‘Well how hard did he knock?’ Tremberg changes down to fourth gear, trying to ease an extra 5mph from the one-litre engine. She finds what she’s looking for, and despite the protestations of the smoking metal beneath the bonnet, pushes the accelerator almost through the floor. ‘No … I can’t say for certain, but there’s a strong chance …’ Tremberg looks across from the driver’s seat at McAvoy. She finds herself examining the back of his hand. It’s all she can see of him, gripping the mobile phone which he is pressing too hard to the side of his skull. The knuckles look as though they’ve been broken several times. They seem to represent the sum total of what she knows about him. That he has inflicted harm, and taken it. That the warm, protective palm and fingers in which she pictures him cradling his handsome son and beautiful wife can be turned over and balled, to create a fist capable of extraordinary, self-destructive damage. ‘Kick the door in,’ he’s yelling.
