Katriona works as a copywriter for the tech sector. Her poetry and prose have been published in literary magazines, including Magma, Butcher’s Dog, Under the Radar and Reflex Fiction. She’s currently working on her debut novel.
Email: katriona@scoffin.com
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An unlikely name for an angel
Friday night is accountability night. 7pm sharp. No apologies. No excuses.
Clive arrives at 6.30pm and knocks on the green front door.
The room’s large and warm with a polished wooden floor and smooth walls the colour of putty. The light is low and has the texture of candles. There are five people already there, sitting on the floor. The glow of the room is reflected on their faces and arms. Everyone’s dressed the same. No-one looks up.
Clive goes through to the side room, gets changed into loose linen trousers and a white t-shirt. When he goes back in there’s a ripple of acknowledgement, a brief meeting of eyes. He returns each greeting with a nod and takes a place on the floor.
More people arrive. They scurry past in work clothes – suits, jeans, overalls – disappear into the side room, and come back transformed in white. He acknowledges each one. He’s acknowledged wordlessly in return.
A gentle click signals that the door’s been shut. The light dims. He lets his limbs settle further into the floor. His breathing deepens. Time disappears.
Later, a man speaks. ‘Stay as you are.’
When Clive first arrived in London he’d been a mess by anyone’s standards. Three years out of the army and he hadn’t found a job he could hold down for more than a few months. He wasn’t afraid of work. And he was smarter and more savvy than most of the jumped-up 26 year old pricks he reported to. But the boredom got him every time.
He’d done his research before he left, mined his contacts, all that crap. A mate from Helmand had a company in Portsmouth that handled defence contracts. They wanted someone to manage their installation team. The work was high-pressure and slightly dangerous. Clive almost managed to get excited. Four months in he was bored out of his skull. He told his mate he couldn’t hack it and took off.
His next gig was in Poland training close protection guys how to shoot. A lot of the blokes were like him – ex-service, looking for a civvy role they could live in. He stayed in a dorm block with a dozen others, half of them divorced, crumpled photos of cute kids blu-tacked to the walls by their beds. The banter was good but staying in one place got to him. He looked for action in the local town and found it with the chief instructor’s daughter. He had to leave fast after that.
He drifted back to London, found work in a kitchen, dossed on a sofa at a mate’s house in Peckham, stayed up drinking all hours. Until his mate got a girlfriend who wanted to move in, and he had to get out. The thing was, kitchen prep didn’t pay enough to live on in London.
He ended up in doorways. Thank God it was still summer. He held it together for about a week, but with nowhere to wash and not much sleep, the chefs were soon on his case. He lost his job, begged, got mugged, spent the days asleep and the nights out of his head.
One morning in late September a luminous soul stood over him, white hair ruffled round his face and shoulders, sun shining through it like a halo. ‘Come on,’ said the angel. ‘On your feet.’
Clive stared, sure he was hallucinating, then thought he might as well go with it. He pushed himself to his feet, looked for his stuff, discovered it’d gone, swore and stood in front of the angel, squinting. ‘Who are you?’
‘Someone who can help.’
He sighed and steeled himself for a lecture about salvation. He figured it was worth it for a shower and a meal. ‘OK. Lead the way.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked the figure.
‘Clive.’
‘I’m Brendan.’
It seemed an unlikely name for an angel, but what did Clive know?
For the first few steps his feet wouldn’t obey him. Brendan put out an arm to help, but Clive shook him off.
‘Don’t touch me.’ He said it loud enough for a couple of passers-by to stare.
Brendan nodded and walked down the street, matching his pace to Clive’s stagger.
After a couple of minutes it was good to be moving. Warmth reached his fingers and toes. His mouth was sticky as hell. They passed a Starbucks.
‘Any chance of a cup of tea, mate?’ He fished in his pocket for some change. Nothing. And he could have sworn he’d saved a smoke for the morning. ‘How about a cigarette?’
‘Don’t worry. We’re almost there.’
‘Where exactly are we going?’ Clive stopped dead. ‘I’m not going to suck your cock.’
