“Hey,” said Frankie, pointing the scissors at his girlfriend. “Don’t talk to him like that.” Frankie threw the scissors down onto the table and approached his brother, putting an arm around him on the sofa. “Davie’s just a bit sensitive, ain’t that right? He worries a lot, but means no harm?”
Davie nodded. “I just don’t like any of this. It’s going to end badly.”
“Yeah, for him,” said Dom, pointing to Andrew.
Andrew sat silently, bewildered by what was becoming some sort of surreal soap opera: people bickering casually in front of him whilst he was held captive in his own living room.
Davie helped Pen back onto the sofa, pulling her up by a handful of duct tape at her back. Then he sat back down beside her. For some reason, Andrew decided, Davie seemed protective over Pen. Andrew wondered if it stemmed from issues with his own mother.
Andrew turned his head to the floor as a noise alerted him. When he saw what was making it, he felt nauseous. Things were about to get worse.
Frankie looked down at Bex who was stirring on the floor. He grinned. “Well, lookey here. Little miss fine-ass is finally joining us. Now we can really step things up. Let’s see how much of a party-girl she is.”
Andrew watched Frankie approach his daughter. For the first time in his life, he prayed to god.
Chapter Thirteen
Andrew had never seen a person wake up screaming before, but that’s just what Bex did. As soon as she regained consciousness, the agony of her broken wrist kicked in.
Frankie marched forward and kicked her in the ribs, knocking loose every last ounce of breath she had in her lungs. “Keep it the-fuck-down!”
Bex’s screams turned to inward gasping. The hissing sound she made was like the venting air-brakes of a bus.
“Please,” Andrew pleaded. “Please, just leave my family alone. Do what you want to me…”
Frankie winked at Andrew as if they were old buddies. “I’m going to do that anyway, mate, so what exactly are you trying to negotiate with?”
“For god’s sake, Frankie. Have some decency. My family have done nothing to you.”
Frankie strolled over to Andrew and perched himself on the armrest of the chair. “I say otherwise. People like you look down their noses at people like me; think you can treat us like dirt. Doesn’t matter if it’s you or your women, you all think you’re better.”
“We are better!” Pen hissed from behind him.
Frankie clicked his fingers. “There’s my proof. Your wife thinks I’m a piece of shit.”
Andrew huffed. “Can you blame her?”
“Maybe not,” Frankie allowed. “But there’s a war going on. Survival of the fittest. You might have your nice house and your Mercedes, but when it comes right down to it, you’re weak. When it comes down to you and me, face to face, you’re the one shitting himself – not me. I’m the one with the control.”
“We’re not cavemen, Frankie. Life isn’t decided by who has the biggest club anymore.”
“If prison taught me anything, it’s that we’re as much like cavemen as we’ve ever been.”
Andrew looked at the boy – for that was all he was – and couldn’t figure out what was going on behind those narrow, bloodshot eyes. Did he really believe he was vindicated in doing this? That he was just fighting a war against people like Andrew? A war against the middle-classes.
“Look,” said Andrew. “I can help you. Whatever’s made you this way, we can sort it out. There’s no need for any of this.”
Frankie’s lip quivered, not because of his usual twitch, but as if he were about to break into tears. “Really? You can help me?”
Andrew nodded.
Frankie released a sudden gout of laughter. “You fuckin’ nonce. Is that what you say to little kids right before you snatch ‘em up in your van?” He drove a fist into Andrew’s stomach and made him gasp, then leaned forward, closer. “You fuckin’ pedo!”