Fallen Angel - A Short Story Page 6

CHAPTER 1

  To an outsider, it would seem that the natural reaction of any self-respecting resident of Manhattan to a situation they find objectionable, is usually “fuck you.”

  This thought was uppermost in Pagan Freemantle’s mind as she sat wedged between a fat black man sweating in his ill-fitting suit and a dainty lady executive sporting sparkling white sneakers. She stared unseeingly at the armpit in front of her face, trying not to inhale, and thought savagely that, because someone had chosen not to pay attention to their personal grooming that morning, she was the one suffering the consequences. There was no point in saying anything though, because she knew what the come-back would be. She had already heard it twice on her journey home that evening, and she would no doubt hear it again if she complained to the people in the apartment above her about overfilling their bath so it leaked all over her stereo. And she would receive the same response from her landlord, when she pointed out that water dripping onto electrical items was somewhat hazardous. Although he would couch it slightly differently, more “sure I’ll fix it, if you let me fuck you.”

  Then over the weekend, she could guarantee that her brother would fling that terse response her way at least twice. Once would be when she pointed out it was his turn to buy food, and the next after he used up all the hot water before she had a chance to shower.

  Which made four guaranteed “fuck you's” coming her way over the next two days. Thank God It’s Friday? Fuck you to that.

  The subway train was full to bursting, with torturing bright lights that made her eyes ache. She thought longingly of the pasta left over from the night before, sitting in a bowl in the fridge. At least that was one decision she would not have to face when she got home.

  The first silver threads had started to appear in her dark red hair, glinting unashamedly under the harsh light of the subway. She wore it in a short, straight bob that swung with the motion of the swaying train. She ran her tongue over her full lips. They felt dry and cracked. The cruel New York winter always did that. Delving in her bag, trying not to elbow her fellow passengers, she found some honey flavoured balm and rubbed it on. No-one took any notice. The people she travelled with all had the same world-weary, blank look, their thoughts far away at home or back in the office, away from the stink of the subway.

  Three months before, she had been entrusted with the task of overseeing the installation of her company’s software for a major new client. It was a high profile project, one that boded well for her promotion that Fall, if she did not make any mistakes. So far the system had been in place for a week, with only minor hiccups, and she had come through the first two weeks of training intact. Unlike most of the occupants of the subway train, she loved her job. It was her home life that sucked.

  Her thoughts turned bleakly to her brother, barely two years younger than her but the way his life had turned out could not have been more different to hers. Ever since he had turned up at her door two years before, unemployed, homeless and disowned by their parents, he had been draining her finances. She had only recently found out about his coke habit and was tempted to throw him out, but there was no way she would cast her only surviving relative out on the street.

  Her assets did not amount to much and were dwindling by the day, but to Tony, they were poison destroying their relationship from within. He had never accepted that his hardship had been self-induced. The way he let money slip through his fingers like fine sand, the unshakeable belief that all his past privileges had been deserved and that his reckless life style was everyone else’s fault.

  Pushing Tony’s bitterness impatiently away, she thought instead of the house she had seen in New Jersey two weekends before. She had hired a disreputable-looking jalopy and headed out of the city, unable to stand Tony haranguing her any longer. Then it was a case of choosing an interstate and driving on it for a while. The day was characteristically beautiful, crisp and cold, with the intensely blue, cloudless skies she had never seen in England. Even after eight years, she still did not take them for granted.

  She had chosen I-78, and headed due west. It had not taken long for petrochemical plants and strip malls to give way to hills and forest, and on impulse, she had turned off the interstate and plunged into the countryside.

  And there she had fallen in love with a small blue Colonial house. It had white gables and woodwork, and a deck that wrapped around three sides, looking out onto an overgrown yard backing on to larch trees. The town was a Rockwell dream, every house decorated in soft colours and displaying seasonal flags. There was an old fashioned general store, a lumber store and a white wooden church with oversized spire. It was everything she wanted for her future, that and someone to share it with. Someone who was not her brother.

  More people jostled for space in the narrow compartment. It seemed forever before she could finally stand up to make her way to the door. Most of the men towered above her. A petite five foot four, she was dwarfed in a sea of professional overcoats as she struggled to the door, kneecapping a couple of them with her laptop case without apology.

  At last, the cold air hit her face like a welcome shower, and the smell of the subway through the air vents in the sidewalk drifted past her nose. She could be blindfolded and still know where she was. After so many years, Manhattan was now in her blood.

