It hissed softly and Sean twisted away from it, but the tip of the lash

caught his shoulder. Sean gasped at the pain and lifted his hand to it.

You lying little bastard! shouted Waite and swung the whip sideways as

though he were scything wheat, and this time it curled around Sean's

chest under his uplifted arm. it split his shirt like a razor cut and

the cloth fell away to expose the red ridged welt across His ribs and

around his backHere's some m'ore! Waite lifted the siambok again and as

he stood with his arm thrown back and his body turned off balance he

knew he had made a mistake. Sean was no longer clutching the whip

marks; his hands were held low and his fists were bunched. At the

corners his eyebrows were lifted, giving an expression of satanical fury

to his face. He was pale and his lips were drawn back tight, showing

his teeth. His eyes, no longer blue but burning black, were on a level

with Waite's. He's coming for me. Waite's surprise slowed his

reflexes, he couldn't bring his whip-arm down before Sean was on him-.

Sean hit him, standing solidly on both feet, bringing the full weight of

his body into the punch, hurling it into the middle of Waite's exposed

chest.

Heart punched, strength oozing out of him, Waite staggered back against

the desk. The siambok fell out of his hand and Sean went after him.

Waite had the sensation of being a beetle in a saucer of treacle: he

could see and think but he could barely move. He saw Sean take three

quick paces forward, saw his right hand cocked like a loaded rifle, saw

it aimed at his defenceless face.

In that instant, while his body moved in slow motion but his mind raced,

the scales of paternal blindness dropped from Waite Courtney's eyes and

he realized that he was fighting a man who matched him in strength and

height, and who was Ins superior in speed. His only advantage lay in

the experience he had gathered in forty years of brawling.

Sean threw his punch: it had all the power of the first one and Waite

knew that he could not survive that in his face, and yet he could not

move to avoid it. He dropped his chin onto -his chest and took Sean's

fist on the top of his head. The force of it flung him backwards over

the desk, but as it hit he heard the brittle crackle of Sean's fingers

breaking.

Waite dragged himself to his knees, using the corner of the desk as a

support, and looked at his son. Sean was doubled up with pain, holding

his broken hand against his stomach. Waite pulled himself to his feet

and sucked in big breaths of air, he felt his strength coming back.

All right, he said, if you want to fight, then we fight.

He came round the desk, moving slowly, his hands ready, no longer

underestimating his man. I am going to knock the daylights out of you,

Announced Waite. Sean straightened up and looked at him. There was

agony in his face now, but the anger was there also. Something surged up

Inside Waite when he saw it.

He can fight and he's game. Now we'll see if he can take a beating.

Rejoicing silently Waite moved in on him, watching Sean's left hand,

disregarding the broken right for he knew what pain was in it. He knew

that no man could use a hand in that condition.

He shot out his own left hand, measuring with it, trying to draw Sean.

Sean side-stepped, moving in past it. Waite was wide open for Sean's

right, his broken right, the hand he could not possibly use, and Sean

used it with all his strength into Waite's face.

Waite's brain burst into bright colours and darkness, he spun sideways,

falling hitting the leopard-skin rug with his shoulder and sliding with

it across the floor into the fireplace. Then in the darkness he felt

Sean's hands on him and heard Sean's voice. Pa, oh, my God, Pa. Are

you all right? The darkness cleared a little and he saw Sean's face, the

anger gone from it and in its place worry that was almost panic. Pa,

oh, my God! Please, Pa. Waite tried to sit up, but he could not make

it. Sean had to help him. He knelt next to Waite holding him, fumbling

helplessly with his face, trying to brush the hair back off his

forehead, stroking the rumpled beard into place. I'm sorry, Pa, truly

I'm sorry. Let me help you to the chair.

Waite sat in the chair and massaged the side of his jaw.

Sean hovered over him, his own hand forgotten.

what you want to do, kill me? asked Waite ruefully. I didn't mean it.

I just lost my temper. I noticed, said Waite, I just happened to notice

that. To, about Garry. You don't have to say anything to him, do you?

Waite dropped his hand from his face and looked at Sean steadily. I'll

make a bargain with you, he said, I'll leave Garry out of it if you'll

promise me two things. One: You never lie to me again.

Sean nodded quickly. Two: if anybody ever takes a whip to you again you

swear to me you'll give him the same as you just gave me. Sean started

to smile and Waite went on gruffly. Now let's have a look at your hand.

Sean held it out and Waite examined it, moving each finger in turn.

Sean winced. Sore? asked Waite. He hit me with that. Sweet Jesus,