Angel

by Arty

Chapter 3

1997

The shouting and whistling from the builders was an almost constant backdrop to the journey to and from school. Most of the girls, who were the targets of the comments, professed to be upset by it, but I noticed as the days went on, that girls who received the least notice one day, were dressed far more provocatively the next. Once I realised this, it became a game for me to play, as I waited for my friends to join me: spot the girl who was ignored yesterday.

Today, it was one of Angela's friends, Sarah, who had felt the least appreciated and she had gone for the full mini-skirt and belly shirt look in an effort to ensure that she received her due measure of wolf-whistles. I decided to follow and see what happened.

As they approached, Sarah was spotted and the volume of the whistling increased tremendously. For some reason, this seemed to bother Angela, so she stopped to adjust her shoes and, surreptitiously, to roll the waistband of her skirt to raise the hemline a bit more. I noticed that she seemed to be surrounded by a glow as a shaft of sunlight illuminated her. I started to walk towards her, drawn by a feeling of dread.

"BELOW!" The sound of a workman screaming a warning penetrated the background noise of whistles and catcalls. I sprinted the few feet that separated me from Angela and pushed her out of the way of the scaffolding pole that was about to fall onto the pavement, inches from where she had been standing. The fact that I was now in almost the same position that Angel had been, meant that I was going to suffer almost the full effects of the falling pole. I watched with helpless horror as the pole fell towards me. It fell vertically and smashed into the pavement less than a foot from where I was standing, paralysed. The noise of the pole hitting the pavement was enormously loud at such close proximity. Chips from the paving stones flew up and lacerated my face, the pole fell sideways and crashed into my shoulder, numbing it in a way that boded no good when, eventually, the feeling returned.

Angela had fallen when I pushed her aside and scraped her knees. The shock of her fall was wearing off and she started to cry. Again. Her crying made her the centre of attention and soon she was surrounded by her friends and other shocked adults who had seen the pole fall. By then, I knew that Angela injured and me in the vicinity was not a good combination. I took my chance and I sidled sideways along the wall trying not to draw attention to myself. With luck I could be round the corner before someone remembered me and perhaps this time I wouldn't be the subject of Angela's mother's unwelcome attention. The last thing I needed was to raise my head above the parapet; unlike other folks I never seemed to get a second chance.

Someone whispered in my ear. "That's number eight." I turned to see Susan shielding me from the fracas surrounding Angela. "Shall we get you away from here before you get blamed for something?" I nodded my agreement and she put her arm around me and helped me to stumble away from the scene. The sounds of the crowd questioning each other about what had happened filtered through the growing ache in my shoulder.

"Saved her life, I reckon."

"Pushed her out of the way."

"Did you see?"

"No, just a blur, he was so quick."

"Is she all right?"

"Could have been a lot worse."

"Is he all right?"

"Who?"

"The lad that saved her."

"Must be, he's not here now. I wonder where he went?"

"This must be her mother."

The pain in my shoulder was getting much worse. The last thing I heard as I rounded the corner was the frantic tones of Angela's mother. "Who did this to you? As if I didn't know. Where is he?" The sound of approaching sirens spurred us to speed up and with Susan supporting me we walked as quickly as I was able towards the medical centre and some first aid.

Even though things were definitely bad, there were compensations; like being this close to Susan. She was gorgeous; trouble was while I lusted after her she still saw me as the little boy next door that she treated like a younger brother. I tried to take my mind off the growing pain in my shoulder by concentrating on the sensations of her proximity: the smell of her, fresh and slightly musky; the softness of her. I let the arm that I had around her waist drop slightly and revelled in the feel of my hand on her bottom. I could feel the muscles flexing there as she walked.

"Hey! Hands off!" She smiled at me to show me that she wasn't too serious. "Not too injured to cop a feel, eh?"

I blushed and said nothing, but she didn't move my hand. By now we'd reached the medical centre and since it was early we got seen straight away. By unspoken consent we told a story of a fall off a wall onto my shoulder. I explained the cuts by suggesting that there was some broken glass. The nurse who was strapping my shoulder didn't quite believe me, but in the end it didn't matter. However I received my injuries the treatment was the same.

We left the centre, walking slowly, the streets quiet now that the school rush was over. Had I not been so hurt, I probably could have sneaked in over the fence, but I knew that I was in no fit state to do so. I convinced Susan that I would be all right and made her leave me I felt bad enough as it was, getting her into trouble would just make me feel worse. And trouble was inevitable. I sighed and began to walk through the front door of the school. This wasn't allowed for pupils of my age, but then I was in trouble already and this wouldn't add much to the inevitable tirade…

Things were certainly going downhill.

