by Ali Mckenzie-Murdoch
Tonight is fish and chips on the beach, serenaded by the whizz-bang ka-ching from the amusement arcade. Dad hands me a tenner, and I dodge across the road to the Stag Inn – they’ll serve you even if you’re only twelve. Inside there’s swearing, Sky Sports blaring, and a whiff of beer-soaked carpet. The crack of a pool cue shatters the air.
It’s mad in there! I shout, running back without the cans of Stella. Two dogs are humping by the loos, and there’s a fight at the bar.
Although the sun has set, Dad unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves. Tattooed forearms flexing, he ploughs through the pebbles and onto the tarmac before anyone can stop him. Why must he always get involved? I could chase him, at least arm him with a weapon, but the only thing at hand is Mum’s umbrella. Her face twitches in the twilight. Your Dad struts like a turkey when he’s wound up, she says. Dad strides across the pub car park, my brother Hector clucking. I picture Granddad’s roosters fighting for rank – fluffing feathers, crowing, spurring – and my stomach twists, full of scratching claws.
Dad says he only wants to help. Like that time on my birthday, when we gathered at the window as a drunk almost danced off the rooftop across from ours, the scaffolding clattering as he teetered, armed with bricks and Fuck Yous. Football top flashing red, pummelling his chest, he wailed, I thought you were my friend. Dad wanted to climb up and set him straight, but hot tears pricked my face. I clamped myself around his leg while the candles in my cake burnt to the wick.
On the blanket, Hector flicks cold chips. Stop that, Mum says, or the gulls will peck us. I’m more worried about the animals in the pub, and who they’re attacking. I curl up and inhale the scent of spilled sun cream encrusted in the tartan weave. Hector punches my shoulder so I roll closer to Mum. He told me he drank vodka last night at the cinema. This morning, a streak of orange vomit flamed up our garden wall. Now, Hector opens the Lipton Ice Tea he pocketed at the newsagents after school. A peach whisper sweetens the air.
When the shouting gets loud, I spot a regular from the Stag charging out the pub. The one with the Hammers t-shirt, the one with the can of Red Bull, the one with the pool cue. Sirens swell and in the pink dusk, pebbles clatter. A figure staggers towards our blanket. Mum growls deep in her throat. I manage a whimper. Dad?
Deflated, Dad’s shoulders crumple, a ribbon of blood trickling out his nose, as he clutches his arm, scrabbling to pull down his sleeve. Hector’s voice wobbles in the dark. They’ve made a meal out of Dad. Etched amongst inky anchors, swallows, and snakes, the bite mark is a yawning moon.
Ali Mckenzie-Murdoch (UK) lives in Zurich, Switzerland. Her work appears in X-R-A-Y Literary, Fractured Lit, Your Impossible Voice, Litro, Bending Genres, and more. She is a Fractured Lit Flash Open Contest Finalist, was shortlisted for the National Flash Fiction Day 2023 Micro-Fiction Competition, and received Honourable Mention in the 2023 Scribes Prize. She has also been nominated for Best Small Fiction 2025 and Best Micro Fiction 2025. She’s working on a novella-in-flash about liminal spaces – theatre stages, no man’s land, and the foreshore – places where boundaries blur.