Brendan laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not after a blow job. Or your arse.’
‘Just my soul then?’
‘We’ll see about that.’
They arrived at a green front door halfway down a line of terraced brick houses.
‘Here we are,’ said Brendan.
Clive had expected a hall, something more institutional. ‘What’s this?’
‘My house. Do you want a cup of tea?’ Brendan went inside and left the front door open.
Clive hesitated. What the hell, he decided.
The door opened straight into a large room. It looked like several rooms had been knocked together. Something like a hall after all, but warmer, more personal.
He followed Brendan to the kitchen at the back of the house. Large windows let in plenty of light. The pine table and cabinets were scuffed but clean and there were plants on the windowsill. A shelf held rows of books; lots of them had ‘Vegetarian’ in the title.
‘Sit yourself down,’ said Brendan.
Clive pulled out a chair. Above the table there was a large, colourful painting of a bald man with a small moustache wearing round, steel-rimmed glasses. The left side of the painting was full of bright oranges and yellows, the top right was red and pink and the bottom right was green. The colours were all wrong but they worked together. The man in the painting was looking down and smiling. The more Clive stared the more he was pulled in.
‘Milk? Sugar?’ Brendan’s voice startled him.
‘Both please.’
‘Whisky?’
‘What?’
Brendan was holding a bottle of Scotch. ‘In your tea or on the side?’
Clive laughed. ‘You’ve got me. In the tea, please.’
He told Brendan his story. Nothing dramatic. Joined up at 18, out at 40. Tours in Germany, Afghanistan, Somalia to name a few. Hadn’t been blown up, didn’t have PTSD. Just a ringing in his ears and a strong urge to duck whenever a siren went by.
‘You know there’s thousands of vets on the streets?’ said Brendan.
‘I’ve got a few mates who are in trouble alright, but still – ,’ he trailed off and looked into the garden.
‘I’ve got a group. For people like you. Ex-service. Ex-drinkers. It’s not easy, but it helps.’
‘Ex-drinkers?’ He emphasised the ex.
‘That’s where you end up.’ Brendan took the empty mugs over to the sink. ‘You’ve got to be ready though.’
‘Ready for what?’
‘To do the work. On yourself. It’s not easy.’
Clive stayed at Brendan’s until February. He stopped drinking, got a job as a banksman on a building site and moved out to a hostel. Most people there kept themselves to themselves and that suited him fine.
One night he woke up, pulled on a t-shirt and went for a piss. The tiled floor was hard and cold on his bare feet. He paused as he came out of the bathroom. He could smell burning. He turned his head left and right, sniffing and checking for smoke. His nose led him to a scuffed plywood door halfway down the corridor.
He hammered with his palm. No reply. He turned the handle, put his shoulder to the door but it wasn’t locked and it gave way easily.
A fug of matted warmth reached out to him. Hazy streetlight coming through the thin curtains revealed a bed, chest of drawers, desk and chair, and lumpen piles all over the floor. Smoke hung in the air but there were no flames. On the far wall, four ranks of tiny orange rectangles glowed from an old-fashioned gas heater. He felt for the light switch.
A bare bulb threw a flat white light over the small room. Every surface was covered with jumbled objects. The desk was hidden under piles of magazines, glasses and packet after empty packet of crisps. The floor was piled with clothes.
He pulled his t-shirt up over his mouth and nose and went to open the window, hoping there wasn’t anything sharp on the floor. Sweat prickled his back and neck.
He spotted a mustard yellow blanket poking through the chrome grille of the heater, emitting a spiral of smoke. He snatched it away, wrapped the smouldering corner in the rest of the blanket and bundled it out the window.
‘What the bleeding hell do you think you’re doing?’ A short woman with spiky blonde hair was standing in the doorway. ‘Get the fuck out of my room.’
He ignored her, turned the heater off and checked that nothing else was burning.
‘What’s going on?’ Her tone was less certain. ‘What’s all this smoke?’ She picked her way across the room, wavering as she went. She reached the bed and crawled along it. ‘Did I leave the fire on again?’
He stood with his back to the window. ‘You’re lucky I came by.’
