Home of Golf

I stood in the hallway of Fife Park 7, braced against the screams coming from the kitchen, but not yet braced enough to enter.

‘You fucking cunting bitching fuck.’ So came the next wave of expletives.

It was followed by a series of crashes, some isolated thumps, an almost comic tinkling of glass, and several further crashes.

‘You cunting fucking mothercunting shit fucker!’

My hand hovered over the handle.

‘Who’s he shouting at?’ Mart asked, behind me. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It is what it is.’

‘Very Zen,’ Mart said, unimpressed. ‘You should get in there. He might hurt himself.’

I pushed the door, and a spray of porcelain flew past my nose, right to left. It was my porcelain. Another mug hit the door before it was half open. I poked my head around the door.

‘Hello,’ I said.

It wasn’t any time for reason. It wasn’t any time for smalltalk. Another mug was lightly tossed, and he spun the golf club round to intercept it. I pulled my head back into the hallway just in time.

‘Fucking bastarding shiteating cuntbreathing fucking cocksores.’

When you use the word cunt as frequently as an angry Scotsman, it can be hard to find something stronger, for those special occasions.

‘Cocksores, huh?’ Mart said.

‘Are you okay in there?’ I called through, voice raised and strained - like he’d been in the shower for forty minutes. Another fracturing crash.

‘Hello?’ Mart shouted after.

I looked in again.

The cupboard doors were off, and three more kicks took out the drawers, bam, bam, and bam. The 7 Iron came down hard on the edge of the work surface.

It cracked, shards flew off. It was chipboard underneath. I shut the door firmly.

‘We’re going to let him work it out,’ I said. ‘Whatever it is. I don’t care about the kitchen. It’s not mine.’

‘And the plates?’

‘Yes, they’re mine. That changes nothing.’

The crashes came for minutes on end. Eventually they slowed, like almost-done popcorn. Mart reached for the door handle.

‘Give him a minute,’ I said. We gave him two.

Frank emerged from the kitchen. The picture of composure.

‘Should have used a six,’ he said, tossing me the club.

There was trouble, later.

‘If I live to be a thousand, I will never understand this,’ said the wrinkled killjoy at Residential Services. She looked like she had just about a year to prove herself right.

‘Neither will I,’ I told her, honestly. ‘It’s just shit that happened.’