Angel Dust (35 page)

‘The Crow comes here with his girlfriend. . .'

No!
I want to cry.

‘A very pretty little thing she is too,' smiles Larry.

Stop! Stop!

Marcus drains his glass, grabs the brandy bottle, refills it himself.

‘And there's no denying the facts,' says Larry sadly.

‘What facts?' says Marcus. His voice is low and husky.

The ice around my chest has spread now to every cell of my body, ever capillary, every vein; it courses through my being like liquid nitrogen.

‘The fact,' says Larry, very slowly, as if it's nothing to do with him, ‘that every night your pretty little sister is down in the club making out with the Crow in front of the entire neighbourhood.'

Marcus splutters, sinks into his chair, goes ashen. ‘
Jasmine?
' he whispers.

I stand up but my legs can't hold me. I look at Larry. He looks at me. He gently, very gently moves his hand and motions me to sit back down again. I do. I've no power to resist.

‘And sadly,' says Larry, ‘that's not hearsay. That's the truth.'

I look at him. I know it's a lie. Somehow he's engineered this. I remember Jasmine's note: ‘
I'll be back very late this evening, because I've been invited to a Halloween party – on a blind date!
' Somehow poor sweet Jasmine has become part of his war.

‘And it gets worse,' says Larry, swirling the brandy thoughtfully round his glass. ‘You see, every night the Crow puts his arm around pretty little Jasmine and says
“Here's to Joey Bigga,”
and Jasmine smiles and the Crow continues,
“Better off dead,”
and everyone else replies, “
Than with Marcus
”.'

Marcus stands up, pushes the table away. Glasses crash, the brandy bottle topples, honey liquid pours to the ground. I want to rise too. I want to hold on to Marcus, tell him,
You're being played! It's a trick!
I look at Larry. I'm held in my seat.
‘No!'
I whisper.

Suddenly Marcus coughs, clutches at his chest. His lips grow pallid.
There's blood coming through his shirt!

‘Yes!'
hisses Larry back.

‘
Please,
' I manage.
‘I'll do as you say.'

‘
Good
,' says Larry. He turns to me, full-frontal, eyeballs protruding. ‘Make. Sure. You. Do. I'll. Be. Watching.'

A beat passes. Marcus straightens up. Colour returns to his lips. He pulls out his phone, unsteady. He taps in a link.

‘Spider?' he says. His voice is harsh. ‘You ready? The job?'

‘Yo,' says Spider. His voice is faint but we can all hear him.

‘The Crow.'

‘Yess!' comes the reply.

‘Right,' says Marcus, his voice still unsteady. ‘Get the crew strapped, we'll hit the old club.'

‘Yeah man,' says Spider.

‘There's a celebration here tonight,' whispers Larry. ‘A Halloween party.'

‘Tonight. Friday. 31st October. Halloween. Fancy dress.'

So neat. So perfect. I look at Larry.

‘Seen,' says Spider.

Marcus puts his phone down. He laughs, as if he's free now, free from some curse laid on him. He turns to Larry. ‘Thanks, bruv,' he says. ‘Must've been hard for you to tell me all that.'

‘You know I'm your man,' says Larry. ‘Was just waiting till you came.'

‘I know,' says Marcus. ‘Nuff respect, we won't damage your club tonight.'

‘Don't worry,' says Larry. ‘Like I said, blood's good for business.'

And Larry smiles at me and nods his head a fraction. The icy chains fall off my limbs. My tongue is free at last. And I look at him. I don't know what to say. Except to repeat back his own question asked of me so long since.

‘Happy?' I say.

‘Oh yes,' he says, turning conspiratorially to me and adding in a low voice, ‘I'm happy, and I'll be happier still when both of you are safely delivered to the shores of Styx.'

Marcus stumbles from the club. I follow. I take his arm. I hold him steady.
What shall I do? How can I explain?

‘Thanks,' he mutters, and leans on me.

‘Marcus,' I say. ‘Don't believe everything.' I want to tell him about Larry, but what if Larry is watching, listening? I daren't take the risk.

Marcus says nothing. He moves slowly.
Thou shalt not kill.
I'll talk to him.

‘Marcus,' I start.

‘Not now,' he says. ‘Just let me lean on you.'

I shut up. He leans on me. I take his weight.

