Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [32]
Phil burped, a real belter from the back of the throat.
Well, Tommy was in real trouble now. And Phil was sorting it out once again. Yeah, never mind the missed birthdays. Birthdays were for kids. And Phil was the forgiving sort anyway. Phil never missed one of his, though. Not once in the best part of fifty years. Well, maybe when they were kids. No money to buy presents, then. But, you know, he'd never missed an adult birthday. In however many years that was. That was it. Not that he cared. They were just birthdays.
Dad said, "Blow out your candles, Phil."
Phil took a breath and blew so hard he thought his eyes might pop out.
Seven of the candles went out. One flickered but the flame didn't die.
"You didn't do it," Tommy said.
Phil punched him in the ribs and Tommy started to cry.
Dad sent Phil to his room. On his fucking birthday.
The traffic lights finally changed. Must be some malfunction. They'd been on red far too long.
Phil couldn't get going though, cause there was a guy halfway across the road. An old geezer, stooped like a beaten kid, wearing a long pale coat that dragged along the ground. Needed a walking stick and didn't have one.
Phil revved the engine, hooted the horn, pointed his bottle at him. None of that helped so Phil made a face.
That hurried him up a bit.
The geezer turned near the kerb and waved. Taunting him, the old coot.
Phil should get out and smack him one, teach him a lesson. Might have done just that, but he had a meeting with Martin Milne. Probably didn't want to get into a fight, anyway, even with an old git. Just in case he landed a lucky shot. Phil wasn't at his best right now. But he'd had the x-ray and his head was fine. They'd kept him in the hospital overnight as a precaution. But he was home by lunchtime.
He couldn't remember being hit. Remembered bits afterwards. It was all like he was drunk, though.
Lying there on the ground for ages, stiff and cold, feeling like somebody'd dropped the back end of a truck on his head. Finally he'd got it together and scrabbled to his feet. Knew he ought to phone an ambulance but also knew he shouldn't. He wasn't sure why.
What should he do, then? Phone somebody. Get out of here. Go home. Go to bed. What had happened? That's how he was thinking. In fucked-up snatches.
He took out his phone. Looked through the names in his contacts. Only one made sense: Tommy. He remembered Tommy. Where was he? Phil looked for his brother and thought he saw him, but it was just a tombstone lying on the ground like a flat person. There was no sign of Tommy.
Phil called him. No answer. Phil wanted to leave a message but couldn't think of the words. He hung up and called again. Same result.
So he took another quick look around, couldn't see anyone, just more flattened tombstones, and staggered down the path. He'd lost something. No idea what. Flashes of something bright, shiny, sharp. The information was in his head, but the harder he tried to locate it, the sicker he felt. Just out of the graveyard, he fell to his knees and spewed. Didn't help him remember, but he felt better. A little.
Dizzy, legs about to give out, he walked down the path. He had to sit down before long. Thought about staying there. But he had somewhere to go. Not home, no. Another place. Where sick people went.
Hospital! That was the fella.
He got there, but it was a mystery how. He couldn't remember a thing.
Taxi? Wasn't possible. It wouldn't have stopped. He looked drunk and taxi drivers didn't like alkies.
But somehow he'd made it.
Yeah, everything was stop-start. For a while. With chunks of time missing.
The doc said, "Turn your head to the side."
"I'll be sick."
"You have to turn your head to the side."
He did. And was sick.
Sometime later the doctor said, "You're feeling better."
"I am?"
"Are you?"
"I think so."