Chapter 2
Wednesday July 3rd, 2024
The Castle Inn, Crockenhill, London
Tony Lunn opens the doors to the Castle Inn just before lunchtime, and casually throws her shacket over a barstool. She puts her car keys down on the bar top, and bends down to flick the fruit-machine on at the wall; it starts up with a flash of orange and a single playful 'ping'.
Alarmed suddenly by the whiff of smoke, she sticks her pointed nose in the air and sniffs. The smell is woody and sooty and peppery, and it forces itself to the back of her throat, like the deep inhalation of a cigarette. She turns around and gasps - in the corner by a closed curtain, she sees the figure of a blockish man sat in a tub chair, and the amber glow of a Marlboro Red pinched between his fingers.
At first glance, you might think it was the ghost of the late William O'Hare. But, allowing her eyes to adjust to the corner still in darkness, she sees that this is not a dead man at all, nor is he late, but in fact, an hour early. He is neatly unshaven, and pristinely dressed, wearing slim cuffed tracksuit pants by Balenciaga and an Ami de Coeur Hoodie – all black everything, to match his black eyes, staring at her from underneath a black cap.
Tony: Mr O'Hare, Sir, you gave me a fright.
He remains deadly still, but a cloud of white smoke explodes out of his nostrils. The atmosphere, thinning as if the oxygen was scarpering, sends chills down Tony's spine and she hurries over to the till.
With trembling bones, she keys in a four-digit code. The till bleeps back in error.
Tony: Shitting hell.
White Salomon's draw closer towards her – a bold choice of footwear for a man who likes to spill blood – and she nervously fingers at the digits again, slower this time to avoid another mistake.
Angel walks calmly with his hands in his pockets, and stands before her as she scrambles for the envelope containing her dues. Her hands are shaking as she passes him the cash; she's too scared to take her eyes off his face, but also dying to see whether his hoodie pouch is bulging with a Buni Olympic shaped Joey – a pistol banned in 2010 for everyone but the O'Hare family, so it seems.
Somehow the wad looks tiny in his hand, like a giant holding monopoly money, and he tucks it into his back pocket, giving it as much significance as change from a fiver.
Angel: As prompt as ever. Thank you.
He stands and enjoys the threatening silence for a moment, before turning towards the door. Tony slowly allows herself to exhale the breath she has been holding for an eternity.
He stops in his tracks, and she sucks the breath back in as he turns again to face her. He is puckering in shallow thought and moves his eyes slowly - left to right, and then right to left, briefly examining the interior for a second. He throws his forefinger - decorated with a gold Fabergé signet ring - in the direction of the chairs.
Angel: You've bought new cushion covers.
His statement sounded more like a threat.
Tony: Yes.
His eyebrows are raised, and his lips are pursed.
Angel: They're red.
Tony, dizzy with adrenaline as he stares into her soul, timidly whispers 'they are' in response.
He nods gently.
After what feels like the longest second, he nods his head again decisively.
Angel: Change them back.
He doesn't wait for a response – because he knows his word is final, and instead, turns on his heels and walks out.
Not two doors down, Lal's Newsagents stands proudly waiting to serve it's customers. Angel enters, closing the door silently behind him; the door handle is sticky from the fingers of greedy eight-year-olds, who have gotten stuck into their sweets before leaving the shop.
Angel flips the door sign, which now reads 'closed', and walks down the aisle between share bags of Maltesers, microwave popcorn and condoms.
Angel: Are they placed there strategically to promote safe sex after Netflix and chill? Smart.
Angel couldn't remember the last time he watched a film - his day-to-day life was filled with enough drama these days. No Netflix or chill.
Lal Alahav, sat reading a magazine with his son behind the counter, stands up alarmingly and runs a shaking finger between his neck and his shirt collar. He stands motionless for a second, both admiring and fearing the man walking towards him. He then wraps a brown envelope in a blue plastic bag from under the kiosk and slides it across the countertop.
Angel takes the bag without saying a word, nods his head, and turns to walk out.
Sagar, Lal's seven-year-old son, appears and tugs at his dad's shoulder.
Sagar: Dad, bags are 20p.
Angel looks over his shoulder but keeps on walking and tilts his cap down. He carelessly drops 20p from his pocket onto the floor, reminding the shop owner of his place in the food chain, and lets the door slam shut this time. The shop owner rolls up his magazine and hits Sagar over the head in dismay.
Lal: If Angel O'Hare wants a plastic carrier bag, then our oceans can get fucked.
Angel parks up in a bus lane on the edge of Dartmouth Hill Park and pushes open the park gates.
Keen joggers, who are still six months strong into their fitness-driven-New-Year-resolutions, stray from the footpath to keep their distance as he walks by, and mother's reach into their prams to hold onto their sleeping babies, scared incase the boogeyman has come to pluck them from their dreams.
Angel walks up to the ice-cream van and the boy working opens the chest freezer.
Flake, real name unknown - and unimportant - is a youngish, innovative boy, who sells 'screwball specials' to the college kids who scoff their way through seventy grams of vanilla ice-cream in a conical cup, for the quarter gram of rolled weed stuffed at the bottom.
He takes out a brown bulging envelope from the freezer and hands it to Angel.
Angel: Fab.
Flake looks pleased with himself, appreciating the recognition. Angel's scowl is quick to correct him.
Angel: No - ice-lolly, you fucking helmet.
Flake bows his head in apology and hands him the packeted Fab ice-lolly.
Flake: Well don't I feel like a proper fucking tit.
Angel: He's a proper fucking tit.
Angel strolls back towards his car alongside the bus full of people, plus driver, waiting obediently for him to leave the bus stop bay. He slides into the driver's seat, checks his rearview mirror, and pulls away; it's almost Friday and he can't wait for a night in with his special girls.
YOU ARE READING
Trestle
Mystery / Thriller**SMUT warning** Following the death of his racketeer father, Angel is left to manage the O'Hare family's rugged affairs. He vows to worship his girls and protect them from the threat of poverty, sin, and dangerous men like himself. But when debts c...