‘Oh shit. I’m going to get chucked out.’ She held her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly round them.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Not the first time?’
She shook her head.
‘I’m Clive.’
‘Suzy. Thanks, I guess.’
A dark-haired man appeared at the door. ‘Keep the noise down. Some of us have got work in the morning.’
A woman joined him. ‘Not again, Suzy. It’s a fucking health hazard this place.’
‘Fuck off out of my room,’ said Suzy.
He saw her again on Monday morning when he was leaving for work. She was sitting on the brick wall outside the hostel, a backpack and a cardboard box at her feet.
‘Clive!’ she called out. ‘Over here.’ She’d done her lipstick and was fizzing with energy. ‘Nearly didn’t recognise you with your trousers on.’
‘Off on your holidays, are you?’ he nodded at her bags.
‘I’ve been kicked out.’
He was surprised by the shot of concern that grabbed his chest. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Friend’s house. Till she kicks me out too.’
His bus was coming down the street but he let it go. There’d be another one in five minutes. ‘Where’s all your stuff?’
‘Hello?’ She pointed at the backpack and the box.
‘There was a lot more in your room the other night.’
‘I chucked it. No point carting all that crap around.’
He nodded. ‘You know you need help?’
‘Oh yeah. And you’re the man to give it to me?’ She looked up at him, half flirting, half defensive.
He grinned. ‘Maybe.’
She fished in the rucksack and found a pen. ‘Here’s my number.’ She wrote on his arm. ‘Give me a call. We’ll go out sometime.’
He gave her a wink and went to catch his bus.
The rest of the day she kept walking into his thoughts. At the hostel after work he asked the other guys about her.
‘Don’t even think about it, mate,’ came the reply. ‘That woman is trouble, full stop.’
He called her anyhow. She could do with someone to look out for her.
It’s Friday evening and Clive is lying down in the large room, dressed in white. A reddening tinge reaches through his closed eyelids as the lights get brighter.
A voice speaks. ‘Come into the circle.’
He opens his eyes and sits up. There are about twenty people there, all ages, all sizes. He knows them all.
‘Friends,’ says Brendan, ‘a moment of pain and a moment of joy.’ His white hair is as unruly as ever.
One by one, each person speaks.
‘I started thinking about the future. It did my head in.’ Les was a Tankie. He’d been half dead from frostbite when Brendan scraped him off the streets. ‘A mate of mine’s dog’s having puppies. I’m going to take one.’
‘A friend of mine’s got cancer.’ Amy had been bomb squad. Got hit by an IED four years ago, medically discharged two years later. Six boxes of belongings and nowhere to take them. ‘Yesterday my boss said he wanted me to stay on.’
‘Three nights with no sleep this week. Shakes and flashbacks.’ Steve was Fusiliers. When the PTSD got too much he’d call Clive up at 3am. ‘I got a message from my ex saying she’s ready to talk about me seeing the kids.’
It’s Clive’s turn. ‘I met someone who reminded me how I used to be. She got chucked out of my hostel. It felt bad.’ Nods came from around the group. ‘It reminded me how far I’d come.’
After the meeting Clive finds Brendan. ‘That woman, Suzy. Can she come to the house?’
Brendan nods. ‘Bring her on Monday and we’ll see.’
Outside, Clive calls Suzy. ‘It’s alright,’ he says. ‘We can help you.’
‘I’m still not sure.’
‘You can come on Monday morning.’
‘OK, text me the address. I’ll find some old pervert I can doss down with for the weekend.’
‘I thought you were staying with your mate?’
‘She’s going away. Doesn’t trust me to stay on my own.’ She barks a short laugh. ‘Don’t worry – one hour in a pub, I’ll find someone.’
‘Don’t do that.’ The words come out like a reflex. ‘We’ll spend the weekend together.’ He pauses to think through the options. Not the hostel. Not his London mates. ‘How about we go to Brighton, get away from it all?’
‘Brighton? I don’t know.’
‘It’ll be great. I’ve got a mate there we can stay with. Can you get yourself to Victoria Station?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Come as soon as you can. I’ll be waiting for you.’
