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of the shotgun rolled over him like thunder. A large section of the doorframe disintegrated, spraying him with a storm of splinters. A sledgehammer seemed to hit his right shoulder, punching the breath out of his lungs, spinning him like a top. He clutched at the bannister, barely managing to stop himself from pitching over it. Through hazy layers of fear and tears, he saw his dad emerge from the doorway. His face was bloodless and blank, his eyes as empty as black holes. With a strangely robotic movement, he swung the shotgun’s barrel towards his son.
    For an instant, paralysis seized Mark. I’m going to fucking die , screamed his brain. Struggling for breath, he managed to gasp out, ‘No!’ His left hand darted out to grab the barrel and shove it away. Father and son strained against each other, limbs trembling, eyes bulging. Even if his right arm hadn’t dangled uselessly at his side, Mark’s strength would have been no match for his father’s. Slowly but surely, the barrel inched towards his face. With one last desperate effort, Mark threw his body against the gun, forcing it floorward. There was another eardrum-lacerating boom, and it felt to Mark as if someone was dragging a white-hot razor along his left shin. As he collapsed down the stairs, a whoosh of flames leapt up, enveloping his dad’s trousers. Tumbling head over heels, he glimpsed his dad slapping futilely at the flames on his legs.
    Mark landed in a winded heap at the bottom of the stairs. Seeing that the flames were giving chase, he grabbed the bannister and hauled himself upright. He limped towards the kitchen as the petrol pooled by the front door ignited. A piercing scream sliced the air as, in a final crazed attempt to kill his son, Stephen threw himself over the bannister. Flaring like a comet, he hurtled towards Mark. His scream cut off abruptly as he hit the floor headfirst behind him.
    A burst of flames searing his back, Mark half staggered, half collapsed into the kitchen. He kicked the door shut, blocking the fire’s advance. Then he sagged against the work-surface, his temples throbbing as his brain struggled to assimilate what had happened. He felt as though he’d like to close his eyes and sink into oblivion – not just to escape the pain of his wounds, but to escape the pain of knowing that his dad had tried to murder him. His dad had tried to murder him! His own dad! It was beyond insane. It was so incomprehensible as to scarcely seem real. It was real, though. The blood streaming from his arm was real; the pain radiating through his body and mind was real.
    Mark knew he had to keep moving. He had to find medical attention. Of even more immediate concern, the door wouldn’t hold the fire for long. Already its paint was blistering and flames were licking at its edges. He found himself wondering whether he cared. Did he really want to continue living in a world where this could happen? Yes , exclaimed something inside him, perhaps the same deep-rooted survival instinct that had given him the strength to fight his father. Another thought struck him like a fist, jerking him fully upright, eyes wide and searching. Where were his mum and Charlotte? Had his dad tried to kill them too? In one horrifying instant, he got his answer.
    ‘Oh God no!’ cried Mark, the words tearing out of his throat as if formed from broken glass. ‘Please no. Please, please.’ He threw himself towards his mum, landing on his knees in a slick of still-warm blood. ‘Mum! Mum!’ He felt her wrist for a pulse. He put his ear close to her mouth, listening for breath. There were no signs of life. How could there be? There was a hole in her chest big enough to push his fist into. His gaze transferred to Charlotte. Not that he recognised her blood-masked face, but he knew from her clothes and hair that it was her.
    Mark began to shake violently. Vomit pushed up his throat, spewing from his mouth and nose. He collapsed beside his mum, moaning and clutching at her.