“Don’t!” shouted Ian, “Don’t. Please.”

Jessica turned slowly towards him, tightly clutching the brick, arm still poised ready to launch it towards the window.

“But I want to,” she shouted back. “It’s the only thing I want to do. It’s the only thing that will hurt him. Bricks and mortar. Things. Stuff. That’s the only thing he cares about. The only things he loves.”

Ian touched her arm gently.

“There are more constructive ways of getting your point across. Ways that won’t involve him calling the police.”

“He may not know it’s me”

“After what’s just happened. Really?”

Jessica sighed and looked at the floor. “What’s her name again?”

“No idea. Just allocate her a number. Like in the Prisoner. Number 8.”

 “What number am I then?” she said quietly, then with a sudden surge of anger, “I hate him. I hate him..”

Ian stepped closer.

“What are you doing here, Ian? You’re his friend, not mine.”

“I’m your knight in shining armour,” he said, trying to take the brick.

“There’s no such thing,” said Jessica turning away from him.

“I can help you upset him more” he said softly.

“How  – like breaking in with me and cutting all the ends of his trousers and shirts…”

“Come for a drink with me. He’d hate that.”

Jessica studied the house.

“Yes he would,”

Ian held out his hand. “Come,” he said.

“Run,” shouted Jessica, throwing the brick through the window. “Run. I’d like a gin and tonic please.”


Copyright Chris Penhall 2013


About chrispenhall

Mother, writer, radio person. Lover of sun and flipflops. Doesn't like snow.
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