High Heels & Pink Glitter (the heavily edited version)

The bigger man

Everything in Buchanan Gallery Boots sharpened and froze in place around Ryan. Erin, both hands in front of her mouth and her eyebrows peaking north. The tunicked shop assistant showing someone where they could find the hair serums, her finger pointed at the shelf. Two teenage girls trying on make-up, one holding up a lipstick, her lips parted and half of her mouth pale pink and the other scarlet.

Mark Murray, eyes unblinking and focused on him, one arm dangling by his side and the other hand still clutching the packet of dye.

No movements, no sounds.

And then it was if someone clicked their fingers. The shop assistant asked whether the customer needed anything else and left the aisle when the woman shook her head. The trying-on-make-up girl applied the lipstick to the rest of her mouth, and Mark Murray replaced the packet of hair dye, gathered himself, and walked off.

Erin shuffled forward, blocking his aisle exit. "Didn't you hear him?" she demanded. "He's your son!"

Mark glanced behind him. "No, he's no'! Out ma way."

Erin folded her arms. "Yes, he is! You're a total prick and a rotten c-word who's never taken any responsibility for him!"

By now, they'd attracted attention. Customers nearby nudged one another, and a security guard dressed in a bulky blue sweater and matching polyester trousers with a neat crease down the front approached them, his radio held close to his mouth.

"Look at him!" Erin commanded their audience, gesturing towards Ryan first and then Mark. "Isn't Ryan's the absolute spit of him?"

The make-up trying on girls were among their audience. Ryan cringed as they gawped at him, one nodding her head and the other proclaiming that Erin was quite right. Erin meant well, but if the ground chose that moment to open and swallow him, he would sink gratefully into its depths.

"Sir, sir—is everything okay?" The security guard addressed Mark.

"Aye, I just wannae get out o' here," Mark told him. "The silly cow's mixed me up wi' someone else."

He steadfastly refused to look in Ryan's direction.

"I have not! He's Mark Murray, and his name's on Ryan's birth certificate!" Erin piped up.

It wasn't, actually. Mhari chose 'father unknown' to prevent her parents marching round to the Murrays' house and demanding a shotgun wedding to a man she knew would make a terrible husband, figuring it was easier to live with that ignobility. Still, Mark's face twitched in response. "But I—"

The security guard waved his hand. "This is no' the time or place. We're no' the Jeremy Kyle show. Or Jerry Springer. The three of youse. Oot. Now."

Erin exhaled and stepped to one side, allowing Mark to pass. The sight of him hurrying off, head down, infuriated Ryan and he chased after him, ignoring Erin and the security's guard's cries of "Hey!"

As they reached the front door, he caught hold of Mark's arm. "You are ma dad. Are ye no'... proud o' me?"

Oh, God. Why had he said that? He sounded about ten years old.

Mark shook his hand off. Fury screwed his eyes up, turning his face pinched and mean. "I'm no' your fucking dad. Mhari Colquhoun always was a lying wee slag."

The image of his mother crouched in front of him when he was six years old, crying because a wee boy at school had poked fun of him, telling everyone else in class that Ryan didnae have a daddy, and using her forefinger to stem the tears. Lee's your daddy, Ryan, your real daddy, ma wee darling. In every way that counts. You ignore that silly boy. D'ye want us tae stop at the Equi shop for an ice-cream?