Chapter XXIX: White Claudia

Angel was never one to groan or whine, never one to cling to someone for company or demand any more from them than they were willing to give. She was always the giver, patiently waiting for people to come to her rather than going after them herself. She would open up her arms, and see who came. Her mother had always been the same way…Her edges had dulled since her death, softened from her stubborn, headstrong youth. Instead of getting into scraps over little arguments, she resigned and waited and waited until the other person was so thoroughly tired from yelling that they were no longer angry, or at least unable to fight any longer. She was patient now, a skill learned and cultivated over years of practice.

She was skilled with her hands, tools; digits that used to coax music from metal and wood now grew so calloused with water and chisels. But Angel never let on that she cared, never complained about her work, after all, she was used to playing the mother, cleaning up after what remained of her family. Now Murdoc, however strange it sounded, was her family, so she worked hard. Of course, when he wasn't looking, the girl slipped into the undamaged recording studio and encouraged the instruments to sing for her. Her voice was deep—it resonated with the tone of a woman, despite her age. She felt ageless sitting on the plush carpet with anything within reach. She very much enjoyed an old sitar that has a deep ding in its body, she loved how tinny it rang, echoing in the small room when no one was around. There were times, however, when her desire for the Satanist's company was too much to deny, and it was when she felt the most lonely that she dared to draw the black, sleek bass unto her lap and make music with it with inexperienced fingers. It sounded as dark as he did, his serious voice, but she was deeply disappointed with herself when she couldn't draw out the same sounds that he could. Angel flicked her wrist, plucked, ran every inch of her fingers over the steel until her fingers bled, but it seemed to be of no use. It was as if he had utter control over this instrument, and she was never to gain that control.

She tried to pass off her blisters on the tips of each finger as burns or slips, but Murdoc wasn't stupid—he'd had those for so long until his skin grew thick to the sting of the metal…But he humored her.

Murdoc was never one to let anyone know exactly what he thought, at least deep inside his soul. He was indeed the loud mouth, and was always the first to voice his opinion, but there was always one crucial piece of information held back—an ace in the hole if he ever needed one. It was the same with this woman.

He interacted with her as much as he would any other person, but there was always a point in the conversation or the silence in which he would get up and leave, as if he was getting bored. She hardly ever bored him—in fact, trying to find ways to get under her skin was becoming a new pastime—but there were times when he just dropped everything and left Kong altogether. She had a strange effect on him. When she listened…she really listened. No snarky remarks, no motive other than to hear him talk. She didn't hang on every word like he was her Messiah, didn't beg for personal information. It was like talking to a pet, and he meant that in the best of ways. She was just…there. And he found it a little too easy to let his lips get loose around that girl.

It startled him a little at first, then a lot.

It was becoming easier and easier to let that little voice inside him that yelled "that's it, shut up now," go unnoticed, to just blabber unto the ether about whatever was on his mind to that warm lady. The more he watched her, the more he thought of her as a lady. She had the build of an older woman than someone in her early twenties; she had, to put it bluntly, a perfect body for child rearing. And the more he noticed this, the harder it was to think of her as a girl…She was very good looking, seemed eager enough to be around him, turned to putty when he used his charm, and despite that, she reigned herself in and stayed more level-headed than he could have ever managed in his entire life. She denied herself, it seemed, to keep what? Her sanity? Women were interesting creatures so begin with, but she was an entire study all by herself.

He watched her sweep crumbs out onto the deck from the kitchen, the open sliding door inviting in the crisp November air. It would be winter soon… Murdoc leaned his chin on the table, just watching, uncharacteristically quiet, and it made Angel a little nervous.

"Going out tonight?" she asked, trying to get him to talk just a little bit. He always was eager to jump on the subject of his latest escapades.

But he just peered up at her from under his ebony mop, eyes glazed.

"Hmm," he hummed, half laughing, half sighing. "Hmm-hmm."

She stopped sweeping for a moment, frozen, suddenly feeling nervous, but quickly resumed and tried not to think of how ominous that snicker sounded.

"I'm leaving," he said all at once.

Her stomach fell down to the basement.

"Wha…what?"

He leaned back in his chair, tilting it back so far that he was almost falling over.

" 'M sick of this hellhole, I need to take off for a bit, 'kay?"

She placed her hands together on the table, and in a weak voice she asked, "Wha…what should I do?"