Before, I'd been merely verbally harassed as result of one of these incidents, apart from the slap, but this time I'd been hurt; quite badly. My shoulder ached with the remembered pain of the pole landing on it. This was definitely no fun. Being in Susan's arms was some consolation, however. Not that my younger self was in any position to appreciate it. Perhaps being a passenger wasn't so bad after all! I luxuriated in the feel of her soft…

I was struck be the realisation that when Angela had bent down to fiddle with her shoes, a stray shaft of sunlight had illuminated her. She'd appeared to glow. I remembered that I'd noticed it the first time through too.

I decided that I'd had enough of these bubbles. Wasn't I ever going to get some sex? In the stories that I'd read, the protagonist got to indulge in great sex, his enthusiasm bolstered by adult technique and insight. All I ever seemed to get was the vicarious thrill of Susan's firm yet…

I berated myself for these thoughts. Pissing off the Almighty was not the way to go. Ah fuck it! I'd read Dante's Inferno and the Niven and Pournelle update of it. Even though my memories of the details of Hell's geography were a bit hazy, I knew the topography. If I ended up in Hell I was pretty sure I could navigate my way out of it. I'd have all eternity anyway. A memory of the final cantos filtered through to my consciousness and I laughed silently. 'When Hell freezes over', is a common expression, but according to Dante the centre of Hell is a frozen plain! Since Hell freezing over was supposed to be an uncommon occurrence then, maybe, me getting to re-live some other, more personally satisfying, experiences was more likely, now that I was conscious of the fact that Hell was already frozen. Then again what if Dante was wrong?

As this mish-mash of connected yet random thoughts whirled through my mind, I realised that many of them were bolstered by remembered facts that previously I doubted that I'd have been able to recall. Perhaps the shock of whatever had happened to me to put me in this place was wearing off. Even in my thoughts, I shied away from the bald idea of 'my death'. Anxious to derail this macabre train of thought I consciously switched to thinking of my sexual experiences. I was frustrated: I wanted to re-live some sex, perhaps if I prayed? Since I was praying for sex should I pray to God or the other guy? I remembered something that I'd read somewhere, by Heinlein, if I was not mistaken, a couple of characters were discussing the merits of which denomination of Padre was best. One had offered the opinion that what they needed was a 'good Satanist'. His argument was that since God was good, you were okay with him; it was the other guy that you needed to appease! Perhaps I should…

I had no more time to gather my thoughts; the next bubble was upon me…

1998

I could hear the raised voices, jeering and taunting, even before I turned the corner. I knew that the gang of bullies that hung around these parts had cornered themselves a victim. I wondered who it was this time. The sound of someone screaming in real pain made me break into a run and I sprinted towards the gang determined, this time, not to 'pass by on the other side' as I had done so often in these situations.

The gang surrounded Angela. She was being pushed randomly from person to person. Occasionally one of the girls in the gang would yank on her hair. She was crying, and holding her arm to her side, it looked terribly bruised and her nose was bleeding. I couldn't blame her for crying this time. I shouldered my way into the circle and she huddled herself into my chest.

The very unexpectedness of my actions kept me safe from immediate retribution from the gang. Capitalising on this, I decided that I could try and bluster our way out of this. Or at least delay things until someone else came past and either interfered or called for help. At the very least, I could probably expect Angela's mother to appear, she usually did. She seemed to have an unerring instinct for the times when she and I were together. I gathered my courage and shouted at them.

"Fuck off and leave her alone, you wankers!"

"How you gonna make us then?"

I stared at the speaker: a tall podgy girl. She had a reputation as a real hard case. But then so had I, and I knew how little such reputations actually meant. Still, there were seven or eight of them, and I resigned myself to a beating of some sort. I just hoped that Angela would have the presence of mind to run when I told her to.

"Why should I?"

She was nonplussed. This was not how these conversations were supposed to go. She threatened, the victim pleaded, and then someone got hurt: simple, predictable, and safe. They were in an ugly mood, their last victim had been hospitalised, everyone knew who was responsible, but proving it in court was another matter. I waited, silent, not wanting to give them any excuse to start.

"Let's do 'em both!" This came from a little weasel of a kid who suffered from a seriously bad case of acne. I could hear sounds of agreement from the rest of them. The tall girl still looked uncertain. I'm not sure how long this strange tableau would have lasted, but I never got the chance to find out. A familiar cry of outrage reached my ears. This time I was almost glad.

"Leave her alone!"

Angela's mother pulled her from my arms. She glared with withering scorn at the group and, I realised with resignation, she was including me. "Oh what big heroes you all are. It only takes nine of you to make a little girl cry." Then she wound back her hand and slapped me across the face. "I told you what would happen last time." And then she stalked off, as she left I could hear Angela saying, "But mum, he didn't…" I never found out what I didn't do, as with the inevitability of an avalanche, the gang turned on me.

