Angel 77 (Partick home)

Bandit flung Angel’s bag in the boot of his gleaming white BMW and slammed down the boot. Parked on the pavement in at the hedge, Pizza Face had to tilt the front seat to let her and Adam squeeze into the back. What worried her from the sticky-out black bumper and metal grille to the cockpit design and comfortable leather seats was the car screamed out drug dealer. It might as well have a big white arrow pointed at it, asking the police to stop them. And the way Bandit drove it a screech of tyres and accelerating through narrow streets and onto the main drag was hardly reassuring. She clutched onto Adam, but her son enjoyed the smell of leather and the stop-start race through traffic light, overtaking and undertaking less well-performing family cars, his head turning one way and the other, as if taking it all in. Angel only felt comfortable when they were on the motorway and Bandit didn’t have to call every other driver blocking his way a ‘Fuckin Nobhead’.    

They came through Glasgow’s M8 spaghetti junction in record time and he parked up the hill and in the carpark the other side of the chippy.

Pizza Face has ignored her during the journey, talking to Bandit in monosyllables about fitba and fighting, but when the engine stopped he turned to instruct her, ‘Wait here and I’ll check out my flat, see if the bizzies have been.’

Bandit eyed her in the rear-view mirror, but didn’t say anything, looking out onto a brick wall. He leaned over and searched through the glove compartment, pulling out a tobacco tin.

‘You want one?’ he showed her a roll-up, one of three that were already made up, and sticking it in his gob and turning the engine over so he could use the car lighter.  He seemed more at ease with the engine running, at a loss of what to do with himself when it was off.

‘Nah,’ she tasted the harsh burn of hash on the back of her throat, tilting the seat forward and pulling Adam with her. She dipped her shoulder and stepped out of the car and into the rain and her son whined in protest at the cold wind.

She pulled the lapels of her jacket up closer around her chin and walked around the back of the car, searching for the button to spring the trunk. Bandit was out of the car in a flash. ‘Whit you doin’?’

‘Gonnae get my stuff.’

‘I’ll get it.’ He used his bulk to try and block her view as he opened the boot and quickly pulled out her bag.

Angel got a glance inside but hadn’t seen anything much other than a bit of old carpet. He locked the trunk with the key. She didn’t have time to think about it because Pizza Face appeared, striding towards them.

‘Whit you daeing?’ he asked Angel and sounded aggrieved.

She hitched Adam up a little higher on her chest and picked her bag up. ‘I was just coming up to yours.’

‘How did you know it was safe?’

‘I didnae.’

‘That was a bit stupid then, wasn’t it?’

‘Suppose.’

Bandit jumped back in the driver’s seat and started the engine. He looked in the rear-view mirror and Pizza Face held a hand up in salute. Back wheels spun, burning rubber, and the BMW shot down onto the cobbled road and roared down the hill and onto Dumbarton Road. A short journey done at speed.

Pizza Face held up a bit of paper as they walked down towards his close. ‘Stupid bastards have left me a note, asking me to contact them.’

‘Who?’

‘The police.’

Angel followed his up the stair, relief and tiredness sounded in her voice. ‘That means they’ll no’ be back for a wee while – if at all?’

Pizza Face laughed. ‘Aye, you’re right.’

He pointed at Adam. ‘Want me to carry him?’

‘Nah,’ she shook her head. ‘He doesnae really know you.’

Pizza Face dipped into his pocket for his house keys. ‘Aye, rub it in. I’m his da and he doesnae know me.’

Angel bit her lip, and waited for him to open the door and to get inside. She just wanted to put her feet up, have a cup of tea and something to eat. The bag fell with a dull thump at her feet in the hall.

‘You know where the toilet is,’ he reached for Adam.

Her son screamed and tried to hold onto her, but she was already dashing away. ‘Whit if the neighbours hear,’ she shouted over her shoulder.

‘Fuck them,’ said Pizza Face. ‘We’ve all had wains that greet. That’s the way of the world.’

She tiptoed and stood in the doorway. He was trying to keep Adam amused in the living room by walking with him in his arms and pointing out things and swooping down in an arc and bring her son’s body close to them and naming them in a funny voice. ‘That’s the couch, the telly, mantelpiece, table, chair.’

Her son seemed caught up in the seriousness of the ritual as an Old Testament prophet. But when he saw her he grew crotchety and squirmed to get away from Pizza Face.

Pizza Face for all his talk of fatherhood seemed equally delighted to hand him back. He lingered holding Angel’s hand. ‘Come ‘ere,’ he pulled her in and kissed her over the top of Adam’s head.

A tentative peck turned into trying to force his tongue down her throat and wrestling her and Adam onto the couch. She fell sideways and dragged her bum backwards, holding her son, up against the armrest near the door.

‘Will you gie me a minute?’ she asked.

‘I’m just.’

She knew what he was ‘just’, he’d been pressing it into her and it was still in his eyes, but he sounded contrite.

‘Look, wait a wee while until he’s asleep.’

‘Can we no’ put him somewhere?’

She rubbed the back of Adam’s head. ‘‘Like where?...The washing machine?’

‘Right,’ he looked over the top of her head towards the door. ‘I’m sorry.’ He rubbed at his forehead. ‘It’s just been a while – you know.’

‘Me too,’ she admitted. It had been so long since she’d been held, loved. She craved it, perhaps more than him. She patted the seat beside her and arched her long neck. ‘C’mon sit down, get to know your son a wee bit. I’ll change his nappy and we’ll see.’