A is for Angelica (7 page)

‘A latecomer! Good morning, Gordon. Sit yourself down.’ The sound of heads turning and elbows in coats rubbing against one another. The creak of handbags clutched in laps. And I look
up at Judy standing behind the pulpit, several feet above the rest of us. I can’t shout back and ask her how her week’s been, so I nod and attempt a smile, which she misses completely
because she’s back to what she was saying before I rudely interrupted. I find a seat at the back near the door.

‘And today is a special day. We add to our normal service, the welcoming of a new life into our world. We’re here to celebrate, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, the baptism of
baby Matthew Alan. He was born just two months ago, a wonderful gift in this new year. We welcome his mother, Tracey, and his loving family.’

Tracey stands up, waves her hands and shouts, ‘Hiya everyone.’ She’s wearing a denim miniskirt. She can’t be more than sixteen. She looks like a child.

‘But first I’d like to tell you about last Tuesday. You might have noticed this delightful scarf I have around my shoulders. Well, I had the pleasure of spending some time this week
with the young children of St. Mary’s Junior School. I talked to them about many things, including the importance of love. Love for God. Love for the family. Love for one another. And when I
left, they gave me this scarf. It has its own unique design created by the children of St. Mary’s, especially for me. If you look here, you can see the sunshine with its rays bursting forth.
And below it, this beautiful red car. Isn’t it just wonderful?’

A chorus of ‘oohs’. A chorus of ‘aahs’. And an, ‘Isn’t it lovely, Maureen.’

‘And over here, there’s a boat sailing on a bright blue sea. There, just by my shoulder. And if I turn around, you’ll see a giant space rocket on my back.’

Judy turns to show us the rest of her scarf. I can just about make out the rocket. It has two curved areas at the base, which make it look like it’s coming up through a cloud. It looks
like men’s parts.

‘Can you see it at the back?’ says Judy.

There’s no commotion. No-one says a thing. They just sit there. Judy stretches her hand over her shoulder. She points at the rocket. ‘Isn’t it just fantastic?’ she
says.

It definitely looks like parts. And in a place of worship.

Baby Matthew Alan is christened. Tracey has chosen a hymn for us to sing at the end of the ceremony. ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, or as she calls it,
‘All Creatures Big and Small’. Judy stands at the front and leads the way while two elderly women walk between the aisles with a collection bucket. They shake it to make it rattle,
which would be illegal if they were in the street. When they get to me they stop, look up and wait. I keep singing, put my hand in the bucket and avoid eye contact. I tap the side as I take my hand
out again. It makes a noise that sounds like I’ve put money in. They thank me very much. Keep on rattling. Like Don Donald’s pockets.

Judy brings Mass to a close and stands by the door. She likes to say goodbye as well as hello. I was last in and I’m first out. She stops me with the usual sympathetic smile. A
newly-christened baby is wailing somewhere behind me.

‘Glad you could make it, Gordon. How are you?’

‘I’m well, thank you.’

‘I saw Doctor Morris yesterday. I was picking up my mother’s tablets. He says you’re in good health.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes, I was asking after you. He says you’re keeping on top of things.’

‘Well, that’s very kind of you both.’

There’s a hundred people and a screaming child behind me. I’m keeping them from leaving and I’m hogging Judy. Some of them are breathing down my neck. Literally.

‘How’s Georgina?’

And now I’m not talking. Everyone wants to know why Gordon’s not talking. Who does he think he is? Why, when Judy’s asked him a question, is he standing in silence, staring
into space? If he doesn’t want to answer the question, he could at least do the honest thing and change the subject. They’re right. I should change the subject.

‘The rocket’s not a rocket. It’s a penis.’

The noise behind me disappears. The church is silent again. Even the baby stops crying. A woman next to me puts her hands over her daughter’s ears. Judy looks straight at me. For a few
seconds she says nothing. I have no regrets.

‘Gordon, would you like me to visit you at home?’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘How about next week? Or the week after?’

‘Honestly, there’s no need.’

‘I’ll just come round for a chat, I think. That’s what I’ll do.’ She moves on to the next person, the noise starts up again and I shuffle outside. The sky is a
deep, dull grey. It looks like it’s been raining.

