‘I don’t know,’ she said.

He heaved and twisted at her hair until her face was up against the window frame.

‘I don’t know,’ she said again. ‘What’s going on?’

The door clunked, opened, and she slumped down to the gravel with her legs still in the footwell. Mal’s enormous shoe was pushing on her jaw, her neck. ‘Last chance,’ he said. ‘Who’s got my money?’

But she couldn’t speak with all the pressure on her throat. She croaked and gasped for air. The hard edge of his sole poked at her windpipe. He snorted inwards like a pig and spat on her. That did it – the humiliation. The warm wet shame of it upon her cheek. She worked the hammer from her sleeve and cracked it on his knee with all the strength she had.

He yelped, as mongrels do when they are beaten. Hopping, spinning, dropping. And the strain released. She sucked the air in sharply. He was wincing and he couldn’t stand, but tried to nonetheless. His hobbling made her smile. ‘You fucking bitch,’ he said, as she got up, ‘you’ve fucking kneecapped me!’ His spit tracked down her face. He was on his backside, glaring up at her, as though she weren’t a danger. As though he didn’t think she would be capable of any more. She wiped her cheek against her shoulder. None of it would end unless she ended it. She saw that now. ‘So are we square yet, Mal?’ she said. He shook his head and spat again. Then, aiming for the thatch of hair above his brow, she brought the hammer down on him. The second time, he raised his arm to block it, but the stub end skimmed right off and struck him hard above the temple. Down he went, like meat upon the butcher’s block, face up. She’d never heard a silence quite so clear.

The starry sky was dulled by all the quarry’s smoke. For a moment, she just stood there, waiting for her lungs to work as normal, but she couldn’t seem to fill them. Every fibre of her body shook. She couldn’t think. The wreck of Mal lay but a yard from her and she was happy not to look at it. Come dawn, the crows would pick at him, make hollows of his eyes.

Next thing, a motor rumbled in the darkness. A voice behind her said, ‘You done all right there. Good clean hit.’ She flinched. It was a hare-lipped fella in a peacoat and a tweedy cap. He raised his hands so she could see he meant no harm. The leather of his gloves was faded at his palms.

‘You took your time,’ she said.

‘We had our orders.’

‘Well, you let him choke me half to death.’

‘I would’ve stabbed him, but you beat me to it. Glad you did.’ He scanned the yard. ‘We’ll sort it out from here.’ The black saloon drew closer, headlamps off. Another fella climbed out and went in the gatehouse, killed the lights. She couldn’t tell the near from the far. But she could feel the fella take the hammer from her fingers, saying, ‘Best you let us dump this for you, eh?’ The other bloke came over with a lantern, laid it at the back end of their car. He was pale and short and scarred across the eyebrow like a featherweight. She watched them lift Mal from the stones.