Angel 76 (waiting for the Bandit)

‘This is nice,’ the old man flicked the switch and two bars of the electric fire glowed. He  sat squinty on the chair an old army coat as a pillow at his back, sipped his tea through uneven teeth and yawned. ‘I’m just out of bed and I feel like crawling back in, again. Don’t get old,’ he warned her.

Adam fell asleep at her side, tucked into her leg.

‘I won’t,’ she stood up by shifting her weight to the one side and leaving Adam lying, like a magical tricks where the white tablecloth is whipped away but dishes and cutlery remain. ‘I need to nip into the toilet, get myself cleaned up.’

She picked up the holdall and smiled as she nodded in her son’s direction. ‘Keep an eye on him?’

‘Aye, he’ll no’ be any bother. I don’t think he’ll be running very far at his age—neither will I.’

‘Right,’ she stood clutching the bag, scraping a heel on the worn carpet.

He spluttered his tea, bent over laughing at the mess he’d made. He counted rooms with his hands on the arm of the chair. ‘It’s in on your right hen, two doon. Cannae miss it.’

‘Thanks,’ she smiled in apology and hurried towards the toilet.

The bathroom was freezing after the warmth of the living room, the window wedged open. The sound of high winds and rain battering down outside, but the stink like a public toilet wafted up to meet her. The bath had a grimy tidemark and the sink below the shaving mirror was discoloured yellowish teardrop, with a constant dripping, and the plug hole impacted with hair and gunge. She ran the cold water tap so no one could hear her peeing. She tried to come up with a sensible plan. Imagining herself trudging about outside with Adam and nowhere to go.  

She shivered not just from the cold, glad of soft toilet roll to wipe herself, pulling her skirt back up into her blouse and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Her blonde hair was like a Busby Berkley musical, high-stepping all over the place. Wherever she went her hair would shout out and show her up. She fingered a white ceramic container perched on top of the toilet bowl with an orange Bic razor in it, the blades worn.

The pipes gurgled as she ran the hot water in the sink and pulled open the mirrored cabinet.   Toothpaste, the tube flat and squeezed to the last drop, the lid sitting beside a yellow toothbrush, a jar of Petroleum Jelly the dark lid covered in dust and on top of that a pair of scissors. She damped down her hair, cutting with blunt scissors close to contours of her head, a short-back-and sides. She refused to cry.

When she was finished she ducked her head down under the tap, splashed the back of her neck. She used the ratty blue cotton bath towel to dry her head and neck, but the collar of her blouse felt damp. Using the instep of her feet to herd fallen hair along the linoleum towards the wall and pedestal of the sink. The window groaned in protest as she pushed it wider open. Gathering clumps of hair into a ball she dropped it out of the window, watching it fall onto the windowsill outside and the wind and rain taking it away. She made two more trips before she could wash her hands and watch the last of shorn hair gather at the plughole.  

The old guy glanced up at her when she came back through to the living room, he’d a book propped open in his lap. ‘You done something to your hair?’

‘Aye, cut it all aff.’  

He puckered his lips and made sucking noises as he considered it, ‘It’s bonny,’ his eyes lighten as he smiled. ‘You’re bonny, wouldn’t matter whit you done. You’d still be bonny. You’re like Twiggy.’ He slapped his chest before coughing and quickly changed the subject. ‘Wee man’s been sleeping.’

They both watched the rise and fall of Adam’s chest and his face peeking out of blonde hair.

‘Who’s Twiggy?’ she asked.

The banging on the door made them jump and Adam opened an eye and shook his head from side to side and frowned, unwilling to give up any more sleep.

Angel turned, ‘I’ll get it.’

The old man gripped the armrest to haul himself up. ‘I’ll get it hen, maybe the police.’ He saw the flash of fear in her face.

‘Right then,’ she backed away the holdall in her hand, giving him space at the living- room door.

She squeezed in between table and couch, hovering over Adam, not sure if she should wake him. Echoes of talking in the lobby.

She recognised Pizza Face’s voice. The old man led the way, but seemed much smaller and fragile next to the two men in denim uniforms at his back. Pizza Face glanced around the room, alert to hidden dangers. His eyes settled on Angel and he was quickly across giving her a quick hug, his hand resting on her bum. ‘What have you done to your hair,’ he whispered in a jokey manner in her ear, nipping the lobe with his teeth. ‘You’re like a convict.’

She pulled away from him, ‘Cut it!’

‘Aye, it’s nice,’ he smirked and wheeled around making the introductions. ‘This is Bandit, he wan of the…’

‘You want tea?’ the old man asked, cutting in.

Angel didn’t think he looked much like a Bandit. He was heavyset, bigger than Pizza Face and broader too, but some of it gut hanging over his studded leather belt. His dark hair was collar length, middle-parting, hair lacquer heavily perfumed like drain cleaner, she could smell it from five yards away and his hand drifted up to run it through his thick hair.  

‘Nae tea for me,’ said Bandit. ‘Em, I’m on a tight schedule.’ He laughed to himself as if he’d said something funny.

‘Nor me either,’ Pizza Face shrugged, apologetically. ‘We need to get going.’

‘Shame,’ said the old man, slinking towards the kitchen. ‘But I can see you boys are awful busy.’

Angel went to lift Adam, but Pizza Face grabber her elbow and tugged her towards the curtains and away from Bandit. He stroked her arm, as if in apology, and whispered, ‘You’ll need to stay wae Bandit for a wee while until things cool doon.’

She looked over at him and hissed, ‘I don’t even know him’.

‘Doesnae matter, he’s alright.’

‘Does matter…and I’m no gonnae go wae somebody I don’t know.’

‘Fuck sake!’ Pizza Face looked as if he was going to hit her. ‘After everything I’ve done fer you.’

Adam opened his eyes and began crying. She rushed over to pick him up. Cradling him close to her chest. ‘You’ve done nothing for me but bring me trouble. And if that’s the way you feel, you can just beat it.’

Pizza Face stared at her. ‘You don’t mean that.’ He glanced over at Bandit. ‘Where would you go?’

‘Dunno,’ she turned her head so she didn’t have to look at him, to find Bandit grinning, open mouthed, at Pizza Face’s discomfort.

‘Right, suit yerself.’   

Pizza Face edged past her and Adam and with a nod of his head, motioned for Bandit to follow him into the lobby.

The old man ambled in from the kitchen, put his hand on her wrist. ‘You alright hen?’

‘Aye,’ she not dared not meet his eyes,  her hands and legs were shaking and her stomach sickly sweet as the inside of a box of Maltersers and she felt like she was going to throw up.

‘You can stay as long as you like,’ he said.

She shook her head.  

Pizza Face strode into the room, chest pushed out. He looked at the old man, weighing his words, ‘It’s alright, I’ve sorted it. Bandit ‘ill drop us aff in Partick.’