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I ran to the end of the corridor, but Trisha ignored my screams, even though I could hear Ramsay crying in her hallway.
I ran down to the floor below, but I knew nobody there would help me. Everyone hated Scottie Barnes, and they didn’t like my mother much, either. I was alone and petrified, and there was no way the police would show up in time.
So, fuck it.
I grabbed hold of the handrail and ran upstairs.
Gerald and Eveline in number eight were in their 80s, and Bertie in number seven was on crutches from a fall, so there was only one option left, and I took it. I raced to the end of the upstairs corridor and I hammered on number six’s door.
“PLEASE! WILL YOU HELP ME! PLEASE! I NEED HELP!!”
I prayed, still hammering, trying to scream out through my sobs, because I was sure Scottie was so fucked up tonight that he was going to kill my mum.
“PLEASE! I NEED HELP!”
I could barely see through the tears when the door of apartment six opened, and there he was. The tall, sinister man upstairs. He was in one of his suits, his striped navy tie hanging limp as he towered high. His eyebrows were pitted for a moment as he looked down at me through hard green eyes. I pushed my glasses up my nose to meet his stare, and managed to suck in enough breath that he could hear my words.
“Scottie has got my mum in the kitchen, and he’s choking her. PLEASE, please, come and help me. Please, save my mum!”
I was so relieved when he stepped out and raced ahead of me. He took the stairs three at a time, on a mission as he ran, already storming through our open front door by the time I got back to our floor. I’d only just made it to our hallway when Scottie came sailing across into the living room, clattering over the coffee table. It bust underneath him as he hit the deck, and I hoped his rotten legs were broken too, but unfortunately not. He hitched up on his elbows, unscathed.
The man from apartment six stepped up to him, and he looked so tall in there, showing up Scottie for the pathetic little shit he was. Mum’s asshole of a boyfriend looked up at his assailant, but he didn’t move, didn’t protest, didn’t try to fight his way out of it. Pathetic wimp.
I found Mum sobbing on the floor in the kitchen. Her lip was red and bloody, and her cheek was already swelling, but at least she wasn’t fucking strangled. Not this time.
“Stay there!” I told her, like she had anywhere else to go.
My slippers crunched on broken plates on my way back through to the living room. The man upstairs was still standing there, staring out the idiot on the floor.
“GET OUT!” I yelled at Scottie. “Seriously, Scott, get the FUCK OUT OF HERE! RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”
The vile prick dragged himself up from the floor and slid away against the wall with a sneer, daring to look at me like I was the piece of shit and not him.
“Bev fucking started it!”
He brushed himself down and loped off with a self-righteous swagger, as though he was the one in the right for throwing the damn punches. It still hurt me when he did that, every single time.
I pressed my back to the front door when I’d slammed it closed, eyes shut tight as I tried to come down from hyperdrive. I must have been as pale as a ghost as I gathered myself, choking back a fresh round of sobs. My ears were ringing, and I could feel my pulse in my temples, but it would be ok… Mum would be ok now… she’d be ok.
The man upstairs was in the kitchen when I opened my eyes. He was helping Mum to her feet, supporting her as she winced in pain with her hand on her side. Shit, it looked like Scottie had given her a punch in the ribs, too. No surprise, since it was his usual go to spot. Nobody could see the bruising.
Together we eased her onto the sofa as she gritted her teeth. I was sitting right beside her when I saw him reach into his suit jacket and pull his phone out. I watched him key in the emergency services number, but I choked out awaitbefore he hit call.
He looked at me, his piercing green eyes so hooded with rage that I felt the burn.
“There’s no point,” I told him, hating my words. “She won’t talk to them, and they won’t arrest him, and he won’t get convicted for it. He never does.”
I realised then that I’d never heard the man upstairs speak before. He sounded like an Etonian graduate when he did.
“The police won’t arrest him? Are you being serious? Of course they will.”
I shook my head. “Mum won’t talk to them. She always denies it. Always. They’ll barely even look at her when they get here, they’ve seen it so many times.”
I sighed. At least we’d got almost six months clear by now. I’d even dared to hope…
Mum was looking at the floor, not at me, and not at him, either. He crouched down beside her, staring until she met his eyes.
“Is this true? Will you really ignore the police if I call them?”
