Dirty Angel-BarbaraElsborg (6 page)

He passed his GCSE exams, doing better than anyone predicted because he’d had a point to prove. Little motivated Aden more than being told he couldn’t do something, but he refused to consider further education. He didn’t know what he wanted to be, but he was determined to earn a living as soon as he could and not by stealing because the older he got, doing that on a regular basis was too risky.

But sometimes—okay often—things that didn’t belong to him just fell into his lap.

His first job was sweeping up in a garage and valeting cars, and after he’d shown interest and some aptitude, they’d trained him as a mechanic. When the guy who owned the place retired and sold the premises for redevelopment, Aden found himself out of work. Since then he’d done anything he could find, washing cars alongside guys who didn’t speak English, bar work, living pay check to pay check, or for cash in hand. Stealing when he needed to. Even if he’d been able to access his bank account, there was virtually nothing in it.

He’d be back in that weird fog heading for fire in a month if he didn’t come up with a legitimate way to get food and a roof over his head. The easy thing to do was shoplift, steal a wallet or purse, even a car but none of that was likely to impress Raphael. With no money, finding shelter would be tricky unless some guy took pity on him. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d fucked someone to get a bed to sleep in, but…
Bloody Raphael.
Aden thought about borrowing a phone, calling a friend, but he hadn’t forgotten what had been said. He wasn’t going to break the rules on the first day.

Inside the station, he leaned against the wall out of view of the security camera. At least he could stay dry for a while. He stood next to a container stacked with Evening Standards and when he took in the headline, he picked one up.
Woman pulled from wreckage of Octoplex.
That was the venue of the gig he’d attended.

Aden read the story. Terrorists had infiltrated the concert two days ago, shooting people in the audience, killing members of the band he’d gone to see. Eighty people were injured and twenty-seven had died.

Including me.

He found himself breathing too quickly and let out a shuddering exhale. How had he died? Shot? Crushed in a stampede? Had something he’d done that night encouraged Raphael to give him this chance? Aden couldn’t imagine himself doing anything other than rushing to escape. A sudden image of a small room crammed with people flashed into his head, but vanished just as quickly.

Time to consider his options. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep in the station. He’d get thrown out. Even if there was a hostel nearby, he knew from experience they wouldn’t give him a bed without him showing identification and he had none. He could break into someone’s house or garage or shed.
Go directly to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred pounds.
Or he could beg
.
He probably wouldn’t collect enough to fund a bed for the night, but at the moment he’d settle for enough to get something to eat. His stomach growled in agreement. Maybe he should look for a church, tell a priest the truth and cadge a meal before he was labelled crazy.

“Excuse me.” Aden addressed a woman in her thirties and she didn’t even acknowledge he’d spoken.

Maybe she hadn’t heard him.
Yeah, right.
Of the next ten people he approached, only six paused long enough to listen. When he asked if they could spare him some change, they all said no and walked away. Aden would have done the same. He
had
done the same. He never gave money to beggars or buskers. He’d never even bought a copy of the Big Issue because he hadn’t cared. No point saying he did now. He couldn’t change his attitude overnight. Though he wished he’d at least listened when he’d been approached, not acted as if he was better than the person asking for money.

He thought about inventing some hard luck story. He’d had his wallet stolen. Which was true. He needed money to buy a ticket home. Which was not true. Lying was against the rules. He let out a choked laugh. Telling the truth, even though that was against the rules too—that he was being given a second chance by an angel, but there was a demon waiting for him to fuck up—wouldn’t convince anyone, even a shrink.

Steal what you need. Just enough to get a meal, a bed for the night. It won’t matter. Not this once.

Aden frowned. He wasn’t sure if they were his thoughts or Dante whispering in his head. He turned toward the exit and looked through the glass doors at the rain pouring down—bucketing down. It wouldn’t be hard to find a crowded pub, lift a wallet from a pocket.
Christ. I’m not going to fail the first fucking day.

