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Authors: Allan Guthrie
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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
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
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