“Bad boy.”
“You want pudding? Or are you done?”
“I’m done. My pudding is about ten boxes of chocolate at home.”
He nods and puts his coat on, heading for the bar to settle up. I breathe in the seasonal scented candles and wonder how I ever left this place. Then I look at Warrick and know, he’s the thing that makes everything seem magical. He takes me to paradise every time we make love and life without him isn’t even a possibility.
He helps me with all the shopping bags and we stroll down the deserted, cobbled old Victorian street outside. His hand seeking warmth under my coat and jumper, I fend him off and he laughs in my ear.
“Do you believe in angels, or demons?” he asks.
“Neither. Why do you ask?” I kiss his cheek, humouring him. He’s holding bags in his hands as am I, but with our free hands we’re holding each other.
“Something Kim said.”
“What?” I slide my feet along the slimy cobbles, slick with dew turned to ice.
“She didn’t believe in them either.”
“No?” I have no idea where he is going with this.
“That dream you had… maybe it was a warning.”
“Maybe, or an unconscious feeling deep inside me that something was wrong.” That’s how I like to think of it.
He stops in the street and stares straight into my eyes, our noses almost touching. He coughs out a nervous laugh and asks, “You know I’m not crazy, right?”
“Right?” I’m not sure if I gave him a question or an answer then?
“After Ronnie turned up dead, I saw something… strange.”
In late September, Ronnie Fitzgerald allegedly committed suicide from the stress of his job. It will never be publicly reported that he was Head of Organised Crime Division and also a criminal kingpin.
“What kind of strange?” I laugh. I must sound unconvinced.
“Forget it.” He shakes his head and walks on. He repeats, “Forget it,” like he’s telling himself that.
“No, what is it?” I tighten my hand in his and stop him walking.
His face fills with tension and I have to stop myself frowning in a mirrored response. “Okay, but I’m only telling you this because it’s Christmas and I reckon at this time of year, the more out-there happenings are easier to believe, something about miracles and all that, yeah?”
“Warrick! Tell me.”
“I was walking down the Avenue… about two weeks after Ronnie died. I was passing the place we met, but I was on the opposite side of the street. I looked up and down, and in the blink of an eye, I saw a woman with long black-grey hair, as long as yours. She reminded me of someone as she waved, like she was saying goodbye. I was walking among a crowd on the pavement, so I tried to duck out and get a better look. But when I looked again, she was gone. She was absolutely nowhere and it’s an open bit of street, there was nowhere to hide.”
Breath stolen from me, I remember to breathe and begin panting. “Oh. Did she have black eyes? Could you see from that far?”
“I reckon she did,” he says out of the slit of his tense jaw. Unlike me, Warrick still has 20/20 vision. “She reminded me of you.”
I drop my bags. “No.”
“Yes.”
Heat pounds behind my eyes and a shiver runs through my entire being. Tears fall incessantly and when Warrick catches me before I fall, holding me tight in his arms, I whisper, “You saw her too.”
“I saw her and I think she’s at peace. We might never know how she died, but I think she’s now at peace baby.”
We drop our bags and there in the street, we make out, we embrace, we cuddle, we gasp. I bury myself in his bristly face, his curly hair, his arms, his tongue, his lips, his throat. Sparks still fly every time we kiss, and being in his arms is home – feeling free. We show our affection here, do it all in public, in blind happiness, in complete restoration. I jump into his arms, wrap my legs around him and he spins me round and around. I squeal with happiness and he laughs loudly. He gave me the greatest gift I could ever receive.
Closure.
We gaze into each other’s eyes and the looks that pass between us mean so much. We’ve been to hell and back together. We’ve survived so much individual as well as shared pain and we’re stronger singularly but unbreakable together. We’re a thousand times more knowledgeable now than we were when we first met. We both know how easy it is to fall down the wrong path, to be taken in the wrong direction. Drugs tear families and people apart and those who escape should think themselves lucky. The only thing that matters is doing what we can and giving up all the lessons we’ve learnt. Whatever made Ronnie the way he was, we’ll never know. All we know is that we can give our kids and the kids that come through our doors the benefit of all our experience. We’ve faced moral dilemmas together, we’ve bared our souls, we’ve come from two sides of the fence and made a whole. We’ve overcome time, distance and strife to be together and all I know is that everything led us to this moment right now – this moment.
Warrick lets me down onto the slippery cobbles and I try not to slide around too much. I look deep into his eyes and say, “You never mentioned your mother’s name was Delilah. Terry mentioned it the other day. He got all emotional thinking about her. Must be the time of year.”
Somehow, I know Delilah (Lilah) visited me in my dream. Why? I’m still not sure. However, the more I think about the dream, I feel increasingly certain there was a message there – perhaps a warning. Maybe I will visit a psychologist one day to ask how they interpret such a vivid, enduring dream. Or maybe it is better to remain in the dark about the meaning of some things – and just accept the human mind interprets some things literally and others figuratively. For so long, Mum haunted me whenever I was alone – but maybe she was just trying to tell us that she wouldn’t rest until Ronnie Fitzgerald got what he deserved. I don’t know.
Warrick’s mouth twitches as he tries to hide a smile. “Maybe our mothers are looking after each other, like those twins from your dream, eh?”
I nod fast. “Happen they are, husband. Happen they are.”
We pick up our shopping and I race him back to the car. Both of us nearly fall over at least a dozen times, laughing and tittering hysterically, not caring about people who give us the eye. On the way home, I look through the car window trying to spot Mum at her usual haunts. However, she’s gone now – hopefully to a happier place.
