After that, lest she start chatting and blow our cover, I get out of range. Specifically, I get myself to what the Angel generously termed a 'jazz bar' on the corner, and am happily surprised to find it's really just a dimly lit cupboard off the street. The look on the barman's face tells me it's going under. I'm cut up for him, really I am, but it means I can get a bit of peace. And, even on a weekend in the evening, there's next to no waiting for a drink. I'll take that any day. I'll take it twice when the painkillers are wearing off.
I park myself up in a corner and let Peter and the Angel lull me. Listening to them, I force myself past the point where their utter inanity drives me to a rage and frustration I can't even describe to you. It actually becomes rather soothing, like listening to white noise. You could almost forget that one of them is twenty years of age. Well, nearly. Maybe. I remember when I found her, I gave her ID that said eighteen, but I think I did that because I knew she wouldn't pass for it on her own. Oh, God knows…
So the Angel sails them both happily through bedtime with hardly a hitch (except that silly Sebasdyun didn't turn the washing machine on when he put stuff in it and the best jungle pyjamas are still out of action), and then sits humming to herself in front of the film channels. She's having a little cry at Legally Blonde, bless her ginger heart, when, "I don't know if you're still listening, but they're back so I'm taking the earpiece out now. Bye."
I have this awful flash of an idea that Moran's going to join her on the sofa squealing about someone in a bunny outfit. Oh, and Tom too, I suppose. Or maybe he'll go and see his son, like a man might, but let's not get too hopeful…
They come in all drunk and smiling, you can hear it all over them. Must've had a decent night after all.
First it's just Moran, "Alright, Scout?!"
"Hello, Colonel."
"Little man in bed? We held you the cab, do you want the cab? Tom's holding it."
"No, it's alright. I'm meeting people, it's not far."
"Have you got mates now, Scout?"
"Tom's holding the cab?"
"Tom! Tom, she doesn't need it." You forget so easily that one of the people in this conversation is closer to forty than any other milestone. "So who're you going out with, then?"
"Just mates."
There's rustling and thumping as she gets dragged into a hug. Whatever he says gets lost, but it's something about 'glad' and 'moving on'. I think I'm glad I don't hear the rest. In fact, I stop listening altogether. We'll gloss over her bumping into Tom on the path, how he's a bit more sober. He's the one who says thanks, and remembers they're supposed to be paying her for her services. We'll skim that. We'll skim the brief interval as she rushes down the street.
We'll jump to her handing me her microphone. It's still got the tape on it. She fumbles with the battery pack strapped around her waist, but she gets it off, and all but throws it on the table in front of me.
Where we're sitting, we're quite public. People are looking.
"Give me your hand."
I only say it to make her think. When she puts it in mine, and I can feel it shaking, I know she's wakened up. I put all that equipment she just flung at me into her palm and point at her backpack. "Yes," she says. "Of course. Sorry." Squirrels it all away and leaves the bag by her feet. After that I wait. It doesn't take very long. "No, really, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be-"
"Dramatic."
"Yes."
"Obnoxious."
"Yes, sorry."
"Ungrateful."
"I especially didn't mean to be that." Her hands are folded, foot tapping. Looking with longing at the drink in front of me. "I'm going to get something. Do you want something?"
No. No, I don't. In fact, as I tell her, standing up, the only thing I want is to get away from here. I want to get her away from here. She's making a fool of herself, and much as I would love to sit here feeding out rope that she might wind herself a fine noose, even this dive isn't quiet enough for that.
The Angel doesn't get up right away. She has to be pulled up out of her seat by the arm. She has to be made to stumble her first step or two before she starts to walk. And in all of this, her only show of good sense, or any sense, is to stay a half-step back where I can't see her, and to get in the car when I tell her to do so.
"Look," which really isn't a way that anyone should start a sentence with me, "I said I was sorry. I didn't mean to be so nasty about it but…" She drops her head into her hands, keening. If she's looking for sympathy she can look again.
"You keep ending sentences with 'but'. It makes me think you've got more to say."
"Please don't ever make me do anything like that ever again." Coward. Coward, she can't even lift her eyes to me. If she'd ever shown a single scrap of backbone, I might have respected her. We might have been friends if the Angel had ever done something other than just cower and take it. "Peter's seven. And the Colonel's been so good to me. You probably don't even remember but you told me once I was supposed to stop eating, and I did, but he was the one who remembered to tell me to start again. And when Morgan visited and he hit me and I was unconscious, that was another two days, and the Colonel was the one who moved me to a bed. And I know we agreed he couldn't possibly be happy like this but…"
"…You see what you just did again there?"
