Frank's House

Out out get out of my house. The weak sunlight limped through the curtains and embalmed the dust. It was so long ago. Frank had been sitting there forever. On his hide armchair with a stale can of beer. He was half dead. Naked. Curled like a whelk. You better take your trenchcoat too. Fifty years ago. It was fifty years ago to the day. His daughter died. He'd killed her. Drunk. Young. Reckless. He'd been drinking. So young the both of them. Couldn't drink. Not at eighteen. Not yet. Damn damn damn that freezing March. He'd told him to leave the car if ever. If ever he'd had a few. Whenever his daughter was there. Get a taxi. He'd willingly pay. He'd foot the bill. He'd pay the piper. She'd died terribly. In dreadful pain. In hospital. Like roadkill. Gutted on a block. He'd grown to hate him Frank had. And his fuckin leather trenchcoat. No daughter of mines going out with an hippy. He'd got long greasy hair and a fuckin' black trench. A real talker down the Duck and Gun. A real centre of attention swilling his pints. The young fuckin buck. His daughter never stood a chance. The lorry was massive. It slid over them like a pan lid. She was ruined. Jugged. He got out. Hustler was playing on the radio. Get out of my house. Frank didn't get it. How a lazy goodfornothing scruffy bastard could survive and his beautiful daughter not. It didn't make sense. Or a scruffy little bleeder like you. He'd murdered him. Frank murdered him after the funeral. A good few years after. No one was none the wiser. It felt good. It made sense. Fuckin loser had killed his gorgeous baby. Justice had been served. That was fifty years ago. A lifetime. Beyond memory. Beyond reckoning. He'd got away with it. He sat with his beer still getting away with it. You better take your trenchcoat too. His hate hadn't simmered. It had boiled over like a broth of evil and murder was on his mind again. Anyone would do. Yes. There was a knock at the door. A recognisable face. Hi Frank. Remember me. I visited once before. Its OK. I don't need tea. I'll just sit with you awhile whilst you get things right in your head. I can help with the arrangements. Up the garden path. Out the gate. The two figures sat in the smoke-filled room, the sunlight now disabled. A reason was rising in the gloom. You got some feelings going on there Frank? Nice cozy killing feelings? I like your style. What you got in mind mi old mucker?" You better take your trenchcoat too. The visitor, a large brown hare, stood and walked to the old record stack. It stopped dead at the Hustler album near the back and grinned. A scruffy little bleeder like you it whispered. Ive seen you Hare. Trapped in a car wreck. Dried up like a leather bag. Frank muttered. Wasn't me Frank. I'm here with you aren't I. Why don't we go out for a stroll. Remember. Those warm cozy thoughts. Lets get your hands wet down the Duck and Gun. Fuck off Hare. Oh C'Mon! It'll be fun. Some backstreet blasphemy. Yeah! Killing that fuckin' hippy didn't bring her back. She's dried out like a fuckin' pelt. It didn't do shit. You're full of shit Hare. Yeah, but it felt good didn't it Frank. You can't deny that. It made sense slittin' that bleeder's throat and chuckin him in the canal with his shitty trenchcoat full of bricks. How good was that. Youre right. It did. It felt so damn good. Frank felt his hands tighten again. He stood and reached for a kitchen knife. He walked over. Hare smiled and put the record on before turning. Out. Out. Get out of my house. You better take your trenchcoat too. No daughter of mine's going out with an Hippy or a scruffy little bleeder like you.