Trestle

Chapter 12 - Cut Throat

Chapter 12
Thursday 8th August, 2024
The Mill Apartments, Mill Lane, London

Angel parks the Audi up outside The Mill Apartments. He reaches into the back of the car and pulls out a crumpled pair of unbranded, dark grey joggers and a matching grey hoodie. He takes off his suit jacket and starts to unbutton his shirt. Kit is watching him in the passenger seat, puzzled.
Kit: At least buy me a drink first.
Kit could be wrong, but he swears he spots a quarter of a smile on Angel's face. Satisfied that his sarcasm isn't going to get him thumped, he turns his head to give Angel privacy.
Angel slides out of his sharp suit and into the tracksuit.

After a moment, Kit reverts his attention back to Angel – at least he thinks it's Angel, but the person now sitting in the front seat is wearing a very unflattering baggy tracksuit, well-worn Adidas trainers and an off-white fisherman beanie hat. He throws his suit onto the back seat and flips down the glove box.
Two guns are laying side-by-side, and Angel doesn't hesitate in taking both out. It doesn't cross his mind that Kit would be intimidated, but why would it? A gun to Angel was as familiar as a zebra-crossing was to Kit.

It's the first time Kit has seen a real gun close enough to touch. He's watched enough MIB films and played enough Call of Duty on the PS4 to know what they look like and sound like. Oddly enough however, he isn't afraid – slowly numbing to the world of the O'Hare's, Kit appreciates the novelty appears to be wearing thin now that he knows a piece of flimsy plastic can do the same job just as easily - he sees the gun as nothing but a sexed-up spit-straw.

Angel compares the two pistols for a moment and chooses the smaller one. He checks the ammunition and shuts the other back in the glove box.
Angel: Stay here. This isn't my town, it's not my turf and these are definitely not my people - you're dead weight to me in there, and I need this to be done quickly. We need to be back before Harriet cuts her cake.
Kit: A birthday cake? It's her birthday?
Angel nods.
Kit: Well why didn't you tell me?
Angel: What the fuck do you care?
In no position to argue, Kit watches as Angel folds a stash of twenties into his sock and gets out of the car, gun loaded in the waistband of his joggers, and disappears around the corner. A long vibration in his pocket startles him.
Kit: Hi, Harriet. I know, and I'm really sorry, I don't know how much longer this is going to take. You'll have to read the story for me. Just tell her I'll make it up to her. Make sure you do the voices... And, by the way ... happy birthday...

Angel burns a Marlboro Red and hangs back from the park, examining his new stage for a short while and trying to establish the threat level. There are maybe five or six people kicking a split ball amongst themselves, but no one looks to be packing. There is a picnic bench swarmed with people, but they don't look old enough to spell Strongbow, let alone be drinking it by the gallon.
Angel: If they're carrying anything, it's most likely a full nappy.

There's a few old, collapsed tents strung up badly and a mound of dirty looking sleeping bags sprawled across a base of blue, plastic Ikea bags. The group of people seem content and Angel struggles to understand how one of these individuals could possibly infiltrate his town's supply of drugs – they don't look like they could infiltrate a PG-rated cinema screening without adult supervision.
Angel approaches a lone man standing against the park fence. The man's fingers are rapidly tapping his phone screen.
Angel stands next to him, keeping his hands tucked tightly in his pockets, but doesn't make eye contact. The man eyes up Angel's battered footwear first and then slowly examines his tracksuit and his hat. He looks back at his mobile phone.
Serial texter: You smell like garlic, bro.
Angel ignores the man's comment and spits on the ground, next to a pile of crushed takeaway cartons.
He says he's looking for Tusi. The man doesn't look away from his screen but tells him he doesn't know who that is. Angel nods his head.
Angel: He's a friend of Fish's.
Without flinching, the man replies, 'red coat'.