"I'm leavin' Kong in yer care, awrite'? 'F we both leave, then this place will be burnt to the ground by the time we get back." He saw the distress in her face, and added, leaning over the table towards her, "Dun worry, when I get back, I'll send you wherever ya want, how's that sound?" Her ears perked up. "You can go anywhere…Long's it ain't Mexico, cuz I dun want you makin' a break for it, hear me?"

That was hardly a bandage over a wound that was just starting to develop in her chest.

"But…" her voice died down in her throat, her mind deciding that he wouldn't care, nor would he change his mind.

It was December and tomorrow was Christmas Eve.

"I was gonna ride the Indian out, f' ya wanna tag along. I need someone ta take it home anyway."

"Huh?" she mumbled, not really hearing what he'd said; her stomach was currently being smashed on the floor with an invisible boot. "Oh, yeah, sure…"

He got to his feet and crouched down before her, cigarette shifting to the corner of his mouth as he took her hands and spoke.

"Dun' look so low, girlie. Ol' Muds j'est needs ta take some time off, awrite? That dun' mean I'm leavin' fer good, got it?"

Her expression was blank.

"Is that what you tell every girl you leave behind?"

He looked as if he's just been struck, and his cigarette fell out of his mouth as she went to stand.

"Wha… Ange'!"

"I'll ride you to the airport, but that's it."

And she left the room, Murdoc still crouched down and unable to form a response. It was true, he said almost the same thing to each one. Difference was, it usually had the exact opposite effect. He sat down on the floor and stomped out the smoking cigarette on the floor, sighing. She was a strain on him, made him feel weak, and as of late, he was running on empty. That was why he needed to get away. Namely, he needed to get away from her. She was always around, and there was something about her that he wanted. But no, he had to reel himself in because so was too damn different. If he took he, she was gone, he knew, he could tell. And he couldn't take it much longer…

They took the same road that Angel had when she'd run away, up and away into the snow that had just began to fall. There was no one around, barely even another car travelling with them. Everyone was where they wanted to be, she figured, except them. Angel held on tightly around his leather jacket, squeezing her wrists into his warm stomach; her chin rested against his shoulder, and staring out at the pure whiteness of the world, she was empty. Murdoc would soon be gone, and she'd be traveling alone down this road, again, but she clung tight to him, and it made it feel like he was never going to leave, as if this was only a day trip that they were taking together and that night they would sit on the couch drinking coffee—Angel's with cream, Murdoc's loaded with sugar—and they would fall asleep watching a boring movie or the news. Yeah… that's what they would do… Angel breathed in the smoke from his jacket, the cigarette smell peppering the searing cold wind that froze her cheeks and nose pink and rubbed her fingers together under the heather grey gloves, leaning over his shoulder.

She was still angry, and hadn't said a word to him since they left, but that didn't mean that she didn't want to, but it was the principle of it. If she spoke to him, or begging for him not to leave like she wanted, then he won and her will meant nothing. He glanced back at her for a minute, getting nervous. He knew for a fact that what they said about a woman's scorn was true, and he was eager to gauge just how mad she was.

"Hey Ange'?" he prodded, getting her to look at him. "You hungry?"

She didn't say anything, and rested her head against his back, staring out at the white world. He looked down at her momentarily.

" 'Cause there's a littl' place in a couple miles. Could use somethin' in me 'fore I take off, how 'bout you?"

She still didn't say anything, but he could feel her arms wrap just a little tighter around his waist, and he smirked.

"All right."

Angel glanced up to the building coming up on their side, and her expression was unreadable—this was the diner she'd stopped at when she took the Indian for a joyride. Same butter-yellow paint, same white-washed porch. She pressed her knees into his hips hard, leaning into the turn, and savored the dull warmth she felt under his clothes and closed her eyes—she felt so weak…

She sat down quietly next to Murdoc, not looking at him until he nudged her with his elbow.

"Get anythin' ya want, Muds's payin'."

Angel had no intention of looking at the menu he slid her way, but suddenly she felt him sit down on her stool, straddling her and holding the menu out in front of her face. He pulled it in so close that she was almost touching the plastic, and he trilled in a high, squeaky voice,

"Weeeeeell, Miss, would you like ta start off with the smoked sea bass or the veal, hm?"

Her lips couldn't contain her cackling laugh and it burst right out, making him smirk. She pushed the menu away, and he got up, feeling satisfied that the Niccals charm was infallible. Angel gave him a muted smile—at least he was trying, she thought, and he deserved a chance at least.

"I'll get a cup of coffee," she said, folding her arms on the counter.

