Chapter 5
Monday 8th July, 2024
The Ditch, Crockenhill, London
The world's most nervous man stands outside The Ditch at 6am. Angel didn't specify a time or a place, but nevertheless, Kit thinks this is a safe bet. Besides, he was too busy being held at gunpoint and throwing up his feelings to ask for the specifics on Friday.
He looks up admiringly at the building he has never actually dared to enter – which is understandable, as she looks utterly terrifying to anyone who has only ever tasted wine from a cardboard box.
She's two right-turns off the main road, but somehow looks just as intruding and obnoxious as if her front door is adjacent to yours. She's sexy and boxy, with a slate hip roof and brown porcelain cladding. The black hanging blade sign feels more like a dare than a welcome, so much so that Kit wonders if The Ditch has any regular visitors, or whether she is simply there to pool dirty blood-money into.
He takes a step back and looks up at the second floor.
There must be fifteen windows spaced apart, some double, some single, but all tinted and framed with midnight-raven grey to match the double-door entrance. The Ditch is an oubliette that even the morning sunlight can't soften.
Kit is used to early shift starts; after settling in Crockenhill, he took a weekend job as a milkman to reimburse Norris each month after his dad started drinking and stopped working. The job didn't pay much but the family were so grateful for Norris' hospitality after their sudden move from Italy. Maura also took to helping Norris in the Garage to show her appreciation.
The Martucci's quickly learned that Norris wasn't a chatty Kathy and didn't own a TV either, but was kind enough to put a roof over the heads of three strangers and food in their stomachs, so who could complain?
Kit yawns, tired - not from lying awake all night, but lying awake in worry, about where the money would come from now he was no longer a milkman.
Kit: Is 'O'Hare's Bitch' my new job title?
Less than thirty yards away, the world's second most nervous person sits in her newly repaired car, waiting and watching. Maura can barely keep her eyes open after sleepless nights replaying what she could and should have said differently.
She looks at her brother, twenty-two years young with his whole life ahead of him, and wipes away her 1000th tear of the morning, wishing it was her standing there instead.
The guilt of a being the older sibling unable to protect her young'un is eating her up and for now there is nothing she can do but endure it – as much as it hurts, she knows she is not the real victim here.
The arched fanlight above the doors lights up and Maura holds her breath. She steps out of her car to get a closer look. Kit looks in her direction and smiles reassuringly, though they both know, they know nothing. They are powerless.
Angel opens both doors and sniffs the heat, taking a Marlboro Red out of its packet. At 6:20am, London is already basking in twenty-two degrees. He looks at Kit, dressed poorly in faded black jeans and a grey unbranded t-shirt. Angel's never seen a man, who stands six feet and 3 inches tall, look four feet before, but he enjoys the view. He looks past Kit's shoulder to enjoy the second view. Her black hair is flatter today, and she is slumped against her car, like someone stole her backbone.
Angel: What monster would do such a thing?
He steps out of The Ditch towards Kit and Maura stiffens, trying to anticipate his next move. Her senses are heightened, and she can hear the scuff of Angel's Diamond Lights against the concrete. She watches as he stands to one side, allowing Kit entry past him.
Angel lights his cigarette and inhales deeply. Kit turns around one last time and purses his lips anxiously. Maura nods her head and blows him a kiss - she hopes that it will reach him and wrap his entire body in one big, protective sisterly shield.
Instead, Angel reaches out, clenches his fist, and pockets it, smirking. He exhales a cloud of smoke as Kit slides past him and in this moment, Maura hates Angel more than ever.
Maura: That man is an animal.
Kit stands in the middle of the room and shuffles from one foot to the other whilst Angel locks the doors behind them. Angel looks surprisingly spruce today, sporting slim black jeans and t-shirt, and a creaseless grey North Face zip-up.
Kit: Nothing more than a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Angel: Sit.
Angel takes the seat opposite him and tucks both hands into his zip-up pockets. Eventually, he breaks his silence.