At 10 o’clock he spots Suzy looking twitchy outside WHSmith’s.
She flies over, backpack swaying behind her. ‘I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, waiting for you in a cold station on a Friday night.’
‘Come on, I’ve got the tickets.’
On the train she fishes two cans out of her bag. ‘Here we go.’
‘Not for me.’
‘Don’t be a spoilsport.’ She opens them both. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers.’ He clinks his can against hers but he doesn’t drink.
‘You can’t do that – it’s bad luck if you don’t drink.’
‘Believe me, it’d be worse luck if I did.’ He takes a sip to please her.
At Brighton the station hall is draughty but the air feels alive. He hears the sea in the crying of the gulls.
‘Which way’s the house?’ she asks.
He checks his phone and points east.
‘And where’s the sea?’
‘Downhill.’
‘Let’s go.’
He strides after her.
The wind gets stronger near the front and the sea smells open and clean. Like it knows and understands everything and doesn’t even care. Someone once told Clive, whatever you’ve done, the sea’s done worse. He wants to tell Suzy, but they’re already at the shingle. She puts her backpack down and runs around, whooping like a kid. She can’t go fast, the stones keep sliding under her feet, skidding down towards the water. The waves crash the whole time, black and churning. Washing the land again and again. If it’d been a bit warmer he reckoned she’d have stripped off and run right in.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ he calls.
She runs back to him and her face glows in the streetlights from the prom. He catches her in his arms and circles her round, nearly losing his footing on the stones. She shrieks and he wraps her in his arms, reaching right round her, gripping his own arms on the other side. She feels small then, something he can hold completely and protect. He’s uphill of her on the sloping beach and his chin rests on the top of her head.
Neil is dozy with sleep when he opens the door. ‘Come in. I’ll put the kettle on. Help yourself to whatever you want in the kitchen.’
He shows them the room. ‘Sorry it’s only a single.’
‘No problem, mate. Thanks.’
‘Catch up tomorrow, OK?’
Clive and Suzy make tea and carry it upstairs.
‘You take the bed. I’ve got a sleeping bag.’ He puts the lights out.
A few minutes later, her voice calls in the darkness. ‘Hey soldier?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Come up here, would you? I’m cold.’
‘Yes ma’am.’
In the morning he finds the shower. He’s grateful for its heat, its cleanliness. He gets dressed, finds a spot by a window downstairs and closes his eyes. He concentrates on his breath.
He hears someone come in.
‘What you doing?’ She sounds wary.
He hears her sit down. He takes two more breaths then opens his eyes.
‘Meditating.’
‘Why?’
‘It helps.’
‘Are you religious?’
‘No. It’s not religion.’
‘Hm.’ She goes into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. ‘Just cos I’ve slept with you it doesn’t mean you can convert me.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘I mean it. Don’t try recruiting me. I’ve had enough groupthink to last a lifetime.’
They spend the day wandering round Brighton, walking by the sea until their ears ache from the wind.
In the evening Neil goes to work and Clive and Suzy go to the pub.
Before he can order, Suzy says, ‘Are you really going to let me drink on my own?’
‘Course not. I’m right here with you.’
She looks up at him, serious now. ‘Really?’
He puts his arm round her. ‘Tell you what, I’ll join you for the first one. But only one. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
He carries the pints to a table. ‘Cheers.’
She sips her beer. ‘So what shall we do?’
‘Anything you like.’
‘Do you play pool?’
‘Do I?’
She smiles. ‘Good. And afterwards, we’ll go clubbing.’
‘You’re on.’
Three hours later Clive’s working his way through a crowd of people to get to the bar in Club Marbella. Before he gets served Suzy re-appears at his elbow, holding two glasses triumphant. The colour of the drink changes with each pulse of the music and the dark blue mass of people around them flashes magenta, green and red with the beat.
‘How did you manage that?’ he shouts.
‘Come on, let’s dance.’ She drags him through the crowd to the dance floor.
He necks the drink and finds a ledge to leave the glass on. The music gets louder and he stops thinking. The bass thrums through him, vibrating through his ribs and skull. He gives up his body to the sound.
