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CHAPTER ONE

‘Bleedin’ hell.’ Maggie Donaldson swore loudly as she jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being hit by the china teacup which came whizzing past her head as she opened the front door. She watched, slightly bemused, as it smashed against the garish lamp in the corner and tiny fragments of blue china showered down.

Using the back of her red scuffed heel to shut the battered front door, Maggie’s confusion slowly turned to anger as she looked around the gloomy hallway, listening to the raised voices. She sighed loudly.

She’d been away for just over a year and somehow during that time she’d convinced herself things would be different. It had been stupid to do so. Violence in her family was like a thirst; as recurrent and necessary as other people’s cups of morning tea.

How many times as a child had she cowered in bed listening to the screaming arguments? The crying and the slamming of doors, before she’d made sure the coast was clear to creep downstairs to comfort and tend to her mother’s injuries.

The brutality hadn’t just stopped there. It had touched everyone with sadistic cruelty, twisting and coiling itself around the heart of her family. Maggie could count on one hand the times she’d been hugged as a kid but she’d lost count of the number of black eyes she and her siblings had received growing up in the Donaldson household.

She’d only managed to survive her mother’s visits to casualty, her father’s drunken rows and the daily terror she’d seen in her siblings’ eyes by having hope; hope that one day it’d all come to an end. But as Maggie Laura Donaldson looked at the discoloured silver cutlery strewn all over the floor with the mismatched tea set thrown about the hall like hand grenades in a battlefield, it told her all she needed to know. Her hopes had once again been as taunting and hollow as ever. Only a miracle could change things – and Maggie knew miracles didn’t happen in the Donaldson household: not even small ones.

Standing with weary resignation in the newly painted kitchen doorway, Maggie watched as her father – armed to throw another porcelain bomb at her retreating mother – spat out his venomous words. ‘Jaysus fucking Christ, Sheila, if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll put you in your grave. I’ll happily do time for you. Look at me like that again and see what happens. I swear on the Virgin Mary, I’ll …’

Interrupting her father’s furious rant, Maggie spoke. Her voice was filled with the icy, hard edge she’d learnt from him. ‘Hello, Dad. This is a nice welcome home ain’t it? It’s good to see nothing changes. Home sweet home, eh?’

Max Donaldson turned abruptly to stare at his daughter. His bloated red face showed a flicker of surprise before it turned into a familiar veil of scorn.

As he met her gaze, he noticed how much thinner Maggie’s face looked from the last time he’d seen her. Her eyes had a distant look about them which hadn’t been there before; but however worn out she looked, it could never detract from her beauty.

Her long auburn hair tumbled down in lustrous waves to the middle of her back. Her skin was flawless and pale. Her piercing blue eyes – a throwback from her Irish heritage – were mesmerizing. Where she got her looks from, Max didn’t know. He knew he was no Rembrandt and as far as he was concerned his wife’s looks were more in keeping with the living dead. Enough to frighten the devil himself.

As startling as Maggie’s beauty was though, it didn’t blind him as it did others. When he looked at his daughter he saw her for what she was. A cheeky mare who’d always had too much lip and bravado. The hundreds of beatings he’d given her hadn’t done anything to curtail her air of arrogance. If anything, with every thrashing, with every bust lip she’d ever had at Max’s hand, her sense of superiority and disdain towards him had grown.

Looking back, Max couldn’t remember a time he’d seen her cry, in stark contrast to her brothers, who’d done his nut in by wailing for hours on end when he’d raised his fists to them. Maggie had taken the punishments he’d dished out to her in silent martyrdom. There’d been no tears, no screams, just her huge piercing blue eyes sadly gazing up at him; serving only to infuriate and double the severity of her beatings.

There was something about his daughter – though he’d never admit it to anyone, he even struggled to admit it to himself – which made him feel uneasy. He’d almost go as far as saying she made him feel ashamed of who and what he was. And because of these feelings he harboured inside him, that lodged in at the back of his throat like bile, Max Donaldson hated his daughter, Maggie. Putting down the fruit bowl he was about to throw at his wife, Max addressed Maggie with sneering contempt.

‘Saints and mothers preserve us, look what the fucking cat’s dragged in. I thought there was a nasty smell.’

The words slashed out at Maggie and it hurt. It always had. It was all she’d ever known from her father but somehow she’d never learnt to shield herself from his words as she’d done his fists; they continually managed to wound.

Sometimes the pain of his words became so great, it felt as if she was going to pass out, but like Max, when it came to her feelings, Maggie Donaldson was stubborn and proud. She’d rather put her fingers in a vice than ever let her father know that his verbal ill-treatment injured her more than any mouthful of knuckles or black eyes ever could.

Expertly, Maggie pushed the pain to one side, drawing up the protective wall she’d had to build throughout her life.

‘Never one to disappoint are you, Dad? God knows what would actually happen if you managed to say “hello” after not seeing me for a year. It’d be like the Second Coming.’

‘Oh please, you’ll have me running to the bog to shit out the crap you’re talking. You expect me to roll out the red carpet when you got yourself into the mess in the first place?’

‘No, just a “hello” would do.’