I send up a prayer:
Give me strength to stand firm, to oppose the Devil – and should I lose my soul and Marcus's to the fires of Hell, I pray for Your forgiveness.

The streets are cold. The afternoon's nearly spent. A jagged range of buildings stands dark against the sky. The sun is setting somewhere behind the city. Its last rays streak the Heavens with red. Shop lights are on. They shine and sparkle in neon colours. The wind gusts, peeling corners off posters, rattling the grilles on shops.

‘Thank you,' says Marcus and then, so softly, so I barely hear him: ‘Oh Angel, where are you now?'

I want to explain. I can't stay silent. I won't give up. ‘Things are not what they seem,' I say, ‘and you should repent.'

‘You know something, Zara?' says Marcus. ‘I kind of like you. You are so certain about your angels and your repentance. You're completely cracked, but I like you.' He falls quiet. We walk slowly down the street. A bus rumbles past. It hits a pool of rainwater, showers us, continues, is gone. I can see he wants to say something else.

‘You know,' he says at last, his arm still around my shoulder. ‘I thought I saw an angel, I really did – you were right. I thought she held me in her arms and promised to be there for me. It's funny. I really believed it.'

‘If you saw her, she was there,' I say. It's all I can say, because if I say, ‘Yes, I was that angel' and all that, I might stop this thing he wants to say – this thing that's trembling on his lips.

‘No,' he says, ‘I was wrong. Must have been the bullets, must have been the wishing: she wasn't there.'

‘But you saw her again? The hospital, the funeral?'

Marcus sighs and then he says: ‘I remember the painkillers, the buzz. I remember walking across a lawn with her, sitting on a tree. For fuck's sake, I was on a life-support machine. They found me on my hospital bed – you know, afterwards. I'd pulled out the drip – I was rambling –'

I hold my breath.

‘I was so upset about Joey. I tried to believe in her. I tried to change.' He stops. His face is so sad. ‘Then Melly died. I was confused . . . At the funeral I remember the stone angel, a flash of lightning. I was so angry with her.'

He's frowning. I bite my lip, remembering his anger.

‘She should have been there for me. She should have told me about Joey, shielded me, helped me. She should have saved Melly. It's crazy how mad I was at her. She was supposed to love me – that's what I thought – and I needed her so badly.'

He stopped and took my hand in his.

‘I was convinced that it was only her love that was keeping me alive and that if she stopped loving me I'd be as dead as Joey. I couldn't understand why she hadn't saved him too. If she really cared about me, she'd have known how much he meant.'

I don't know what to say. I hold on to him.

‘If she could have stayed with me I knew everything would be OK – maybe I thought . . . I really believed – I must have been mistaken . . .' He puts his arm around my shoulder again. I guide him. ‘Girls,' he says, ‘just trouble.'

I look at him sadly.

‘Not you though,' he says. ‘You're insane,
and
you're trouble.' He laughs, then coughs. ‘But I don't hate you.' He stops in the middle of the pavement. ‘Where are all the others?' he says, and throws back his head and yells, ‘Hey
GIRL-FRIENDS,
where the hell are you?'

His voice echoes down the street.

He sighs. ‘Not there. They're never there when you need them.'

‘Please?' I try to calm him. A window from a flat over a shop yanks open. A head sticks itself out; someone trying to see what's going on.

‘There's only you left.' He stops to catch his breath. ‘You know, Zara, when a guy's down and broken – all those girls run away.' He smiles again, a sad smile. ‘Yo, Candy, where are you now, babes? Man saved your fucking life and all he got was a get-well card.'

‘Just lean on me,' I say.

‘She was the Crow's girlfriend, you know, she started all this.' He adds, ‘She was hot. And trouble, that's why man didn't jump straight in. Man can get the girls, you-know, but I want the true one. I don't want all that: because man's the G and Man's got the dough and I'm some kind of badass trophy.'

‘Let's go,' I say. I steer him back along the pavement. ‘Can you make it home?' I ask. I've got Jasmine's money. I could get a cab.

‘I really thought there was an angel.' He looks sadly at me. ‘I really did. I wanted it to be true.'

‘I could get a minicab?'

‘She was the one . . .'

‘There was an angel,' I say. ‘And don't believe anything bad about Jasmine; she wouldn't do any of that.'

