Trestle

Chapter 15 - Gassed

Chapter 15
Tuesday 13th August, 2024
Crockenhill, London

After bellowing through the letterbox and slapping the doors, Maura resorts to rattling her knuckles on The Ditch's mirrored windows. Either she is being avoided or the entire O'Hare family have left town – as for the latter, she knows she isn't that lucky.
She has been frantically calling Kit's phone for the last two hours needing answers – and though Kit isn't in the mood for chit-chat, she knows exactly who loves the sound of his own voice enough to compensate.
Her hands are red raw, so by the time she gets into her car, the steering wheel feels like sandpaper to touch. She bows her head and closes her eyes in concentration, trying to calm her panicked breathing; she needs to think rationally.
Maura: If I were a raging, colossal cunt, where would I be on a Tuesday afternoon?

She drives along the main road with a pounding heart and sweaty palms, a multitude of scenarios playing in her mind. Kit's wardrobe has been partially cleared out, and his shoe collection has at least halved – a series of perturbing events and Angel's name is written all over it. It's mildly reassuring to know that Kit's passport is still at home, and he hasn't dipped into their shared secret stash of cash, but deep down, Maura's gut is telling her that Kit's circumstances, whatever they are 'for now' could soon be his circumstances 'forever' if she doesn't intervene.

She is moments away from calling the police when out of the corner of her eye, she sees an arrogantly clean Audi TT indicating into the petrol station across the road. Ignoring the oncoming traffic, she swerves over the junction to follow it, silently praying that Kit is soundly buckled up in the passenger seat.
Maura: If he isn't already dead, I'll kill the ignorant little swine myself.

 

Angel exits the vehicle and removes his tinted aviators, making eye-contact with a motorcyclist finishing up at the pump number six. It's brief - a fraction of a second, - but the shared gaze flusters her and she fumbles to unclip her LS2. The quick-release' isn't releasing quick enough, and she makes the bold choice to jump back on her bike and speed off without wearing it; sustaining a head injury at the hands of a car-crash is probably less traumatic than one attained from the hands of an O'Hare anyway.
Following suit, the other driver's leave hastily – all of them except Maura.
She parks up across the entrance and jumps out of the car. The cashier at the till watches in disbelief as Maura storms towards pump seven, and so turns his back to the window, reluctant to bear witness to Angel, a modern day Scairy Godmother, granting Maura's death wish.

As Maura marches closer, she can see the passenger seat is empty and her heart sinks.
Maura: Where the fuck is he?
Angel looks up at her and throws his sunglasses through the driver's seat window.
Angel: Hey babe, rough day at the office?
Maura: DON'T mock me. I asked you a question.
He register's the way her denim jeans hug her legs, before he registers her attitude. Her tone is bold for someone who couldn't fight a fever, but Angel allows it.
Angel: He's probably picking Greta up from school.
Maura: So, when he's not pulling your pints or running your armory, he's playing Nanny Mc-fucking-Phee? Why has he taken all of his clothes and shoes to do a fucking school run?
Angel sighs, and begins to unscrew his diesel cap. He rolls his eyes - after the insomnia-inducing effects of last night's conversation with Zola, a show-down with a potty-mouthed Maura isn't making todays to-do list.
Angel: Maybe he was cold when he woke up this morning.
Maura: It's twenty-two degrees! What's going on?
She steps closer with a clenched fist and gritted teeth. Angel pauses, remembering that in a dream not so long ago, those teeth were nibbling his ear lobe.
Angel: I've had the guest room made up for him at The Ditch. He's staying there for a while.

