Chapter 19
The Clout Gym, Crockenhill, London
Monday 16th September, 2024
'Gym' isn't exactly an accurate description – The Clout is an abandoned 35m x 30m industrial unit, where Angel's great grandfather used to house illegal imports of whisky during the war – when the only thing an O'Hare had to ration was their decorum.
Fast-forward eighty years and the space has evolved into a jungle of vine-like knotted climbing ropes with a canopy of punching bags and power cages; there's not a bottle of bourbon in sight, but there is a Jack Daniel's buried somewhere under the floorboards.
Angel, Faye and Kit pull up in the carpark; bad news travels fast and everyone inside herds towards the gym's rear exit like sheep fleeing three gnarly collies; no one in their right mind wants to be within a mile of Faye and a boxing ring.
Kit grabs two 15kg weights on his way to board the gain train and stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. He grunts with each burning rep and Faye approaches, sniggering.
Kit: What? I'm anaemic.
Faye: You're pathetic - you couldn't lift your own spirits.
She begins squatting with a single 40kg dumbbell, spitting froth through the resistance of her burning glutes.
Craving a fight, Angel stands jabbing at a heavy hanging Everlast bag. He picture's Redcoat's sneering face as he swipes, thumps and punches; it's enough motivation to keep him boxing for half an hour, until a vibrating phone breaks his trance.
He steadies himself, hugging the hanging weight and swings a final hook before perching on the ledge of the boxing ring. He undoes his wrist-wraps and wiggles his fingers. Caller ID; rat emoji.
Angel: Otis.
Otis: Angel. Where are you?
Angel: I'm at The Clout with Faye and the kid.
Otis: Kit's there?
Angel nods verbally and looks over his shoulder at Kit, currently sporting a purple face and unsightly sweat patches.
Otis: I got a 'd and d' call to Dartmouth Hill Park. It's Gus, Angel, and someone needs to come get him because I aren't putting him in the back of my car. The geezer is spangled and he fucking stinks.
Angel bites the inside of his cheek and scowls. He knows how it feels to be the child of a complicated man.
Otis: Angel, are you there?
Angel: Yeah, sorry. Listen, the kids busy. Just take him home.
Otis: Did you not hear me? There's no way he's getting in my car, I've just had it valeted.
Angel: If he shits in it, I'll buy you a new one.
Frustrated, Angel hangs up the phone and starts to tighten the velcro around his hands again. He glances at Kit, feeling that familiar protective desire and wonders how this kid went from being part of a plan to part of his clan.
Angel: Kit, glove up. Let's build some chicken on those wings.
Maura lifts her dad's feet onto his mattress and takes off his shoes. They're covered in brown mud – at least she wants to believe its mud, because after manoeuvring him single-handedly up the stairs, she hasn't got the strength to do a sniff test to find out.
Maura: Otis offered to help but you just had to be a feminist in that moment, didn't you Maura?
She walks downstairs and steps into the kitchen. It's not humiliatingly filthy for once, nor is it buried under a mound of dirty washing or rusted car-parts, but Maura still feels embarrassed given the circumstances. Otis sits on a lop-legged chair at Norris' wonky wooden table and smiles sympathetically.
Maura: Can I make you a drink?
Otis nods, appreciating the gesture.
Maura puts a bottle of water in front of him and he takes a light, polite sip.
Otis: Is the baby asleep?
Otis tries to make light of the situation, recognising that Maura looks beat; as though she might cry. She stifles a short 'hmm' and rolls her eyes as she pulls the chair out opposite him.
Maura: He wasn't always just some drunk.
Otis: He still isn't. He's your father.
Maura nods, appreciating Otis' understanding. She's exhausted – not just from carrying her father upstairs, but carrying the weight of his alcoholism for the last near-decade.
Maura: I think he stopped being a father the day he stopped being a husband.
Gus stopped a lot of things that day – including working. Maura found it soul-crushing, continuously moving around Italy to escape debt collectors and the memories of her mother, but she had to endure it, for Kit's sake. Emigrating to England and finding Norris had made her the happiest she had been in a long time. And then she met Angel. And now happy is ... complicated.
Otis: Messy divorce?
Maura purses her lips together, nervously. She shakes her head as she feels tears prickle her eyes, scared that if she starts to cry, she might not ever stop.
Maura: Our mother died – it was a hit and run. We never found out who was driving the car, and I don't think my father will ever accept that. It will be ten years, tomorrow - he gets like this near the anniversary.
