Page 6 of Parker

Chapter four

The Smith Family Home, Glasgow.

Nicky

My life course changed forever in a single night.

After returning from my part-time bar work to my family’s home in the early hours of Sunday morning, I’m surprised to see a dim light in our living room window. My dad, an early riser, is usually in bed by this time.

Mum is away on a brief break with my aunt, who recently lost her husband.

As I slide my key into the lock of our front door, it refuses to turn.

It’s open. My family is security-conscious after a burglary years ago.

Mum checks the locks on all the windows and doors multiple times each day.

She has never come to terms with the invasion of her privacy, never feeling safe in her home since.

Cautiously, I turn the old brass doorknob and let myself into our hall.

My eyes scan the room as I take in the scene in front of me.

The cheap pine staircase that runs up the left-hand side of the corridor is littered with discarded clothing.

Black high heels I know aren’t my mother’s lie on the rug.

A low-cut leopard print dress hangs from the banister with a pair of men’s jeans dumped below it.

The bastard is doing it again. He broke her before, and here he is with another side piece.

I silently ascend the stairs. On the landing, the door to my parents’ room is wide open, and music floats into the hall. It’s romantic and sensual; I can see candles flickering against the windows, adding to the amorous ambiance.

They lie on the bed together, naked, his arm around her shoulders, both propped up on pillows.

My mother’s flowery quilt disposed of on the old worn carpet.

Her short, dark hair is messy from their lovemaking, and he puffs his cigar merrily.

Rosy faces chat to each other, still in their post-sex happiness, looking completely relaxed, like this is not the first time they’ve been together.

I recognize her but don’t know her name.

After creeping soundlessly to my room to consider my options, fury builds inside me at a rapid rate.

He was the reason my mother shattered the first time.

She never said it out loud, but I saw it in the way she smiled like it hurt.

In the way she stopped wearing lipstick nor buying flowers for the house.

She gave up a long time ago. And I’d been watching it happen in slow motion, consoling her as she cried over spilled coffee.

The hockey stick sits in the corner, innocent and unused.

No one has swung it since I left high school last year.

Now, nineteen and a university student, I spend my days in lectures and my nights working or socializing with men.

Drunken shenanigans and meaningless sex fill every weekend—I’m rarely in my bed.

I could turn around. The choice is there for me to walk out and let my mother discover the wreckage that is left of her marriage for herself. But something snaps, and I want to avenge her.

I pick up the destitute pink club and move back into the upper hallway, my feet slithering along the floor. Standing outside my parents’ room, I’m able to listen to their inane conversation.

“When’s the old bag home?” the female purrs.

“Tomorrow. We better make the most of our freedom.” My father sounds miserable. “I can’t bear to share a bed with her again. She repulses me. This week, Chesca, I’m going to tell her about us.”

“Really, Jim?” She bounces on the bed with excitement. “We can finally be together. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

At that moment, I lose it. Bursting into the room and screaming at the top of my lungs. “You dirty, old bastard. How could you?”

Turning pure-white with his eyes on stalks at my appearance, my father gapes at me.

She plunges under the covers, trying to maintain some dignity, but struggles to pull the twisted sheets up over her voluptuous breasts, leaving her exposed.

I storm to the bedside, and standing over them with my weapon held high, they look up, terrified.

I swing the stick around my head, their eyes following each rotation the club makes.

Power coils in my fingertips, drawn and dangerous.

“Nicky, don’t you do anything stupid,” my father warns.

I’m so enraged by his attempt to control the situation that the stick crashes down across his abdomen before I can stop it.

Air shoots from his mouth, and he crosses his arms across himself, defensively.

“Speak again. And next time, it will be your filthy cock being crushed.” My focus shifts to the whore lying next to him, mute. Horrified brown eyes meet mine and then drop to the bedsheets she’s kneading between her fingers.

“What’s your name?” The words slip between my teeth with a hiss.

“Francesca,” she mumbles.

“Speak up. I can’t fucking hear you!” My grip tightens on the stick. The rage bubbles over.

“Francesca.”

