Angel on the Inside (5 page)

‘No, she hasn't,' I said snottily. ‘Though I haven't seen her since breakfast, so she might have. How's yourself, Doogie? Hard day at the office?'

He climbed the stairs carefully and sat down a couple of steps below me, proffering the bottle of Macallan.

‘I have curtailed my shift for the day,' he said haughtily, ‘due to an industrial accident. This evening's diners will simply have to get by on whatever scraps my understudies can gather together.'

‘Been cooking one of your specials again?'

‘Aye. American guy. Comes in with his missus, eyeballs the place and demands to meet the chef, so they wheel me out front of house. The Yank hears my accent and says “You're Scotch”, like I'd be fookin' surprised. Then he asks if I can do him a genuine Aberdeen Angus steak, a big, thick one just like him. An' I says ‘course I can and I can leave the horns on but would he like it the
real
Scottish way?'

‘Let me guess – that involves buying a whole bottle of single malt, right?'

‘Ab-so-fucking-lutely, which puts it on the wee-bit pricey side. But money's nay object to this chuckleheed, an' he puts doon his Gold Amex card and says to bring it on.'

‘And this would be a steak flamed in malt whisky, something like that?'

He wagged the bottle at me like an admonishing finger.

‘A steak
marinated
in malt whisky, broiled in malt whisky then served at the table
into
, and this is the clever bit, a plate of burning malt whisky. I think I'll call it Steak Sea of Fire when I get ma own restaurant.'

‘Check your insurance policy first,' I advised. ‘And to drink with it ...?'

‘Malt whisky,' we both said together.

‘But,' said Doogie, smiling, ‘the really clever bit was keeping his missus happy while he was tucking in.'

‘You got her drunk as well?'

‘Nay, no. She was on the mineral water. I intoxicated her simply with the force of ma personality, a free run at the sweet trolley and a few tales of the Highland Clearances and life back in Bonnie Scotland. Naturally, she was “Scotch-Irish”, so she lapped it up. Did you know there were more Caledonian societies in North Carolina than there are in Caledonia?'

He raised the arm holding the bottle to make his point and lost his grip on the stair carpet, bumping down three steps on his elbow but managing to keep the bottle upright.

‘So how was your day?' he asked from below, straining to crawl up until he was level with me, putting more effort into doing so than the average mountaineer topping out K2.

‘Been down the vet's. Somebody kicked the shit out of Springsteen.'

What little natural colour there was under the alcohol glow drained from his face.

‘Shite-on-a-fookin'-stick. Yer kidding me?'

‘No way, Braveheart. He's in the flat coming out from under the anaesthetic. I thought it safer to stay out here until he's regained his sunny disposition.'

Doogie shook his head slowly at the awfulness of the world and began to open the bottle of malt as I emptied my glass of wine.

‘What did you do with the body?'

‘I just told you. He's in the flat coming round.'

‘No,' he said seriously, ‘I meant the other feller.'

 

We were on the last of the whisky.

‘Oh, there will be pain, Doogie. When I find whoever did this, I can assure you there will be pain. Not the nice spanking sort of pain but the sharp metal objects inserted and then twisted sort of pain ...'

‘Save me a piece of the scumbag, though, won't you?'

‘I didn't know you cared,' I said, then added: ‘About Springsteen.'

‘Och, I dinna care aboot him personally.'

‘You just don't like cruelty to animals as a whole. Is that it?'

I suspected my words were slurring now, but I wasn't really listening.

‘Ahm a chef, yer bampot!' Doogie roared as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever said. ‘I kill and cook anything that moves. It's ma job.'

‘I've seen you deep-fry Mars bars in batter,' I said, because it seemed like an important debating point. ‘And Maltesers too. What harm did they ever do you?'

‘The skill is in knowing when to pick ‘em ... That point of pure ripeness. Actually, now you mention it, I'm trying out a new dessert at the moment. It's quick fried Mars bar ice-creams. That'll get the food critics sitting up and taking notice.'

‘You're not wrong there, Doogie. But I've had fried ice-cream ... in a Mexican restaurant.'

‘They've pinched ma idea already? Where was this?'

‘In Mexico.'

‘Oh.'

There was a lull in the conversation whilst I tried to remember what it was about.

‘So why are you so upset about Springsteen if you don't really like him?'

Doogie took a deep breath.

‘It's another legend broken on the wheel of bitter experience,' he said, shaking his head. ‘Who'd have thought that wee furry ball of malevolence would get bested in a scrap? It's the unthinkable, but it's happened. Another wee spark of magic has gone out of the world.'

‘Doogie, that's almost poetic.'

‘Aye, I think I'm getting to the poetic stage. Shall I get another bottle?'

‘I think you'd better, before I begin to believe that this new you really is you. If you see what I mean.'

‘Whisssht! Listen!'

He put a finger to his lips with a surprising degree of accuracy and we both bent our heads and stretched our necks to look along the landing towards the door of Flat 3. From inside, beyond the cat flap, came the sound of tearing cardboard. Then silence.

‘He's out!' I hissed, and instinctively we both lowered ourselves down the stairs in a reverse commando crawl until only our eyes were level with the landing.

It was at that point the front door opened and from below and behind us a voice growled: ‘Just what are you two playing at?'

‘Hello, Lisabeth,' I said, turning my head so I could flash my best smile at her. ‘Had a good day at the ... wherever?'

She was wearing a green short-sleeved sweatshirt and green knee-length canvas shorts with turn-ups and huge cargo pockets bulging with unidentifiable stuff, giving her thighs a stereo effect that would have had most women screaming for a long frock or liposuction. She had lime green socks and khaki desert boots on the ends of her thick ankles.

