Gabriel's Angel Page 25

  Sometimes, if you are lucky, you find yourself with someone—and they may be an annoying sod—who simply fits. Gabe and Ellie fitted. And if she thought about how life without that might be now that he was dead, she would want to die too, so she didn’t. Her instincts told her to think about Gabriel the liar, to think that the tie that bound them had been broken before he died, and that somehow she had less to mourn. But what kind of lie was it? A simple ‘I want to make it OK’ lie, more despairing than deceitful. A lie that lasted only minutes, before he knew he would have to tell the truth. If he had come home, she’d have shouted at him, complained about feeling patronised, chided him with the ‘we are doing this together aren’t we Gabe’ line that she had said before he’d gone out. But she wouldn’t have loved him less. She didn’t love him less now either. Damn, she probably loved him more. Death can do that.

  She rested her hands on her stomach, closed her eyes, and thought about Lola and Luca. She breathed deeply. In a way, she thought, Gabriel isn’t quite dead yet. She thought it the way people think things they aren’t convinced by: like trying on a dress that someone else says will suit you, but you think looks like a curtain wrapped around a wriggling pig. You are hopeful but disbelieving. But this dress looked OK. As long as the embryos were living inside her, he wasn’t quite dead; not completely.

  She knew, vaguely, what she was doing: lying, tricking her head into concentrating on her body. And it might have been a kind of madness, but it seemed to help her breathe. The way the strangest things can when your life is collapsing around you. And so she patted her stomach and imagined Gabriel willing her on. Her and the small collection of cells that might find a way to live. Ellie fell asleep like that. She didn’t dream.

  49

  Gabriel came in last. He didn’t look at Christopher or Clemitius. He didn’t look at anyone; he just sat down and stared at the floor in the middle of the circle.

  Clemitius waited for a moment. ‘I want to say something.’

  Gabriel carried on staring at the floor. Yvonne looked at Julie and then at the wall behind her. Julie looked at Christopher, then Yvonne, then Gabriel, and last at her feet. Only Christopher and Kevin looked at the puffy-lipped angel.

  Clemitius continued. ‘I’d like to say that I think we can still work here. I didn’t before, or at least I wasn’t convinced. But I’ve thought about it, about the way some of you … well, most of you, have behaved, and I think that what you have done is not disconnected from why you are here. Impulsive perhaps, distracted, ill-disciplined some might say.’ He paused. Nobody was arguing; perhaps nobody was even listening. Mostly they were gazing into space. Except Kevin, who stared attentively at Clemitius like a zealous PA. Or a puppy.

  ‘It is all work for us to commit to. It is all symptomatic of whatever brought you here—the lack of focus, perhaps. The inability to establish a perspective, or a worldview if you like, that would enable you to have lived as you could have. I’d like to suggest something if I may. I’d like to suggest that you are trying to distract yourselves from the work that deep down you know you have to do. That you, Gabriel, your concern about Ellie masks your deeper concern about yourself. Julie, that your guilt about running Gabriel over masks your guilt over a life that has been unfulfilled, and you, Yvonne, your denial—well, your denial is perhaps symptomatic of the denial you have lived with for years.’ Clemitius nodded sagely, his dry lips folded inward, proudly nestling against his teeth.

  Yvonne smiled to herself but didn’t say anything. Julie looked at Christopher again and, as he turned to face her, she quietly shook her head.

  Kevin hadn’t taken his eyes off Clemitius. When he was sure Clemitius had finished, he spoke. ‘I’ve said from the beginning that I am here to work.’

  ‘Why?’ Gabriel asked immediately. ‘Why are you willing to work?’

  ‘Because,’ Kevin was half laughing, he seemed happier than he had been before. ‘A power greater then me says I should.’

  ‘Who? What? God? Or that psychotic angel over there?’

  ‘I can assure you I am not psychotic,’ Clemitius smiled.

  ‘Well if you are, you’d be the last to know, wouldn’t you? Anyway I’m asking Kevin the Killer a question, so if you don’t mind …’

  Kevin looked at Clemitius. Clemitius nodded.

  ‘That’s the spirit, let him off the leash,’ sneered Gabriel.