Max snorted. ‘You must think you’re the Queen of Sheba. Take off that pair of big fucking boots you’re wearing before they kick you in the arse.’

Maggie paused and took a deep breath. She was determined her father wouldn’t get the rise he was looking for. When she had the fire in her belly not many things would stop her clenching her fists and wading in, even if it meant her coming off worse.

That’s what’d partly got her into the latest trouble. Most of her life her anger had gotten the better of her. She’d become resilient to being knocked about and getting into fights with people when her temper rose up. But everything had to be different now. She’d made a promise to herself. Even though she knew it was going to be hard not to resort to fists and fury, she had to try. Besides, being away this last time had changed her.

After a minute she spoke, narrowing her eyes as she did so. ‘You’ve got the front to stand there and say it was all my fault?’

Max grinned menacingly and winked at his daughter, waiting for the usual reaction. But instead, Maggie calmly stepped forward, surprising herself with her control. The surprise was also reflected in Max’s eyes. This wasn’t the Maggie he knew. The Maggie he knew would have verbally leapt at him without thinking of the consequences, but this tall, beautiful, self-composed woman was a stranger to him. A stranger who unnerved even him.

Maggie was within spitting distance of her father’s whiskey-smelling breath, centimetres away from his unshaven face. She stood glaring back at him, struck by a sudden realisation; she wasn’t afraid of Max now, not the way she used to be. Wary perhaps, but she’d lost the nauseating fear that used to sit tightly around her chest, stifling the air she breathed, causing her to sometimes wet herself, even as a teenager, when she’d heard his voice.

She felt a light touch on her arm and Maggie became aware of her mother, Sheila, standing fearfully by her side.

‘Leave it Maggie, please. For me. No trouble.’

Maggie looked at her mother and smiled softly, wanting to calm the dancing fear she saw in the terrified eyes staring up at her. Feeling the trembling hand on her arm made Maggie’s heart almost burst with sadness.

She took in every detail of her mother’s face as they stood in the overheated kitchen; the deep furrowed lines, the grey hairs by her temples, the little scar above her lip – the result of a broken bottle thrown in her face – and lastly, her mother’s eyes: wide, anxious and blue like her own. Maggie slowly nodded. She would keep the peace – at least for today she would.

Stepping back from her father and facing her mother straight on, she spoke quietly and warmly with love in her eyes.

‘For you; I’ll do anything for you.’

Maggie touched her mother’s cheek then bent down slightly to kiss Sheila on her forehead. ‘It’s good to see you Mum. I’ve missed you.’

Max Donaldson watched this exchange scornfully but also acutely conscious of the change in his daughter.

She was no longer afraid of him and he knew it could only spell one thing: trouble.

Still deep in thought, Max took out a small folded wrap from his pocket and emptied the white powder on the table. Leaning over, he pulled a rolled-up twenty pound note from his other pocket and, holding one nostril and placing the note in the other nostril, he expertly snorted up the cocaine in one go.

As it cut the back of his throat and the first tingle of coke hit his bloodstream, he straightened himself up, rubbing his nose between two nicotine stained fingers to wipe off any excess. He stared hard at Maggie who stood defiantly watching him from across the other side of the table.

He chose to ignore her. He had to think. Picking up his car keys, Max walked out of the kitchen, deciding he needed to find a way of putting his tramp of a daughter firmly in her place – and preferably sooner rather than later.

As soon as she heard the front door shut, Maggie threw down her bag and grinned excitedly, giving her mum a huge hug as she spoke.

‘Well, where are they? Where am I going to meet them?’

Sheila broke away from the hug and looked down nervously at the red tiled floor, deciding it needed another clean now that most of last night’s dinner had been chucked onto it. Not wanting to look at her daughter directly, she spoke softly.

‘That’s what I was going to tell you love; I didn’t like to worry you when I came to visit, but a few things have changed since you were here.’

Maggie squinted her eyes. She always knew when her mum didn’t want to tell her something, especially if it was something bad. This was one of those times. Watching her mother shuffle from side to side, Maggie bent her tall, slender frame down to her mother’s eye level and spoke firmly but quietly.

‘Mum, if you’ve got something to say, for God’s sake, spit it out.’

Shelia stared into her daughter’s eyes for a split second but quickly turned away, unable to hold her gaze. Her daughter’s big blue eyes always made her feel guilty, reminding her of her kids’ rotten childhood.

Maggie had seen so much and heard so much but complained so little. She’d always been a good daughter to her. Even though Maggie had suffered at the hands of her father and had been left for hours on end to look after her siblings when her mum was either in hospital or just couldn’t cope, Maggie had always been loyal.

Her daughter was the only one who’d helped around the house, making well-needed brews, helping with the mounds of dirty laundry and the seemingly never-ending piles of washing up. It was only Maggie who’d ever spoken kind words to her and it was only Maggie who’d ever walked through a blizzard of snow to come and visit her in hospital when Max had fractured her pelvis. And closing her eyes at the thought, Sheila knew it’d only ever been Maggie who, even from an early age, had stood terrified but bravely in front of Max, willing to take the punches instead of letting him hurt her mum and siblings. Shamefully she’d let her; Sheila had let her daughter stand there, becoming a human shield for her and for her other children.