But she was done.
She turned and walked out of the kitchen toward her room.
“Elizabeth, I’m sorry. I didnae mean to shout at you. I…Fuck.”
She heard true remorse in his voice, stopped, faced him.
He leaned back against the kitchen wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, still in his kilt, despair on his face. He held out the bottle he’d grabbed from her. “I’m sorry. Finish dumpin’ it.”
She walked back to him, took the bottle, poured the rest of it into the sink.
Quinn sat there, the anguish on his face putting a hitch in her chest.
She sat beside him, the tile cold on her bare thighs. “What is it, Quinn? You can tell me anything. You know that, don’t you?”
For a moment, he said nothing, tension rolling off him.
When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost devoid of emotion. “I grew up in social housin’ just like Nicola—the damp seepin’ through the walls, syringes in the halls, vomit and piss in the lift.”
No wonder he’d been so tense when they’d gone to Thurston Tower.
“My da was a drunk. He never held a job for as long as I knew him. When he was drinkin’, he beat me and my ma. Fists. Belt. A coat hanger.” Quinn rubbed a small white scar on his forehead. “One time he struck me wi’ a bottle.”
Elizabeth took his hand. “I’m so sorry, Quinn. That must have been terrifying.”
“When you’re a child, you dinnae know that it disnae have to be that way. It’s just the world you’re livin’ in, aye?”
“I suppose so.” What a sad and terrible thought.
“As I got older, and after my sister was born, I tried to defend my ma, but she didnae want me comin’ between her and my da’s fists.”
“It sounds to me like she was trying to protect you.”
But Quinn was lost in memories and didn’t seem to hear Elizabeth. “I grew angrier and angrier. I joined the South Bank Boys and took my rage out on the world. One night when my da was beatin’ my mother, I threatened to kill him. I meant it, too.”
“I can understand that.”
“The next day, when my da went out to the pub, my ma packed up her things and Paige’s and left. I wanted to go wi’ her, but she wouldnae take me. ‘You’re too much like your da,’ she said. She told me I frightened her. I stood there, watchin’ as they walked out the door, the pain of it worse than any beatin’. That was the last time I cried.”
Tears filled Elizabeth’s eyes, her throat tight, her heart breaking for him. “How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
* * *
Quinn wasglad he’d already emptied his belly. Talking about this turned his stomach. He hadn’t planned on telling Elizabeth any of it, but he couldn’t get past the look of fear on Elizabeth’s face when he’d yanked the bottle away from her, a similar scene playing through his mind.
His mother had been right. He was too much like his father.
Get oot ma hoose, ye fuckin’ bastard! Yer nae son o’ mine. Dinnae be comin’ back or I’ll beat the life oot o’ ye, so I will. This is yer hame nae mair, ya worthless fuck!
Quinn held tighter to Elizabeth’s hand, her touch an anchor. “One night when I was seventeen, I decided I’d had enough. I took every bottle of drink in the flat and poured it down the drain. He came up behind me, started shoutin’. I told him that he was mean when he was drunk, and that I wouldnae let him give me a doin’ again.”
“That was incredibly brave of you.”
“I dropped one of the bottles in my surprise, and the next I knew, he was layin’ his belt across my back. I stood and jerked the belt away from him. Then I punched him in the face. Och, it felt good, so I did it again and again. I beat the bastard bloody.”
He willed himself to meet Elizabeth’s gaze, prepared to see shock and disgust.