Angel sucked in a panicky breath, turning, eyes wide with fright. Her heartbeat picked up and beat a wild tattoo in her chest. Christ, he moved like a cat. She hadn’t even heard the door open.

‘Yes,’ she said, standing there with the scissors still in her hand. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘Good. Good, honey.’ He smiled and came forward and placed a kiss on her mouth. Angel stood there, frozen. ‘Sod the tea,’ he said then. ‘Come on. Let’s go to bed.’

He took her hand in his and pulled her in for another kiss. Then still holding on to her he turned back toward the door.

‘No,’ said Angel, staying put.

‘Oh come on. You still annoyed over what I told you about that bitch mother of yours? I just . . .’

That bitch mother?

Angel wasn’t even aware of moving. She hated him. Loathed him for the awful things he had done to her and to Dora. She thought of having to lie to that nice doctor over the marks Donny had inflicted on Dora’s poor abused body. A blind, cold rage filled her. She swung her arm round and plunged the scissors into his neck.

101

‘What have you . . . ?’ roared out of Donny’s mouth, then he stopped speaking, couldn’t speak. He staggered, coughing blood.

Angel jumped back, away from him, her movement dragging the scissor blades free of his neck. She threw them aside. They fell onto the carpet, a spatter of blood going with them. Donny was clutching at his throat, reeling back against the door, his face white with shock.

Blood was pumping out of Donny, spraying her, the table, the walls. Angel backed away into the far corner by the bed. His eyes were wild, swivelling.

‘Bitch, you bitch, you . . .’ he was muttering as blood poured from his mouth. He was clutching at the bloody wound on his neck, but he couldn’t stop it leaking out of him.

‘Get an ambu . . .’ he was trying to say.

But Angel was shaking her head. ‘For my mum, Donny. This is all for my mum.’

Donny was staggering toward her, his eyes imploring now. ‘Ambulance . . .’ he managed to get out.

Then he collapsed to his knees, gurgling blood stopping the words. His eyes were fixed to hers. His shirt front was stained bright crimson. He was crawling toward her like something out of a nightmare. Angel cowered back on the bed, shrinking away from him, breathing in deep harsh breaths and thinking she was going to be sick. She retched, tasting bile, but kept it down. The bastard deserved this. She scooted up into a corner of the wall, trying to escape this monster who was now reaching for her with trembling arms.

He was inching closer. But he was weakening. The blood was pouring out of him. He was by the bed now, staring at her. He touched the coverlet and Angel tensed in horror. His fist bunched into the orange candlewick, staining it red. He was trying to pull himself up, trying to grab her.