Something inside her snaps, but instead of screaming in anger, Maura throws her head back and laughs. Angel is confused at what part she thinks he was joking about, and he watches for a moment, dumbfounded, but also enjoying the sound of her laugh.
Maura: Of course you moved him in, like some heroic Dog's Trust sponsor! Does he get to keep his own toothbrush there as well or is that a level unlocked after he's murdered a family of five?
Refusing to bite, Angel simply rolls his eyes again and smirks. Her wit is exciting, and though he didn't know it before, he now realises it's the caffeine he needs to fuel his day.
Maura: He doesn't want to live with you. He doesn't know what the fuck he is thinking.
Angel shrugs as nonchalantly as a naughty schoolkid being told off by some wrinkled, coffin-dodging supply teacher.
Angel: He's probably thinking of all the money you'd save on petrol if he lives where he works. It's one less mouth for Norris to feed.

Maura seethes with anger; she's only ever been able to dream of a life where Kit has a housekeeper to clean his clothes and cook him nutritional meals. How did her dreams and nightmares become so intertwined?
She steps further towards him, inches away from his face. She's shorter than he is, only reaching the height of his neck, which gives her a perfect view of the grizzly-looking set of stitches in Angel's throat. Despite lacking in physical height, her current foul temper makes her feel ten-foot-tall; and it makes him feel stiff.
Maura: I suppose you would see it that way. I suppose you want me to thank you, do you? For your generosity? For your gallantry?
Angel breathes her in, too distracted by the lack of distance between them to care about her lionhearted insolence – it's as if the heat from her boiling rage intensifies her scent. He looks down into her unblinking eyes and pictures them rolling back into her head...again.
Maura: You can lie to yourself all you want - try pride yourself on chivalry, being an honourable man, doing someone a favour...but the truth is, you're nothing but a bully. There is NOTHING gentlemanly about you.
She scowls at him, impressed and, admittedly, a little aroused by her own nerve.

He inches closer and bends his neck until his nose brushes hers - fuck todays to-do list; he's not losing this stand-off.
She feels his right arm sliding slowly down from the small of her waist to the top of her thigh, and it sends shivers up her spine; shivers which should be of disgust but feel more like guilty pleasure.
Before she has time to object, Angel pulls her off her feet and sits her against his lap with one effortless sweep.
Angel: And what if I don't want to be gentle?

Her chest is beating heavily, and she freezes; eyes locked onto his face. How is she supposed to guess his next move when she didn't see that one coming? With his right arm holding her straddled against him, he takes the diesel pump with his left hand and slots it into his tank, never once taking his eyes off her.

Over the rushing of diesel, Maura can hear the low growl of his breaths, and her fingers tighten around his neck. She feels the crotch of his tracksuit bottoms bulging against her, demanding her attention – it makes her ache and her muscles contract. Her moral compass wants him six feet underground but, in this moment, her body just wants him, full stop – whether it's loathing or lust she feels, it's still a form of white-hot hunger.

Angel keeps her pinned firmly against his torso – she couldn't break free even if she wanted to, but judging by the warmth and pulsing sensation against his waist, he assumes she's enjoying this as much as he is.
Her eyes divert to his lips, parted ever-so-slightly, and for a moment she feels weak enough to kiss them. She breathes him in and squeezes her thighs tighter around his groin.

The rush of diesel stops, the tank now satisfied and full. Angel lightly shakes the pump as it drips. He stares at Maura's mouth with the agonising desire to taste it and sits her gently on the boot of his car; so gently, she barely feels herself move. He places the pump back in its station.
Angel: Your turn.

Maura blinks in shock as the warmth of Angel's bulk is slowly replaced by the hard aluminium of his TT.
Maura: What the fuck is happening?

The world slowly reappears around him, and she loosens her grip from around his neck as the feminist within her shows up. Her heart rate begins to slow, and she shakes her head disappointingly. Was he not such a monster, Maura would lap him up, in this moment. But he is. So she can't.
Maura: No Angel. You can't have me too.
She jumps down from the boot of his car and walks back to her Fiesta.

Driving away, she exhales slowly, accepting that she no longer needs to fear over Kit's unknown whereabouts – except now, she knows exactly where he is, and she is so much more fearful.