Chapter 30
Tuesday 19th November, 2024
The Ditch, Crockenhill, London
Greta bounds into Uncle Angels bedroom with minty fresh breath, neatly combed hair, and a little tummy full of Golden Nuggets. She's got a grin on her face spread wider than Real Madrid's fan base but her hopes are higher than that of a Leeds United supporter if she thinks he's getting out of bed without a playfight today.
Greta: Uncle Angel! It's morning! You pwomised you'd walk with me and Zola to school today!
She pounces on the bed and he playfully pulls the duvet over his head. She chuckles, digging to unearth him from beneath the quilt and he smiles to himself, thinking there is no other sound he would rather start his day to.
Stassi walks by his bedroom door and beckons for Greta to get off the bed with her school shoes on.
Stassi: Besides anything Greta, you don't know what else has been in that bed with him.
Angel mouths 'bitch' from under the covers and then sits upright with a bellowing roar. Greta squeals as he emerges from underneath ten togs and pretends to gobble her up.
Angel: Go get your book-wallet then, trouble. I'll be downstairs in ten minutes.
Zola holds Greta's left hand, Angel holds her right. They count to three and Greta swings between them playfully, blowing giggles of warm breath into their otherwise icy path.
Angel checks his phone and see's one missed call from Otis.
Greta: Zola? Pwease can we teach Uncle Angel how to play the alphabet game?
Angel tucks his phone away and listens carefully to Zola's instructions.
Zola: Each person takes it in turns to say what they can see - but it has to start with the next letter of the alphabet - if you have to skip a letter, then you actually have to 'skip' a letter.
Zola jumps into the air, landing with a thud.
Zola: Understand?
Angel nods and tells Greta to start with the letter 'A'. She scans the roadside, the roads, the park, and even looks up into the sky. Angel stops in his tracks, baffled as to why she hasn't answered with the most obvious 'A' - him. Zola snickers as Greta shouts airplane.
Angel lifts his head and looks into the sky. The November sun is bright and white and shielded by chiffon cloud ribbons; amongst those, flyspeck planes thread between the mist. In another life, Angel would've finished school with a GCSE in physics and graduated Heathrow's Aviation Academy. But in this life, a physics-based education is replaced with 'physical altercations' and he's never so much as stepped foot on a plane - with a reputation as criminal as his, no border would ever allow it.
Angel: BMW.
Zola: 'C' is for...hmm...'C' is for car. What letter come's next Greta baby?
Greta: 'D'... 'D' is for...
Angel: Depression? Danger? Death?
Greta: Dog poo!
Greta: 'P' is for playgwound!
They arrive at the gates of Crockenhill Infant School before letter 'Q', much to Angel's relief.
Greta drops their hands and grabs her book-wallet from Angel, completely forgetting that he even exists. She runs off in the direction of a curly-haired teacher wearing a high-vis waistcoat and jam-jar glasses - think 'Ugly Betty' turned scaffolder.
Zola waves at the teacher.
Zola: Hey, Miss Juan!
Miss Juan catches sight of Angel. The teacher bows her head and scurries towards the school, followed closely by a crowd of kids, like a Primary-School Pied-Piper.
Zola: Bye Greta baby, learn lots!
Angel looks at the beaming smile on Zola's face - it's the kind of smile you'd expect to find on the face of a first-time parent, proudly waving their mini-me off on their first day at big school. He thanks the Universe for delivering such a kind and caring woman into his family, and reckons Zola is probably just as grateful for them in return - although Lord knows appreciating them must be nearly impossible to do at times - Angel himself struggles occasionally.
Zola: There she grows.
Zola's eyes sparkle as they follow Greta through the double doors - she disappears amongst a sea of candy-apple red cardigans and gingham-checked scrunchies, although her infectious chuckle still rings loud and clear.
Zola wraps the ochre-striped mohair scarf around her neck a second time and thrusts her hands deep into her coat pockets. They start walking back towards home, huddling like penguins against the cold.
Zola: You know, Angel baby, you just made that little girl's day walking her to school.
Angel tells her that he was starting to worry that Kit had taken his place as Greta's favourite person.
Zola: She thinks the world of him. She talks to him every day on facetime. The girl won't brush her damn teeth without me putting him on the screen.
Angel: Maybe we ought to stop that. They're not coming back. She needs stability.
Angel frowns with disappointment - the words are reluctant to leave his mouth and he desperately wants to cram them back in once spoken. Besides losing Maura, having Kit around was useful. But it wasn't just convenient. It was comforting, when the world wasn't comfortable. His presence was comradely, almost brotherly. Though unfamiliar at first, Angel had become accustomed to his new scrawny, scruffy shadow. And now it's gone.
Zola looks at Angel and cackles, wobbling as she walks.
Zola: Stability? What about this family has ever been stable?
Angel: Touché.
Zola: I love yo' ass unconditionally - since the day yo' little white ass was born. But baby, you need Jesus.
She links onto one of his arms to cross the road opposite The Ditch.
Angel's phone buzzes; text message incoming. ID: Rat emoji.
He turns to face Zola in an attempt to block her from seeing his screen.
Otis: Tried to call. Some of R's case files removed from PND - someone's trying to bury this. I'm chasing down cop who closed investigation. Retired apparently.
Otis: P.s - withdrawal from Flake's account flagged up this morn - Sloterdijk, Amsterdam. He's a needle in a haystack out there.
Keeping one eye still on the traffic, Zola looks over Angel's shoulder. There is a tall man stood facing The Ditch doors; he's completely still, almost zombified, glaring into nothingness.
Zola: Excuse me? We opening at two 'o' clock today.
The middle-aged man hears her call over the rumbling of passing car engines and turns around - his skin tone is burnt-Sienna but somehow glows drip white.
He's crying and muttering a sentence not quite loud enough for Zola to hear properly, but there's definitely the word 'fourteen' being repeated. His eyes are bloodshot red and Zola presumes 'somebody poured gin over they coco-pops this morning.'
Zola: Oh... he already wasted.
Zola: Did you hear me Sir? No more alcohol until two 'o' clock. I'm not playing, I'm being dead serious wit' you.
She squints to hear his reply, as if focusing on his quivering blue lips might take his volume up a notch: 'my boy was fourteen; Kai was only fourteen.'
Angel is tapping a reply to Otis, suggesting he stops by The Ditch later on. But he doesn't even manage to hit send before the bullet comes flying towards him.
The sound of the first bullet leaving the gun is loud.
But the sound of that bullet tearing through human flesh is louder.
Angel tumbles to his knee's, and time stops for a split second.
He looks into Zola's eye's and a single tear rolls down her temple.
Angel: No, Zola...Zola please, stay with me.
YOU ARE READING
Trestle
Gizem / Gerilim**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...
