"Crayola markers?"

"Check."

"Home Alone DVD?"

"Check."

"Bag of Tangfastics?"

"Check."

"Good. Now c'mere til I put this mic on you."

Wireless radio microphone. Leftover from the old days. The very old days, before I got to be above such petty things as running a job myself or watching somebody's security cameras for them. It's got a battery pack to go under her jumper at the back and a tiny, flesh-tone receiver that gets taped to her collarbone. All of this she stands passively and lets me do. Lifts her jumper when I need her too, lifts her arm for the wire to go under, pulls her hair out of the way. But that's all. No help, no enthusiasm. She can't even bring herself to plaster a little smile on her face.

One could very easily find oneself getting rather annoyed with her, couldn't one?

She's had two days to come to terms. She came to me right after Moran made her the offer, in tears, trying to tell me she couldn't do it. She's got a bruise that tells you all about that. It's not as big as I'd hoped, but that's just because I woke up sore all over that morning. Combination of her cheap painkillers wearing off and realizing exactly what I'd done the day before. It got to me. I even caught myself giving serious consideration to the idea of finding the driver of the green Micra and offering some sort of apology.

Maybe that was what gave me the sympathy and understanding to then sit her down and explain it all again.

I know; the generosity of it is staggering. I should never have to explain a thing twice. I made sure she knew that and she hasn't made me do it since.

Now, however, here at the crucial moment, I can sense some ill-advised remnant of that reluctance. I stop what I'm doing. Let go of her, walk away toward the office. "No!" she yelps, "No, please." Too late. Far too late, angel, I'm sorry. That's the thing about doubt. You don't have to say it out loud. It just has to be there. "But I can't go there with a pin in me! He'll know! And it'll freak Peter out…"

Hm? Oh, no, safety pins had never crossed my mind. Can't be using that all the time. Then it wouldn't be special anymore. No, I've got something else in mind.

"Shoes off, dear." I watch her to it, with a packet of elastic bands in my hand. She has tiny little feet, you know. Now that I'm looking at them, there's nothing to them. Very dainty. Believe me, though, I've seen her eat and dainty isn't the word that springs to mind. Sifting through the bands, I find two which are comparably small. To give you an idea, they fit comfortably over two of my fingers. And they're orange. She'll like that. She likes orange.

For the sake of health-and-hygiene regulations, she can keep her socks on. I sit on the edge of the coffee table and take one foot into my lap.

"Now, Angel-"

"I'm so sorry. I wasn't even really questioning you, I just feel like-"

"Like a terrible human being. Like the despicable something the Colonel ought to be scraping off his shoes. That's alright, that's exactly how you should feel. That's what you are. But the trick is to get over that." As I speak, I am stretching one of the bands a little loose and starting to ease it over her foot. It takes the first one-two-three toes with relative ease. After that it's more difficult. It pinches, like string on a good pork roast. Makes a nice clear division. If you took an axe, it would give you a neat, useful guide to lopping off that front pad of the foot. I'm pleased with that. She's biting her lip, holding her breath, so it's doing the job. I take her other foot and begin the same process. "The fact that you're scum shouldn't get in the way. In fact, it ought to make you all the more determined to be useful, don't you think? Trust me, this is the only useful thing you're going to do for him."

Nodding. She takes her teeth out of her tongue long enough to confirm with herself, "Yes. For him."

"Yes. Also for the person who hauled you out of the gutter in the first place and has kept you well ever since, if you don't mind…"

"Thank you. Thank you so much, I never, ever forget it."

"You just talk like you do sometimes. Now, have you got everything?"

She thinks, hard. Runs herself through the whole checklist again. She doesn't have everything. I know this. Just thought I'd give her the chance to redeem herself. Bright as the lightbulb clicking on, "Earpiece, sir!"

"Just so," and I fetch it from the desk drawer. The whole evening falls apart if I can't communicate with her. In a little plastic box, I hand her a tiny clear earbud. Another leftover. Sort of thing Moran used to wear so I could tell him if the spooks were coming or if his exit was blocked. I close all these fond memories under the Angel's fingers. "Don't lose that. And don't put it in until the happy couple are off the premises. Moran'll know right away and Tom's medical, he'd never believe it's a hearing aid. Give me a text once we're live."

It seems were back to the sullen, silent nodding, but I'll let it go. In part, because her big toes are starting to turn a charming shade of beetroot purple.

"Try and stand up for me?"

Her feet, until now, haven't touched the floor, but hovered a millimetre or so over the carpet. The first pressure she puts on them her eyes go wide and she reels. All the tendons in her neck go tight. Gingerly, reminiscent very much of Bambi's early days, she puts herself over them. Slowly, slowly, flattening down, pushing up from the armchair. I'm starting to think I should have lit on this idea sooner. The noise in the back of her throat speaks very much of someone who is learning her lesson.

