I couldn’t take my eyes off the gun. It was metallic with a black trigger. Ritchie’s hand only shook slightly as he held it pointed towards his dad. I’d never seen a real gun before. I wondered how Ritchie had got hold of it, and then remembered Loz, and his brother who’d been in the army.

“Shut the door, Anna,” Ritchie said.

I did because I thought the best thing for now would be to play along with him. And although half of me was shocked rigid, the other half could not believe that Ritchie would actually shoot that thing. He must have felt uneasy about having it as he hadn’t mentioned it to me. I had to walk round his father to get to the door, and I could have run for it, but I wouldn’t leave Ritchie. I returned to where I was before, in front of a half-open wardrobe. Ritchie was standing by the head of the bed, facing his father. And apart from Ritch telling me to close the door, no one had spoken a word.

I was trying to piece together what was going on here. If Ritchie had lured his father back to the house, then he never intended to rob him at all. If he came with a gun, then his plan was to … My mind shied away from the inevitable conclusion. He was going to shoot his dad. No! Those kind of things only happened in films, in gangsta lyrics. Ritch and I taxed, sure, but we never harmed anyone. He never harmed anyone. Then I remembered how he tried to mug me in town all those weeks ago, and I went cold. I thought I knew Ritchie. I thought I loved him. Only there wasn’t time to reflect on any of that now. At any moment, that gun might go off.

I looked at Ritchie’s dad’s face. It’s funny how you can tell someone is more terrified than they have ever been in their life, and yet there are hardly any signs. He wasn’t screaming, he said nothing, in fact, but he was drawn and deadly pale. I noticed then that Ritchie’s hand – the one that had the gun – was trembling more than ever. Ritchie sat down on the bed, but he still had the barrel of the gun trained on his dad.

“Don’t try to get away,” Ritchie said. “If you move, I’ll shoot.”

His voice trembled, and I think that gave his dad courage. He put out a hand to the wall to steady himself, and swallowed before he spoke.

“Craig? Please.”

Ritchie had his eyes and the gun locked on to his father. Maybe, I hoped, all he wanted to do was frighten his dad. Or get him to agree to give him money. Yeah, that would be it. This was only a sort of blackmail attempt, or getting money by extortion – it was taxing, of a sort.

Still no one said a word. An impassioned female voice began an aria in a foreign language. I wondered if I should turn the radio off.

Then Ritchie spoke: “Admit it. Tell me to my face that I’m your son.”

“You’re my son,” came Pete’s voice. But they were just words, spoken by fear and not by the man. Ritchie knew that.

“You ruined Wendy’s life. You owe us.”

“Tell me how much you want. I’ll give Wendy a cheque.”

Ritchie glanced at me as if he was consulting me. “Say an amount, Ritch. Then put down the gun,” I whispered.

“Ten thousand pounds,” Ritchie said.

That seemed like a lot of money to me. But maybe to Pete it was nothing. I hoped he’d have the sense to agree to Ritchie’s demands.

“OK,” Pete said. “Send Wendy to my office tomorrow. But give me the gun.”

I knew Ritchie wasn’t going to do that. But I was beginning to feel hopeful. I could see that we could escape from this. If Ritch stood up now and, with the gun pointed at his dad, left the room, me with him … Then Ritchie made an error of judgement. I know why he did this. You see, really it wasn’t the money he wanted at all.

“Tell me why you left us,” he said. “I need to know. What’s your version?”

I knew what he wanted because I’d been there too. When my dad left my mum, what was so awful was that it felt like he was leaving me. I thought he didn’t love me – if he did, he’d have stayed with us. But my mum was brilliant. As messy as it all was, and even though her heart was breaking, she explained to me over and over again how my dad still loved me. And he said so too. Deep down, I knew they were telling the truth. But Ritchie – from his point of view, his dad walked out on him, and wouldn’t even acknowledge him. Where his self-respect was, there was a big black hole. Self-respect – that was what he wanted from his dad now, and it was too late to get it.

“Put the gun down and I’ll tell you.” Pete was sounding a little more confident now. That note of authority was creeping back into his voice. Here was a man who believed in himself, one who was used to ordering others around.

It seemed to have an effect on Ritchie. To my exquisite relief, he carefully placed the gun beside him on the bed, close to his leg.

“We weren’t suited, your mum and me,” Pete said. He was gabbling – it was hard to catch his words. “She’s a strong woman, always wanted her own way. She gave as good as she got. I’m not saying I didn’t raise a hand to her, but she threw a pot at me …” He glanced at the gun. “Like mother, like son,” he murmured. Ritch heard that and he placed his hand around the trigger. Pete didn’t seem to notice.

“She always had to go one better. I’m not saying I didn’t have other women – we were never married, me and Wendy. But what she did, when she found out, she went out on the town and didn’t come home for three days. I heard all sorts of stories. I took her back, but only for a while.”

As he was speaking, justifying himself, wiping saliva from the side of his mouth, I felt Ritchie’s hatred for him. Pete relaxed. He was so convinced of the truth of what he was saying, he didn’t see that Ritchie might not feel good about this.

