Chapter 85

Marcus came to a halt, the tender skin on his elbows goose bumping as he realised they were daubed with blood. Outside the door Connor's limp form slipped down the wall to rest on the floor, bleeding and broken.

All the anger drained out of him, and the fear that had been for Hope was suddenly replaced by a fear for himself as he realised what he'd done. Visions of courtrooms and prison-cells flitted through his head quickly, but a plaintive groan from Hope drew him out of the shocked state.

"Angel?" he queried again, remembering that he'd not yet had an answer.

Hope looked as shocked as he felt, but the groan hadn't come from her. It had come from Yvonne's bruised form laid out beneath her across the bed.

"I need you to move over," he explained, and Hope scuttled away from him, eyes still wide. Yvonne's back and legs were lined with raised welts — welts he recognised as having come from a belt — and her sides were mottled with bruises and pinch marks. Conscious of the fact that all she wore was a pair of stained, torn stockings Marcus hesitated.

"Do you think we should dress her or just cover her over?"

"What?"

"Yvonne. Should we try and dress her? Shawna's phoning the police."

"Just ... just cover her over," Hope muttered, moving a bit further, sliding off the edge of the bed so that Marcus could grasp the duvet.

"How is she?" he asked, settling the cover around her shoulders as tenderly as he could, clenching his fists as he realised he was shaking.

"I don't know," Hope admitted, after a pause.

As Marcus moved away, eyes flitting around for something to catch his attention, she moved back around the bed, but Yvonne was still as unresponsive as she had been. When she looked up again, Marcus was hunched in the corner, tapping his head against the edge of the desk.

She wanted to go to him, but each time she started to move she remembered him slamming into Connor, splitting skin and breaking bones, and she shivered and stopped.

"Marcus," she called to him, her voice coming out as a strangled whisper. "Marcus."

He carried on tapping, and she started to reach for him, hesitating and drawing back.

"Are you guys OK in here?" Elspeth asked, poking her head in the door. Briana's voice could be heard from somewhere, though not clearly.

"He's ... I'm..."

Hope tried to gather herself to explain, but the words wouldn't come, and Marcus wasn't responding.

"GET OFF ME!" Shawna shouted from outside the room, and Elspeth had to dart out of the way as they both shot towards the door.

"Can't you just call the police?" Shawna asked Elspeth as Brianna navigated the steep roads.

Marcus's bike had been gone by the time they had gotten to the door, and they saw no sign of it until they pulled into the car park of the halls.

"And tell them what? Come quickly to the halls of residence in front of hundreds of people in case something bad's happening?"

"Because being embarrassed is so much worse than..." Shawna trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

She reached again for the phone that Elspeth had taken off her, but Elspeth shrugged away from her. The corridor leading to Yvonne's room was heavy with silent traffic — an ominous sign that had Elspeth and Briana sharing a meaningful glance. Shawna pressed her way insistently through until she drew up short, and Elspeth and Brianna popped out the crowd behind her.

Connor MacNamara lay slumped and senseless at the base of the wall, blood still flowing from various cuts around his bruised and swollen face. A plaster cast — presumably from his arm — lay in pieces on the floor, and dark stains on the knees of his jeans showed other injuries hidden from view.

"I'll phone for an ambulance," Bri muttered.

Elspeth stepped past her to look into Yvonne's room.

Shawna just stared at Connor for a moment, stunned at the sight. She should feel good about seeing him broken and battered. Should feel some sort of justice had been served. But she couldn't muster anything. The fear and loathing that had been present on the other times she'd seen him since Christmas seemed ridiculous in light of the huddled, bleeding shape before her. Instead what should have given her satisfaction was tempered by the realisation of what it meant.

Marcus had to have done this and that promised to be more trouble for him. The police would come —they'd have to — and his record would be re-opened. They'd charge him with who knew what, and then he'd be brought up before the university authorities, and all because she'd gotten drunk and let some piece of filth pick her up at a party.