This brings a smile to Tank’s face. It’s a slow twitching of lips that becomes an all-out grin. He’s so perverted.

I smile too, but the sound of the floorboard creaking above our heads makes the smiles vanish from both of our faces. The footsteps are on the stairs now, each one heavy and deliberate. Each one designed to strike fear into our hearts. And it works, at least for me. I glance at Tank and swallow hard.

The words are on the tip of my tongue when the locks slide back and the door slowly opens, and then they’re swallowed by dread, pushed down my throat to settle in my stomach because I can’t say those words here. The walls, the bed, the concrete floor that’s seen too many bloodstains, and my father—they don’t deserve to hear something so pure. No. This room, these walls, this floor and this bed, they’re for overhearing screams, and my father is the conductor, wielding my fear as his baton.

He enters the room and glares at the two of us. His hands are behind his back, and I can’t tell if he’s holding something in them or not, but it makes me nervous. He smiles at me, and his gaze settles on Tank. “You’re finally awake.”

Tank says nothing, just meets my father’s gaze evenly. He doesn’t flinch under the weight of that terrible green stare, not the way I would. The corners of my father’s lips twitch, and then he stalks over to me and yanks me up by the arm. I lash out at him, but his eyes meet mine and in them is the promise of pain, not for me, but for Tank, and I go lax and stop fighting.

“There’s Daddy’s girl.” He tucks a strand of limp hair behind my ear and turns my arm over so that my palm is facing skyward. I yank it back, already knowing what he’s about to do.

“No,” I say. “No, don’t.”

I can’t do this. Not in front of Tank.

I’d been wondering how long it would be before he did this again. I’d craved it. Before he brought in Tank, wanting to die had been all I’d thought about, and now the promise of heroin in my veins overrides that desire. My body cries out for it. I want it, badly, but don’t want it here, not in front of Tank, where I might see his disappointment etched so plainly on his strong features.

“Please?” I beg of my father and he smirks.

“Once upon a time you used to beg me to pump this into your veins,” he says. The sound of Tank’s handcuffs chinking against the iron pipe draws both of our gazes.

“Touch one hair on her head and I’m going to tear you apart with my bare hands,” Tank warns.

My father chuckles. “You’d have to get out of those cuffs first, and I don’t see that happening.”

He pulls a rubber cord from his back pocket and ties it tightly above the crease in my elbow along with a syringe that he pulls the cap off of with his teeth and spits out on the ground. And then he sticks the needle in my vein.

“No!” Tank roars, yanking at his bound hands, trying to wrench them free, but he’s not moving anywhere. He’s not going anywhere. None of us are.

The sweet rush of tar pumps through my veins and I exhale my worries, leaning back into the support of my father’s arms. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, Tank’s gaze is livid and locked on mine. He doesn’t understand why I didn’t struggle. I can see it written all over his face, the question.

Why didn’t you fight?

The answer is simple: him.

I tiptoe through the house, looking for Mummy. I hear Daddy’s voice from the basement downstairs, and I cover my mouth with my hand so I don’t squeak in fear like I want to.

Banjo wasn’t in the basement, so why was my mummy looking down here?

“You think you can take her from me, huh, bitch? Think you can take my little girl?” he shouts.

“Your little girl?” Mummy says, and she’s using her angry voice now. “Let me tell you something about your little girl. You brutalised her. And I’ll do whatever it takes to get her away from you.”

“You won’t be going anywhere ever again, neither of you will. No one loves her more than I do. No one ever will.”

“You’ll burn in hell for the things you’ve done to her.”

“I haven’t done anything but give her love,” he says. I quietly creep down the stairs to hear them better, careful not to be seen as I flatten myself against the wall and peek around the door. Mummy is on her knees on the floor, holding Banjo to her chest as Daddy circles her like a shark. He’s carrying the axe we use to chop wood, and I watch the way the sharp silver blade swings as he walks. “It’s not sick, or unnatural; it’s just love.”

“I’ll be dead before I let you touch my daughter again.”

“Yes, you will,” he says, and he raises the axe in his hand and swings. My mother makes a single keening cry before the sound is cut short by a sickening thud, and her head rolls along the ground towards me as her body slumps forward in a heap.

The screams echo in my head. My screams. Daddy drops the axe. It’s no longer shiny silver, but is painted red, with little gobs of stuff that looks like minced meat. He staggers towards me, his face spattered with her blood, a mask of death. I take a step back, but before I can turn and run, he’s bundling me up in his arms and carrying me out of the room as I stare back at my mother’s head and the blood that oozes across the garage floor towards us.

I’m still screaming as my father puts me to bed and tucks me in. I’m still wearing my blood-stained clothes. He whispers over and over that he’ll never let anyone try to take me from him again, and that we’ll always be together. No matter what. He’ll always find me and bring me home.

And he always did.

I tug at the cuffs binding my hands together. There are a few ways out of this. One, by some miracle Ivy gets her restraints undone, finds a pin, a paperclip, or a fuckin’ bobby pin and I talk her through sliding it into the keyhole of my cuffs and jamming the shiv. Two, she breaks my thumbs. Not ideal, and it’d certainly make taking that fucker down more difficult than it should be, but it’s not entirely impossible—though I would like to avoid it. Three, the fucktard grows a conscious and lets us walk free. Or four, I wind up with a knife in my skull and Ivy’s stuck down here forever.

Also not ideal.

Prez thinks I’m out on a job. If I don’t report back soon, he’ll know something is up, and if he finds Ivy gone he’ll know where to find us, but all this is a really big fuckin’ maybe. The van would have been reported already. The plates are fake, and we’re always careful not to keep anything in there that might lead the Feds to us, but I hadn’t planned on getting abducted and leaving it parked on some rich cunt’s front lawn. Which means if the Russians didn’t already capture that dickhead, Ivan fuckin’ Milat here shanked Crazy in that driveway, and we left evidence behind. They lift a clear print from the steering wheel and I’m goin’ to prison for murder, forced entry and druggin’ an elderly woman and her maid. They’ll likely throw in attempted theft or some shit too, just because I’m bikey scum.

I guess I’ll worry about that shit when and if I get outta here. Prison would be a fuckin’ vacation when compared to being in this room and watching that fuck shoot her up right in front of me. He didn’t even fuckin’ do anythin’ once she was high as a kite, just laid her back on the bed, grinned at me like a cunt who knows he has the upper hand, and left the room. It was a small fuckin’ mercy, but I know he’s biding his time. He’s toyin’ with us, waitin’ for the right moment. And I feel it comin’.

He thinks he’s safe because I’m locked up, and now she’s hopped up on junk. That motherfucker isn’t safe. Right now, he’s lucky. That’s all. But Lady Luck is a bitch and has a way of turning all your best-laid plans into a pile of shit at your feet. Before long, that’s all he’ll be. Shit and guts and blood underneath my boots, and I’ll fucking dance in it. I’ll revel and rejoice and wear his innards like a crown.