‘How yer doin' hen?' Doogie grinned inanely.

‘Well?'

Lisabeth put her hands on her hips – they didn't have far to travel – and stared us out. Obviously, those self-assertiveness classes were paying off.

‘We're caring for sick animals,' I said. ‘Ask Fenella if you don't believe us.'

‘I don't, but unfortunately Fenella always has,' she said testily as she clumped her way up the stairs to her flat door. ‘Are you two just going to lie there and make the place untidy all evening?'

As she put her key in the lock she turned her shoulder towards us and we both craned our necks to see what was printed on the back of her sweatshirt. It was a slogan in white saying: ‘AROMATHERAPY – THE FINAL FRONTIER.'

Doogie and I looked at each other and choked back the giggles.

‘I hope Miranda doesn't come home and catch you like that,' Lisabeth was saying, turning back to us. ‘You know how ‘Randa's always saying your behaviour has improved so much since Angel moved out ...'

‘She says
what?
' I mouthed at Doogie, who had the good grace to blush.

‘... and you hardly ever play music after midnight any more, not to mention ...'

She trailed off suddenly, her gaze fixed on something above us and to the right of the stairs.

Springsteen was emerging from the cat flap, fluffed-up tail and rear-end first, scrabbling against the door with his back legs so he could haul his plastered front leg over the lip of the flap. Slowly the injured leg appeared and he took a tentative step backwards and arched his back as if he could shake off the offending tube of plaster. Of course he couldn't, but he found he couldn't turn either – or some sixth sense told him he would overbalance if he did – so he continued backwards along the landing, the plastered leg held up and in front of him at an angle of 45 degrees.

Doogie and I cowered below the top step as he approached, the tail three times its normal size, swishing silently from side to side. When he was level with us he swivelled around and sat down within inches of our foreheads. Then he howled at each of us in turn, so close we could smell his breath and I knew he had found the tin of salmon I had made Fenella open for him.

Then it seemed he caught sight of Lisabth for the first time, and he fixed her with a stare and let out a long, low growl of pure menace.

‘You've trained him to do that!' squealed Lisabeth behind us, and then we heard her flat door slam.

Springsteen looked down imperiously, the plaster cast on his front leg still jutting up and out at 45 degrees.

‘
What?
' I said helplessly, shrugging my shoulders at Doogie.

He just started giggling and tried to stand up.

‘Look at him,' he spluttered, pointing at Springsteen. ‘He's giving her a
Sieg Heil
!'

Doogie flung his arm up in a return salute, slipped off the edge of the stair he was on and stumbled down three more before he grabbed the banister, collapsing against it in hysterics.

Springsteen held my gaze for a few seconds more, then lifted himself up and began to walk backwards on his three good legs until his arse hit the cat flap and he pulled himself through it with as much dignity as he good muster, the plastered paw being the last thing to disappear.

Only when the cat flap flapped behind him did I dare laugh.

 

Doogie said it would be fine to go to his flat for a while. It would give Springsteen time to settle down to having only three working legs, we could have a bite to eat and a drink or two and I could call a cab from there as I certainly wasn't driving mine home in my condition, was I? And no way would Miranda mind if she came home and found me there.
Me casa, su casa
... old and distinguished friend ... matter of life and death ... sick animals in crisis ... anyway, who wore the
troosers
in this flat?

‘Oh my God, what's he doing here?'

‘He's not stopping, luv, just a flying visit.'

Thanks, Doogie.

‘My but you're looking fit, Miranda. You've lost a bit of weight, haven't you? Don't you dare tell me you haven't. I notice these things,' I said, trying to rescue the situation.

‘You lookin' at my bird?' Doogie growled automatically.

‘You bet I am; every chance I get. She never gives me the time of day though.'

All this nonsense kept both of them happy, though in fact I was looking at Miranda as she smoothed her hands over her hips as if searching for the missing pounds I had implied she had lost. She was wearing what I suspected was her one and only two-piece suit, in a grey and charcoal check – which meant she had been somewhere official today – black patent low-heeled shoes and tan coloured tights. They weren't ripped, and when she kicked off her shoes in Doogie's general direction, I noticed she wasn't limping either.

‘So why are you home in time to cook dinner, then?' she asked Doogie as she collapsed into a creaking wicker armchair.

(Their taste in furniture was eclectic to say the least, and I suspected Doogie acquired a lot of their pieces from bankrupt restaurant sales.)

‘Actually, ma sweet, we've eaten, but I'll gladly whip something up for you.'

Doogie said all this whilst holding his breath so that the words came out roughly in the right order and the whisky fumes didn't strip the paint off the walls, and he exhaled slowly all the way to the kitchen. Miranda watched him go, her brown eyes no more than slits, then she turned to me with her head on one side.

‘And what
are
you doing here, Angel? Has Amy finally thrown you out?'

‘No she hasn't! Why does everyone assume that?'

‘Do they? That's interesting. Why do you suppose that is?'

‘Oh per-leese!' I said in a tone which meant she wouldn't argue as I helped myself to some more of Doogie's whisky. ‘Do you want to hear my story of how we had to rush Springsteen to Cat Casualty or not?'

By the time I had told her, Doogie had presented her with a glass of white wine and a perfect smoked salmon soufflé. She put the wine on the floor and balanced her plate on her knee, waiting regally for Doogie to give her a fork (which he polished with a white cloth) and to crack black pepper for her through a large wooden mill.