I haven't been in the new flat long enough to have anything in the freezer. I had to take myself to the Angel's place. She's got the opposite problem. Lots of stuff in her freezer. Bad sign; that's the sign of somebody who doesn't know how to shop. Buys things and shoves them away and never actually cooks for herself. Fetching out a bag of frozen peas almost leaves her with frostbite. It's one solid block so she takes after it with the handle-end of a meat cleaver to break it up. Then reaches for a damp rag of a tea towel lying next to her sink. "Don't even think about it."

So she goes to the drying rack hung on the radiator and gets a clean t-shirt instead. Wraps the peas in that and brings them over. She retreats once I've settled them against my ribs, sitting on the arm of the chair opposite. "So… Sorry, I know you already told me, but why did you walk in front of a car again?"

"Reconnaissance."

"No, I know. You wanted to meet Tom. But… But why did you have to-?"

"If the rest of that sentence goes the same way as what you said before-"

"Alright, but what I mean is, why couldn't you just fake something?"

She's lucky I'm injured. She's unlucky that I'm discovering the power and pressure of broken ribs. Because if mine are only bruised, she's beautifully fucked whenever I start experimenting. I might send back to Dublin for a hurl. Like a hockey stick, except hockey is a nice, gentle, girls-boarding-school type of game. Hurling has more in common with rugby and everybody's carrying around these long ash bats with weighted ends. Fake? Teach her all about fake when the left side of her chest is concave.

But there's no sense in showing my hand too soon. For now I'm stuck in this chair. For now I have a use for her.

"Never fake anything," I say, disguising it as a kind little lesson. "You'll run into an expert and get caught." There's an awful, questioning silence. She lifts her brows at me, trying to phrase something she knows will make me angry. Thinking of one particular incident. "That was different."

"Like, if you're going to say anybody's an expert in that, and in faking that; you did it right in front of him. So, I know he's a proper medical nurse and all, but you could probably have fooled Tom if you'd just pretended something."

The saddest thing of all is that there's a compliment buried in there somewhere. "Is there anything stronger than Anadin in this rat-trap?"

She scuttles off to look. Hopeless. This is why I need my real friends back. Moran always had morphine lying about, and topical anaesthetics in case of buckshot. Charlie kept high-grade Thai codeine in case of angry husbands. Danielle had an entire pharmacy of semi-recreational numbness and calm I could have availed myself of.

While the contents of a bathroom cabinet go clattering into the sink, the angel shouts back to me, "Tom's nice, isn't he?"

"No."

"He always seemed really nice when I met him."

"Yes, but he's a liar." She brings back pills, and I have her sit by my feet while I explain the truth. Moran's been taken in, same as she was. It takes somebody like me, somebody clear-sighted, coming back in from outside, to see what people are really up to. I tell it to her in clear logical points. At the end she sits silent, twirling her hair around her fingers. "You don't believe me, angel."

"Of course I do."

"You don't, either.

"…I believe you. I just can't believe him. He seemed so lovely."

"He's no friend of ours, dear. Repeat that for me. Properly believe it and I'll take that pin out of your finger."

She hangs her head. Sensing the old traps, edging around them. "It's-not-bothering-me-you-decided-it-should-be-there-so-I'm-okay-with-it-being-there-and-"

"Angel, don't push it."

"Tom's no friend of ours. Tom's not who I thought he was. I have to help you help the Colonel. He's happy now but it doesn't mean he's going to stay that way. We're doing the right thing. Tom's no friend of ours."

I pick up her hand and unhook the safety pin around her nail. Her shoulders tighten but that's all. Then I pull it, and nothing happens. Suction from inside and the scabbing at either end are holding it in place. "Go and get me a pair of pliers."

"You don't have to."

Yeah I do. We need to make our next move, and make it relatively quickly. Can't have her showing up with her finger still pierced. That would give away more than I really want to. "Go and get me a pair of pliers."

She can act as meek and mild as she wants; the tool is waiting, tucked down the side of the kitchen drawer. And I give her the use of the frozen peas and one of the pills. This is an awful lot of kindness. She knows better than to look at me with suspicion, but it's coming off her in waves. That's gratitude for you. For sheer badness, just to confuse her, "Are you ready? You don't need to bite down on something or-?"

"No, I think I'll be-" While she's talking I pull it out fast. She gasps, but that's all, and manages to mumble through it, "Thank you."

I was holding her fingers together to keep them steady. She thinks I'm letting go of her until my hand claps shut around her wrist again. I hold her there in front of me. "Let me explain what's going to happen next."

Shouldn't really use the word 'explain'. Should just say 'tell'. More honest. 'Explain' might imply she has some choice or input.

What's going to happen (oh aye, much better, that feels much better) is that tomorrow morning she's going to get on her roller skates. She likes her skates. Best way to navigate London, she says. Told you she was mad. Anyway, they let her move fast. They'll let her be barrelling down the street so she doesn't see the non-descript security guard.

While I describe it to her, I start to picture it.

She'll bash straight into him, head to chest. He'll recognize her first. While the angel barks 'excuse me' and tries to take off again, he'll be holding her back.

"Alright, our Scout?"

Then another collision as she throws her arms around him. "Oh, Colonel, did you hear?"

And Moran will return the hug. Whether they've seen each other lately, whether he likes her anymore or not, that's irrelevant. That's my influence, don't you know. That's me bringing people together. "Don't know that anybody could have missed it, kid."

You understand, I'm making this up. I'm giving the Angel her script based on my predictions of what Moran might say.

"Have you seen him?"

He might deny it. More than likely he'll remember those few interrogation skills we were able to beat into him down the years and try to deflect the question. "Have you?"

I tell her, "You will then, sweetheart, shake your head. You'll need to look torn up, tortured. And you say 'No'. No, you haven't seen me. But your allowance has stopped coming into the bank and you don't know what to do anymore. You're lost and broke. Be subtle and embarrassed about the broke part."

"Subtle and embarrassed. Right. But, um… can I just ask-?"

"You're still getting your money."

"Right. So why do I have to lie to the Colonel?"

"Because he'll feel guilty. He's seen me and not wanted me. You wanted me and have been denied. He'll try to help. And given you're essentially a giant child, you are ostensibly good with children. They're going to a birthday party this weekend, him and Tom. They'll need a babysitter."

"But I… I… But we can't… Peter? Really? What do you… We can't."

"Are all of those little bits of sentences mean to be telling me something?"

She hangs her head. "No, sir."