  Outside the subway station, she adjusted her headphones and found an old Simple Minds song to help her find her stride. Then she began walking rapidly down Canal Street, gracefully dodging human and inanimate obstacles on the way. Halfway down, it began to rain, spiteful, needle-sharp drops that stung her skin. She held her bag close to her chest and jogged into Mott Street, narrower, twisting and full of tiny, colourful shops selling Chinese groceries and souvenirs. By the time she arrived at the narrow alley where the entrance to her apartment was, she was soaked and shivering.

  Marooned in the no-mans-land between Little Italy and Chinatown, the street was quiet compared to the vivid bustling of Mott Street. Steel fire-escapes zigzagged the grimy buildings, hiding illegal immigrants sweating their guts to make garments for the wealthy. A tiny grocery store scratched a poor living. The street was used as a short cut between the busy main thoroughfares, which kept it living and breathing at the moment, but she knew the time was coming when she would have to move out, whether she wanted to or not. A white girl living in this area was something of a novelty, and she disliked the thought of drawing the notice of the increasing gangland influences moving in around them.

  So she did want out, with an ache that grew fiercer every day. She wanted the old blue house in Hunterdon County with its yard filled with fireflies and cardinal finches. Her country roots were calling her, not to the village where she had grown up, but to anywhere out of the stink and pollution of the city.

  Pushing past two young men jabbering loudly in Cantonese, she slid through the doorway next to the Pleasure Garden, a solitary pink palace of erotica displaying manikins dressed in clinging black PVC. Gaudy underwear for both sexes and a variety of hard-core items were scattered carelessly around them. Her landlord was a slimy individual who delighted in baiting her with lewd comments. She had to take it, just as he had to take half her pay check for the measly box she lived in.

  The two men stopped talking and stared blatantly at her chest as she passed. She ignored them, wearily accustomed to the silent attentions of the sloe-eyed strangers she shared her street with. Relentless bass reverberated from the apartment above as she reached her floor and as always there was the smell of stir-fry. The stark bulb lighting up the bare green walls gave her face a ghostly glow as she dealt with the triple locks on the door and shut herself into her own four walls. Flickering neon shone in through the one large window, slicing through the watery orange glow from the street lamp opposite.

  In the semi-dark, she grabbed a towel for her hair and went to the minute galley kitchen. In the fridge was three day old salad, a half-demolished pot of salsa and a jar of
pickles. The pasta was no longer there.

  ‘Thanks a lot, Tony,’ she muttered. It looked like a wilted lettuce and salsa supper for her as she could not face venturing back out into the cold right then. At least Tony had not touched the wine. She poured a glass by the light of the fridge and peered into the freezer section. It was empty except for a box of crumb-coated mozzarella sticks, Tony’s sole contribution to the week’s groceries. She grabbed them triumphantly and shoved them in the broiler oven.

  Kicking off her sneakers, she wandered over to the television and flipped it on before collapsing into the only chair in the room, a black leather La-Z-Boy. An old repeat of Jerry Springer’s show played whilst she waited for her supper to cook.

  The apartment was tiny and very tidy. It had to be with two of them living in it. A large double bed with a blue Matisse cover took up a whole lot of space. Since Tony’s unexpected arrival she had had to share it with him. It wasn’t an ideal situation. In fact, it was rapidly becoming intolerable.

  The only other piece of furniture was an IKEA shelving unit holding a collection of her DVD’s and CDS. The grimy grey walls were disguised by two movie posters, A Clockwork Orange on one, and King Of New York on another. They changed periodically, as the damp seeped through. It usually took about six months. Sooner in the winter.

  She ate Tony’s mozzarella sticks and began a bath. If she left it any later, Tony would arrive home and use up all the hot water again. The wine relaxed her enough that she was feeling quite mellow by the time she climbed out of the cooling water. Wearing just a ripped pair of 501's and a fresh white broderie Anglaise bra, she switched off the television, cutting off Springer’s odious guest in mid-profanity. Instead, she picked up her headphones, found her favourite song and tucked her iPod under her bra strap. She had long since given up keeping with the times as far as music was concerned, and the song was an old one by Blackstreet. She held the wine glass away from her body so she did not spill any and began to dance, accompanying Dr. Dre in her light, tuneful voice.

  Lost in the rhythm and with her eyes closed, she did not immediately notice the rude light filling the room. When her eyes opened, the curse on her lips died as she saw that her brother was not alone.