She was about to get out of his car but David forestalled her with a hand on her arm.

‘Who is that slimy tub of guts? Your father?’

‘Let me go! He’s my stepfather- let me go! He’ll beat on me even worse if I don’t get in right away.’

White-lipped, David said in a low voice, ‘You can’t be serious! You mean you let that fat slug beat you?’

‘Monica!’ The man was bellowing at the top of his lungs now. ‘Get in here! Right now!’

‘I’m going with you,’ David said tersely. ‘If he so much as tries to lay a hand on you, I’ll snap it off at the wrist and shove it sideways up his jacksie.’

‘Don’t, please!’ she protested, close to tears. ‘You’re only going to make it worse!’

Ignoring her protests, he went to the boot and removed his pack. As they approached the house he couldn’t help but notice the way Monica was cowering behind him. Her stepfather, dressed in soiled jeans and T-shirt, ponderous belly sagging between his knees, was sitting on a sagging ruin of an ancient overstuffed sofa. Empty liquor bottles were scattered everywhere. The sight, not to mention the smell of the place, made David’s gorge rise.




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