Stasko flicks the headlights back on then rushes around to where the punk’s body lies, hoping that he’s hit her hard enough to floor her without doing any major damage. She groans, holding her leg. Rolls onto her back. “What the fuck is going on tonight?” she says. No. He says. The boy holds one hand up against the glare of the headlights to protect swollen and bruised eyes, injuries that look as if they were there prior to the impact of Stasko’s car. “You’re wearing her . . . her clothes,” Stasko says as the realisation hits. The man sits up before suddenly crying out in pain. Stasko grabs him, eliciting another yelp. Shakes him viciously. “Where’s Katja? What the fuck are you playing at?” “I don’t—I can’t—” Stasko shakes him harder to get some sense out of him.