“How did you meet my father? And how long have you been fucking him?” She looks from me to him, then back again, clearly conflicted about how much to reveal. “Don’t look at him. Tell me the truth.”

“We met through work. I’m his secretary.” Typical, I think, how bloody cliché. “We've been seeing each other for six months.”

Laughing openly now, I grab her chin to bring her face to mine. “Seeing each other? I’m not sure I’d call fucking a married man seeing him. But your standards could be very low.” She flushes and looks away. The three of us wait for someone to make the next move.

Eventually, my father breaks the silence, pulling himself up to sit straight on the bed and tucking the covers around his waist.

“Nicky,” he says. “You’re an adult, and I know you won’t be happy to find out about Chesca’s and my relationship. But you must understand, your mother and I—”

The hockey stick connecting with his cock stops him from finishing the sentence.

I don’t want to listen to his bullshit excuses.

The bitch screams and tries to jump from the bed, but I stop her with a strike to the chest. She falls backward, hitting the headboard hard.

My father cradles his privates as expletives pour from his mouth.

“I’m going to get a drink,” I tell them before leaving the room. “We can talk more downstairs.”

Descending the stairs, my feet hit each board with force, and the sound echoes off the old walls. Pictures rattle in their frames, and my parents’ wedding photo falls, smashing as it hits the ground. How ironic.

It’s not just fury that exploded from me minutes ago. It was heartbreak. Heartbreak in knowing someone you love is the version you feared they were. When someone shows you who they are, they tell you to believe them. My father left me no option.

The heavy, dark-wood sideboard sits in our living room, filling the space.

It has a gloomy presence. Multiple bottles cover the top, with discarded glasses displayed in the dusty cabinet.

I grab the first bottle that comes to hand, detaching the cap and drinking greedily.

The vodka burns my throat as it flows down to my stomach, but the instinctive sense of relief I love calms me instantly.

My father and his side piece appear fully dressed, including their shoes and coats. My father stands in the doorway, his face stern, not a hint of remorse to be seen. He holds his arms defensively across his chest.

“Where are you going?” I plant my feet, blocking their exit. “Tell me.”

“You attacked us, Nicky. It’s none of your bloody business. You could’ve killed us.” Turning to leave, he pulls the whore to him in a protective gesture as he pushes past me and out of the front door. They walk off down the path to what must be her car.

It’s a small red city car, the kind you see squeezed into inappropriate spaces that cause everyone else a headache. My father folds himself into the passenger seat. He smiles at her, and she does the same in return.

Highlighted by the mellow garden lamps, they look happy.

Actually, they look completely ecstatic about it.

I see red.

As they pull away, I storm to my car parked in the driveway.

She’s seen better days, but she’s bigger than the puny thing they’re driving.

I reverse without looking, and the front gate smashes from its hinges as it collides with my rear bumper.

Pulling onto the main road, I take off after the pair of cheating scumbags, leaving a litter of broken wood and glass behind me.

At the start of my pursuit, following behind them and causing discomfort feeds my need for revenge.

Deserted roads stretch before me. My gaze flicks to the clock on my dashboard, which shows 3:54 p.m. As I pull closer, forcing her to go faster, she speeds up and then slows again.

It’s obvious she isn’t a confident driver. I decide to have fun with her.

Pressing my accelerator to the floor, I nudge the rear bumper of the compact car. It wobbles in front of me, and she increases her speed in response. I repeat the action until we are driving through the city streets at over seventy miles per hour.

Approaching the Kingston Bridge, she takes a corner too tight, and they fly out of control. They slide all over the road until the car spins and rolls onto its side, slamming into a metal crash barrier with an almighty blow.

My foot eases off the gas and I slow to a crawl, stopping beside the mangled vehicle.

Getting out to survey the scene, I feel completely detached.

The metal is so twisted, it's hard to tell what is the front and what is the trunk.

Shrill screams fill the night sky as I approach the heap of junk.

I kneel beside the wreckage. Her frightened eyes lock with mine through the shattered glass.

And something inside me snaps — all the way through.

“Is he alive?” I ask.

“I think so,” she whispers.

“Shame. The bastard deserved to snuff it.”