Her eyes meet mine, and for a minute, she does nothing but stare. Then her breath hitches, and something cracks. ‘I thought he was going to?—’
‘I know.’
‘I didn’t know if you’d?—’
‘I’m here. I’m here, love.’ I squeeze her fingers. ‘Can you stand?’
Ava nods, so I help her up. She sways, steadies, and something shifts in her posture. The trembling doesn’t stop, but it moves, transforms, and becomes motion.
‘My things?—’
‘Two minutes. Grab what matters. I’ve got your back.’
She moves past me into the bedroom and works fast. One duffel bag, yanked from under the bed. She’s moving on autopilot, firing things into the bag. Clothes, phone charger, passport. Ninety seconds. She’s packing like she’s played this out in her head a hundred times.
I check on Nevin while she packs. Still breathing. I roll him onto his side – recovery position, so he won’t choke on his own vomit – and feel nothing.
His eyes open. For one sickening second, his dazed, drunken stare finds mine. Then his eyes roll back, and he’s gone again.
Good. Stay down, bastard.
‘Ready.’ Ava appears by my side, bag over her shoulder. Her eyes flick to the body on the floor. ‘Is he… Will he be?—’
‘He’ll be fine.’ I don’t look at her when I say it. ‘Unfortunately.’
She huffs. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s close. The shadow of the woman who snorts at bad films and exists in a version of her life that doesn’t include this flat, this night, this prick on the tiles.
‘Got your phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’ She wipes her face. ‘Although, actually? I’ll take the fancy coffee machine. Fuck him.’
I almost smile. ‘Aye. Fuck him.’
Ava disappears into the kitchen. A clatter, the sound of a plug being yanked. She reappears seconds later, hugging the chrome machine to her chest.
Then she grabs my palm with her free fingers, and leads me out.
The stairwell is empty. Our footsteps echo on the stone as we descend. My Audi waits at the kerb, rain beading on the bonnet. The February air cuts at my face, and Ava sucks in a breath beside me.
The bag and the coffee maker go into the back seat. Then I open the passenger door, and she slides in.
I round the back and get behind the wheel. ‘Seatbelt.’
She reaches for the clip, but her fingers fumble, motor control stripped by shock. I lean across the console, close enough to catch the salt on her cheeks, the tremble in her breath. My fingers find the buckle. Click.
I pull back and start the car.
‘Where are we going?’ She asks
‘Oban. My mum’s place. It’s safe. Far enough.’
The wipers sweep rain from the windscreen. I turn left onto the main road, and with each second, Stirling disappears behind us.
‘Your family?’ Her voice is small.
