He has leaned forward over the edge of his chair. His small face is flushed. His stare is the hard flat stare of a child saying a sentence he has been rehearsed into.
It's definitely going to take more than offering him juice to undo whatever wiring he has been wired into by his mother to be so sinister towards me.
I close my hand around the broken china and stand up, straighten my sleeves and turn toward the kitchen door, and behind me the small soft scuff of a body leaning forward reaches my ear half a breath before the second plate goes.
It splits in two on the boards and Martin is looking at me when I turn. Not at the floor. At me. I ignore him completely realising what a menace he might be and I push the kitchen door.
Victoria's back is at the stove, her hand turning something in