Angel: Question.
Kit: Like I have a chance.
Angel: Do you know how many teeth the human body has?
Kit is puzzled and shrugs. He went to eleven different high schools during his families ventures around Italy; biology wasn't one of his strong points.
Kit: Maybe thirty-ish?
Angel bites the side of his cheek and raises his eyebrows.
Angel: Sometimes.
He removes his hands from his pockets and tips around 20 teeth onto the tabletop between them.
Kit: There's the wolf.
Angel: Sometimes not.
Kit stares at the teeth in disbelief. Some are whole molars, yellowed with the root attached. Some look smaller, some decorated with silver fillings. Even more disturbingly, there's a single horse-tooth. Kit shudders at the thought of the extraction process, presuming neither adequate pain relief nor sterilized dental equipment were involved. But despite the questionable delivery, he gets the message. The hairs stand up on his arms, and Angel sees.
Angel: Are you cold, or afraid?
Kit hadn't really noticed how cold the room was until now.
Kit: Both.
He can't look Angel in the eye, fearing that his own have started watering in fear.
Angel unzips his hoodie and places it next to the teeth. He pushes it towards Kit.
Angel: There's no need to be either, providing you do what I ask, when I ask it.
There is a pause.
Angel: But first, let's get to know each other.
Kit blinks for the first time since entering the room – he much prefers the idea of being threatened over exchanging never-have-I-ever's.
Angel: You lived in Bologna; La Grassa. Why the move to Crockenhill?
He taps his fingers and the teeth wobble like they're chattering in gossip amongst themselves.
Angel: I know it wasn't for the two weeks of sunny weather per year...and Swanley Fried Chicken makes a mean Peri burger but I doubt it was for our fine cuisine.
Kit doesn't want this man to know anything about him or his past; he doesn't want anything holding against him or holding against anyone else.
Kit: Career change.
Angel stifles half a laugh.
Angel: To what? Professional liar?
Kit holds his breath again. He's not heard Angel laugh up until this point; it's spine-chilling.
Angel says he doesn't care all that much anyway, as long as Kit doesn't serve a drink as poorly as he serves his bullshit.
He points to the back of the bar, beckoning Kit to apron up.
Kit shuffles out of his seat, praying that his weak knee's will carry him that far. Still, he is slightly relieved that maybe Angel simply wants to train him as a barman, and not a hitman.
Kit: Maybe Maura can sleep better at night knowing the only gun I will be touching is the soda-gun?
Kit asks him what drink he would like.
Angel: Spiced Rum.
Kit fumbles with a glass as he's reading the bottle labels. He reaches for a bottle of Old J on the bottom shelf and Angel tuts disapprovingly.
Angel: First mistake, you pour the expensive stuff from the top shelf unless specified otherwise.
Kit clenches the bottle, puts it back and reaches for the Fallen Angel. Angel's eyes never stray from Kit as he pops a ball of ice from the freezer and pours. Another tut prompts Kit's second mini heart attack.
Angel: Your measure's off. No more than 3cm for a double in a short glass or you're costing me money.
Kit: Are you not good for it?
It isn't until Angel replies back, that Kit realises he's said it out loud.
Angel: What I'm good and gooder for is none of your business. Go again. Disaronno and cranberry this time. You need to get these basics right before I trust you to do anything else.
He beckons yet another drink and Kit feels his face flush pink in embarrassment. Angel walks over to the bar and contemplates pouring the glass of spiced rum down the sink. He checks his watch; the time isn't even seven yet, but it's five 'o' clock somewhere in the world. Angel rolls the ice around the glass before taking it in a single mouthful, and slams the empty glass on the bar top.
Kit's just about threatened a double shot of amaretto with cranberry juice and Angel chews his inner cheek, wondering how the hell he's going to build a margarita-making-machine from a mouse.
One things for sure - he's going to have a very tender head tomorrow morning.
YOU ARE READING
Trestle
Misterio / Suspenso**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...