  ‘You seem even more aggressive than usual this morning, Gabriel. I wonder if there is anything we can do to help you with that?’ said Clemitius.

  Gabriel lowered his head and raised his hand to his face as though he were sheltering his eyes from the sun. He slipped his other hand into his jacket and seemed to be almost hugging himself, his shoulders hunched, curled up slightly like a child afraid of being hit. For a moment Christopher, ever the watcher, ever the protector, thought he might be crying. Christopher felt something. Disappointment? Embarrassment? He looked at Julie, who was sitting upright and staring enquiringly at Gabriel.

  Gabriel raised his head and smiled; no tears. There did appear to be something in his hand. He stood up.

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, Gabriel, leaving so soon? This really is a habit you need to address,’ said Clemitius.

  Gabriel took two steps into the middle of the room; a thin can was in his right hand, behind his back. He turned to Clemitius. He may have been shaking. ‘I’m not going anywhere, as you well know.’ Gabriel pointed the deodorant at Kevin and sprayed him in the eyes.

  It was only an anti-perspirant, Christopher was guessing, something icy-fresh. It wasn’t some kind of nerve gas. Kevin was never going to roll around screaming that his face was melting. At best it left his head smelling nicer and an annoying taste in his mouth. Perhaps because it made his eyes sting a little, it stopped him from standing up quickly and breaking Gabriel’s head, but the delay would only be about four seconds. Hardly worth it, one might think, yet it was time enough for Gabriel to take a two-step run-up to land a right uppercut to Kevin’s jaw that sent him tumbling backwards in the chair.

  Clemitius went to speak but didn’t, perhaps assuming that Gabriel was finished and a natural pause would occur after this unprecedented brutality.

  But Gabriel hadn’t finished. He walked quickly past the tipped-over chair to the stunned and flailing Kevin and kicked him in the ribs. Twice. Kevin was unbalanced, but the pain in his ribs didn’t compare with the pain in his jaw; Gabriel seemed to realise this, because as Kevin rolled backward from the kicks to the ribs, Gabriel landed an almighty kick to the side of his head.

  Yvonne let out a little scream; Julie gripped her chair but didn’t make a noise. Kevin’s head jerked backward and his arms, which had been trying to lever him upward, collapsed under him. He lay on the floor groaning and bleeding.

  Clemitius went to speak again but Gabriel turned to him and raised his finger. He then kicked Kevin in the head seven or eight, maybe nine times. He was never going to kill him—not here—but that had to hurt like hell. Then he turned to Christopher and said quietly. ‘Tell them. Please. Tell them.’

  So Christopher did.

  50

  It had occurred to James that he should not look too eager when the rest of the band started to arrive. However, when Gary and Bernie pulled up, he was standing outside the barn with his second joint of the day in his hand, grinning like a daytime TV host.

  ‘Guys, glad you could make it,’ he drawled, grinning in a way that suggested he might hug someone. Nobody likes to be greeted by a drooling, middle-aged dopehead, particularly when they have just taken nearly five hours to drive 87 miles.

  ‘Call this a farm?’ muttered Gary, uncoiling himself from the car.

  ‘Good trip, Gary?’ James was too stoned to be sarcastic.

  ‘I’ve been trapped in a small car with a Christian fundamentalist for half a fucking day. Of course it wasn’t a good trip.’

  ‘Didn’t hear you complaining when I was paying for the petrol, you mid-Atlantic plonker,’ said Bernie.r />
  ‘Well, you’re here now,’ nodded James inanely. A long silence followed. ‘Wanna come into the house, drop your bags and have a drink? The others will be here soon.’

  The three men went into the house. Gary went straight over to the fireplace and stared up at James’s blue poster. ‘Cool, isn’t it,’ smiled James.

  ‘It’s a poster, you ponce,’ sneered Gary. ‘What are you, fifteen?’

  A car pulled up in the drive.

  ‘Could be Mikey,’ mumbled the grinning James, who was beginning to resemble Keith Chegwin.

  Outside, Alice and Adam the minister were getting out of their Mercedes. ‘Hey hey hey,’ said James. ‘Great to see you! But where—where’s Matthew?’