A woman hurried in out of the rain tugging a kid by the hand. Aden didn’t bother asking her for money. She was too hassled. She bought a ticket from the machine and headed for the platform. When she’d gone, Aden noticed she’d dropped her purse. He picked it up and glanced around. There was no one watching. Even the CCTV camera was pointing the other way. Then he imagined Dante’s smirking face and groaned. He hurried down the ramp and over to where the woman was waiting.

“You dropped this.”

“Oh my God. Thank you so much.”

His reward was a big smile and he had to be satisfied with that. Aden headed back up the stairs. He didn’t feel a better person, more a stupid one,
and
he was just as hungry. Part of the problem was that he didn’t look as though he was in desperate need. He was wearing expensive clothes, and judging by the light stubble on his chin, he didn’t even need a shave.

He walked out into the rain and cast a longing look at people hurrying past with bags of groceries. Maybe there was a dumpster at the rear of the store where they threw away damaged or out of date food. Maybe if he just asked. His heart clenched at the thought. He was too proud. Looking after himself and being beholden to no one had been his dream from when he was a kid. And yes, he knew stealing wasn’t something to be proud of, but he’d never taken more than he needed. Well, not often.

Aden leaned against the wall next to the supermarket and started to sing. Tentative and quiet at first, then louder. He held out his hand, tipped his face to the rain and went through two James Morrison songs without anyone giving him anything except dirty looks. Resentment bubbled inside him. All these people had warm homes to go to, food in the fridge, comfortable beds. He only wanted a few quid to buy something to eat.

Before he could talk himself out it, he walked into the store and went up to one of the sales assistants.

“Could I speak to the manager, please?”

The young woman nodded. “What name shall I give him?”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Aden shuffled his feet as he waited, spreading the small puddle developing under his boots. When he saw the guy heading his way, he almost bolted in the other direction, but instead he curled his toes and took a deep breath.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“I hope so. I have no money. No home. No job. Unless you could give me one?” When he saw the guy about to say no, he rushed on. “I wondered if there were any sandwiches you were intending to throw away that you could toss my way instead. Please.” He’d almost choked on the final word.

The guy stared at him for a long moment, then said, “Wait here.”

Aden wondered if he’d gone to get a couple of guys to move him on or to call the police. When he came back with a carrier bag and a cup of coffee, and handed them over, Aden was shocked speechless.

“No job, sorry. There’s a Citizen’s Advice Bureau on Harestone Valley Road. They might be able to find you somewhere to stay.”

“Thank you,” Aden whispered.

He left the store and found a doorway of a closed shop to stand in out of the driving rain. He sipped the coffee and looked in the bag. Cheese sandwiches, an apple and a pack of sausage rolls. None were past their sell-by dates. He wolfed the sandwiches, ripped open the packet of sausage rolls and was about to take a bite of one when he felt something brush against his leg. He looked down at a small black and white dog staring up at him. No lead attached to the collar. No owner in sight.

Aden crouched. “You hungrier than me? I think you are.”

He pulled the meat out of the pastry. One gulp and it had gone. Then the pastry went too before Aden could pull it back.

“Are you supposed to eat that?”

The dog was already snuffling in the bag for more. Aden gave him another and started to eat the last one himself. He managed a single bite before the dog began to whine. Aden groaned.

“For fuck… Fine.” Aden took a last bite and dropped the rest. The dog snatched it out of the air before running off. A few yards down the road, he jumped up at a woman who clipped on his lead and stroked his head.

Aden smiled. He was glad the dog had someone who cared for him, even if he was a little charlatan. After he’d finished the coffee, he put his hands in his coat pockets to keep them warm. When he touched the feathers, he stopped smiling.

Brody opened the door of the consulting room and called for his last patient. An emergency apparently, though knowing the owner he doubted it. He put a smile on his face, but he disliked this dog. Calm and placid with its owner, it turned into a miniature wolf the moment he was near it.

“Hello, Mrs. Nightingale. And Fluffy.”
You little shit.
Though he knew the dog’s behaviour was the fault of the owner.