A waiter, a big Italian-looking man, approached them and Murdoc's face fell.

" 'M havin' coffee and th' girl's gettn' a coffee n' a soft boiled egg wit' toast, kay' mate?"

Angel gave him an sideways look and shook her head, smiling.

"Such a gentleman," she said, chuckling.

He smirked, leaning his palm on his chin. His body could relax—the bomb had been diffused. Murdoc got to his feet and patted Angel on the shoulder when she moved to follow suit.

"J'est gonna run ta the loo, love. 'Nless you'd like to join me…"

She imagined that he was wiggling his eyebrows, but under that curtain of hair, the action was useless. She laughed a tiny little laugh and sighed.

"As appetizing as that sounds…"

He patted her once more and disappeared around the corner as her coffee arrived. She cupped her fingers around the warm, white ceramic, pressing the rim to her cold lips and letting the steam rise up into her face. The drink filled her emptiness up, just a little, though she didn't know how much she'd want to eat…

A plastic coat brushed against her as a man sat down and she turned, about to tell him nicely that the seat was taken, but the harsh, searching expression on the young man's face startled her.

"Can I help you?" she asked defensively, shifting her cup towards her.

He grinned, chapped lips pulling back to reveal a mouthful of teeth yellowed by smoke.

"Yer that bassist's new tart, eh?"

Angel blinked, completely caught off guard by the question and timing.

"E-excuse me?"

He chuckled and leaned in closer, scratching the bristle on his cheek. Angel squirmed away, glancing to the bathroom doors.

"Ya know, 'is girl 'a the week? Yer lookin' pretty chummy wit 'im, eh?"

"Yeah, guess so," she muttered, leaning her head on her hand.

It was quiet for a minute, and Angel refused to speak to the man, which seemed to make him flustered and mad.

"So how much 'er ya for?"

She turned her head, looking very unamused, and said flatly, "More than you can afford," before turning back to watch the bathroom doors.

His face grew red hot and he ground his teeth together.

"Ya dun' hafta be difficult," he snapped, "I j'est want a good time, y'know?"

She thought she was the door finally move, but couldn't quite catch a look at who it was before he grabbed onto her shoulder and tugged, trying to force her to face him.

"Hey, lady, 'm talkin' ta you."

She swatted him away, and glanced up. Murdoc placed a hand down on the counter beside her, his fingers drumming in unison.

"Canchya tell when yer not wanted ya sorry arse?" the bassist seethed, eyes narrowing. "I told ya last time I threw you off the tour yer ta keep 'way from me."

He withdrew his hand and chuckled.

"She's jus' a tart, wassit ta you?" he snickered. " 'M sure you can 'fford some nicer one wit yer fat wallet. One wit' a nicer rack, nicer hair."

Murdoc's lips curled up in a sneer.

"Besides, since you kicked me outta th' road crew, I've realized…yer a faaaaake," he drawled. "All talk an' underneath yer a sad, stupid man."

"Yer tread'n a thiiiiiiiin line, mate," he warned.

He coughed and pointed up at Murdoc, whose hands were beginning to shake.

"You think yer such a god, eh?" he snickered.

"Do you know this gu—?" she started.

"Shaddup, 'm not talkin' ta you."

Her fist burned on the cool marble and she could feel Murdoc trembling with anger behind her.

" 'M warnin' you, mate…"

He shouldered right up to Angel, making her shiver and choke back a yelp at the static shock his coat gave to her skin.

"Besides, Gorillaz are bollocks," he said in a low tone, chuckling. "Glad to be off yer shitty tour, yer gonna get what's comin' ta you." The man narrowed his eyes. "Guess who came 'round bangin' on my door last week, hm?"

Murdoc was silent, boiling over.

" 'As righ', they did! Them Black Clouds, they came an' asked me where ya've been." He lowered his glare. "Yer a dead man, an' I'm sure yer tart's gonna think twice 'fore sleepin' in the same bed wit you."

The loud, hollow thump of hand on the counter so disturbing that everyone in the diner fell silent and stared over at the demon rising from Murdoc's cavernous heart, making his eyes glow with coals of searing fury.

"THAT'S IT!" he cried, and with one movement brought the blonde man to the floor, punishing the sides of his skull with his fist, punching him again and again, and Angel was frozen, feeling sick.

