Chapter 16
Monday, September 2nd, 2024
The Ditch, Crockenhill, London
Angel drives back from Rainham feeling liberated, having spent the entire night before releasing weeks of pent-up frustration. He fingers the last stubborn stitch yet to dissolve in his neck and pulls slowly until it becomes separated from his throat; the nipping pain serves as a non-polite reminder of why he got the kid involved in the first place.
He parks his Saloon around the back of The Ditch and pops a Taurus 941 from the glovebox before stepping out. The welcoming scent of Zola's breakfast mandazi carries him to the front doors, which he casually taps on three times, and then steps backwards from. He points his gun straight ahead and waits; there's a brief pause until Kit answers, still wearing his gym shorts. He stands motionless, staring down the black barrel of a gun.
Angel: Bang.
Kit stands in the entrance, frozen in fear until Angel lowers the gun and removes his Billionaire baseball cap.
Angel: That's what happens when you open this door to the wrong knock.
Kit nods in understanding and feels his blood pressure drop down – and his post-workout chai tea come back up.
Kit: So teach me.
Angel purses his lips in consideration and clenches his fist. He holds it next to the door and slightly withdraws his forefinger, ready to tap with his knuckle.
But before their lesson in percussion begins, the sound of Greta screaming interrupts, echoing through the bar. Kit and Angel lock eyes and simultaneously bolt towards the living quarters.
Greta is sitting on a chair, gripping the kitchen table in total agony as Harriet drags a wide paddle brush through her knotted, wet curls.
Harriet: Greta, if you wriggle I will only hurt you more!
Harriet looks up at Angel and Kit; despite the hostility in her tone of voice, her eyes are weak and tired.
Harriet: We are SO late for school!
Greta is close to tears – her scalp is on fire but Harriet shows no mercy.
Harriet: It's her own bloody fault for not getting out of bed when I shouted her the first fifty times.
Greta: I haven't had any bweakfast yet.
Harriet: That's because you refused what Zola prepared for us earlier, I didn't raise you to be a spoiled brat did I?
Angel is about to open the cereal cupboard to pour Greta some Golden Nuggets, when Kit snaps a greenish banana from the bunch sat in the fruit bowl and begins to peel it for her, like a mother gorilla feeding her infant. He takes one himself and hold's the rest out to Angel.
Refusing, Angel closes the cupboard and flicks on the kettle anticipating his morning coffee. He takes a moment to silently appreciate Kit's attentiveness whilst it starts to boil – he doesn't need to be a rocket scientist to perceive the obvious admiration for his niece, as despite not knowing what trouble she was in, Kit showed no hesitation in flying to Greta's rescue when she cried out. And to think, it was only some months ago that he would have flinched at the sound of a dog's fart.
Angel: Promising.
Harriet unplugs the only-half-boiled kettle, to Angel's dismay, and plugs in the Shark Flexstyle.
Angel shrugs and takes a can of RedBull from the fridge instead.
Harriet: Mummy you need to sign my reading record.
Harriet closes her eyes for a second, trying to compose herself. She holds the hairdryer against her own temple and imitates shooting herself with it.
Harriet: It should be illegal for Zola to have a dentist appointment during the school run; we're falling apart!
Detecting her distress, Kit peels the hairdryer from Harriet's hands and picks up the paddle brush.
Kit: Her reading record is in her book wallet.
Harriet makes her way towards the hallway, and despite already being twenty-five minutes late for Greta's register, she finds time to look back and catch sight of her own daughter, propped in "Gwandad's chair" having her hair lovingly blow-dried. Her heart breaks to think she has deprived Greta of that type of paternal love, but Harriet knows that Greta's father could never have risen to the challenge, even if he had known she existed.
Harriet: Thank you, Kit.
She returns after a few minutes with Greta's book wallet, housing a freshly signed reading record, and swinging a pair of Clarks black leather school shoes. Whilst Kit gives her hair one final blast for good measure, Harriet crouches down and lifts Greta's foot onto her knee, fiddling with her shoe strap.
Harriet: Push your foot in Grets.
Her tone is much softer now and Angel smiles – becoming a mother at only eighteen years of age understandably took an impact on Harriet's emotional stability, but, still only twenty-two years old now, she is surely just a big kid finding her feelings; aren't we all?
Faye pops her head into the room and waves a freshly manicured hand at Greta. She's sipping something green and chunky and it looks like it has enough vitamins to revive an entire morgue.
Faye: Cute shoes Grets! You'll be joining my 'foot-ography' business in no time!
She winks at Harriet and taps her dancing feet, cloaked in Boots' coconut oil moisturising socks.
Harriet mocks a gipping face, and pulls the velcro strap tightly across Greta's foot.
Harriet: Over my dead body. Jump down and go for a wee, Greta. Be quick.
Greta dumps her floppy banana skin on the table in front of her and hops off the chair, before yanking her skirt up and running upstairs. Kit winds up the hairdryer lead and leaves it on the kitchen counter, and Angel scoops Greta's banana peel into the bin – it's been a solid team effort in getting her prepped for a whole day of learning; well, near enough a team effort, and almost a whole day.
Kit grabs her Canada Goose vest from the rack near the sleeping dogs and passes it to Harriet.
Her fingers brush his hand as she receives it and she feels her face flush pink; she's hormonal today, starting her period, and, embarrassingly, she doesn't know whether she wants to scratch his face off or sit on it.
She chooses none of the above, and scowls instead.
Harriet: Cheers.
She snatches the jacket, puts her head down, and walks to unlock the back door.
Kit watches on after her – or rather, watches her backside, forgetting that her protective, cut-throat-crazy big brother with crazy big pistols and crazy big hands is standing beside him.
Angel swigs at his RedBull and ignores his conscience reminding him about the 'likewise' maddening fondness he holds for the kid's sister.
Angel: Divert your eyes before I gouge them out.
Angel: Double standards much?
Kit stumbles over his words, telling Angel she simply walked into his line of sight, and starts to unpeel his banana for distraction – ironically, stripping back a phallic-shaped fruit only adds to the awkwardness.
Unconvinced but finding the idea of an argument unappetising, Angel checks the Omega Moonwatch on his wrist and puffs his cheeks in preparation for another long day.
Angel: Eat that and fuck off – it's your collection day and I'm going to be late picking Josie up from the train station.
Kit crams the last of his banana into his cheeks and leaves the room.
Kit: First stop, The Castle Inn.
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...
