Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [21]
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