The sound of shotgun shells being loaded, harsh and loud in the otherwise silent morning, gave her warning enough to get out of the way. She scrambled for the wall. No sooner had she moved than an explosion slammed into the door handle. Wood splintered, shards flew. Sharon, on her knees, felt something strike her in the back. She held her ringing ears, lay belly-down on the floor like a snake. She looked up as the door opened, swinging freely. In stepped the three, Judah first, with the shotgun up. Upon sighting Sharon he hurried over and kicked the pistol from her, like it was nothing, and flipped her onto her back. She felt as small as a beetle, belly exposed.

Judah’s foot lifted and smashed down onto her stomach. She doubled up but he kicked her chest, her breasts. Deep into her side, into her ribs. One boot landed on her nose. She was whimpering. Trying and failing to get to her knees and crawl. He kept on stomping and stomping. Every kick an invasion. She had never felt so helpless.

She looked at the eyes of him through the pain and saw only demons. He stood on her hand, raised his other foot and slammed it down. She felt something in her wrist snap. She tried to prise his foot off it. She was desperate, an animal caught in a trap. Daisy caught in her father’s grip, head about to come off and roll about on the floor.

Judah was watching her, laughing.

Then Martin was shoving him off her, and Brendan was looking shocked.

Martin said, leaning over her. ‘You alright there, Sharon?’

She could only gasp for breath and moan.

Brendan said, ‘Shouldn’t hit a woman.’

‘Women shouldn’t be in jobs rightly held by men,’ Martin said. ‘She acts like she’s got balls, she’ll suffer the same as one who has.’

She heard Brendan make a disbelieving noise. The pain was now throbbing deep in all her parts. She kept gripping her head, hurting her dangling wrist.

A strange pride in her, though. That she’d taken it so far. That she was still lucid.

Martin, without removing his eyes from her, said to Judah, ‘You break her wrist?’

‘I think so,’ he said.

Martin leaned lower—she could almost smell his breath. If she’d had anything left she would have struggled away from his face.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘I almost admire you for standing up for that old man. Shows something, I guess. Not many would’ve done that.’

She decided to try out her mouth. Managed, ‘Don’t condescend to me, you little shit.’

This made him laugh, and clap his hands on his knees. She thought for a minute he was going to muss her hair, like he was patting a dog.

But instead he straightened and nodded to Judah, who lowered his shotgun and pressed it on her stomach. The steel was cold through the fabric of her uniform. Would she see the muzzle flash? What do you know of your own death when it comes?