souped-up hatchbacks their mummies and daddies bought for them. Like chimpanzees marking their territory to the constant background bmm-tshhhh, bmm-tshhhh, bmm-tshhhh of their stupid car stereos. And there was no point complaining to the bloody police: dispersal zone her arse ... God, twenty-five and she was already middle-aged. Wasn't so long ago that she'd been the one out Bouley bashing with her girlfriends, and now look at her: whinging on about loud music and dangerous driving. That was what having a three-year-old did for you. Knackered all the time with no sex-life. Looking forward to Celebrity X-Factor on the TV. One more pause to put the bags down - and then she was outside the front door, rummaging through her cavernous rubbish-tip of a handbag for the house keys. Justin's pumpkin was sitting on the windowsill, a tealight flickering between the pointy teeth. Of course, she'd done the actual carving, but he'd drawn the face on in blue biro, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration. Strange how one little person could bring so much joy, and so much misery, into the world ... One more bite of chocolate then she hid the bar away - not wanting Duncan to know she'd been naughty - and let herself into the house. 'Duncan?' No answer, but she could hear the telly on in the kitchen. Maybe he was making tea for a change? 'Duncan, can you give me a hand with these bags? Sodding things weigh a ton.' She dumped them in the hall and closed the front door behind her. 'You'll never guess who I ran into in Asda: Gillian. You remember? The one who married that guy from the radio and went off to live in Edinburgh?' Heather shucked off her coat and hung it up, pausing to examine the mess that stared back at her from the mirror. 'Well, he only upped and left her for that bloke who used to do the weather on STV. And she's got three kids!' She grabbed one of the carrier bags and wandered through into the kitchen. 'Talk about overcompensating ...' Heather dropped the bag. It hit the deck with a clattering thud, tins of Cock-a-Leekie rolling out across the tiles. Duncan was on the floor, slumped back against the kitchen cabinets, face bruised and bloody, mouth hanging open, dark crusts of red around his lips and nostrils. 'Oh God, Duncan!' She ran to him, grabbed his shoulders and shook. 'Duncan, what did you do?' His hands were curled in his lap, the wrists held together with cable-ties. 'Duncan? Duncan: where's Justin? DUNCAN! --' Something slammed into the side of her head and she sprawled across the tiled floor. Someone was in the house! Another blow to the ribs. Heather dragged her hands up, covering her head as a boot connected with the small of her back. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Pain stabbed through her head as someone grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her backwards and-- THUMP - her head battered into the kitchen cupboards. Blood on the handle: she could see it glinting in the spotlights as her head smashed against the cupboard again. The room spun. Warm. She spiralled backwards, teeth rattling as her head connected with the tiled floor. Justin ... Her little boy was upstairs ... She'd bought Ready Brek for his breakfast. Justin liked Ready Brek.
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