A Year in Fife Park by Quinn Wilde

he was also wearing a pair of red and blue plaid boxer shorts, and an old grey T-shirt.
    ‘Fuck you,’ Lance said, pulling from his Stella. ‘It’s been my go for about an hour.’
    Frank kept playing. Lance didn’t care, as long as nobody took his Stella away.
    ‘Dude,’ Mart said. ‘I don’t think you should drink that. It might have broken glass in it.’
    Even in the glow from the monitor, you could see Lance’s knuckles whiten against the side of his pub-style pint glass. [All of our pint glasses were ‘pub-style’, because they were all stolen from pubs.]
    ‘You… fuckers ,’ he said.
    ‘Get the dustpan from the kitchen, would you Mart?’ Frank said, dismissively.
    ‘And grab a stubby for Lance,’ I added. ‘There’s still a few in the fridge.’
    ‘And one for me,’ Frank chanced.
    ‘Come on, let’s go out,’ Lance growled, impatiently. ‘Get some jars in.’
    ‘If I get you the kit, can you just hook him up to one of those stubbys?’ I asked Frank.
    ‘We haven’t covered intravenous stuff, yet,’ Frank said, cautiously.
    ‘Can’t hurt to be ahead of the curve this year,’ I said, meaningfully.
    ‘We’re going out,’ Craig announced, tugging at his shirt cuffs as he entered the room.
    ‘Finally,’ Lance said.
    ‘Watch it, Craig,’ I said. ‘There’s broken glass everywhere.’
    ‘Then why are the fucking lights off?’
    ‘That’s what’s broken,’ Lance said. ‘It went in my beer.’
    ‘Now it’s a light beer,’ Frank told him. ‘Drink up. Bit of broken glass never hurt anyone.’
    Lance looked down at the beer. It was touch and go. I reached over and took the pint away from him; the glass came free from his hand on the third try.
    ‘Shouldn’t you be the responsible one?’ I asked Frank, a bit harshly. He looked at me, quizzically.
    ‘Why?’ he said, like I’d just asked if he wanted to fuck a Husky.
    ‘Because you’re a fucking doctor,’ I said. ‘Or you will be.’
    ‘Might be,’ Craig interjected.
    ‘…might be a doctor,’ I finished, corrected. ‘People are going to take you seriously!’
    ‘We can’t all be philosophers, Quinn.’
    Mart walked in with an armful of stubby bottles, and passed them around. Lance was not placated.
    ‘Are we fucking going out?’ Lance asked. ‘Or are we going to sit here chinwagging all night, with beers in our hands?’
    I sighed. I don’t know the significance of out. I don’t know as there’s ever been a night I’d have rather gone out with friends than stay in with them. The beer’s cheaper, the seats are comfier, the video games don’t cost a quid a go. But I’ve always been boring like that.
    ‘What exactly do you think is going to be different about the Vic tonight?’ I asked. ‘Because what we do there, we’re doing here, only without some cunty drunk caddy spitting in your ear and pishing down his leg.’
    That incident was still fresh and it was going to stick with us.
    ‘There’s other reasons to be out,’ Lance said, genuinely affronted. ‘Puppies!’
    I looked to Mart. It sounded like a London thing, he was close enough.
    ‘Boobs,’ he explained. ‘Lance wants to make it with the ladies .’
    ‘Lance is going to sit and drink beer and smoke fags,’ Craig said.
    ‘And it wouldn’t be much of a reason to go out anyway, since none of us ever score.’
    ‘Ella’s going out apparently,’ Craig told me. ‘Heard it from Kate.’
    ‘That’s different,’ I said, getting up and calmly walking out of the room.
    ‘He’s getting his coat,’ Frank called after me.
    ‘I’m taking a piss,’ I shouted back, guiltily.
    I locked the bathroom door behind me and looked into the mirror. It would have to do. Shaving wasn’t an option, given the state of my razor. Not unless I wanted to look like a meth addict.
    Not for Ella. Ella was special. Ella was beautiful, she was talkative – very talkative, as it happens. There were no awkward pauses with Ella, which had led me to feel almost