With a courage I can't help but respect, she forces her back straight. Forces herself to smile over at me, "Absolutely fine." Brimming eyes only add to the baby deer effect. I let her sit back down and put her shoes on. Maybe that'll help pad her a bit.

"If you're good from now on I'll let you take them off once you're clear of the Morans."

"Kingsley-Morans."

"If you're good from now on I'll let you take them off half an hour after they leave."

She puts her shoes on again. Never once opens her mouth. I think she's afraid to. It does get her in an awful lot of trouble. I hope that's not the lesson she's learning. Certainly it's not the one I'm trying to teach her. My lesson is about what goes on in her head that leads to those stupid things coming out her flapping lips. My lesson should be getting her somewhere much deeper down.

Then she picks up the earpiece in its case, and is about to pocket it, when she stops. "Does this have enough range for you to talk from here?"

"No. But I'll be closer than that, so I wouldn't worry."

"Where will you be?"

"In range. Past that, don't you bother your head about it. Now come on, I'll give you a lift."

"Oh thank you." She picks her way across the floor like burning coals. I won't tell her now, but when she's getting out of the car she'll be informed in no uncertain terms that if anybody sees her limp she's done for. "Are you sure you want to, though? I mean, what if you bump into him?"

I'm meant to. That's the point.

You get this, don't you? This isn't something I have to explain. I have to bump into him. It has to be tonight, when he'll be with Tom. Because I need to see what he says, what he does. Moran's reaction will tell me a lot about how to play things from here on out.

I'd love him to attack me. I know, I know, glutton for punishment, asking for it, all that shite. But think about it. If Moran throws a punch, that does two things. Firstly, that he's not deeply pissed off with me. Just angry. Holmes got his nose broke when he came back. That's to be expected. And secondly, if he punches me, Tom will want to know why. This time he might look at me properly. This time he might take himself a couple of twos and make a four of them.

Yeah, I'd love him to attack me. That's the answer I'm looking for. That's the same as a gushing Yes and a great big hug. I'll take that as an 'Oh Jim, can you ever forgive me?' and be satisfied.

Probably won't be that easy though. Nothing ever is.

These are the thoughts that occupy me as I drive the Angel down to Dalston. She's ahead of time, and too early even to be being that good babysitter who shows up to get instructions and bedtimes and such. So I tell her to walk around the block a couple of times. I sit back in the car and leave the headlights on long enough to watch her around the corner. Just to check, you understand, that she's not hobbling. I'm just being a good boss. Wouldn't let her go in there and give herself away. I drive past her when I'm repositioning myself. To make sure she's doing as she's told, and to get the car out of the way.

There's not long to wait before I get her message. My phone bleeps, but I make sure not to open the text itself. What's to see, anyway? Know exactly what it'll say.

Now the Angel will be hanging on to hear my voice in her ear. She can hang a bit longer.

I get out of the car. Make my way around the corner, making a point of being distracted by the tone from the traffic lights on the corner.

Down the dark street, coming towards me –

"Seriously, are you sure I can't go back and watch Home Alone with Peter and Odd and a bag of Tangfastics?"

"…Odd?"

"Tilly, I mean. Don't ask, old joke."

"Look, we told Chris we'd go to this."

"Don't try and shift blame. You told Chris we'd go to this."

"Don't be like that, it'll be-Oh. Excuse me." Because you see, Tom's just walked into me. In fairness, I helped him do so. I helped it to be under one of the streetlights so I can feasibly recognize him. So there's nothing too unbelievable when I peer at his face and the scales fall from my eyes.

"My days," I say, and forcibly shake his hand. "I'm sure you don't remember you probably see so many coming through every day but-"

"No, no, I… Car got you, didn't it?"

"Didn't half. Listen, thanks again, I've never been in and out of a hospital so easy in all my-" And now my phone bleeps again. Silly machine, it thinks I don't know I have a message. It's just reminding me, the Angel's text is sitting there unread. Now I open it, so the glow of the phone will light my face, just in case he's missed me, because I don't know if you noticed, but Moran hasn't said a word yet, not one word. "I… I'll be off. Cheers again, though, it's all I can say."

Tom shrugs, oh, it's nothing, oh, do it every day, don't mention it. And the message has happened, so I've got no excuse to stand any longer. I have to go.

He hasn't said anything. He's stood there with his hands in his coat pockets and said nothing. Not a whisper.

I…

I walk on. Behind me, conversation picks up again. That arrogant sod Moran's married too gets all puffed up and chuffed with himself, "Isn't that nice?" all that shite. And Moran could be mumbling, but honestly I still don't hear anything.

I walk on. What else can I do? I walk back round the block and get back into the car. There's a Bluetooth earpiece in the door pocket. When I slip it on, the Angel's in the bathroom from the echo of her, hissing, "Hello? Are you… Bloody told him the range wouldn't-"

"Bloody told who, dear?"

"Oh, hi!"

"I… I'm here, just… Just give me a second. Take the bands off your feet now. Go and play. I'll… Just give me a minute."