The stranger pulled at the bassist's clothes, barked and swiped at his face, nose going bloody from the blows being laid on him over and over. He threw Murdoc down on the tile, rolling on top and wrapped his hands around his neck, squeezing until she could hear his throat give out a harsh choke. He yelled incomprehensibly, shaking him, pummeling him with the palm of his hand, but Murdoc didn't let go, only grabbed madly at his hair and glowered, teeth grinding together.

Angel didn't feel herself move across the floor, but more through time, and suddenly her hands were on the stranger's coat, tugging, and her mouth was spewing out words that she couldn't understand. She was in a red fog, and everything sounded muffled. But she was angry—furious at the sight of the blood seeping from his wonky nose, and it made her lose sense of herself. A dull pain flashed in her cheek, but she didn't realized what had happened and kept pulling.

Suddenly her hands were ripped free and she could finally see, a force pushing the fog away, and Murdoc was standing, blood dripping down his face, hanging on her shoulder as if he were missing a leg. He panted, holding her back and weighing down painfully on her at the same time.

"N-no, ya don'," he huffed, "This bastard's mine."

But he moved with a sway, and couldn't quite find where he was. The stranger wavered, holding onto the counter for support, and called out to Murdoc through the blood pooling in his mouth.

She grabbed Murdoc by the back of his jacket and tugged him to the front door with little resistance. He was dazed, struggling weakly towards the man he could barely see through his unfocused eyes, and yelled out incoherently in streams of babble, and it made Angel wince. Her face grew hot—each and every person in the diner had stopped what they were doing to stare at her. She touched the door handle, trying to give an expression of sincere guilt, but the only looks she got in response were of shock or ones that translated to, "Get your child out of here!"

She leaned him up on the leather seat of the Indian, dusting the powdery snow off before he sat down. The black, maniac laughter that spilled out of his mouth was hardly muffled by the white snow, and try as she did to hush him, he only grew louder and louder and startled patrons shuffling to their cars. His eyes met hers, playful, but as his laughter began to die away, his eyes became stony. She took a palm full of snow, heating it up in her rosy hands that were losing feeling, and rubbed out the blood drying up on his face.

"So," he finally said in a raspy voice, clicking his tongue, "you j'est let people do whatever they want to ya', eh?"

Angel scoffed in a half-laugh,

"I ignore them," she said calmly, wiping off her hands on her pants.

"Oooh, I see, you j'est think that by taking the moral high ground," he squeaked in a high-pitched voice, "you think yer in control of the situation. So people can say whatever they want, an' you won't get mad? Yer just a saint among mortals, eh?"

"Never said I don't get mad," she clarified, "I try to ignore people. Easier than jumping on them."

His smirk pulled into a frown.

"Yer a twat."

"Thank you," she mumbled, straddling the bike.

He didn't seem to notice that Angel had suddenly decided to drive, but if he was truthful, which he rarely ever was, he was grateful not to have to grip onto the handles as his fist swelled up and knuckles cracked and bled from windburn. He tucked his knees into the groove of her waist and leaned over her shoulder.

"Yer not an angel, why the hell you try to act like one?"

Her hands froze on the key, keeping the bike from living again. She turned her head, feeling his rough stubble against her raw cheek; it still stung from the sound slap she'd taken.

"I'm not an angel Muds," she muttered, finally igniting the engine, revving the motor. "And I don't try to be."

"No, no, yer not what you seem, dun' try an' fool ol' Uncle Murdoc. Yer selfish, aren't ya?"

She helped the bike along through the snow, bringing it slowly to the mouth of the parking lot. She didn't say a word.

"No, wait, you used ta be, huh? 'S'at it?"

Still no answer. She only tilted her head sideways, looking for an opening to pull out into the highway and rejoin the vein of cars.

"Yer parents?" he jabbed, and in an instant, her elbow dug fiercely into his ribs.

He huffed, bringing a hand to his tender stomach, and Angel gave him such a horrid look that he could have sworn she stole it from him.

"You shut it."

"So 'at is it," he whined, holding onto her hips while the bike flew recklessly onto the freeway and took off, throwing slush into the air behind them.

They were quiet as the snow fell, the wheels making drowning, screeching noises against the damp pavement, pushing on, and Angel felt as if her stomach had been left in the parking lot. Murdoc rubbed his sore joints and hugged his knees tighter to her hips.

"I was a brat."

He glanced up, but she didn't turn, only kept her eyes forward and hand on the clutch,

"Hows'sat, love?"

It was quiet for a mile or so, icy and long and he was eager for a story, for it was always him pulling out tales of his drunken escapades and he wanted some entertainment that wasn't made by him.