“You see, lad, I’ll pay the ten thou. I know how you feel. But in all fairness, I’m pretty sure you aren’t my son. The fact is, you could have had one of several fathers. Your mother was no angel. She put you up to this, did she?”

He should have never said that. I knew Ritchie would explode at this insult to his mother. That was why I reckoned it was up to me to take some action. I could tell Ritchie was so keyed up I couldn’t just lunge at him and get the gun. He’d fire it, and that would be that. Instead I moved over to him and put my hand – my gloved hand – on his shoulder.

It was too late. Ritch gave a cry that was something between a yelp and a sob, and jumped to his feet. Once again the gun was trained on his dad.

I knew without a shadow of doubt that he was about to fire.

What happens at times like that, is that you move quickly but your brain stays calm and logical, so there is a slow motion effect. I thought, I must stop Ritchie getting into any more trouble. Next I thought, He wouldn’t shoot me. So I threw myself at his dad and clung to him.

“Anna! What the fuck are you doing?”

“Put the gun down!” I screamed.

I couldn’t see what was happening. My face was pressed against his dad’s shirt front. I felt the heat of his chest, smelt the sour stink of fear, heard his heart racing. My eyes were screwed shut. Then I heard the crack of a bullet. I thought, quite calmly, I’m going to die. I never imagined this would be my death. I felt utterly detached, curious. Then a split second later there was a deafening explosion of glass. The dressing-table mirror was smashed into a thousand pieces. Ritchie had shot his dad’s reflection. I remember the smell – like fireworks. I turned. Glass was everywhere. His dad’s image was shattered.

There was a small part of me, tucked away deep inside, that was terrified. Yes, there was a red, pulsing terror somewhere in my body. But my mind was clear. It was as if someone was speaking to me, giving me instructions. This voice said, Get the gun from him, Anna. So I left his dad, and said softly to Ritchie, “Give me the gun.” And he did.

I said to his dad, “Don’t tell anyone about what happened today. Because he’s your son, and you know it. You can do that much for him.” The man nodded. Do you know, that scared me more, the fact that I could make an adult do what I wanted. I didn’t like that feeling. I was going off the whole power-trip thing.

“Come on, Ritch,” I said. Together we left the room and walked downstairs. I was still totally calm, so much so that I remembered to get my things from the kitchen. The radio was still playing. We left by the side door. I followed Ritchie to a rusty white van with the word Fellowes on the side. I noticed his dad made no attempt to follow us.

Once we were on the road, wave after wave of fear and panic washed through me. I felt sick and tried to stop myself retching. The van picked up speed.

“Ritchie!” I screamed. “Slow down!”

But he paid no attention. The van tilted precariously as we rounded a corner.

“You’ll kill us!” I said. Then, after a pause, “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “And I don’t care.”

“Look.” I was desperate with fear. “Let’s go to my mum’s surgery. No – we need to get rid of the gun. Whose is it, anyway?”

“Loz’s brother’s.” So I’d sussed one thing out correctly.

“Shall we drop it off there?”

“They’re all out.”

“Ritchie, it’s really serious to be in possession of a gun. You’ll be put in jail.”

He didn’t respond. He swerved round a corner and on to a road leading north. It wasn’t going to be easy to get him to stop. I could imagine only too well what was going through his head. He’d planned this macho act of revenge, and it had failed. He was lower in his own estimation than he ever had been. Not only that, but whereas before he’d had one parent he could believe in, now his so-called dad had robbed him of her, too.

All Ritchie had left was me. And what a mate I was! If it wasn’t for me leading him on to tax, it was doubtful whether he’d have cooked up this foolish scheme. I’d let him think it was all right to take the law into our own hands. But it wasn’t – I could see that now. There has to be limits, for our sakes, as well as everyone else’s.

And there we were, speeding down the dual carriageway, really speeding, way over the limit, the two of us in a borrowed car, Ritchie without a licence, still breaking rules and this time, risking our lives. We were idiots – we had been idiots – and we were going to die like idiots.

“Ritchie – slow down!” I screamed.

But then it happened. We were approaching some traffic lights and they turned to amber. Ritch put his foot down but they had still turned to red before we got there. We shot across the junction.

“Ritchie!” I remonstrated. Then I saw, waiting at the lights at the crossroads, a police car. We were right in its line of vision. It pulled away sharply and turned the corner to pursue us. The sirens blared and lights flashed.

“Pull over!” I screamed.

But it was no use. Ritchie just picked up speed. The road we were on led out of town. It was wide without being a dual carriageway, and not too busy. We were going faster and faster.

“They’ll catch us in the end,” I shouted. “Pull over now! Now! Now!!”

It made no difference. Then I realised something. Ritchie wasn’t trying to escape from the police. There was no way he could escape. He was bent on self-destruction. He couldn’t cope with the whole situation, and oblivion seemed the only answer. So, yeah, I was terrified, more terrified than I’d ever been in my life. But now I saw how I could stop him.

“Ritchie,” I shouted. “I’m scared! You’re going to kill me!”

It worked. He jammed his foot on the brake. I felt that van slow, and then skid. He lost control, you see. But he lost control because he was trying to save my life. When I saw the lamppost, I thought it would stop us safely. I was glad we weren’t going into a wall.

I’m sorry, that’s where my memory ends.