Eleven
“I hate violence” — Francesca BoyleThe pain was unimaginable. Her body screamed for the oxygen that had been ferociously expelled from her lungs by the punch. And yet each breath sent spasms of pain through her torso. She tried to straighten up, but her muscles simply refused to respond.
After her outburst at Finlayson, her capacity for further speech was gone. She just leaned against the wall, only vaguely aware of the police cars and uniforms beginning to swarm around the scene, of the shouted instructions at the captured killer, of him kneeling down with hands on head, him being handcuffed and led away.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Are you OK?”
It was, she thought, a stunningly stupid question. She used precious reserves of energy to deliver a withering look in reply. Th