"When my Mom died," she said, mouth running dry in the frigid wind, "I stopped coming home after school. I left my Dad alone when I should have been taking care of him. And when I finally wised up, it was too late. So sorry if now I want to make up for it…" she spat.

"Dad, too?"

"Accident, on the boat dock. He was unloading a tanker and cargo fell on him."

Murdoc's mouth curved into a deep-set sneer. He couldn't stand people acting so sappy, so self-righteous.

"Look, j'est cause ya dun' like what 'appened dudn' mean ya hafta deprive yerself of act'n—"

"Yes it does!" she yelled, silencing him. "Now shut up and let it go!"

"Now that sounds like the real Angela.

She was silent, and then,

"Who're the Black Clouds?"

He scoffed.

"You've seen 'em, stupid. Those guys like ta come over and rough up my humble home? Yeah, yeah, they've got quite an ego on 'em, 'at's fer sure."

"…Why are they after us?"

"Eh-eh, not you me."

"You, then."

"Ahhhh, thought ya said ya didn' wanta know, hm?"

Her hands gripped onto the handles hard.

"Well, it kind of affects me now, doesn't it?"

He huffed, and muttered.

"Dudn' matter, the less you know the better prob'ly…"

And then silence.

Sign after sign passed, and they pointed longingly to places where Angel had to fight the urge to pull into an exit and shanghai Murdoc into an unplanned vacation. She wondered quietly where he was going this Christmas. Somewhere warm, she hoped; a beach. She wanted that now more than anything, and the idea of being there with Murdoc shipped her off to paradise. She wanted wet sand sticking to her tanned skin, eating boardwalk food and clams and king crab in a rickety wooden restaurant on the seaside, fishing in the morning, swimming at noon, and walking the shore at sunset. She bet that Murdoc would have some luck on the Midway, as cunning as he was, and there would certainly be enough girls in bikinis to keep him occupied. Her heart sank—she'd left her bathing suit in Carolina.

"—ngel!"

Her head jerked up, mind snapped back to the highway.

"What?"

"Wake up, tosser, you're gonna miss the turn!"

She shifted lanes, swerving over and onto the exit, and as they went over a tiny bump in the road, Angel felt his hands slip under her jacket and latch onto her side, warming themselves against the cold that turned them from a green tint, to red. Her spine perked up at his touch, skin shuddering with his freezing fingers, but she said nothing, enjoying it. He squeezed each fingertip into her waist as they turned, inching closer and closer to her back, closing the gap between them. He felt drowsy, tired and sore and he dreaded reaching the airport. That was more stress than he cared for. At least he could hit the bar before getting on; nothing like a good vodka before a plane ride to knock you right out. He could always change his mind at the last second, decide not to go, because after all, that was not at all a rare occurrence for him. But he was already almost there, and with the snow beginning to fall down steadier and steadier, the ride back might be even more stressful than the ride out. He ducked behind her to cut the wind, sliding each hand forward, caressing her velvety stomach and letting his arms nest inside her coat.

"You sure that's it? You're not taking anything on board?"

Angel waivered in the drop-off zone, helmet in hand, half on and half off the bike as if she were going to follow him inside. He scowled.

"Got my wallet, passport, ID, cigs…what else do I need?"

She frowned, but didn't press him.

"You don't want me to wait?"

"What's the use? Yer not gonna be helpn' me with my bags. J'est leave, an' be back Wednesday at four, got it?" She nodded, but he emphasized sternly. " If I get out 'ere an' I dun see ya around, yer in for it, and I mean bad, awrigh'? Seventh circle bad."

Angel placed a hand over her heart, and two fingers up on the other.

"Scout's honor."

He stomped out his cigarette he'd just lit up, and ground it out into the pavement.

"Awright. Got Jamie's number on the frige 'f ya need 'elp, but try ta lay low, kay? I dun' want the Clouds up my arse again…"

Her stare was hard and vacant.

"…Who's Jamie?" she asked, but he'd already turned his back and was waiving over his shoulder.

"See ya after the holiday, Ange'! Maybe I'll bring ya a souvenir, heh-heh-heh…"

"Wait, who're the Black Clouds?" she called, dismounting the ivory motorcycle, struggling to catch up with him.

Murdoc turned slightly, looking surprised, but then he smirked and said something that made her blood freeze up with the rest of the winter world.

"Dun' worry 'bout it."

And with one last Queen Elizabeth wave, he disappeared into the airport without another word. And Angel was officially alone.