He watched as the pair walked toward him, no sign of problems in the dog apart from the way it was growling. Once they were inside the room, he closed the door and moved behind the examination table which at least offered some protection to his more delicate parts. She picked up the dog and it bared its teeth at Brody.

“What can I do for you?”

“What happened to you?” She stared at his face.

“I fell while I was out walking.” He’d answered the same question all day. He was almost beginning to believe it. It was partly true. “What’s wrong with Fluffy?”

“I think he has rabies.”

Christ.
That was a new one. “What makes you think that?”

“He won’t drink his water. He keeps backing away from the bowl.”

For the love of…
Maybe the dog wasn’t thirsty? Aside from the fact that rabies wasn’t an issue in the UK, there was virtually zero chance of this coddled dog being rabid. But freer movement of pets across the Channel meant it was a possibility and in his work, at least, Brody didn’t take risks.

“Is he eating okay?”

“Yes. He had free range chicken breast last night, didn’t you, my gorgeous boy.”

“Have you been abroad? Has Fluffy been bitten by another dog?”

“No and no.”

Brody didn’t really need to ask anything else but he continued. “Is he restless or apprehensive about anything—apart from his water bowl?”

“No.” She clutched the dog tighter.

“Does he snap or bite at you or anyone else? Or at the couch or table legs?”

“Yes.” She put the dog on the examination table and he snarled at Brody.

Brody gave her a tight smile. “Is he licking, biting or chewing a particular place on his body where he might have been bitten? You might not have been aware of it having happened.”

“He does chew his front left leg.”

Shit.
“Would you hold his head please? Firmly.”

Brody examined the dog. He wasn’t dehydrated and there was no reaction to light, no problem with its jaw, no bite marks. Well, not until he bit Brody’s finger.
Ouch.
Just a little nip but it drew blood.

“Oh Fluffy, sweetie, are you all right?” The woman hugged the dog. “Did the naughty man hurt you?”

Brody rinsed his finger under the tap and counted to ten before he turned and smiled at the woman. “He’s not got rabies.”

“Why doesn’t he want his water? That’s a sign. I looked it up on the Internet.”

“Have you changed his bowl? Put something in his water?”

“I always give him bottled water. The most expensive. From Fiji. It’s a new bowl though.” She frowned. “You think he doesn’t like his bowl? It’s red. I knew I should have brought the blue one.”

Brody could have told her that dogs were colour-blind, but didn’t have the energy.

“We’ll go and buy you a new one, my darling.” She turned to Brody. “In case you’re wrong, what should I look out for?”

“Disorientation, incoordination, back legs not working properly, loss of appetite, weakness, seizures. Hiding in dark places, eating strange things, foaming at the mouth.”
Death.
“If he stops eating or shows any worrying symptoms bring him back.”
Please don’t.

“I’ll make sure to keep a close eye on him.” She scooped the dog up and left.

The only satisfying thing about that encounter was that she was now at the counter paying for the consultation. Brody washed his hands again and exited through the rear door into the treatment area. He checked on the progress of three animals he’d admitted that day, took a few minutes to give one a cuddle, then picked up his jacket.

Henrik stepped out of his office. “Can I have a word?”

When Brody was inside, Henrik closed the door.

“Are you okay?” Henrik asked.

“Yeah, fine. Why?”

“Because you look like shit. Not good TV. Did you really fall?”

Brody dragged his fingers through his hair and forced himself to smile. “I had to wash out the stomach of a new mare and had trouble. A bit embarrassing.”

“Head butt you, did she?”

“She took one look at the tube, bucked and sent me flying. I hit the stall.”

He had the feeling Henrik didn’t believe him.

“Clients don’t like to come in here and see vets who look as if they’ve had difficulty handling an animal, particularly when most of the ones we treat are small. If you and your brother need help with a horse, call me.”

“Right.” No way would Des want to pay for Henrik’s help when he could use Brody for free.

“I’ve got a German shepherd cross coming in next week with deformed front legs. The owner wants 3D printed prosthetic limbs. Like to join me on the consult?”

“That would be great, thanks.”

“The TV crew will be in for that one too.”