Angels Wings

There are no windows at the cloakroom at the Grand hotel in York. Its’ central position within the hotel is the reason as to why it was chosen. The walls are painted a rich burgundy, as are the doors and the cubicles of the glistening white latrines, which line up, from right to left along the back wall, like white china soldiers, awaiting deployment. Along the left hand far wall, and furthest from our position is the stainless steel urinal. Sometimes it echoes with a heavy drumming as it is being cleaned. A mahogany picture rail runs around the room at just over seven feet from the white and grey tiled marble floor. From it, and round the room in no real particular order, are hung four photographs. Old faded images of the Grand hotel’s past. The round Analogue clock upon the wall to the right reads ten thirty; a small green led light attached to the side of the clock, shines next to the letters A and M. In the background Bach’s “St Matthew passion” is playing, on a steady roll, over and over again.

************************************

The door opens and slowly, with caution, the thin man enters. He is the fifteenth person that day. The light above his head is automatic; the sensor detects a presence the moment the door is opened. The white shirt and purple waistcoat and black trousers of his waiter’s uniform, hang from his pitiably thin form. His close cropped black, hair suits his now nervous narrow Arabic features and his long, yet rounded nose. His skin shines greasy in the light and his close together, large brown, tired looking, dark ringed, bulging eyes; catch his reflection and he looks away; guilty and ashamed. He has the appearance of someone who doesn’t seem to fit here; not against the other men who come in. Most of who are dressed, in sharp, well made, blue or grey or black suits. But there’s something haunted about him too; as yet, ill-defined, yet, dangerous.
He has a package under his arm. It is large about the size of a piece of “A four” paper and about twenty centimetres in height. It is rectangular; wrapped in brown paper, tied with pale brown twine. He walks over the marble floor towards the sink; then delicately, he places the package by the sink. He’s shaking, really, really shaking, he is nervous. He thinks that he might have been seen. He is not sure. As his eyes dart around the room, there is a sound of running water. The tap, just out of view must be running the sound of the water changes, becoming deeper, heavier and rounder. The Thin man looks down, the light from the ceiling above reflects upon the water, and then upon his face, leaving a pattern of swirling angelic light, similar in shape to a pair of wings, that curl delicately across his eyes, then cheeks, round past his narrow mouth and the day old stubble on his chin. He looks down. There is a crashing sound, as a little boy, with black shiny hair, a turned up nose, puppy-fat cheeks and bright blue- green eyes comes barging in. As the door slams back it makes the man at the sink, jump and spin around. The boy stares at the man; then he runs to the open door of the first urinal. He glances up at the man, as he does not speak. The thin man waits until the boy leaves before taking the package into the cubical at the far left. The door to the cubical closes. There is silence. The cubical door opens and the thin man leaves the cubicle and the room. The package is left behind.