Gratuity

It’s Wednesday afternoon, three days since ‘The Rocket Incident’. Judy is yet to visit. I’ve been looking out for her, preparing the house to make it
look like no-one’s in. Church people have a tendency to wander into people’s homes without permission. I keep the windows shut during the day and use the power-cut candles at night.
It’s just gone noon. Angelica has been to collect her newspapers, Benny has gone to school and Morris Webster stood at his window for a while. He put his hand on the glass and looked up at
the sky, as if longing for rain. He was there for eleven minutes and thirty-four seconds. Then he disappeared. I made notes on it all. He’ll need a cloth to wipe his fingerprints. Now,
I’m sat on the chair next to the bed in Georgina’s room. I’m preparing another bath. I roll my sleeve and put my arm in the washing-up bowl.

Note: Use bath thermometer. Temperature should not be higher than 115 degrees F, 46 degrees C. Help remove clothes and cover with blanket. Keep warm and give privacy. Note
end.

I reach under the bed and pull out my shoebox. This is where I keep my supplies. Disposable gloves. Bath towel and flannel. Soap, powder, lotion, deodorant, toothbrush and
toothpaste. Half an hour ago, I turned on the portable radiator to heat the room. It makes the air smell slightly burnt. I pull on a pair of gloves. They are transparent and tight on my hands. I
have to clasp them together to push my fingers into the ends.

Georgina is naked and sleeping. I undressed her fifteen minutes ago, when the room began to get warm. I open my manual at the right page, place it on the bedside table and prop it against the
wall. I put the flannel in the water, wet it without soap and squeeze to rinse. I gently wipe her eyelids and dry them with a towel. I do it from the inside corner to the outside corner. I use soap
to wash her ears and neck. A slice of winter sunlight comes between the gap in the curtains and creeps across her face. I have to stop myself from counting the wrinkles between her mouth and nose.
I have to ignore the line of dust caught in the light, settling on her lips. I put the towel under her arms as I wash them and I hold her hand when I clean her palms and between her fingers. I dry
thoroughly. Especially the hair under her armpits, and the skin under her breasts. I fold the blanket down so I can wash, rinse and dry her chest and stomach. When I finish, I fold it back again
and lift it from the bottom to do her legs, feet and toes. I shove the towel under her knees. Wash, rinse and dry.

This used to be a team effort. We used to do this together. I pick up the basin, walk to the bathroom and pour the dirty water into the sink. She would’ve shouted, ‘Don’t waste
it. You can use that for your tea’. I walk back to the bedroom, dig my heels against the wall and use all my weight to push Georgina onto her side. She would’ve said, ‘I can do
that, you be careful of your back’. I use fresh water to wash, rinse and dry her back, buttocks and shoulders. ‘Give us a rub while you’re there’, she would’ve said. I
smear lotion over the open sores on her bare skin. She says nothing.

The last area to wash is the groin. I put a new pair of gloves on. I’m supposed to ask Georgina to lift her buttocks for me, but she’s far too tired so instead I have to move her
myself and put a towel under her at the same time. I can hear someone laughing outside. It sounds like a woman. Can I see through the curtains? I should ignore it. I hold Georgina’s knee,
spread her legs and jar them open with my shoulder. What if it’s Angelica? With one hand I separate the labia. With the other I wash from front to back with the soapy flannel. I rinse then
dry the area with the corner of the towel. More laughter. It’s the only sound to get through the double glazing. I walk to the window. I was right. It’s Angelica. There’s a car
parked outside her house. It’s red apart from the driver’s side door, which is green and looks like it used to belong to a different vehicle. Angelica is on the pavement, smoking a
cigarette and smiling. Benny’s on his knees at the back of the car. He’s scrubbing a hubcap with a dirty sponge. I can’t tell what he’s saying, but I can hear Angelica
laughing and I can see her shifting her weight from one leg to the other. I can trace the outline of her hips. This morning, when she collected her newspapers, she wore the same fluffy-cuffed coat
as last week and a pair of jeans. I look at her now, hours later. She’s taken her coat off and applied pink nail varnish. There’s a gap between her jeans and t-shirt and I can see her
skin. Benny dips his sponge into a bucket of water. He’s naked from the waist up, like he is when he’s painting. Angelica’s arms are folded. They keep her stomach warm and her
breasts together. If it weren’t for the frost on the lawn behind them, you’d never believe it was winter. I can’t imagine how cold they are.

