Connor saw the pickaxe coming down and lurched to one side, out of the way. The axe buried itself in the sofa. Jeb swore, spat, then took another swing as Connor staggered, dizzy, trying to get to his feet and away.

‘You’ll just make it harder for yourself,’ said Jeb, shaking his head. ‘The punishment’s due, boy, so take it. We’ll send your ma a little something to remember you by, but the rest? We’ll let our old porkers have you. Yeah, we’ll feed you to the pigs. How about that?’

Connor was swaying, his legs unsteady. He saw the axe coming at him again and shoved aside a dirty, dusty old chair and went sprawling against the wall.

Thunk!

This time the wall got it, right beside Connor’s head. Jeb yanked the thing back out. Plaster dust flew, and bits of shredded wallpaper. Connor tried to lever himself to his feet once again, but the room was spinning and he couldn’t seem to get his legs to work.

‘Stay still, cunt face,’ said Jeb, and he was grinning, enjoying this as he drew the pickaxe back for the third time.

Can’t move, thought Connor. Can’t do it.

He watched the pick swinging back.

This is it then.

Back it went . . .

‘Now take your punishment, boy,’ he heard Jeb say as if from a great distance away.

Gonna die here tonight . . .

Then, at the top of the arc, the pickaxe stopped moving. Jeb froze there, his eyes wide. A thin trickle of blood came snaking down the side of his thick neck, staining the front of his filthy shirt a dull red. Slowly, he pitched forward and hit the wall beside Connor. Then Connor saw the meat chopper attached to the back of Jeb’s neck, its blade buried deep, cutting his spine clean in half.

Connor looked up, trying to focus. He saw Aysha standing there, weaving back and forth. She looked like she was about to throw up. But she’d stopped Jeb Cleaver.

Then with a roar Bill came thundering into the room and threw himself at Aysha. She went down hard, the head of the Cleaver clan’s hands locked around her throat.

162

162

Christ, the bastard’s killing her, thought Connor.

His brain felt scrambled. Aysha’s face was going purple. Bill was sitting on her chest in grief and fury, having seen that she’d killed his son, and was now throttling the life out of her.

Got to do something.

But he couldn’t. All Connor could do was watch in horror as Bill killed his sister.

Must do something.

Couldn’t, though. Couldn’t get up. Soon, maybe, but by then it would be too late.

Shit.