Collette screams again. Drops to the floor and curls her whole body round her injured hand, clamps her palm over where the fingers are gone, to try to stem the blood. It hurts. She can’t believe how much it hurts. It’s only two fingers. What’s two fingers? How can the pain from two fingers be running through every nerve I’ve got?
Vesta picks up a towel, wipes her fingerprints from the hatchet handle and drops it in the bath. ‘I told you my dad was a butcher, didn’t I?’ she says.