Page 39 of Demon

“I can take him,” a light voice penetrated the mutterings. Ciara pushed forwards. “I only had a few. I’m good to drive. We can take him in my car.”

Indie glanced back at our father slumped on the manky bar floor, growing paler, his breath now rattling. He nodded.

Between us, we hoisted my father to his feet, pulling his arms around our shoulders, walking painfully slowly through the seating area of the bar. Tori followed and Ciara behind her. Outside, the weather was cruel. Horizontal rain thrashed in from a wind whipping up off the River Tyne.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have room for you as well,” Ciara said from behind me as we shuffled my father into the back seat of Ciara’s car.

“I’m fucking coming,” Tori replied, the high-pitched note in her voice driving that feeling of homicide back into my system.

“There isn’t room,” Ciara said again.

“Then Demon can stay. I’m getting in that car.”

“Look, love,” Ciara’s voice was harsh now, “it’s Demon’s father. You’re gonna have to find another way to the hospital.”

“Stupid fucking bitch,” the raven-haired arsehole spat. “You’ll fucking regret this.”

Ciara rolled her eyes at me, bit her tongue, and moved into the driving seat. As we pulled out of the carpark, I watched Tori grow smaller and smaller in the rearview, standing watching as we left her behind in the rain. And in the middle of the chaos, seeing her left behind at the clubhouse, out of my life for once, induced a whole load of fuzziness, despite the fear and tension clogging my arteries.

“Demon. Demon,” the sweet sound of her Irish accent broke through my thoughts. “Which way to the hospital?”

We’d come to the end of the road, leading us out of the industrial estate. Cars rushed past on the double lane carriageway in front of us, a blur of colours and a whir of noise.

“Demon?” she said again. “Which way?”

“Left.”

“You’re pointing right, Demon.” I looked down at my hands, at the finger pointed the opposite way.

“Yeah. Yeah. I mean right.”

The car pulled forward, the lights changing to red as we pulled through them. Somewhere behind us, a cacophony of angry horns sounded.

“And you lot can all fuck off,” Ciara complained, her hands clutching tightly to the steering wheel as she forced the underpowered car forward, oncoming cars tight behind her.

The little red Fiesta screamed under the weight of four of us and Ciara’s heavy foot. We were just in front of rush hour traffic by some sort of warped miracle, the roads clear enough that the traffic in front and behind us was moving continually. Behind me, the cough started again. A racking, barking noise as my father battled for breath. Ciara’s hands tensed on the wheel; her eyes focussed only ahead.

“Faster, lass,” Indie called from behind her, his voice almost lost in the noise of the choking cough beside him.

“I’m at the speed limit.”

“Then you need to break it.”

I glanced across at her, at the lip she held with her teeth, at the creamy tint of tightened skin over her knuckles and the tension of muscles in her neck. But the car growled again, pushing forwards, overtaking those in front, weaving through the traffic and braking heavily to avoid rear-ending the cars before it.

“A little easier on the breaks, Ciara,” Indie called again. “We’re gonna get whiplash here in the back.”

“Feel free to fucking drive then,” she spat like an angry cat, her Irish accent harsher than I’d ever heard it before. “Oh, wait. You can’t because you’re still pissed.”

“Indie. Back off her,” I cautioned, catching his taut expression in the rear-view mirror.

“And you can be quiet, too. Just shut up and let me drive.”

“What about directions?”

“Aye. You can give me those. But I don’t want to hear a peep out of either of you otherwise.”

For the rest of the short ride, we sat in silence. The only noise the growl of the engine and the wheeze from my father’s chest.