‘What did I say, Dora?’ he asked her in a low voice.

‘You said no clothes,’ said Dora, dry-mouthed, trying not to look at his body and failing. Her eyes slipped down, over that broad hard-muscled chest, the taut stomach. Then further. Oh God, he was ready for her again.

‘And as a little reminder that what I say is what I mean, Dora, here’s this.’

This was the cigarette. Its glowing tip touched her outer thigh, very lightly, the quickest of contacts. It burned. She let out a yelp of pain.

‘There. You see? Do as you’re told and there’ll be no trouble, but if you disobey me, Dora, what else can I do but discipline you?’ He leaned over and laid the smouldering remains of the cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table.

Tears filled Dora’s eyes as her flesh stung from the burn. Donny pulled her down, onto his knee. Almost gently he brushed a tear from her cheek.

‘Don’t cry, Dora,’ he said, his eyes predatory with hunger for her.

Hadn’t she always known that he wanted this? Even back in the day when his little brother William had been fawning over her, hanging around her, making a thorough pest of himself, when Donny hadn’t so much as glanced her way, she had felt his interest in her. And now, it seemed that no matter what he did – hurting her, burning her, causing her pain because she had done the same to him, she knew deep down that she wanted this, too; that she was caught up in his sick vengeful games and would never break free.

BOOK TWO

71

1962

At five years old Angel O’Brien had a lot of uncles. Well, they weren’t uncles really, she knew that, but she was supposed to call them that. There was Uncle Keith with the hare lip, Uncle Charlie Poulter with the barrel gut, Uncle Barry Leigh with the s-s-s-stutter. A procession of them, men with their brains in their trousers, her mum said, and big deep pockets, traipsing through her and her mother’s life. One moment there, the next gone.

One of them lingered, though. One of them was always there.

Angel had heard the ladies in the club talking about him. They said he was nice looking if you went for the intense type, but Angel didn’t like his eyes. One look could scare you. He was tall, slender. He always dressed nice. No beer guts, deformities or speech impediments with this one. Just that look, that could freeze your blood in an instant. Angel didn’t like that look.

Uncle Donny always got free drinks at the bar, free food on the table, the best seat in the house; in return, she’d heard Mum say, he turned a blind eye to anything tasty going on and everyone was happy. Angel didn’t understand what was meant by ‘tasty’, but she listened, and tried to understand. Somehow, Uncle Donny was important to Mum, but Mum didn’t really like him.