Chapter 10
Thursday 8th August, 2024
The Ditch, Crockenhill, London
Kit is polishing the most recently washed glasses behind the bar in The Ditch. He's poured eleven Diet Coke's and assembled three raspberry mojitos since 3'o'clock, cleaned skids off the Gent's toilets twice is busy restocking the garnish tray – it isn't until he's finished slicing lemons that he realises he hasn't yet washed his hands.
Kit: It would be a terrible pity if Food Safety Standards closed the business down....ah well.
Angel gave Kit strict orders earlier, not to let the Dragon Slayers Gaming Society choose the music, so he has been playing Ritchy Mitch and the Coalminers on repeat for the last hour. He listens to the swots talk about conquering quests, Madame Beaumont's fair-haired maiden and trading out goblin gold for next month's pre-release, but as nerdish as they sound, look, and smell, Kit can't help but envy the simpleness of their Thursday night.
Harriet: What's this shit you're playing?
Harriet appears to be in her usual unpleasant mood as she walks out of the living quarters.
Kit finishes drying his hands and ignores her tone; a skill he is excelling in having spent the last month around the grouchiest people on Earth. Instead, he admires her distractingly soft facial features and dark hair, presuming that Greta's blonder hair colour must stem from her father's genetics, whoever he is.
Kit: Either way, she got her smart lip from her mother's side.
Admittedly, Kit likes that the girls are overzealous. It kind of reminds him of Maura and vaguely of his mother - from what his young mind can remember.
Kit: I unplugged the jukebox and aux'ed my Spotify. It's this, or the Lord of The Rings soundtrack. Pick your poison.
He nods to the table with the 'DSGS' reservation sign. Harriet examines the twelve men around it.
Some are full-grown men, but some look like teenagers, and some could be neither. For her, it is strange seeing so many around one table, and in that moment, she has a flashback to her childhood - specifically the Sunday poker nights organised by her Grandad.
She misses sneaking downstairs with wet hair post-bath, to sit on her father's lap and scoff a Mr Kipling cake bar supper amid the gruff roar of male laughter. Once all hands were face-up and the Belvedere River had run dry, Bill would sit Harriet on the bar top and gently blow-dry her hair, and even though sometimes he held the heat there a little bit too long, she never yelped in case he sent her back up to their Housekeeper to finish the job. For years she thought Zola was blissfully unaware - feeling like the cheeky insurgent always made Harriet giddy with adrenalin, and meant she had to tiptoe downstairs lightly. But more recently, Zola disclosed that her Houdini act was no covert operation; Zola had been perfectly happy to let Mr O'Hare play Nicky Clarke so she could read her book in peace.
Harriet shakes the memories from her head before her eyes start to prickle.
Harriet: Are they just here to play on their Nintendo's and drink coke?
Kit: Most of them. Apart from that one in the tunic. He's had three raspberry mojitos.
There is a slight pause as Harriet silently judges his white tabard.
Kit: I'll watch him. Don't want him getting Legolas.
She's refusing to acknowledge his joke but deep down inside her, underneath the bitterness and that famous O'Hare kidney, alarms are ringing, and sirens are flashing - unexpected banter in the bagging area.
Feeling his face turn a not-so-subtle shade of beetroot, Kit tries to look busy, wiping up an imaginary spillage with a cloth; he is more than relieved for the distraction when Greta runs into the bar. She jumps up at him with a sparkling smile and asks her if she can have a 'waspbewy.' Kit puts his hand to his left ear, waiting for her to say the magic word.
Greta: Please!
Harriet goes to grab a raspberry from the garnish tray and Kit holds his hand out in objection, remembering that they'd been handled with his unwashed bog fingers. He wouldn't care the same if Angel plucked one and scoffed it, but he had a soft spot for little 'Gweta Wose O'Hare'.
Kit: Not those ones. They're vodka soaked.
He plonks Greta on the bar top, grabs the fresh box of raspberries from the fridge, and the tongs from the garnish tray. Angel would never usually allow children behind the bar but Harriet see's the light in Greta's eyes and she knows that even he wouldn't be able to say no this face.
Kit grabs the tongs and pretends to pluck her nose. She squeals and nips his – after all, it's only fair now that he's pinched hers. Kit scoops a handful of raspberries up into a snack dish and puts them next to her. He tells her to open wide and steps back, taking one raspberry into his hand. He gently throws one at her open mouth and she giggles as it hits her chin. She takes one out of the dish, swinging her legs whilst chuckling her sweet chuckle, and aims at his face. It bounces off his forehead and even Harriet can't contain a snort of laughter.
Kit doesn't know if she's laughing with him, or at him, but either way, he's simply happy that she isn't trying to stab him with a cocktail stirrer.
Angel walks into the Ditch, with his left trouser pocket bulging suspiciously and wearing a freshly pressed white Eton shirt.
Kit: Playtime is over.
He's wearing black Thomas Bird chukka's and if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was dressed for a funeral – a silly assumption to make because Angel doesn't attend funerals. He just provokes them.
Angel: Road trip time. Do you own a suit?
He looks down at Kit's scuffed New Balance trainers, and then up at his black-ish skinny jeans. His navy Hollister waffle T-shirt has an orange stain where the toilet bleach has splashed, and his denim shirt jacket is missing at least two buttons.
Angel grunts.
Angel: Never mind.
He opens the door into the living quarters and calls upstairs.
Angel: Zola! I'm going to need another shirt ironing please!
Kit buckles up when he gets into the Audi – but emotionally, he just can't strap in. The leather seat feels cold and scaley, like he's sitting in a snake pit, and suddenly he has the urge to hear Maura's reassuring voice.
Kit: What horrifying assignment does Angel have lined up this time? And why are we dressed like Accountants to do it? What the fuck is in Angel's pocket?
He wants to be back at the bar scraping shit off toilets and crushing mint leaves for Elf enthusiasts. And, confusingly, he can't help but feel guilty about not knowing it was Harriet's birthday...
Angel can sense his anxiety. As uncomfortable as it feels, he knows he needs to be more transparent with Kit, especially if Kit is going to get his hands dirty to help protect his family.
He unlocks his phone with face ID and throws his phone into Kit's lap.
Angel: Read out the postcode on that text.
Kid shields the screen from the sun's glare with his hand.
Kit: HA9 8NJ. Preston Road?
Angel: Yes.
Kit: Wembley?
Angel: Yes Kit, Wembley.
Kit's stomach somersaults with dread – with fear of the unknown, fear of Angel, fear in general.
Kit: What's in Wembley?
Angel purses his lips.
Angel: Not what. Who.
YOU ARE READING
Trestle
Gizem / Gerilim**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...