  ‘He, er … got arrested at the Happy Eater,’ said Alice.

  ‘What for?’ asked Bernie.

  ‘Shoplifting,’ said Adam, smiling.

  ‘Shoplifting? I thought you lot were rich?’ said Gary.

  ‘He was doing it for the thrill,’ said Alice, looking embarrassed.

  ‘What was he stealing?’

  ‘A mug. A mug with my name on it.’

  James had stopped grinning. ‘Well, we can’t have a reunion without Matthew.’

  ‘He’ll be along later, I expect. I mean, how long do they hold people for shoplifting?’

  Everyone stood in the courtyard, trying not to look at each other. Finally Adam said, ‘Well is anyone going to introduce me to … hey, you’re Gary Guitar, you’re in Karma. I love your stuff man. Can I ask you, are you religious?’

  Gary shuffled his feet, pleased to be recognised. He was about to say something but James spoke first. ‘Come on, let’s all have a drink and I’ll show you the studio … well, rehearsal room really, but we can use it as a studio too.’

  Inside, James made drinks for everyone. Bernie had orange juice; everyone else had something with vodka in it. Large ones. James rolled another joint and to his surprise Adam smoked most of it before passing it on to Alice. Adam was telling everyone how many times he had seen Gary and Karma play. And Gary was telling behind-the-scenes stories from each of the gigs Adam mentioned. None of the stories were very interesting so James made more drinks, this time with more vodka, and rolled another joint. It did cross his mind that he was using up a lot of grass but he decided it was an investment. This time he passed it to Gary first, which prompted Adam to take a bag from his inside pocket, open it out on the table in front of him, and say, ‘Anyone want one of these?’

  ‘What are they?’ asked Gary.

  ‘E’s are good,’ grinned Adam.

  Gary thought for a moment. ‘Not got any cough medicine in them, have they?’

  Two hours later Alice’s phone rang. It was Matthew. The good news was they had let him off with a warning. She passed on the news as if reporting the relief of Mafeking. Everyone was very happy that he was free: Gary and Bernie hugged in celebration; Adam said a little prayer and had a big swig of vodka. The bad news was that Matthew was in Newmarket with no car. Bernie cried. Gary comforted him. James made more drinks. Matthew said not to worry, he’d get a train. Everyone cheered on re-discovering the existence of a rail network and their gallant friend’s ability to problem-solve. He said he might be some time. Bernie got a bit a teary again. James rolled another joint and found himself staring at Alice’s denim-clad crotch. There is nothing like recreational drugs for rekindling old friendships.

  It was dark by the time they staggered toward the barn. Michael’s absence had been noted but lost in the fumes and happiness the drugs had proffered. ‘He’ll be along later,’ said James confidently.

  The barn was cold and damp. It smelled of manure and something like almonds, which made Gary’s eyes water. ‘What’s that smell?’ asked Bernie.

  ‘Rock ‘n’ roll!’ shouted James.

  ‘Nah, it’s not,’ said Gary, tapping one of the barrels that were stacked against the longest wall. ‘What’s in here?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said James, who was looking at Alice’s arse. ‘I just store some stuff for a mate; well, neighbour, really. He ran out of storage.’ He wandered over to Alice. ‘So, how long did Matthew say he’d be?’

  Alice giggled. ‘He didn’t,’ she smiled, and picked up his hand, taking the matches he was carrying from him, and putting them on one of the barrels. ‘I’ll tell you what though ’—eyes wide, so close he could taste her breath.

  ‘What?’

  She ran his hand down to the zipper on her jeans, held it there for a moment and then pushed it away. ‘Doesn’t matter how long he is, you ain’t getting in there,’ she said, and laughed.

  ‘Right,’ said James. ‘That’s for religious persons only, is it?’

  But Alice had already turned away. James picked up his matches to light another joint. Bernie was looking at the equipment. ‘It doesn’t look like any of this stuff has been used for a while,’ he noted.

  ‘Who’s surprised?’ said Gary.

  ‘Is this what studios always look like?’ asked Adam.

  ‘Is it, fuck!’ said Gary. ‘This is a barn with a tape recorder in it.’