*******************************

The time on the clock is now reading three thirty, the green light has moved down to the letters P and M. A tall overweight man, in his middle thirties, wearing a dark business suit enters. He is shaped like an avocado, but he carries himself like a bulldog. His pale red hair is cut short; it hides the fact that he has a bald patch, which can be seen as he turns left, away from the mirror and paces his way across the marble floor to the urinal. There is a sound of a zip being pulled as he grunts, then lightly farts. Then he groans, and farts again, this time heaver. A splashing sound is heard, as he groans. The door to the room opens once again, and a voice calls out:
‘Sarge?’
‘Fuck! What is it Peterson! I’m fuckin’ busy in here.’
‘Sir’ the voice cough’s nervously. ‘...We have a sighting... A little boy... he came in here about ten thirty this morning.’
‘Oh... ‘There are sounds of a zip being pulled and of Water cascading; as the avocado shaped man makes his way to the sink. His face is shining wet with sweat. It is obvious that he is not a well man. His round pudgy nose, and his cheeks have a ruddy complexion, his careworn eyes have bags that almost touch the floor. There is a sound of running water once more. His face lights up as the light reflection dances, with the stroking of angels wings. His face softens, as he recalls a memory that brings a smile to his face.
‘...And your wife called. She said it’s your turn with the kids tonight so don’t be late.’ The voice calls out.
The man’s face reddens with anger, his eyes bulge as he glares into the mirror.
‘Fuckin’ bitch!’ He snorts, as he looks at the finger where once his wedding band had been. Then he smiles as he thinks about his children. He turns, as he listens to the music, he smile broadens, he thinks that if he gets a chance to ask, he’ll find out what it is and see if he can order it on line, as slowly he turns to leave; and as he does, his mind wanders.
Fuuck! My back, where’s that subservient little shit gone, are there he is, right by the fucking door. I bet he’s bent, he probably loves it up the arse... They are taking anyone in the force now... not like it was in the seventies... Oh, now they were the days... holding people till they screamed; justice done at any price... Detective-sergeant Peterson? Detective sergeant queer son more like, stupid little git cant’ deduce his way out of a fuckin’ hotel. “We have a sighting... a little boy...” well where the fuck is he then? And why am I waiting here for a report, instead of at the bar where my Vodka and coke waits dispassionately for my intimate advances.
I have to admit though he looks the piece; his hair well groomed; the coal suit neat, the tie well made, His black hair neatly parted to the left, ha ha, fuckin’ ha, every inch the detective. Fuck, I’ve heard that he even works out... No beer or pizza or ulcers, in that lean stomach. I know our relationship is tense, he finds me hard; and I don’t blame him. I am hard, “hard as fuckin’ flint.” My wife used to say before she left me for a fuckin’ dog handler. Bitch. A fuckin dog handler... I get paid twice as much as that cunt. Peterson aint that bad, in fact, given time and my patient tutoring; he’ll make a pretty good copper.
Oh, Fuuuckkin ell! My back, and my stomach, the pain rides me deep. It’s the job! All of it is the job; it takes it out of you and wrings you dry. Now... Where’s that Vodka.
An hour has passed. The avocado shaped man is known by the name of Richard Wallis. He is an inspector and in four hours time he is going to die, though he doesn’t know it. He is standing by the bar. He has not kept a record of the amount of vodka he has drunk’; for he stopped keeping count years ago.
‘The New Prime Minister is due here in an hour...’ Peterson; remarks ‘...and we still haven’t found the target yet.’
Wallis shakes his head, then he makes a grab for his stomach before he replies. ‘That’s because we don’t know where the bastard is planning to stay; and if we don’t then how would they?’
‘Sir...’ Insists Peterson, we know that our man in the league is right; well...he’s never been wrong before...’ he coughs sharply before he continues. ‘...we should report what we know to our superior.
The painfully thin waiter passes by both Peterson and Wallis. Wallis notes that there seems to be a lot of sweat coming off such a thin man in such cool place. It bothers’ him. Then he dismisses the man and goes back to his glass.
‘Look Peterson... Our man on the inside...’ he pauses. ‘...Daniel? Can I call you Daniel?’ Peterson nods.
‘...Let me tell you the truth about police work. It isn’t glamorous. There’s no handsome detective or some sweet old lady adding up the clues in her perfectly logical brain cleaning up evil as he or she goes about their business...’ Wallis takes a swallow of his vodka, before he continues‘...it’s sad, sad and painful. It mostly involves cleaning up other people’s shitty lives, when they get out of control. It means living the life of a third party grunt. Making notes of other peoples pains, and if you’re lucky, only if you’re lucky I might add; you leave with your thirty years service under your belt, on the verge of diabetes, or heart disease; with only enough money to enjoy the private hospital bed you spend the rest of your life in, forever wondering if, all those years ago, you made the right career choice at sixteen...’ He takes another sip of his vodka and coke. ‘...So don’t think you can come here and-‘
He notices the painfully thin man again. This time he acts.

****************************

The clock upon the wall in the toilet is now reading seven thirty. The green light on the side of the clock face is still on the P and M. A well proportioned middle aged man dressed in an expensive after-dinner suit, enters the cloakroom. He has thick, coal black coloured hair, which is slightly fading to gray at the temples. His green eyes are pained and careworn, they are tired looking and are bulging slightly from his sockets from the alcohol he has consumed. He has two slight jowls that extenuate his strong jaw they are seen in the light as he delicately walks into the room and then enters the first cubicle on the right. There is a rustling sound, then a sound of urine hitting water, followed by an echoing fart, followed by a rustling sound once more, before a flush. The iron haired man leaves the cubicle and walks towards the sink; his skin appears slightly sallow, and his red rimmed eyes are bloodshot, but he is happy. For he has a face known by millions, as the new prime minister; and he is content; his tired green eyes shine as he feels that his destiny has arrived. As he fills the sink, the light from above reflects upon the water and upon his handsome features once more. The reflecting light curls’ likes angels’ wings across his face and he is the only one to recognise the fact; at which point he smiles.
Suddenly the door to the cloakroom is thrown open. There is a fight taking place between the Sergeant and two tall men who are almost hidden by the closed door. The sergeant’s puffy eyes are wild, and he is shouting, though the sound is muffled, as the men almost hidden by the closed door at the entrance stop him from going any further.
‘GET OUT! GET OUT! THERE’S A FUCKIN’ BOMB!’ Sergeants’ voice is full of panic, as he repeats, screams, yells and pleads.
Subtly, the face of the man in the dinner suit slowly begins to change, his eyes narrow, or bulge slightly; his jaw accentuates, or dissolves back into his cheeks, as he turns to the face the Sergeant. The of Contentment changes to fear; then fear changes to anger; the anger changes to regret the regret to frustration; and the frustration finally changes to resignation; as he realises the fact that it is his time to die and there is nothing he can do to stop it.
There is an explosion of bright white light, followed by total night.