"…But I think he is. And I think he'd be miserable if we changed that."
Unconscionable bitch. Here we go again. The same thing she's been mumbling all week and me, with the patience of the Christian martyrs, explaining over and over again that she's wrong, and yet here we are. She thinks he's happy. She thinks he'd be miserable. She thinks I would intentionally make him miserable.
"Well," I say, and I'm glad I had that drink because it makes the acting easier, "it seems you're convinced of that. I suppose you're entitled to be. Much as it might pain me to admit it, you've got the right to be wrong if you really want to."
Wary, not familiar with the gambit, "…Really?"
"Yeah. I can't say I'm happy to lose your help. You did well tonight and until now I was quite pleased with you. But If you don't want to be involved, I can't force you." She draws back. Sits against the door with her hand on it. "I swear to Christ, if you say 'really?' again, nothing will stop me trying very hard to force you, whether I can or not."
"No, no. I really appreciate it."
"Don't mention it."
There's a good deal of silence to follow on from that. She so stunned it takes her ten minutes to realize these aren't the streets she expected to be driven along. "You're not taking me home?"
Of course not. Whether I'm getting her help or not, I might need her personally. Especially while I'm injured. If she doesn't mind, I'll be keeping her close by.
Her gratitude blooms, red and heady as poppies, huge and all-consuming. To still be involved, to still be needed, even after speaking so harshly against me, that's a gift she could never have dreamt of. She thought I'd be finished with her. Bless her heart.
So I take her back to the new flat.
Show her the spare room, with which she is well-impressed. I'm glad of that. That'll work out for her.
"I suppose you're wanting to turn in."
"Yeah. Peter's got me run ragged."
"I'm sure. Can I ask you one little thing first, though?" She turns round slowly. Nods, big eyes. This is more familiar ground. Now she knows something is coming. "Way back, when you were still a novelty, I gave you a necklace." Mute, she fishes it out from under her t-shirt. Two little wings on a fine gold chain. I let them rest in my palm. "You're still wearing it."
"Of course."
"Why are you still wearing it?"
"Because you told me not to take it off."
"Be specific, Angel. I know you remember."
She shuffles. There must be something terribly interesting in that corner with the chimney breast. There must be a two-headed spider or something, because fecking sure she won't look at me. But she remembers, yes she does. She remembers everything I've ever told her. It's all she's got. The girl with no name except the ones I call her, with no purpose except the one she gets from me, she remembers. "You told me dogs don't take their collars off."
"That's right. You'd never take it off. And you'd never want it to get broken either, would you?" I grab it tight. She panics. Not for her strangled throat but, as expected, for the straining chain. "Good dog."
Like a good dog she allows herself to be led. I settle her comfortably on the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Then reach behind her. The clasp of the necklace is stiff with disuse and grime from her skin. But it clicks open eventually. I pass it around one of the wooden posts behind her and fasten it again.
It works quite nicely. The headboard gets in her way and stops her from reaching back to unclasp it. It's taut around her neck, biting deep into flesh. Too tight for her to risk turning it. When she tries to speak, the vibrations in her throat make the little pendants tremble.
If the Angel doesn't want to help me, that's fine. But she knows too much to have her just running about. I'm not even supposed to be alive.
I leave her where she is, with the wheeze in her breath. As the door closes on her, "Stay."
[A/N - Thanks for the support so far, folks. Jim's above all that shite, but the Angel and I appreciate it. Two things - firstly I was thinking of letting Seb narrate a bit of this tale of woe (especially since Peter is going to ask him about his other name). If you think it's an awful, horrible idea, speak now or forever shut your bake.
Secondly, for those who were asking about a certain thieving slag... Yes this is an AU to House of Cards. So yes, that means certain things. I don't know yet whether I'm going to go there or not. Seb might not have punched thon sod when he came back, but Dani's always got that razor of hers in a close pocket...
Thanks again, and please do drop an opinion on these burning issues if you're reading and enjoying. Review, PM, Tumblr, feckin carrier pigeon, don't care. Much love,
Sal.]
