‘What?’
‘Why did you kill them? Victor and Lydia?’
‘To show him.’ His mouth worked for a moment then he went on. ‘He wouldn’t take me with him – said I was just a kid, a nancy mummy’s boy. To get in touch when I’d grown a pair.’ His eyes were hot with rage. ‘He’d been well impressed with the wino. But I done two, black bastards. Coons.’ Hatred livened his face.
‘I heard you knew them, used to hang out. Friendly,’ she said.
‘So what?’ he said. ‘He’s blood, my dad, he’s family.’
And he doesn’t give a fuck.
‘What about your mum? She looked after you all the time he was away.’
‘She chucked him out,’ he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. ‘She started it,’ he complained, an outraged child.
‘Where did you get the gun? Did you nick it from your dad?’
Connor laughed, making the gun swing wildly, and Rachel flinched.
‘No, off of Victor. The Perrys, they sold it to Victor for some gear. They wanted rid, after doing the alkie, I reckon. Victor was showing it off. I asked to hold it. Bare luck, wasn’t it?’ He shook his head, grinning. ‘I had a knife – that could have got messy. Victor had the gun. How good is that?’ Delight danced across his face.
‘And the accelerant?’
A sudden blast of sound sent electric shocks through Rachel’s arms. The buzzer from the entry phone. They both glanced up at the screen. Janet.
‘You fucking tricked me, you bitch!’ he screamed.
‘No,’ Rachel said, scrambling up, ‘no, wait-’
The gunshot cracked loud as a mortar. Rachel was flung back, swung round, searing pain in her upper arm, and the stink of gunpowder in her throat. She fell, landing on her back, smacking her head on the floor. Her ears were ringing, roaring, and she could just make out the noise of the buzzer sounding again and again.
‘Fuck!’ She heard him swear.
There was a throbbing in her left side, a deep ache travelled down her arm and through her back. A safe house, shot to death in a safe house. Fucking ironic, no?
She would not let him do this to her. Not some fucked-up little tosser from Manorclough adding her to his hit list, to impress his racist twat of a father. No way, mate.
Rachel felt the floor shake as he came closer, sensed him bending over her. Felt him nudge her with his foot. A move that sent pain slicing through her and brought vomit in her throat. She played dead, tried to still her breathing and cracked open an eyelid the smallest possible fraction.
She would have one chance.
‘Fuck,’ he said again.
Rachel lunged. One hand, her good hand, a vice around his ankle. Her right foot flying up, knee bent, to kick at his wrist. She heard the muffled snap as she connected with the bones, his howl and her own yelp as the agony washed through her afresh, the world spinning and darkness looming. The crash as the gun hit the sliding frosted-glass door to the kitchen, shattering it like crystal rain.