Christa put Tony’s sandwich on a plate and carried it into the lounge, a smile pasted on her face.
“Here,” she announced as she sat the plate down in front of him. “I’ll just go back and fetch your tea.”
“About fucking time, took you long enough,” he grumbled, and took a greedy bite. “I want plenty of sugar and milk, mind. And be quick about it.”
She turned and retreated to the kitchen. The back door was still latched; Tony had hovered in the doorway, watching her while she’d fried the egg and popped bread in the toaster, stretching her already taut nerves to the snapping point.
Once there, she wasted no time, but darted straight to the door and unlocked it as quietly as possible.
Please, Devon, don’t let us down…
Raised voices from the lounge reached her ears as she turned away from the door. Christa froze.
“…staring at, you stupid cow? You never saw a man eat an egg sandwich? No bacon on it, more’s the pity; but you lot don’t eat pork, do you?”
Her mother murmured something in reply.
He laughed. “So you’re Catholic, eh? Well, fancy that.”
Christa hurried back to the lounge, the blood thrumming in her ears. “Would you like another sandwich?” she asked as she reached for his empty plate.
“No.” He grabbed her wrist and glowered over at Mrs Shaw.
“I want your mum, there, to stop staring at me like I’m a monkey in the zoo. That’s what I want.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t mean to,” Christa began, and cast her mother a warning glance as she moved to pull away.
“I know who you are,” Deepa said. Her voice was low, but clear.
“What? What the fuck are you on about?” he snapped.
“Mum, please,” Christa implored.
“No,” her mother replied, “I will say what’s on my mind. This man is one of the men who robbed the cash and carry the night I was shot. In fact,” she added calmly, “I remember him.
He was the one who shot me.”
As Christa pulled back, trying to wrench free from his grasp, Tony’s hand tightened brutally on her wrist.
“You’re wrong. I don’t know what you’re talking about, you crazy bitch.”
There was a sound somewhere behind her – tiny, like the creaking of a floorboard – and Christa glanced back to see Devon and another man, guns drawn and trained on Tony.
The sound she’d heard, she realized belatedly, was the cocking of Devon’s pistol.
“Let her go, Tony,” Devon said, his words measured. “Now.”
Tony’s breathing was loud in Christa’s ear as he surged to his feet and yanked her back against him. “Not on your life, mate,” he retorted. “She’s my ticket out of here.” He moved towards the door, dragging her roughly along with him. “Strictly one way, though. Sorry.”
“The money,” Christa said desperately, clawing at an armchair for purchase as he hauled her out of the room, “it’s not come through yet. I need to write you a cheque—”
“Never mind that, shut up and do as I say! Move it, you stupid bitch,” he snarled, and yanked hard on her arm.
Rage, bright and white-hot, surged through Christa. Fury for all the times he’d hit her, beat her, called her a name or treated her with disrespect distilled into a rush of outrage so strong that she flung herself at him, kicking out at his legs as hard as she could. With a roaring in her ears – was it Tony, or the firing of a gun? She couldn’t be sure – Christa stumbled backwards as he shoved her hard, sending her crashing into the console table by the hallway door. She lost her balance and fell, and as the breath was knocked from her lungs, everything went wonderfully, blessedly dark.