Epilogue
Seven year old Julianne was getting ready for school. Her mother was sick that day, maybe too sad to get out of bed, so Jules was having to fend for herself. In the kitchen, Jules stood on a chair to reach the cupboard above for her cereal. She poured herself choco pops in a bowl and carefully added milk. The shelves were sparse and aside from cereal and tins of beans, there was little else. About to step down from the chair and eat in front of the TV, she couldn’t help but notice a big white packet in the cupboard which looked like sugar. Her mother told Jules she couldn’t have sugar on her food because she wasn’t old enough yet and had to wait for all her baby teeth to fall out first. Anyway the only time her Mummy ever had sugar was with her tea. Two sugars in fact, and sometimes, she drank three cups of tea before even leaving the house in the morning. Jules knew she wouldn’t be allowed to have tea until she was a very big girl.
Little Jules liked the decorative china sugar pot with matching tea caddy and coffee caddy so she took down the white packet and stood on the floor, reaching for the sugar pot on the sideboard. Lifting the lid off, she saw the pot was half empty so there was plenty of room to add more sugar and Jules thought her mum would be so pleased. Jules wanted to help her mum and do something nice to cheer her up, topping up the sugar pot. It was all she thought she was doing. Tea with sugar was her mum’s favourite.
Pouring the new sugar in, she noticed it was of a strange texture but thought nothing much of it, pushing the empty clear packet into the main waste bin. She would tell her mother later on… about what she had done all by herself. S
he never got the chance.
***
A split henna pot lay on the pavement, a beautiful woman bent over assessing the damage. Warrick was passing by and thought the girl would be okay to get the pot herself. He continued onwards, but after walking a little way ahead, he looked back over his shoulder. There was something about the girl. He saw beautiful women walking up and down this street all the time, but there was just something about her.
Now he could see she was being helped by a good-looking guy (probably her boyfriend), Warrick walked on.
“For goodness sake,” he thought he heard his mother whisper, and Warrick shook off the thought.
His mother was dead but occasionally, she came to him in dreams or in nightmares. She’d also been the ghostly apparition he saw during his cold turkey, urging him on to recovery.
Warrick continued walking on and when life’s challenges swallowed him up as he walked into his local community centre, he forgot about the girl. For then, anyway.
***
Yanked from the depths
Did he an angel become,
At an angel’s behest,
To rescue many a stranger
And put the mind of her,
Half his soul, at ease,
With a tale of ghostliness
Not real, but not impossible.
For anything is possible.
THE END
Thank You
Thank you for reading this book. At times you may have found it difficult reading but hopefully uplifting, too.
Abuse of alcohol and drugs destroys families and sometimes kills.
If you have been affected and need help, there are people out there who can give you help. You might feel alone like Jules once did – but reaching out is the bravest thing you might ever do.
Contact:
The Samaritans – http://www.samaritans.org
Mind – http://www.mind.org.uk
You Could Also Try . . .
HETTY:
An Angel Avenue Spin-Off
**HETTY NOW HAS HER OWN STORY**
“We were just meant to be and fate in all her conniving, wicked glory, wouldn’t have had this union any other way.”
Hetty is determined not to be a victim but she doesn’t see that in some ways, she still is. When something doesn’t go how she wants it to, she finds it incredibly difficult to overcome, and continually avoids situations outside of her control.
It isn’t just love that will change her, though. Oh, no. Cue a series of events which will shape the woman she will be ever after.
Enter three men, each with a lesson to deliver. One, an unassuming father figure. The next, a lover. The last, a friend from a different world to hers.
Hetty’s journey is a surprising, exciting and humbling one which may draw tears of laughter and of sadness from the reader.
**This novel does contain some details which would spoil the Angel Avenue duet if you haven’t read it yet, but Hetty is a brand new and fully resolved standalone in itself, which can be read and understood without reading the other books.**
CLICK TO BUY
Acknowledgements
There are two people I know personally who genuinely care in an occupational capacity. The first is my mum, who cares. She brought four children into the world with incredible love and affection when she herself was abandoned at four years old. Not only abandoned, but abandoned after the tragic deaths of her two elder brothers. In real life my mum cares for many characters, some of whom you might have met in this book.
Thanks to Dad who taught all four of his kids that dreams have meaning. Some dreams really do come true, as well. They really do. Having had such strong parents who turned their lives around is proving a constant source of inspiration to me.
Angie, you’ve bought the whole back catalogue babe and I heart you big style!!! We’ve held each other’s hair back when we’ve been sick and I’ll never forget you loading your car with all my stuff – remember? Not just once, but twice! Angie cared for adults with autism and she cared, a lot. Ang works in an intensive care unit and is also studying a degree in nursing as a mature student. She has had so much rotten luck but has never let it get her down. I am so proud of her. You’re proving it’s never too late for anything and I know your dad’s looking down on you.
The other person I have to thank is last but by no means least. Andrew, without you, there would be no Warrick Jones. Love is really the only thing that matters.
About the Author
Sarah Michelle Lynch wakes up in the morning and the first thing on her mind is words and the possibility of reading and writing more and more words. She is a little bit obsessed.
A career in journalism preceded Sarah’s writing career as an Independent author and despite an offer to get published, Sarah found it very difficult to let go of the freedom, variety and creativity self-publishing allows her.
When Sarah’s not reading words, she’s editing them, and when she’s not editing she’s writing. These days, to earn her right to write, she freelances as an editor.
Beyond Angel Avenue Page 34