He stops again; he clutches at me. ‘Do you think so?' he says earnestly. ‘You're Jasmine's friend – aren't you?' In his face I see hope: a spark, a desperate wanting to believe. Perhaps after all there's still a chance?

‘Yes,' I say, suddenly encouraged.

But then his phone rings. He snaps it open. The person at the other end is shouting. There's loud music even I can hear.

‘Yeah, man, I've organised muscle. We gonna be so packing, we gonna blow every mother to Hell,' someone shouts down the phone.

Marcus laughs grimly, glances at me. ‘Organise some outfits. It's a Halloween party. We'll hide the burners under the costumes, get in and dance with them first,' he orders.

I think there's laughter on the other end.

‘Make mine the Grim Reaper. Pick me up before midnight.' He slaps the phone shut. The moment is past. The look of hope has died in his eyes. He grabs me and says, ‘There aren't any angels. Only badass gangstas.'

‘There are,' I say.

‘Girls!' he laughs.

‘We're not all the same,' I say in a calculated tone.

‘No?' he says.

‘Some of us are very
Old Testament.
' I say it slowly and clearly. I want him to know. I may not be able to stop him, but he should know.

He stops. Spins me round. The look on his face!
‘What did you say?'

‘You heard me.'

He's confused. He pretends he doesn't understand. He changes the subject. ‘I like you, Zara,' he says. ‘You're nuts . . . I like you . . .'

I will not be put off. ‘Don't do it,' I say. ‘Turn your back on sin. Pray for forgiveness. Leave God to dispense justice – for the Lord says: “Vengeance is mine; I will repay.”'

‘
You sound just like her
,' he whispers. ‘
Maybe . . .
' He changes what he's going to say. ‘I wish you were her. If you were her, I'd kiss her right now, like . . .'

Suddenly he moves in, driven by something explosive inside him. He clutches me. He presses his mouth against mine. He strains me to him. The pain in me dissolves. I feel only his warmth, the violent pressure of his lips. I melt against him. His body melts against mine. He pushes his tongue against my lips, forces them open, slides deep into my mouth, probing, fierce. My knees melt like snowflakes in the sun. He slides his arms around me, his hungry tongue searches out my soft and yielding places . . . his body grows hard against me . . . I am in Heaven . . .

I pull away.

‘No,' I say. Every cell in my body is crying out:
‘Yes.'

But it's no good. He isn't kissing me. Not this Zara. Not yet. He's kissing his angel. I'm just a girl, any girl, to stand in for her.

This is not what I gave up Heaven for. This is something animal and raw, heady, powerful, but not love. Not for Zara. It won't do.

‘No?' he says, looking at me, drawing back. ‘
But – it is you, isn't it?
' he says as if the words are being drawn out of him. As if in that one moment of contact the truth has dawned on him.

But it doesn't matter any more. He wouldn't repent for Serafina – he won't for Zara. And I'm
not
her. I'm Zara now. ‘No,' I say, gently. ‘And no more kissing.' But because he's wounded and to reject him would be cruel I add: ‘Just no – not on the street – not while you're upset. You might wake up tomorrow and regret it.' I try to laugh.
There will be no tomorrow for either of us.
I grab hold of his hand. He sways a little. ‘Because you're too important,' I say. But I don't say to whom or why, for already he's throwing his hands in the air.

‘Let's go home,' I say.

‘Oh Angel,' he murmurs. ‘And I know it's you.'

I hear him. I say nothing. I've already spoken. He's chosen. Larry is waiting. The play will be played out.

‘OK,' he says, ‘OK, you're right.' His voice cracks a little. ‘Why the Crow though, Zara? Why him? How could Jasmine do that?'

‘It's a lie,' I say. I tell him about her note. Her blind date.

‘I don't know,' he says, sadly.

‘Trust yourself then,' I say. ‘Trust her; you know her – do
you
think she'd do that?'

‘Maybe,' he says. ‘Take me home, Zara, I'll lean on you.'

Together we walk back down the street. Past the flower shop, past the chicken shop, past the graffiti, past the white vampire fangs, back to Curlston Heights, past the strange door entry, the number pad, up in the lift, into the flat. His mum's out. I take him to his room. I fetch him coffee. I bring him toast.