Two ticks. Delivered.
On the other side of the panel, the sudden silence is worse than the shouting.
Then Nevin’s voice again. ‘You’re making a huge fucking mistake, bitch.’
Chapter 13
Scottie
One word. Help.
The car door screams when I wrench it open, I’m barely seated before the engine howls to life and my Audi’s tearing through the wet streets from Duncraig to Stirling.
The wipers beat a slashing metronome. Headlights smear against the rain-slicked tarmac, and every red light I run is a bet I’ll pay for later. There’s only now, and now is seven minutes since my phone lit up with a message from a contact saved as Marzipan, and my blood is battery acid and I can’t breathe.
I try her number. Rings twice. Voicemail.
Fuck.
The drive from Duncraig to Stirling takes twelve minutes if you obey the speed limit and stop at crossings – without thinking of a different time, a different silence, another woman. One who never asked for help from anyone because she didn’t know how to. My mum.
Not this time.
The thought shears through the noise. I floor the accelerator.
The engine growls, and I take the corner onto King’s Road too fast. Tyres shriek, and the back end fishtails for one sick second before the traction catches. The slam of my heartbeat is so loud it fills my throat all the way up. Acid is on my tongue. The metallic tang of a scrum gone wrong. Except tonight there’s no whistle.
I reach the sandstone villas of Victoria Place. I’ve been here once before. March, last year. Nevin’s housewarming party. The team was being formed. Seems like two lifetimes ago.
I park at the kerb with more force than sense. My hands are still shaking when I open the car and make a run for the door.
The close is locked. Coded entry. Numbers on a polished panel, and I don’t have the code and I can’t think?—
I hammer a sequence at random. The keypad spits back a synthetic rejection tone. Once. Twice. Then the red light stops flashing and stays a solid, judging crimson. The buttons go dead. It’s stopped taking inputs.
Come on.
A minute later, the main door swings outward, and a woman – mid-sixties, cashmere coat, a small terrier on a lead – comes out. She’s barely glancing up, and I catch the door before it clicks shut. I slip through. She probably thinks I’m a delivery guy.
The stairwell closes around me. Polished stone, polished wood handrails. I take the steps two at a time, heart punching against my ribs.
Flat 1. First floor.
I reach the landing. The door is closed. Warm light leaks from the gap beneath, and the silence on the other side is loaded. My fingers hover over the wood until I force my fist forward and knock.
‘Ava!’
Nothing.
I throw my full weight against the door. ‘Ava!’
Then, from inside, Nevin’s voice. ‘Who the fuck?—’
The door cracks open, and his face fills the gap. Red-eyed. The stench of whisky rolls off him in waves.
‘Kerr?’ His brow furrows, then twists into something uglier. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
I don’t wait. I drive my shoulder into the door.