Otis cradles his bottle and bites his lower lip as he is flooded with sympathy for the Martucci's - realising how unpredictable life can be makes him crave a cuddle from his own kids.
Maura: My father said he was nipping out at dinner time to buy my mother's favourite flowers – roses, like her name, Rosa. I should have gone with him, but Norris needed me – we've been so busy in the garage lately; life is hard to juggle without Kit around to help.
Maura can't tell if Inspector Otis Ratt has gone quiet because she's depressed him with her sad little life stories or he's processing the meaty smell of Scooch's half-empty dog food bowl tucked under the chair, but she decides to get two wine glasses down from the shelf behind her anyway.
She opens the fridge door and takes out a carton of milk. Confused, Otis watches her unscrew the cap, and pour white wine into the glasses. Maura winks at him and puts the milk carton back into the fridge.
Maura: Our secret.
Otis pushes his bottle away and pinches the stem of the glass in toast.
Otis: To Rosa.
Maura: And to the complicated men in my life, whom she'd straighten out in a heartbeat, if she was here.
Clink.
There is a stillness at the table between them, as if the two are mutually appreciating the healing qualities of a pinot grigio – 'pairs well with fish or pasta,' some may say, but Otis feels it's better complimented by the listening ears of another human being.
Otis: The kid's in good hands, you know.
Maura swills the wine around her glass, refusing to acknowledge how often she fantasises about those 'good hands'. And although it hurts to admit, Kit does appear to be holding his own - happy almost, like he's found a purpose.
Otis: Angel won't hurt him.
Maura: How can you be so sure?
Otis: Because believe it or not, he isn't his dad. I've known the family for fifteen years, and I've known men like his dad even longer. Bill killed for fun. He was supposed to be Angel's role model but I bet if you gave Angel half the chance to live any other lifestyle, he's take it. Moreso for his family. They didn't ask for this life. And despite how it looks, the dude fucking hates it.
Maura's mind flashes back to her first encounter with Angel. He might not be his dad, but the apple didn't fall far. She takes a bigger sip of wine.
Maura: He moves around like he owns everything and everyone in this town, but he isn't God. He shouldn't get to decide who lives and who dies.
Otis: You're right. The same way that he shouldn't get to decide who gets arrested and who gets to go home and sleep it off.
Otis raises his eyebrows and looks up towards the ceiling between him and Maura, and the Sleeping Boozy. He tips the rest of the wine down his throat.
Otis: We're all just people moving lines that we said we'd never cross – it's the sacrifices we make for the people we care about. We protect them, at any cost. Don't we?
He speaks for himself as a father, for Angel; as a doting family man, and for Maura; as a loving sister.
Maura doesn't answer; she doesn't have to, because Otis can see it in her eyes. Rightly or wrongly, she too would do anything to protect the people she loves.
Otis: I'll let you into a secret that Angel probably doesn't want you to know, either.
Maura listens carefully.
Otis: Most of the time, his guns are full of blanks.
She is quiet, contemplating whether that makes him less of a beast, 'most of the time'.
Their silence is broken with the creaking sound above their heads; the creaking sound of a drunk man crawling to the bathroom. Maura rolls her eyes.
Maura: The baby is awake.
Otis sniggers and thanks her graciously for the wine, before standing up to leave. He tells her he will see himself out.
Maura: Thankyou Inspector.
Otis: It's not me you should be thanking.
He walks down the drive and unlocks his car, waving at Norris as he passes the open garage door. It's been a mentally draining Monday and he's ready to wind down for the day. Almost ready.
The phone doesn't even have chance to ring before Angel answers. Otis tells him he's on his way home.
Angel: How did it go?
Otis: Well, my car smells like ass. But Gus is settled; he's been sleeping it off.
Angel: And Maura?
Otis: She's tired Angel. You don't know the half of it.
Angel battles to keep his conscience below his dick.
Otis: His dad might be a clown but just go easy on the kid – it's the tenth anniversary of their mother's murder tomorrow.
Angel: Murder...
Otis: He hasn't told you?
Angel's silence screams 'no'.
Otis: Well, buckle up, buttercup. Rosa Martucci died in a hit and run – they never found who did it.
Angel's heart rate soars – he is angry at Kit for not telling him, and he is angry that justice hasn't been served for an innocent woman's murder almost ten years ago. But most of all, he is angry at himself for taking another family member away from Maura.
Angel: Otis? I need you to reopen that case.
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...
