the chin rather than on the nose or mouth, which is where he'd have preferred. But that was easier said than done. He caught the lip full-on, and it burst and spurted
nnnnngah
blood almost straight away. Came out all thick and red and spelling disaster.

All the energy drained out of him, saliva built under his tongue, that weird nausea not like he was going to be sick but something much more specific. Happened every time he saw blood. Had done for as long as he could remember. Since he was three, to be precise. Vision blackened at the edges, bells rang, chest tightened, knees gave way. If he managed to get his head between his knees, it passed after a few minutes. If not, he fainted.

Haemophobia. Or the term he preferred: blood-phobia. It was his biggest embarrassment.

Apparently, after he'd fallen to the floor, the ned boyfriend had seized his opportunity, brave as a bull with an extra-thick lip now Park was on the deck, and given him a few smacks round the head and a couple of kicks in the ribs. That's what it felt like, anyway, and Effie corroborated as much afterwards. The kicks, she said, were pretty half-hearted. And the kicker was wearing trainers. But, still.

Effie had stepped in. None of the other lads had been bothered about their mate kicking a bloke. Thought it was a bit of a laugh, in fact, egging him on, cheering and that. But they weren't at all happy about their mate kicking a woman. Which didn't seem fair to Park, even if the woman in question was his daughter. But despite the injustice of it all, Martin and Effie hauled him away, and thanks to their intervention Park was spared a more serious doing.

Later, in the bedroom, on top of a thick duvet, something cold pressed to his cheek.

Effie moved the cloth, dabbed his forehead.

He turned his head.

Effie knelt on the bed, leaned over him. "You okay?" she said.

"Long time since I was in bed with a lovely woman," he said.

Martin cleared his throat.

"You're not
in
bed," Effie said. "You're on it. Anyway, how does your face feel?"

"Hurts when I stretch it," Park said, opening his jaw wide, stretching his lips. It hurt, exactly like he'd said it did. "Ow." Maybe overdoing the sympathy card, was he?

Effie said, "Don't stretch it then, you bumshite."

That was nice. Being called a bumshite. No, really. Hardly anybody felt comfortable enough with Park to call him anything other than sir or cunt. He tended to provoke extreme reactions. Bumshite was good. There was an intimacy in the word that made him smile.

Anyway, that's why Park had to be careful when he got violent.

Yardie threw him out of his house the next day, claiming that he'd been there too long already. Truth was, he'd thrown him out for belting one of his friends. But, anyway, whatever. Yardie was an arsehole and it didn't matter what had pissed him off. Park missed Yardie's mum, though. She made great pancakes.

Park was homeless for a couple of months until Effie and Martin had finally persuaded him to stay with them till he got himself sorted. Sweet as a honey-dunked nut, that was. He owed them.

So right now, much as he'd have liked to go clubbing just to annoy the copper who'd ordered Martin and Grant to take him home, he was happy enough to head off to bed. Well, head off to the settee. Point was, he wasn't heading off to collapsed cardboard and newspapers. And tonight he'd have Liz to curl up next to.

***

"HOW WAS GRANT?" Effie asked, pressing a button on the TV remote.

"Wee bastard," Park said. "Wouldn't drink. And then he wouldn't let
me
drink. I'm still thirsty."

"Should have seen your dad with the policeman," Martin said.

She asked, "What policeman?"

"I never got parole," Park said. "So I don't have to be nice to the wankers."

"You didn't hit a policeman, Dad?"

"Wish I had. Now, never mind that. How's my girls? What've you been up to?"

They were on the settee, next to each other. Liz already looked better.

"I'm good," Effie said. "We watched a movie about this guy who stores the souls of dead people in a hotel in his brain."

"And I thought it was just me," Park said. "Any good?"

"I liked it. Thinking about going to bed now, though. Mum's tired."

"She had her medicine?"

"Yep."

"She say anything?"

"Dad, she never says anything."

"Don't give up hope, Eff."

"She's been farting a lot. In fact, it's time she had her pad changed." She turned to face Liz. "Eh, Mum? You a bit smelly?"