Early on in the beating I'd been tripped and this meant that they could protect their hands by using their feet. I curled up as much as I could but I could escape all of the kicks to my face. Suddenly it stopped and I heard running feet.

"Oh Mark, what have they done to you?"

It was Susan. She'd heard Angela's mother telling my mother how she'd saved her daughter from my gang, and me, and it was only a matter of time before I was caught and put in gaol where I belonged. Susan had guessed the truth and collected a group of friends to go looking for me. She'd been worried for my safety and she'd been correct.

"Is Angela all right?"

"Did you hear that, you lot?" I looked up to see Susan kneeling next to me, her eyes bright with tears. "Next time someone tells you about how Mark Connors is a thug, remember how the first thing he asked, after a terrible beating, is 'is Angela all right?'"

"You're wasting your time." I tried to get to my feet and I cried out as the pain from one or more cracked ribs assaulted my senses and made my vision swim. "I think I need to get to casualty."

By now our little group was the centre of a small crowd. The arrival of the strangers changed the mood as the identity of the victim filtered out. I could hear murmurings:

"Serves him right."

"'Bout time he got a taste of his own medicine."

A policeman stopped to see what all the fuss was about. The crowd were moved on and he called an ambulance. Susan tried to tell him what had happened, but since she wasn't a witness and I wasn't saying anything, there wasn't much he could do.

Several hours later, the same policeman was back at my bedside saying that he'd received an official complaint from Angela's mother. He asked me if there was anything that I wished to say. He cautioned me, it wasn't necessary I was too tired to talk and I fell asleep as he was speaking.

I woke to see my mother sitting by the bed. She smiled at me.

"I'm sorry mum."

"I'll ask this just the once and then I'll never ask you again: did you do what she says you did?"

"No."

"Well that's OK then."

I nodded and drifted off once more. When I woke again, the policeman was back.

"Hello Mark."

I grunted in reply.

"You're a very lucky boy." I didn't feel lucky but I just stared at him, "the CPS say there isn't enough evidence to proceed, so the case is being dropped." He abandoned his official manner and grinned at me. "Someone took some pictures of you before you were treated, the defence would have had a field day, you were obviously a victim too. What have you done to make the girl's mother hate you so much?"

I shrugged, I couldn't say for certain and I didn't feel like talking anyway. The policeman patted me on the shoulder and left. I felt myself drifting off again…

The blackness returned like a welcome friend. These episodes in the bubbles were getting more realistic; I seemed to ache all over and the shock of pain, as each booted foot connected with me, was fresh in my memory. This dual consciousness lark was murder. I could hear, see and feel everything that went on; I even knew what the younger me was thinking. However I was helpless to change anything, I was a spectator; I was getting all of the disadvantages of a replay with none of the benefits. What was the point of it all?

As the memory of the kicks and punches faded slowly, I realised that the blackness was definitely greyer. And there were other sensations too. My nose itched, but I couldn't scratch it. I thought about the scene again, why did Angela's mother always make me the villain of the piece? What had I done to make her hate me so much?

My nose still itched.

I remembered being cradled by Susan as we waited for the ambulance. Her breasts were definitely heavenly. What wouldn't I have given for a chance to take a nipple in my mouth? Definitely worth a few cracked ribs!

The itching faded. I tried to imagine what she would have looked like without clothes, but all I could conjure up was a vision of a much younger girl. I realised with a shock that it was Angela. And then unbidden I remembered that she'd been playing alone in her garden. She wanted to play families. I could be her daddy and it was time for her to have her bath and go to bed. She was only three. Before I could stop her she'd stripped off her clothes and pretended to be sitting in a bath. I was embarrassed and, even though I was only six or so, I knew if her mother caught us, there would be hell to pay.

And then it had happened. My worst nightmare was nothing compared to this.

"What do you think you're doing, you little pervert?"

My protests had fallen upon deaf ears.

"Leave her alone. If I catch you near her again, I'll… I'll…" He threats degenerated into incoherency. All the more frightening for a six year-old, I'd never seen anyone so angry before. I'd been terrified by the unspoken nature of the threats and done my very best to forget that this had ever happened.

I'd been successful.

Now somehow the memory was jogged loose and the warmth of discovery had robbed it of its potency. I knew why Angela's mother hated me. Before I had a chance to investigate the ramifications of this the next pearlescent bubble was looming in front of me. Was this going to be another Angela episode, or would it be something different? The half-formed prayer for some sex was interrupted as the skin of the bubble slid past me and the sights and sounds of screaming schoolkids overwhelmed me.

-Continued-

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