‘Just a little,’ she warned him. ‘Drink too much too quickly and you’ll be sick again. And if it’s on my kitchen floor, there’ll be trouble.’

Imelda sat down and Shunty-Mae poured her a glass of vodka. ‘You’re the colour of a shroud, girl! Get this down you. That great greedy dog will be fine. So long as he doesn’t vomit in here,’ she said, shooting Grisha, who had settled down on his blanket, a cautionary glare. Imelda lifted the glass to her lips. Her hands were shaking, but she couldn’t say whether it was with fear for what might have happened, or anger about what already had. Shunty-Mae poured herself a drink and sat down at the table.

‘Now, are you going to tell me what happened?’

As she knocked back the vodka in one gulp, the afternoon’s events coalesced in Imelda’s mind to form the explicit realisation that Grisha might have died. She stormed back outside into the garden and with her arms raised and her fists clenched she bellowed at the sky; an eruption of primal fury and frustration that continued until she could barely breathe. Alexei arrived home from work just in time to witness the spectacle. He kissed Shunty-Mae, poured himself a drink and waited for someone to tell him what the hell was happening.

_______________________

Grisha was feeling much better now. And hungry. Imelda, Shunty-Mae and Alexei sat around the table eating fish and chips and discussing his attempted murder. Grisha rested his head on Alexei’s knee – knowing that he was always a soft touch – and was rewarded with a small piece of battered cod. Shunty-Mae was holding forth, full of fire and brimstone.

‘I told you that girl was trouble the first time I saw her. She drags it with her like a shadow wherever she goes. Men are taken in by her painted face and her fawning and flattery, but that one has no heart. She’s an ice queen in her own cold world and everyone else is just one of her subjects to be commanded as she sees fit!’

‘You don’t like her, then?’ Alexei joked as he stole a chip from his wife’s plate.

‘Like her? I’d like to push her under a bus!’

‘Me too,’ agreed Imelda, ‘but as that’s not really an option, what can I do? I can’t prove she left the chocolate there. I didn’t actually see her do it and Marty won’t believe a word said against her anyway.’

‘But no one else could have done it. Don’t tell me that you’re afraid to stand up to her too?’

‘You know I’m not,’ Imelda scoffed. ‘But I’m beginning to be afraid of what she might be capable of.’