Chapter 20
Thursday 19th September, 2024
Stationhop Scrapyard, Orpington, London
A nocturnal nightguard plays spider solitaire in his portacabin. Maura sits, engine running, as Angel slips him fifty quid to open the gates past close. It's only half past seven but the last few hours of Summer decided to put their out-of-office on early, and the dusk has already disturbed the daylight.
They filter into the scrapyard and snake between a labyrinth of electricals, once-loved lawn furniture and radiators. Angel pulls up alongside three large containers, overlooked by a never-ending salvage rack, and Maura settles in behind him.
There's an Autumnal chill lingering which makes her glad for the heavy lifting – her jacket is buried way beneath rubble bags of chopped mahogany and slate, one of which appears to be missing handles.
Maura bends at the knees and tries to lift the awkward shape, grunting as her best efforts fail her miserably.
Maura: If at first you don't succeed ...
She tries and tries again. And again.
Maura: Fuck, this bag is a bitch.
And again.
Angel: Let me get that.
Maura bats Angel's hand away and tells him she can do it herself. He holds his hands up in surrender and props himself against a rusted Ford Mondeo to watch the show.
Maura can feel his eyes all over her and it only infuriates her more – but if frustration alone was enough to lift this bag, she'd be fucking juggling with it.
Maura: Did you put a dead-bastard-body in this bag?
Angel: Not recently, no.
He's being 50% sarcastic, 50% not. Maura thinks he's just 100% cunt.
Angel: I think you should let me take it from here.
Feeling a rush of 'fuck this, fuck you, fuck everything' begin to swell, she changes tactics. She picks out a large tile and swings it behind her.
Maura: I think you've done enough!
The tile shatters the windscreen of the Mondeo Angel's resting against. He doesn't even flinch.
Maura's release is exhilarating; usually a human glue-gun, it finally feels good to break shit. She stands with her chest pounding, looking to Angel for a reaction. He gives her nothing but a few short words as he steps aside.
Angel: Let it go.
Maura takes a handful of slate and launches it at the cars stacked before her. Glass falls like rain around them both and she closes her eyes to embrace the noise belonging to her own delicious destruction.
She screams as hard as her lungs will allow, throwing lumps of mahogany and rubble into the distance.
Angel passes her the leg of a table sticking out amongst the bags - he does it without a judgmental smirk on his face, or any sight of a threatening glare. He simply stands back and lets her have this moment.
She approaches the next vehicle – a tyre-less, beaten up BMW with a burnt-out interior, and she spins the table leg in her hand.
With gritted teeth and white-knuckles, she swings it over her shoulder and splits the window.
Maura: That one's for you, mum!
The second strike takes out a headlight.
Maura: That one's for the beers you drank for breakfast, dad!
And on her third swing, she hammers down on a mirror. It's cracks against the tarmac and shards of plastic bounce in all directions. She shields her face from the splinters that ricochet and fights short, rapid breaths.
Maura: And that one's for you, Angel O'Hare.
Angel is silenced. Not silent – but silenced, at the hands of someone else as opposed to it being by choice. He has absolutely no words. He was completely captivated watching her dance around the car, but the reality of the situation is far from enchanting. She is beautifully broken, and he may have been her Achilles heel.
She bows her head, gasping, before standing back upright and scraping her hand through her hair.
The endorphins in her brain are telling her to keep going, to keep up the carnage.
She marches towards him, jaw clenched, and throws the chair leg on the ground.
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...
