Page 26 of Protected By Razor

A man’s voice. Low. Ugly. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

A slap. Flesh on flesh. Her sound, sharp, cut off.

I go through the door.

There are two of them.

One has her pinned against the wall next to the kitchen — forearm across her collarbones, his other hand wound in the front of her jumper, his knee wedged between hers so she can’t bring a leg up. The other is behind him, halfway into the living room.

Her lip is split.

I see it before I see anything else. Blood on her chin. A red mark on her cheekbone already darkening to something else. Her hair is across her face and she’s breathing hard and there is blood on her mouth and he put it there.

The red mist comes to me quickly. I am going to kill them.

Something in me that has been shut for ten years comes off its hinges.

The man pinning her sees me first, over her shoulder — sees my face — and I watch his expression change. I watch him understand, in about half a second, that he has made the worst mistake of his life. His hand loosens on her jumper. His weight shifts off her. He is about to say something.

He doesn’t get to.

I don’t remember crossing the room.

I am on him before he’s finished registering my face. My hand is in the back of his jacket and I am ripping him off her, and he is weightless to me, suddenly, he is not a man but a bag of shit I am removing from my woman, and I throw him into the wall hard enough that plasterboard cracks and something in his shoulder makes a wet popping sound and he screams.

“You put your fucking hand on her.”

I’m roaring. I don’t recognise my own voice. The walls of her apartment are small and the sound of me fills them.

“You put your hand on her. You came into her apartment and you put your hand on her.“

I’m on him before he’s slid down the wall. My fist connects with his face and his head snaps back against the plasterboard and connects again and again. Blood splashes my knuckles. My arm. My shirt. I’m not counting. I’m not stopping. His face isn’t a face any more — it’s a wet mess of red and something that used to be a nose. The rage shows no sign of stopping.

“You think you get to do that. You think Carlin pays enough. You think anyone pays enough that what I’m about to do you is worth you putting your hands on her.”

I hit him again. He stops trying to get his arms up.

“You think you can walk into her apartment. You think you touch her. Do you think there’s a world where you walk out of here.”

The second one is moving. I clock it in the corner of my eye — him coming at me, something in his hand, a knife or a bat, I don’t care — and I am across the room before he’s got near enough.

I catch his wrist and I break it.

I feel the bone go. I hear him scream. Whatever was in his hand hits the carpet. He tries to swing at me with his other armand I catch that one too, and I slam him sideways into the coffee table and it breaks under his weight and glass goes everywhere.

He tries to crawl.

I don’t let him.

My knee is on his chest and my fist is in his face and I am still roaring, I can hear it, I can’t stop — you think you get to touch her, you think you walk out of here, you think there’s a world where you walk out of here after putting your fucking hands on her — and I hit him again and I hit him again.

I go back to the first one.

He’s conscious. Barely. He’s trying to get up. I pick him up by the front of his jacket and I put him back against the wall, and his feet aren’t on the floor, and I bring my face close to his.

“Look at me.”

He looks.