Chapter One

      It was always worse when he’d had a beer or two. That Feeling. Hot, urgent and raw, tearing through him. Making him restless, argumentative. Angry. It was as though something or someone took control of him, forcing him to act badly, to be nasty and cruel. It happened when someone had a go at him, took the piss or said something he didn’t like.

      The feeling was there at other times too, Shane had to admit, but it was worse when he’d had a drink. It didn’t take much; just a few beers. He wasn’t an alcoholic, but it lowered his guard enough to allow his anger to come to the surface.

      It was because of his childhood, Rosie said. They’d moved in together four months ago, and on the whole she was sympathetic. In some respects, she was too understanding for her own good. She was a good person and he liked her, even told her he loved her when she asked. But why didn’t she realize that the kinder and more understanding she became, the easier it was for him to overstep the mark?

      It almost incited him to do it. Yet she continued to be understanding despite what he did to her: hitting her, making her scream, cry out and beg for mercy. Afterwards he knew that it wasn’t the gentlemanly way to act, but when he was angry and out of control he didn’t care a fuck for the gentlemanly way.

      Anger, resentment, the feeling that he wasn’t good enough brewed together in an unwholesome concoction and made him act as he did. He sensed that others felt he was inferior to them; that he was uneducated, stupid, and fair game to laugh at. That was the worst feeling – that they were laughing at him, especially when it was someone he knew taking the piss. It made him so angry that he couldn’t be held responsible for his actions. This had got him into trouble many times and then recently he’d smashed a bottle and glassed his best mate, Kevin, which had put him in prison. They’d been drinking and telling jokes and Kevin had told one which he hadn’t immediately grasped. Kevin had laughed and called him a dickhead. The others had laughed too, which didn’t help, but he expected more from Kevin, being his best mate. Then before he realized what he was doing he’d smashed the top off a bottle and had ground it in Kevin’s face.

      He looked at Rosie now, cowering in the corner of the bedroom, the one that was theirs since he’d moved in. Why she’d let him move in he wasn’t sure, but he was pleased she had. It was kind of her, but then Rosie was kind. He could admit that even now when she’d got on his nerves and made him hit her. Had she been a horrible bitch, a slag, like his mother, he could have better justified hitting her. He’d gone to his mother’s house first on his release from prison but she hadn’t wanted him. No surprise there; she’d never wanted him, not even as a baby. The shrink he’d seen in prison had said his mother could be part of his problem – his anger stemmed from her lack of nurturing and ultimate rejection of him. But it couldn’t be helped. No one was perfect; not his mother or even Rosie for all her kindness and forgiveness.

      The bedroom had been decorated in pale pink when he’d first moved in. ‘Yuck,’ he’d said to her when he’d first seen it, and she’d laughed.

      ‘Jesus!’ he’d exclaimed as he’d looked at her collection of china dolls in period costumes arranged on a small satin-covered chair. ‘Dolls in my bedroom! What do you take me for? A nancy boy?’

      He’d told her the dolls would have to go, but she hadn’t understood to begin with because they were still there for another two days. Then he’d got angry that she hadn’t done as he’d told her and he’d thrown the dolls and the chair across the room.

      He might even have thrown Rosie, but he wasn’t sure. He’d been in a really bad temper at the time. What normal bloke has dolls in his bedroom? He’d asked her nicely to remove them, and he’d had a couple of beers that night when he’d hit her so he couldn’t be held entirely responsible for his actions. Perhaps on another day when he’d been in a better mood he might simply have asked her again to remove them. In any event, the dolls and the frilly chair had gone, together with the flowery duvet cover and the matching pillowcases. She’d heard him the first time when he’d told her to get rid of those, and together they’d chosen plain white.

      He liked white, it was pure and virginal, which made him feel good and think happy thoughts. The only problem with white – as it turned out – was that it showed every mark, and the bloodstains never completely disappeared. Even when Rosie scrubbed the stains over and over again and used bleach, the blood spots greyed but were still faintly visible. Once white was damaged it was spoiled for ever.

      Now he saw her gaze shift to the fresh spots of blood on the duvet cover. ‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘It’ll wash out.’

      ‘No, it won’t,’ he said. ‘You’ve ruined it.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. Seeing her cowering in the corner, apologizing with her face covered with blood, reignited his anger. He felt nearly as hot and uncomfortable as when he’d discovered that all the beer had gone from the fridge. He’d only had a few bottles and had been expecting to find more. It was a Saturday night for fuck’s sake, and if a bloke couldn’t have a few drinks on a Saturday, what was the world coming to?

      It was Rosie’s job to shop, to buy what they needed and restock what they were low on. But she hadn’t bought more beer or vodka because of some silly discussion they’d had after the last time he’d hit her about him drinking less. He couldn’t remember agreeing to that, it seemed highly unlikely, so he’d been bitterly disappointed at the lack of alcohol. He’d been anticipating a pleasant Saturday evening in with Rosie – a few beers, a takeaway, and then sex. He liked having sex with Rosie but she’d ruined it all. When he asked where the beer and vodka were she reminded him of his promise. It was the wrong thing to say; his disappointment had exploded into anger and he’d hit her. He hadn’t meant to split her lip and send splatters of blood across the white duvet cover. It had just happened.

      He appreciated that she wanted space now. After they’d argued and he’d hit her she usually needed time alone to wash her face, clean up the flat and change her clothes, so that when he returned all evidence of their disagreement had gone. She would cover