There’s a dull thud behind me. It takes me by surprise. Georgina has fallen onto her front. She’s also fallen on top of the towel and pushed the blanket onto the floor. She’s
face down on the bed, completely naked and still asleep. It takes me nearly ten minutes to get the towel from underneath her, turn her onto her back and put her night dress on. I have to sit on the
chair to catch my breath. I hold her hand and imagine her squeezing mine. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she would’ve said.

I go back to the window. Benny is pointing at the car and forcing his chest out. They stand too close when they talk. Angelica puts her hand into her jeans pocket, pulls out a banknote and gives
it to Benny. Then they stop talking, look up at my window and stare at me, just for a few seconds. I stay exactly where I am. I’m not worried. There’s no way they can know that
I’m here. I’ve been watching far too long.

Heresy

John Bonsall’s skip has disappeared. It’s been replaced with a new one that has the letters ‘NF’ spray painted down the side. It’s already half
full. I’m behind the curtain with my breakfast. Kipling’s on my lap and I’m resting my plate on his back. He’s very sick. Too ill to go anywhere. It’s Monday morning
and the street is empty. Yesterday, I didn’t go to church. A hot air balloon is rising in the distance behind the houses. Red with black polka dots, like a giant ladybird. I watch it climb
into the clouds. It must have taken off from Blackheart Wood. Or where Blackheart Wood used to be, before they mined it in the 70s. It took twelve years to get the coal out. Now the trees have been
replanted and the council use it for carnivals and car rallies. The cricket club play their home games in a clearing in the middle.

A car drives into the street and swerves round the tree in the road. It gets so far, does a three-point turn and drives back again. This happens a lot. Cressington Vale is one street down from a
main road. The car slows as it goes back past the tree and the driver flicks a V-sign. I finish my toast and put the plate on the floor. Kipling is making my legs ache, so I pick him up and drop
him next to the plate. He sleeps throughout. Another balloon appears in the sky. This one’s shaped like a hammer. It looks like it’s chasing the ladybird. I reach for my pen and
notepad, start to make a list.

Nine balloons take off in forty-five minutes. I’ve been watching the street as I’ve counted them. I’ve written down shapes and sizes. Still, nothing is happening. I decide to
go downstairs and make a cup of tea. As I stand up, another car drives into the street. No, it’s the same car. Big, black and expensive. The driver uses just one finger this time as he drives
past the tree. And there’s someone in the passenger seat who wasn’t there before. The car stops opposite my house. Outside Angelica’s. I reach for my file labelled
‘Suspicious behaviour’, but before I can take it from the shelf I hear the kitchen door opening downstairs. Someone’s in the house. Someone is downstairs and they are in the
house. Kipling knows it. He’s awake and looking up at me. He’s shaking. I reach under the bed and pull out my billiard cue case. It’s covered in dust. I open it, take out the cue
and start screwing the ends together. It seems to take forever. I can hear the intruder walking around downstairs. The floorboards in the hall are squeaking and I can feel a draught coming up
because the back door is open. I can smell the lemon cake I baked last night. Why didn’t I lock the door? I’m sure I locked the door. Kipling jumps onto the bed and squeezes himself
between the pillows.

‘Is there anybody in? I’m a burglar!’

I knew it. It was only a matter of time. They should never have cancelled the neighbourhood watch. I grip the cue firmly and edge onto the landing. My back is tight to the wall as I creep
downstairs. One at a time. Don’t make a sound. I can hear them in the kitchen. They’ve put the kettle on. The cheek of it. What sort of burglar makes themselves at home? I stand at the
bottom of the stairs. I hold the cue close to my body. I get chalk on the tip of my nose. It will have to wait. There’s a criminal on the other side of this door.

I take a deep breath.

Hold the cue in attack position.

Enter the kitchen.

The burglar is bent over the kitchen table with their back to me. I can’t stop myself. My arms have taken over and I’m bringing the cue down over their head. It’s going to hit
them just above the neck and it’s probably going to knock them out. It may even kill them. And they deserve it. Just before the cue makes impact, the burglar turns around. It’s a woman.
No, it’s not a woman, it’s Judy. I’m about to murder a reverend.