  ‘Bit more than that, Gary,’ said James, whose joint had gone out again. He struck another match.

  ‘Oh yeah, some amplifiers, a desk that looks like it was last used by Sigue Sigue Sputnik, and a drum. Oh no sorry, that isn’t a drum is it? It’s a barrel full of shit.’

  ‘There’s a bloody big puddle over here,’ said Bernie. ‘Right where the mike is. That can’t be safe.’

  ‘Where’s the keyboard?’ said Alice, for whom the drugs were wearing off.

  ‘Where’s the power?’ said Gary.

  ‘Is there any heating?’ asked Bernie.

  Adam had wandered over to the microphone and picked it up. He started singing into it. James couldn’t hear what it was, but Alice was laughing. James drew on his joint. Dead again. He could hear Adam now; he was singing ‘Every Breath You Take.’ In tune, too, in so far as it had a tune. James inhaled. This was going to require a calm head, he thought, and patience. He couldn’t rise to every little comment, he had got this far, and in a moment they’d set up. Adam was still singing, Gary and Alice were clapping along in time; Gary was even warbling some kind of harmony. Adam was swaying in Sting-like fashion, the bloody karaoke queen.

  James nodded to himself. ‘You see,’ he thought. ‘They’ve got the music in them’—before thinking, ‘Hang on, I’m the fucking singer.’

  He looked at his joint. Out again. He struck another match, lit the joint, and inhaled: instant calm. He flicked the match into the air and wondered, momentarily, if the puddle beside the barrel in which it was about to land was flammable.

  It was.

  51

  Christopher was sitting in the watching room staring at the screen, trying not to wonder too much. On the screen was a tired-looking Ellie buttering toast. He heard the door open behind him, and he knew who it would be.

  Peter sat down beside him quietly and looked at the screen. ‘Her name is Ellie. She is the partner of Gabriel, the man in our group who …’ Christopher paused.

  ‘Who beat up a fellow group member?’ Christopher nodded. ‘She is a lucky woman.’

  Peter wasn’t a cruel angel. Christopher had always trusted him, respected him, revered him. He believed that Peter had a serene even-handedness that one should be able to expect from someone in his position, yet seemed rare. He was tall and straight and perpetually calm. And he retained an ability to make Christopher nervous, had done for centuries. Christopher had never questioned his judgment about anything. But he had watched Ellie and seen Gabriel. And neither of them seemed to him to have been lucky. ‘I don’t think so,’ Christopher said, looking ahead.

  Peter sighed. ‘There is no excuse for violence.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And I understand that you have been less than...boundaried in your dealings with Gabriel. In fact, you have been unclear in communicating your role with just about all the members of this group.’

&nb
sp; ‘I can see how you might think that.’

  Peter turned to Christopher. His hooded eyes stretched as his eyebrows rose: more animation than the half-hearted therapist had ever seen from him.

  ‘These boundaries,’ Christopher said. ‘They don’t always help.’

  ‘Without them things get confusing.’

  ‘Sometimes things just are confusing. Boundaries don’t stop them being confusing; they just make us feel in control.’

  ‘That is naïve. The important thing is, and you know this is the case, you broke the rules.’

  ‘I wasn’t the only one.’

  Peter looked disappointed and that made Christopher almost flinch with shame. He put his hand on Christopher’s shoulder gently and whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’ He stood up. ‘There is a meeting for everyone in the courtyard in an hour.’ He stared down at his old friend, waiting for him to speak, but Christopher didn’t think he had anything to say.

  He could see that from a certain perspective it was all his fault. Not believing enough. Not simply doing his job. Therapists mediate; that is all he had to do, just let the process run through him and not burden it with whatever he felt. He had failed to do that. He knew that he had become involved in ordinary lives and worse, had been drawn into some kind of conflict with Clemitius at the expense of those ordinary lives.

  If I had done nothing, if I had seen what Clemitius called the bigger picture, he thought, then Gabriel would probably still be clinging to life and Ellie could be clinging to Gabriel. Clemitius would not have strayed from the room he owned as therapist, if Christopher had not given him reason.

  Christopher nodded slowly. It was his fault, or at least his responsibility.