Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [25]
"Want my seat?" Grant said. He was sitting in the only armchair.
"I'm fine here."
They were all here. Well, apart from Richie, Park's eldest. Right at this moment, he was probably in the prison gym 'getting big', or slobbing it in front of the TV. If he was out of his cell. And gagging for some beer, no doubt. That's what you missed inside. More than sex.
Still, Richie could do the time. You don't become a hit man unless you're prepared for the consequences. Although he'd never imagined what it would do to his mother when she found out. Nobody'd imagined that.
Christ, Liz.
Maybe she'd like some beer. He asked her.
"No," Effie said. "Are you fucking mental?"
"Just a glass."
"She's not used to alcohol. And, anyway, she's had enough liquid for one night."
"Dad's an expert nappy changer now," Grant said. He laughed.
"It's not funny," Park said. "And it's true. I am."
"That's debatable." Effie didn't think he'd done that great a job last night. She'd given him some advice earlier: "If Mum does a number two, get her to stand in the bath. Much easier to clean her under the shower."
He'd try it next time and see.
Anyway, didn't look like Liz was getting any beer.
They watched some reality show, then an oldie DVD Grant had got from a friend at work. Park rarely watched modern movies. Too much blood. So Grant was always on the look-out for old classics for his blood-shy dad. God's Little Acre, this one was called. A comedy about a poor crazy hick family. Turned out to be every bit as sad as it was funny.
When that was over, Grant left, giving his mum and Effie a hug and a kiss, shaking hands with Martin, and not sure what to do with his dad. Park helped him out, giving him a hug but foregoing the kiss.
Martin put some music on. Lesbo-pop, he said. Russian.
It sounded all right. Park was even humming to himself when he went to get more beer from the kitchen.
He wondered when he'd get a chance to speak to Effie. All day they'd been talking about what they were going to do with Liz. Long-term. Then Effie'd whispered to him that she had an idea, but she wanted to talk to him about it when they were alone. By which she meant, not in front of Martin.
It was getting late now, and Park was hoping Martin would head off to bed soon so he could hear what Effie had to say. But when Park returned from the kitchen, Martin was talking about his mother and bed still looked a long way off.
"We have our ups and downs," Martin said. "Mainly ups, though."
"Don't remember my mum," Park said.
Effie said to Martin, "She died when Dad was three."
"And as for my dad," Park said, "he scarpered as soon as he found out my mum was pregnant."
Effie said, "Well, my dad's pretty cool." And smiled at him. "And my mum's pretty cool, too." She put her hand out, stroked her mother's greying hair.
"My mum gave us her old settee," Martin said.
"Very kind." Park felt bad he hadn't been able to help them smarten the place up too. Been nice to have got them a chair or something. "How come I've never met her?"
"She's …" Martin said. "It's complicated. She's … don't know the right word. Fragile, I suppose." He looked at Effie, his hand playing with the neck of his pale-yellow polo-neck jumper.
"Since your dad … ?" Effie said.
"Yeah," he said. "No, before that. Didn't help, though."
"Since your dad … ?" Park repeated.
"Let Martin tell you in his own time," Effie said. "If he wants to."
Martin said, "It's okay."
"You don't have to say anything," Effie said to Martin.
"It's about time your dad knew," Martin said.
Effie gave his shoulder a squeeze.
Martin's face seemed to thin and grow older as the muscles tightened. "My dad," he said, glancing at Effie, then back to Park, "was murdered."
"Jesus." Park took a swig of beer. "When was this?"
"Ten years ago," Martin said, struggling to light a fag even though there was already one smouldering in the ashtray.
Park wasn't going to pretend a lack of interest, however hard this was for Martin. "What happened?" he asked. "Wrong