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Then they land on Brad and his scream is ear-piercing, his face draining of blood in an instant. Danny and Otto snap out of their fits immediately, scrambling up, and look at Brad, who is in absolute agony on the couch, holding his shoulder. “Fuck!” he shrieks, as I hurry over, barging the two idiot kids out of my way to get to him. His dressing is drenched in blood, the wound open beneath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“Someone get Doc,” I order, pushing Brad’s knees down, stopping him from curling into a protective ball so I can get to his wound.
“Fuck!”
“You’re good,” I say, peeling the dressing away and pulling my T-shirt off, pressing it into the wound.
“Doesn’t fucking feel it.”
“Stiches have popped.” I can hear Danny and Otto sniffing and heaving behind me, and I look back, livid, just as Esther moves between them and gives Danny a stinger of a slap, followed by Otto. Both men blink in surprise, and Danny reaches up to his face, feeling it.
“Mum?” he questions, looking like a lost little boy.
“No more,” she says firmly, her jaw tight as she turns to Otto. “And if you ever lay a hand on my boy again, we’re done.” She comes to Brad and crouches, assessing him. “I’ll get you some tea,” she says, stroking his hair. “Sugar?”
He nods. “Please, Mom,” he murmurs, clenching his eyes closed. Esther gets up and leaves, not giving Danny or Otto a second look, and Doc enters, bag in hand.
“Open stitches,” I say, moving to give him space.
“Oh dear. How did that happen?” All eyes turn to Danny and Otto, who both look pretty sheepish. “And what happened to you two?” Doc asks.
“Misunderstanding,” Otto mumbles, swiftly leaving, no doubt to go after Esther and try to apologize.
To my surprise, Danny stays in the room. “Fuck it,” he hisses, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Brad, mate, I’m sorry.”
“Fuck off,” he hisses. “You’re being a fucking child. Take me to my room.”
I press my lips together and look at Doc, who nods his acceptance. Ringo comes to help, and we carefully help him up. “Can you walk?”
“Yeah, I can fucking walk.” Brad puts his good arm around me as Ringo moves into his other side, ready to be leant on, and Goldie runs ahead to makes sure our path is clear. It’s probably just as well—Danny needs a moment alone to calm the fuck down. “We should check in on Hiatus later,” I say shortly, reminding The Brit that while he’s behaving like a child and throwing a hissy fit over who his mother, a grown woman, chooses to see, we still have shit to deal with. “Nolan’s holding the place up on his own.”
He nods and drops to his chair, looking at his phone when it rings and flicking it away on a dismissive snort.
Our progress to Brad’s room is slow, taking a good few minutes to make it to the staircase. “You should have stayed in bed as instructed,” Doc says as Daniel dances down the stairs, slowing down when he sees the state of Brad between us. “Uncle Brad?” he questions, the concern in his voice and on his face a good indication of how terrible Brad looks. “Is that a bullet wound?”
Fuck it.“Uncle Brad’s feeling a bit under the weather, kid,” I explain as we carry him past.
“I would too if I’d been shot,” Daniel says, chasing our heels. “You’re not gonna die, are you, Uncle Brad?”
“I feel like it, kid,” he murmurs.
“What happened?”
I look across to Ringo, who shrugs, lost too. I need to call Rose. Give her the heads-up.
“Is this mafia business?” he asks.
“The fuck?” Brad blurts, stopping from dragging his feet, forcing me and Ringo to stop too. “No, this is red paint.”
“I know you’re all mafia.” Daniel rolls his eyes. “Everyone knows.”
We all stand like plums, none of us knowing what the hell to say. “Mafia?” I laugh like a dick. “What movies have you been watching?”
“Daniel?” Esther appears at the end of the corridor, a tea towel in her hand. She’s obviously not entertaining Otto right now, because he’s nowhere in sight. Retreated? Cleaning up his wounds? “What are you doing?” she calls, eyes darting between Daniel and Brad.
“Brad’s been shot.” He says it too nonchalantly, like it’s normal. He’s not my kid, but I’m really not cool with this. Yet how the fuck do you shield him when he lives under the same roof asthis?
“I’ve not been shot,” Brad argues. “Mister and I were... paintballing. He’s a shit shot.”
