‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she said, fighting tears as she headed out the door.

25 JUICE JET

Charlie walked fast in the dusk. The road out of Swallow Park had no sidewalk and she had to hop into a rocky embankment whenever headlamps bore down. She couldn’t face calling Harry or Brad. Part of her wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out, but a bigger part felt vengeful.

Go back with a gun. Shoot the big Texan first, then the lanky guy, the soccer moms and their sweaty brats. Burn Swallow Park to the ground and give everyone a real reason to send my ass back to White Boulder …

But it was just a crazy fantasy and Charlie felt shaky and tearful as a single light closed from behind. She moved on to the verge as the electric motorbike passed, then felt angst as it slowed.

A shiver shot through Charlie as the rider set down a boot. The moonlit figure was wasp-like, in black riding leathers and a bright yellow helmet. Charlie backed up and glanced behind, worried about having to escape over jagged rocks in the dark, as the rider flipped their visor.

‘Hey!’ she yelled.

The rider made a huge groan as she stepped off and Charlie’s nerves eased as she realised the riding leathers were stretched over a pregnant belly.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you. Are you OK?’

When the rider removed her helmet, Charlie recognised the cropped pink hair of the woman who’d been teaching at Maker’s Yard.

‘Am I still inside Swallow Park?’ Charlie asked warily. ‘I’m moving as fast as I can.’

The woman shook her head as she stepped up. ‘The security gate is the boundary – you’re fine. But you’re staying at Obama, right?’

‘Sure.’

‘Long walk,’ the rider said, stopping three paces from Charlie and fighting for breath.

Below the pink hair, she had a pierced nose and half a dozen rings in each ear. She looked around thirty, some Latin blood, advanced pregnancy forcing her to stand with feet far apart.

‘I’m sorry about what happened back there,’ the rider said. ‘Seems like there’s more assholes in the world every day.’

‘For sure,’ Charlie said, appreciating the sympathy, but miffed that the woman had kept quiet at Maker’s Yard.

‘I’m Mango,’ she said, reaching out to shake hands.

Charlie raised an eyebrow. ‘Like the fruit?’

Mango nodded. ‘My older brother’s called Tomato, but at least that shortens to Tom.’

‘Certain names are borderline parental cruelty,’ Charlie said, smiling slightly.

‘Steve’s a diamond,’ Mango said. ‘I felt bad letting him hang, but I’m seven months gone, and my blood pressure is stratospheric.’

‘I was looking forward to a new start,’ Charlie confided. ‘But it seems not to work like that.’

‘Marc was ranting about you when I arrived to teach my lesson …’ Mango explained.

‘The big Texan?’