‘Frank, what the fuck . . . ?’ She stepped back, brushing at her dress.

He punched her, hard, in the midriff. Dora staggered and collapsed onto the floor, her insides screaming in pain, the wind knocked out of her. Then he kicked her, once, hard. She could hear him breathing above her over the rioting agony, breathing like a crazy person, like an animal.

Suddenly she thought of Tony Dillon falling to the floor in the basement flat at that party, blood everywhere, and Frank looking demented, blank-eyed, intent on murder. He looked like that now.

She lay there, gasping, her insides shrieking with pain, while he stood there over her.

He’s going to kill me, she thought.

‘The best thing,’ he panted, ‘is to get rid.’

She lay there on the carpet and stared up at him, waiting for more punches, more kicks. The poor baby. He’d punched her in the stomach. Kicked her in the stomach. Must have done damage. Must have. Her brain seemed to be running on, thinking all these things in a detached manner, while her body had seized up under the vicious and unexpected nature of the assault.

‘Yeah, that’s it.’ He was running his hands through his greased-back wavy hair, over and over. A string of drool hung from his mouth and almost absently he brushed it away. Then he seemed to gather himself. He pointed a shaking finger at her. ‘Best to get rid.’

And having said that, he turned, walked over to the door, and left.

31

‘Christ! It’s you,’ said Lil.

Lil had answered the door with a screaming baby perched on her hip and there was Dora, standing there.

‘Can I come in?’ asked Dora.

It was the morning after the night before. Somehow, Dora had crawled to the bedroom after Frank left, pulled herself onto the bed, and waited for the baby to bleed out of her. Well, she did bleed – a little bit, but not much. Not enough, she didn’t think, to mean the baby was lost. Suddenly that mattered to her, that the baby was still lodged safe and sound in there, despite all Frank’s best efforts.

But damaged?

Oh, that worried her. Terrified her. What if he’d hurt the baby, not enough to abort but enough to do it harm?

‘You look like shit,’ said Lil, leading the way through to the kitchen.

It looked sweetly cosy now, this bare yet sparkling clean kitchen, a place of familiarity and warmth. It almost made her cry, to see it. She’d moved on, and up. Moved out. Been kicked out. But this was still home. That swish flat in Mayfair wasn’t, and would never be. The man she’d once loved was in jail. And now she was living with a monster. It was a nightmare.

‘Had a bit of a falling-out with my feller,’ said Dora, choking back tears.

‘Oh?’ Lil’s eyes softened as she set the baby down on the rug, where it crawled away toward the fire. Lil snatched the kid back up, and it grizzled in complaint. ‘No good coming back here though, Dad’s dead against even letting you through the door.’