‘You’re like my mother, do you know that? All good outside, and wind and water inside. All the mouth and the talk. Oh, yes, it’s like you modelled yourself on old Maeve. Maeve the mother figure, Maeve who talked to us all as if we were kids even when we were grown men and women. I hate her, Donna, almost as much as I hate you. Do you know the funny thing? When the word gets back that you’re dead, I’ll have to identify you, won’t I?’

He laughed again.

‘I’ll enjoy that. It will give me a real good laugh.’

Donna was terrified. ‘You’re mad. Georgio will know what happened.’

Stephen rubbed her face with his hand, caressing the swollen cheek once more.

‘Georgio will be grateful, darling. He wasn’t going to stay with you, you stupid bitch.’

As he spoke Donna launched herself at him, hands and nails flying. It was so unexpected it took him and Candy by surprise but as she reached the door, Stephen caught hold of her hair, dragging her painfully back to the bed.

‘You’re not going anywhere, woman. Not yet anyway.’

Just then the door opened and Alan Cox walked into the room with two heavyset men behind him.

‘Hello, all. Entertaining the family, Stephen?’

Donna catapulted from the bed as if on a spring and ran to Alan, her face alight with relief at seeing him.

Stephen looked stunned.

‘Surprised to see me, Stephen?’ Alan put his arm around Donna and smiled down at her. Then, pushing her away gently, he walked towards Stephen.

He was still looking stunned as Candy, realising what was happening, went for Alan with her glass. Donna shouted to warn him and Alan turned around and slammed his fist into Candy’s abdomen. The glass flew out of her hand as she dropped to her knees.

Alan Cox stared at Stephen as he sat on the bed, his face a mask of surprise and fear. As Stephen went to rise, Alan began to lay into him, punching him with the full force of his considerable weight behind each blow.

Donna watched in shock as Stephen attempted to crawl across the bed, trying to avoid the rain of blows descending on him with premeditated regularity, battering his head and his face with a ferocity Donna would never have believed possible. As Stephen hit the floor, Alan was kicking him, kicking him so hard he was being shoved across the concrete, and all the time Alan was talking.

‘Hurts does it, Brunos? Frightened, are you? The big whoremaster is frightened, is he?’

In her mind’s eye Donna saw Alan kicking to death a Chinese man in Soho. In her heart she knew it was about to be re-enacted in a squalid hotel-cum-brothel in Sri Lanka.

Grabbing him, she began pulling him away. ‘You’ll kill him, Alan, you’ll kill him!’