After a while he gets thirsty. He looks round for Suzy. He can’t see her, but it’s so packed she could be two feet away and he wouldn’t know. He works his way off the dancefloor, parting the bodies, moving in time to the beat.
He goes up to the gallery to see if he can spot her, but the people below are packed so tightly they look like a human sea, undulating and swaying like one giant organism, music stitching them into a net of belonging. He leans on the railing, staring down, feeling like he’s about to fall. Nausea rises in his stomach and he pushes himself back from the edge. He finds the toilets and pushes his fingers down his throat until he pukes.
He checks his phone. There’s a message from Suzy from half an hour ago.
‘There’s a party. I’ll send the address.’
‘Where are you?’ he texts back.
He waits but there’s no reply.
‘Stay where you are, I’ll find you,’ he sends.
He searches the club. People start to leave and he keeps looking. When he’s sure she’s not there he walks the streets of Brighton, scanning the faces of the late-night crowds and stragglers. Nothing. He goes back to Neil’s. She’s not there. He goes out again, peers into doorways, checks his phone every few minutes. Eventually he stops in one of the doorways and falls asleep.
He wakes with a pain in his shoulder. His face is squashed against something hard and cold. He opens his eyes a crack. There’s daylight and a sour taste in his mouth.
He unpeels his cheek from the shop window, shakes himself and gets to his feet. Brighton, he remembers. And Suzy. Fuck, Suzy.
His head is pounding. How could he have been so stupid? His anger makes the headache worse. He checks his pockets. At least he’s still got his wallet and his phone. 23 calls she didn’t answer last night. He tries again. No answer.
He looks up and down the street. Recognising nothing, he turns his feet downhill and walks towards the sea.
He finds his way back to Neil’s. She’s not there. He waits all day.
Neil brings him coffee. ‘Go back to London. Don’t lose your job.’
‘I can’t leave her behind.’
‘You’re not. If she comes back, I’ll be here.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
Neil hesitates. ‘You know she’s probably with some guy somewhere.’
He winces. ‘I know.’
At work, two days later, he sees a missed call from a number he doesn’t know. He ignores it. They call back while he’s on his lunchbreak.
‘This is Detective Constable Blackmore. Your number was found on a phone we retrieved from a crime scene.’
‘Is this to do with Suzy? Is she OK?’ His voice is tight.
‘I’m sorry to say that the body of a female in her thirties was found this morning. We have a few questions regarding identification.’
The conversation fades in and out in his head. ‘I was with her at the weekend.’ He tells them what he knows, but it doesn’t seem like much. He gives the name of the hostel. ‘Do you -’ his throat is dry. He tries again. ‘Do you need me to come to Brighton?’
‘Not for now. You’ve been very helpful, thank you. We’ll call again if we have any more questions.’
He leaves work and walks. He walks for miles until he reaches Brendan’s front door.
‘I left her behind,’ says Clive.
‘Come inside.’ Brendan leads him to the kitchen.
Clive sits down at the table. ‘If I hadn’t lost her she’d still be alive.’
Brendan puts a mug of tea in front of him.
He fixes his eyes on it. ‘If I hadn’t had a drink she’d still be alive.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘If I hadn’t taken her to Brighton she’d still be alive.’
Brendan sighs. ‘My son died on a London street. She died on a Brighton street.’
Clive digests this. ‘I thought I could help her.’
‘You wanted to save her.’
‘What’s wrong with that? You saved me.’
Brendan shakes his head.
‘I’d be dead without you. So would half the guys in the group.’
‘You saved yourself. So did the others.’
Clive looks out the window. ‘I wanted to help her.’
‘You showed her a way. She didn’t take it. She chose her own way.’
Next Friday Clive knocks on the green front door at 6.30pm. He gets changed and sits on the polished floor. He nods to each new arrival. The lights dim. He closes his eyes. Suzy’s hair dances in front of him, the colour of candlelight.
Sometime later Brendan’s voice fills the room. ‘Breathe in.’
He breathes in.
‘Breathe out to let go.’