"I think you should say something," whispered Catherine and nudged Pete a bit forward to the black leather couch where Isabel has been residing for the past week, opting to skip work and piano lessons and showering. The girl was completely ignoring them, watching Countdown on the telly and although from time to time she suggested a correct answer, Catherine assumed the girl was not talking to them but to Jimmy Carr. Honestly, she was afraid that Isabel was slightly unhinged.

"Stop pushing me, woman. I was just about to do it," Pete anger-whispered out of the corner of his mounth. Catherine threw up her hands in the air in a mock apology, grimacing, when instead of stepping forward Pete stepped back and sat down behind the dining table in the corner of the kitchen-living-dining room area that took up three quarters of the whole apartment.

"Oh my God!" Catherine mouthed.

"What?" mouthed Pete back, knowing fully well what. He was just buying himself some time because he did not know how.

"Come here," he gestured at his girlfriend silently. "Closer," he said through his teeth, barely moving his lips. Catherine sat down on the chair next to his so close that their ears were almost touching.

"'Is this close enough?" she said in the same manner, unable to not roll her eyes. This was getting ridiculous. The girl was not listening to them even when they spoke directly to her, so these secretive whispers were really unnecessary. Maybe he just wants me near him, she thought and raised her eyebrows at him, suggestively. He did not seem very much amused.

"Right," he said coldly. "I reckon you should talk to her. I think you could make her get off that fucking couch. You know," he smirked at her and she could feel the nasty undertone in his speech.

"As a girl to girl?" she sneered and recoiled a bit. She could swear that sometimes when Pete gets angry, his eyes turn almost black. It's not a good look and he was sporting it now. His eyes narrowed. "Nah, as a sociopath to sociopath."

"Ok, I deserved that." She relented. "But you let her live here, she is your burden now."

All this whispering was hurting her throat as it was harder and harder not to whisper-yell.

"And whose fault was it that I needed to get the money?" He frowned. Defeated, she stood up. As she was passing about to pass him by she stopped. The countdown clock in the background was getting on her nerves. She leaned over and kissed the top of his head.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "I'll make it up to you, I swear."

She squeezed his arm for emphasis but just by looking at him she knew instantly that he did not appreciate it and he shook her hand off. Catherine shrugged, and carefully approached the leather couch where Isabel was sitting. Unsure what to do next, she looked back at Pete.

"Sit down," he gestured.

"Isabel," Catherine said gently. "Would you mind if I sit here?"

Looking up, Isabel nodded. "Countdown's on."

"Isn't it always?" Catherine laughed nervously and she couldn't exactly see it, because peripherally he was just outside her line of vision, but she could feel him shaking his head. Sensitivity was never her strongest suit and she felt this tiptoeing around the issue wasn't doing anyone a favour.

"Isabel! You cannot wait any longer. It has to be done today. Now, more precisely. Come on, get up. Get dressed." She jumped to her feet and within few seconds picked out an outfit for Isabel. "Here, wear this."

Resigned, Isabel took the clothes Catherine was handing her. Wordlessly she stood up, took off her sweatpants and tank top.

"On second thought," Catherine stopped her. "Go take a quick shower first. You have 5 minutes. I'm waiting. Chop chop."

Isabel disappeared in the bathroom.

"'S kinda hard to persuade people to act sensible, innit, love."

"Shut up, Pete."

"You shut up."

"No, you shut up. I'm still mad at you, you know." Pete stopped in his tracks. This girl was making him so angry sometimes he had a tremendous urge to just squish her head with his bare hands. With a nice little plop she would finally be quiet. He would never admit to anyone, especially not to her, that in those scarce moments of almost uncontrollable rage the only thing stopping him was the fear that with her gone his heart would plop also. He hated her but he also loved her and they both knew that one day she will be the death of him.

"All done," announced Isabel, as she left the bathroom in a cloud of steam, now fully dressed with hair dripping water on the floor. Wondering how much easier his life would be without those two creatures in his living room he walked to the dresser in the bedroom and in the bottom drawer he found a clean dry towel.

"You ready, kid?" He asked, patting her wet hair with the towel, helping with the drying.

"Yes," she said, matter-of-factly.

"Ok then," he chuckled, taken aback a bit with the tone in her voice. Feeling this wasn't an appropriate moment to laugh, he handed the towel to Catherine, asking her to finish what he was doing, and went to change his clothes too. After quick inspection of his closet he decided that dark wash jeans and black shirt will have to do. He sat on his bed, putting the socks on. It must have been his lucky day, as there were no holes in them. He put his black leather work shoes on, realizing that he is taking far more time than needed to tie the shoe laces. He heard the bedroom door open. It was Catherine.

"Pete, we really have to get going. Let's go." But he did not move. Sitting down on the bed next to him, she heard the Countdown clock again. Isabel turned the TV back on. As if prompted by the clock, he broke the silence.

"Do you reckon her aunt will take her with her after the funeral?"

"I don't know."

"She's going to make her to move to Sweden."

"Yes, that's possible."

"She's not going to like it. She will run away again."

"Yes, that's also possible. What is it to you Pete? She is not your responsibility."

"I'm worried. Aren't you?"

"Yes, Pete, I'm worried," Catherine laughed, exasperated. "I have a big list of worries, the girl being at the very bottom."

"Well, I'm sorry but I assumed you would feel bit sympathy towards the girl. I don't want to watch her life turning into another sad case."

"Like you watched mine, yeah?"

"Yeah, like I watched yours."

They sat on the bed, unmoving, glaring at each other, none of them able to recognize anymore who hurt whom the most; and who needs to apologize first. Isabel watched them from the doorstep. Clearing her throat, she disturbed them from the trance.

"You guys, can we go now? I need to bury my parents."

"Yes, little bird, let's get it over with," Pete got off the bed, grabbing his jacket in one hand and Catherine's hand in the other. Outside in car park Isabel took the passenger seat as soon as he unlocked the car, and slammed the door behind her. He walked around the car to driver's seat. Catherine was putting the rose bouquet into the trunk. As he was passing her by, he mumbled, as if it was a mere afterthought. "I know you were not really pregnant."

She froze, her head deep in the trunk. She tried to quickly back out, hitting her cranium in the process.

"Shit," she yelped, and touched her head where it hurt, hoping for no blood. She felt him standing right beside her. He moved her hair to check. She could feel his breath in her ear.

"I just don't know why."

Catherine shut her eyes tightly for a second, so that she would not cry. This is my chance, she thought. The right moment. Telling him now would be like ripping of the band-aid, painful and quick, but finally revealing the untreated shot wound underneath. She is just going to say it. Now.

"I own money to Billy Bright."