maybe, like the legitimate businesses he owned, they were a front designed to hide his real nature. Maybe he and Stephen Baxley had shared a mutual fantasy, a mutual perversion that had forged a lifelong bond. That was why Jim wanted to be the one to tell Reynolds about Baxley’s death. He knew it might be the only chance he would ever have to see behind the macho, arrogant mask Reynolds presented to the world.
8
Angel didn’t realise she’d passed out until she came round. The blue fingers of dawn were pushing through the curtains, crawling across the floor towards her. Cold sweat filmed her forehead. Mucus streamed from her nostrils, mingling with the blood crusted around her mouth. She wiped it away with a hand that trembled as though a fever was raging inside her. A raw pain gnawed at her guts. She glared at Deano’s sleeping form. She wanted him to feel something of that pain, but she was barely strong enough to push herself upright, let alone hurt him. Besides, she knew that if she attacked him, physically or verbally, she would only get it back ten times over. She staggered to the bathroom and examined her face in the mirror. Her upper lip was split and swollen to twice its normal size. Lavender-dark bruises were flowering on her cheekbones and jaw, but Deano had been careful to avoid hitting her nose or eyes. Her upper arms and back had taken the worst of the punishment. With arthritic slowness, she removed her t-shirt, revealing a blanket of bruises.
She bent to swallow cold water from the tap. After rinsing the sour taste of blood out of her mouth, she tried the other tap. As usual, there was no hot water. She turned on the electric shower and stood beneath the warm trickle of its limescale-clogged head, arms hugged around herself. As her blood drained down the plughole, she felt life seeping back into her bones. The water didn’t stop her from wanting to claw at her itching flesh, though. Only one thing could do that.
After drying herself with a grubby towel and squeezing the water out of her hair, Angel re-dressed and returned to the bedroom. Deano didn’t stir as she sat down on the bed. Nothing short of a grenade exploding outside the window would wake him before midday. She forced herself to eat a slice of bread, even though her cramping stomach wanted to reject it. Her gaze came to rest on the corner of an envelope poking out from underneath the pillows. She knew what it contained without opening it – a fresh supply of smack. She also knew that Deano would know exactly how many wraps there were, and that she’d be in deep shit if she took one without permission. The tendons of her neck stood out like whipcords with the force of will it took to resist cooking up a hit. In a futile attempt to take her mind off the envelope, she switched on the television.
The morning news was showing an aerial shot of a large house set in equally expansive landscaped gardens. Something big must have gone down, judging by the number of emergency service vehicles in the driveway. As the camera homed in on burnt-out windows, Angel reached for the remote-control. She didn’t like the news, partly because it bored her, but mostly because it depressed her. She already had enough violence and death in her life without wallowing in other people’s misery. She hesitated to switch over, knowing she should keep watching to see if there had been any developments in the Ryan Castle murder case. Turning to Deano again, she felt in his tracksuit pockets and pulled out a cigarette packet and lighter. She sparked up, inhaling deeply. The nicotine wouldn’t ease her cravings, but the act of smoking was one more thing to distract her mind from them.
‘…on the outskirts of Sheffield is believed to be the home of a prominent local businessman and his family.’
Hearing the newsreader mention her home city, Angel peered closely at the television, trying to see if she recognised the area. But all that was visible were fields and
8
Angel didn’t realise she’d passed out until she came round. The blue fingers of dawn were pushing through the curtains, crawling across the floor towards her. Cold sweat filmed her forehead. Mucus streamed from her nostrils, mingling with the blood crusted around her mouth. She wiped it away with a hand that trembled as though a fever was raging inside her. A raw pain gnawed at her guts. She glared at Deano’s sleeping form. She wanted him to feel something of that pain, but she was barely strong enough to push herself upright, let alone hurt him. Besides, she knew that if she attacked him, physically or verbally, she would only get it back ten times over. She staggered to the bathroom and examined her face in the mirror. Her upper lip was split and swollen to twice its normal size. Lavender-dark bruises were flowering on her cheekbones and jaw, but Deano had been careful to avoid hitting her nose or eyes. Her upper arms and back had taken the worst of the punishment. With arthritic slowness, she removed her t-shirt, revealing a blanket of bruises.
She bent to swallow cold water from the tap. After rinsing the sour taste of blood out of her mouth, she tried the other tap. As usual, there was no hot water. She turned on the electric shower and stood beneath the warm trickle of its limescale-clogged head, arms hugged around herself. As her blood drained down the plughole, she felt life seeping back into her bones. The water didn’t stop her from wanting to claw at her itching flesh, though. Only one thing could do that.
After drying herself with a grubby towel and squeezing the water out of her hair, Angel re-dressed and returned to the bedroom. Deano didn’t stir as she sat down on the bed. Nothing short of a grenade exploding outside the window would wake him before midday. She forced herself to eat a slice of bread, even though her cramping stomach wanted to reject it. Her gaze came to rest on the corner of an envelope poking out from underneath the pillows. She knew what it contained without opening it – a fresh supply of smack. She also knew that Deano would know exactly how many wraps there were, and that she’d be in deep shit if she took one without permission. The tendons of her neck stood out like whipcords with the force of will it took to resist cooking up a hit. In a futile attempt to take her mind off the envelope, she switched on the television.
The morning news was showing an aerial shot of a large house set in equally expansive landscaped gardens. Something big must have gone down, judging by the number of emergency service vehicles in the driveway. As the camera homed in on burnt-out windows, Angel reached for the remote-control. She didn’t like the news, partly because it bored her, but mostly because it depressed her. She already had enough violence and death in her life without wallowing in other people’s misery. She hesitated to switch over, knowing she should keep watching to see if there had been any developments in the Ryan Castle murder case. Turning to Deano again, she felt in his tracksuit pockets and pulled out a cigarette packet and lighter. She sparked up, inhaling deeply. The nicotine wouldn’t ease her cravings, but the act of smoking was one more thing to distract her mind from them.
‘…on the outskirts of Sheffield is believed to be the home of a prominent local businessman and his family.’
Hearing the newsreader mention her home city, Angel peered closely at the television, trying to see if she recognised the area. But all that was visible were fields and
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