The Makings of Mia Pleasure, nee Mia Brigshaw, nee (nee?) Karen Brigshaw…
Scab. Your dad’s a f***ing scab.
Karen hadn’t, at first, realised that the boy was shouting abuse at her as she walked home from school.
Scab. Your dad’s a f***cking scab.
Karen, having latched on to the fact that the she was now the one in the spotlight, with other kids gawping at her from the other side of the road, and with a few semi-interested adults who just happened to decide to take in some fresh air, or to have a cigarette as the boy started his tirade against Karen, and who are happy to idly watch the pre-situation unfold in the hope that it might just become a situation, feeling very much alone, but not in the least bit scared at this point, dropped her school bag from off of the shoulder it had been slung over and quizzed the boy as to just what was his f***ing problem.
Your dad’s a scab.
Karen hadn’t really come across the word before, but it didn’t sound good – nothing good can come from scabs, she thought.
And if he’s a scab, you’re his scab bitch daughter.
Karen took a good few steps towards the boy, leaving her school bag just as it was, and maintained eye contact with him as she walked. She stopped just in front of him – big lad, plump without being what you’d call fat, ugly and covered in spots from his cheeks down to the base of his neck, and not just the fiery looking ones but the one’s that resemble craters with pre-eruption pus fairly bursting to get out.
What you looking at, scab slag? Gonna go crying to your scab dad?
Karen continues her stare, then…