“—done—anything—TO—YOU!”
Alyssa was suddenly pummeling her wherever she could land a punch: Robin threw up her left arm to defend herself, trying to protect her right, and kicked out at Alyssa’s knee. Alyssa shrieked in pain and hopped backwards; from somewhere behind Robin the toddler screamed and her older sister came sliding into the room.
“Fucking bitch!” screamed Alyssa, “attacking me in front of my kids—”
And she launched herself at Robin, grabbing her hair and slamming her head into the curtainless window. Robin felt Angel, who was thin and wiry, trying to force the two women apart. Abandoning restraint, Robin managed to land a smack to Alyssa’s ear, causing her to gasp in pain and retreat. Robin seized Angel under the armpits, swung her out of the way, put her own head down and charged at Alyssa, knocking her backwards onto the sofa.
“Leave my mum—leave my mum alone!” shouted Angel, grabbing Robin’s injured forearm and yanking it so that Robin, too, yelled in pain. Zahara was screaming from the doorway, a sippy cup of hot milk held upside down in her hand.
“YOU’RE LIVING WITH A PEDOPHILE!” Robin roared over the racket as Alyssa tried to push herself back off the sofa to renew the fight.
Robin had imagined herself imparting the devastating news in a whisper and watching Alyssa crumble in shock. Not once had she visualized Alyssa looking up at her and snarling:
“Yeah, whatever. D’you think I don’t know who you are, you fucking bitch? Are you not happy ruining his fucking life—”
She launched herself at Robin again: the space was so small that Robin hit the wall again. Locked together they slid sideways into the TV, which toppled off its stand with an ominous crash. Robin felt the wound on her forearm twist and let out another shriek of pain.
“Mama! Mama!” wailed Zahara, while Angel seized the back of Robin’s jeans, hampering her ability to fend Alyssa off.
“Ask your daughters!” shouted Robin as fists and elbows flew and she tried to twist free of Angel’s stubborn grip. “Ask your daughters whether he’s—”
“Don’t you—dare—fucking—bring—my kids—”
“Ask them!”
“Lying fucking bitch—you and your fucking mother—”
“My mother?” said Robin, and with an almighty effort she elbowed Alyssa so hard in the midriff that the taller woman doubled over and collapsed onto the sofa again. “Angel, get off me!” Robin roared, wrenching the girl’s fingers off her jeans, sure that she had seconds before Alyssa returned to the attack. Zahara continued to wail from the doorway. “Who,” Robin panted, standing over Alyssa, “d’you think I am?”
“Very fucking funny!” gasped Alyssa, whom Robin had winded. “You’re fucking Brittany! Phoning him and persecuting him—”
“Brittany?” said Robin in astonishment. “I’m not Brittany!”
She yanked her purse out of her jacket pocket. “Look at my credit card—look at it! I’m Robin Ellacott and I work with Cormoran Strike—”
“The fucker who gave him brain dam—”
“D’you know why Cormoran went to arrest him?”
“’Cause his fucking wife framed—”
“Nobody framed him! He raped Brittany and he’s been sacked from jobs all over the country because he interferes with little girls! He did it to his own sister—I’ve met her!”
“Fucking liar!” shouted Alyssa, making to get up from the sofa again.
“I—am—not—LYING!” roared Robin, shoving Alyssa back against the cushions.
“You mad bitch,” gasped Alyssa, “get out of my fucking house!”
“Ask your daughter whether he’s hurt her! Ask her! Angel?”
“Don’t you dare talk to my kids, you bitch!”
“Angel, tell your mother whether he’s—”
“Th’fook’s going on?”
Zahara had been screaming so loudly that they had not heard the key in the lock.
He was massive, dark-haired and bearded, wearing an all-black tracksuit. One eye socket was sunken, caved in towards his nose, making his stare intense and unnerving. His dark, shadowed eyes on Robin, he bent down slowly and picked up the toddler, who beamed and cuddled close to him. Angel, on the other hand, shrank backwards into the wall. Very slowly, his eyes on Robin, Brockbank lowered Zahara into her mother’s lap.
“Nice t’see thoo,” he said with a smile that was no smile, but a promise of pain.
Cold all over, Robin tried to slide her hand discreetly into her pocket for her rape alarm, but Brockbank was on her in seconds, seizing her wrist and compressing her stitches.
“You’re fookin’ phonin’ no one, sneakly larl bitch—thought A didn’ know it was thoo, din’t thoo—”
She tried to twist away from him, her stitches pulling under his grasp, and screamed:
“SHANKER!”
“A shoulda fuckin’ killed thoo when A ’ad th’chance, larl bitch!”