Gabriel's Angel

by Mark A Radcliffe

  For Katie and Maia

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank Bonnie Powell for her brilliant eyes and unwavering support and Gail Houghton, Tilly Bones, Paul Read, Gerry Holden, Penny Faith, Laetitia Zeeman and Matthew McGuchan for reading and commenting on early drafts and generally being kind when kindness helped. I’d also like to thank Kevin, Hetha, Lin and the family of Bluemoose for being so supportive, enthusiastic and energetic. And last but not least Katie for everything.

  1

  When Gabriel woke up nothing hurt, although as he opened his eyes he had the clear sense that something should. He turned his head from side to side and tentatively lifted himself up on to his elbows. He could move. There were no shooting pains, no absent or broken limbs, no pool of blood. A minute ago, unless he’d been dreaming, he had been walking through Shoreditch. He had gone to the bagel shop to buy bagels and a doughnut for Ellie. A moment ago he heard a car behind him, on the pavement. It had hit him—hard.

  He was lying on a double bed in what appeared to be a motel room, complete with coffee and tea-making facilities and what looked like a trouser press. He was wearing the same clothes he remembered putting on that morning. The same clothes he had worn to what might laughingly be called the “job interview” at GirlsandGames.com.

  He had no idea what he was doing here.

  Slowly, he got up and walked across the room to the dressing table. As he stood he gently touched the back of his head, then prodded his back. No holes, no bumps, no stitches. He looked in the mirror. No cuts, no bandages, the right number of eyes pretty much where he had left them. In front of him, next to a box of scented tissues, was what looked like a business card.

  He picked it up and read it: ‘Welcome, Gabriel. You will be our guest for a while. Put your shoes on.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ he mumbled. He sat on the bed and tried to think. He remembered leaving the interview and walking to the bagel shop. He looked around for the salmon and cream cheese bagels. They were nowhere to be seen. Beside him were two more cards. He picked them up and read the first: ‘We realise this is confusing. Try to relax.’

  ‘Bollocks. Where are my bagels?’

  He looked at the second card. ‘You swear a lot,’ it said, ‘Forget about the bagels.’

  Gabriel took out his mobile: ‘No network coverage.’ There was no phone in the room. ‘Typical,’ he said. ‘No phone but they keep the bloody Bible.’

  On the bed was another card; he didn’t remember it being there before. He picked it up. ‘Please try to be patient; in a few minutes someone will be along to explain things. Perhaps you’d like some herbal tea?’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, I’ve been kidnapped by hippies,’ he said loudly. It was possible, he thought, that this was a dream. He got up, walked to the wall, and banged his head against it. ‘Ouch,’ he winced. He rubbed his head. On the carpet in front of him, beside the skirting board, was another card. He picked it up:

  ‘Don’t do that!’

  The night before the accident, Gabriel had had an argument with Ellie. Not a big argument, just a normal argument. The kind they had most days. Ellie had suggested, tentatively, that they might want to consider some kind of counselling in an attempt to cut down on the bickering. She wasn’t convinced by the idea herself. She had suggested it mostly as a way of pointing out that they were bickering all the time and it was beginning to annoy her. She maybe hoped that mentioning it might have been enough but she wasn’t really surprised by Gabriel’s response. In fact, deep down she agreed with him. Which just annoyed her more.

  ‘No,’ said Gabriel. He had thought about investing this answer with all of the resentment he had collected that day but managed to restrain himself. He’d collected a lot of resentment, he gathered it the way those fat-lipped fish gather food from the bottom of the ocean floor. When Gabriel was having a bad day, he could scoop up ill-feeling from an empty room, and lately he felt that he had had more bad days than might be considered strictly fair.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they’re fucking repulsive.’

  ‘I can always count on you for the balanced view.’ Ellie wasn’t looking at him; she was sitting on the sofa, her feet on the coffee table, her long black skirt tucked tightly under her legs. She was sifting through a pile of letters. Gabriel hopped from foot to foot behind her. He closed his mouth long enough to pout. He had hoped for just a little attention.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Looking for a postcode,’ she murmured.

  ‘Are we having this conversation or not?’

  ‘Not yet we’re not, no.’

  ‘Oh well, let me know when you’re ready, won’t you.’ He overemphasised a sigh. Just in case it might have otherwise passed her by.

  ‘Gabe, it was just an idea. That’s all.’

  ‘OK, thanks, but having given it some thought, and weighed up the pros and cons, I feel I would rather circumcise myself with a rusty tin opener.’

  ‘That was plan B.’

  Gabriel was a tall man, athletically built, and he was not used to going unseen in a room. When it happened, particularly at home, he didn’t like it. There was, he knew, no point in looking exasperated if he was standing behind her, so he moved to the end of the sofa. They were in that place couples go to when they can’t quite decide if they are going to start shouting or not. It was a place where they had spent most of last week and the week before that. They’d also visited it for much of the previous April and a fortnight in May. They’d gone on holiday in June, and holidays always made it better, but they couldn’t keep away throughout a disappointing July.

  ‘I know what! Fuck the counsellor—’ snapped Gabriel.

  ‘I think we’d have to pay extra.’

  ‘Fuck the counsellor, let’s go and see an aromatherapist instead—a couple of sniffs of lavender and some ylang ylang ought to swing it; or better still, why don’t we go and see a mime artist?’

  Ellie ignored him.

  ‘I think that’s a much better idea. Every time we have a row we could nip round to Marcel Marceau’s house and see what he has to say. Well, obviously, he won’t say anything, he’ll probably pretend to be in an invisible box for about an hour, and then we’ll come home, but I’m sure things will be better.’

  She still wasn’t looking at him. She hated mime even more than everyone else. She had told Gabriel once that whenever she saw a mute, white-faced performing-arts student in Covent Garden she wanted to punch him. She was sure that he was remembering this when he mentioned Marcel Marceau. He was bringing mime into this argument just to annoy her. The bastard.

  ‘Why don’t you start practising now, Gabe? And shut the fuck up.’

  And he did. After a while he made her hot chocolate. She said thanks. He kissed her on the top of her head. They watched the news quietly and then they went to bed.

  The day of Gabriel’s accident had started the way most mornings did. He had brought the sleepy and hormonal Ellie a cup of tea, checked the teletext for any sports news that may have broken in the six hours he had slept fitfully, and subsequently smeared peanut butter on his trousers. Having established the rhythm of the day, he set off for the tube station and was rained on. Gabriel maintained that the advantage of living at the end of a tube line, like Walthamstow for example, or Upper Ongar, is that you always get a seat. The disadvantages are that you have to get on the bloody tube in the first place, and stay on it as the rest of London demonstrates its total lack of spatial awareness by standing on your feet or resting briefcases on your groin. You then have to wrestle past the unmoving, unhelpful, undead just to get off the train, and tramp round the decaying intestines of London Underground to find the bowels of hell that is the Northern Line.

 
Two more stops and Gabriel was in Camden, and at first it just seemed like an ordinary day.

  The first hint that it wasn’t came when he tried to log on, only to find the server was down. The next hint, and he really should have picked up on this before now, was that he was on his own apart from the two young administrative assistants, who were huddled in a corner.

  ‘Server down,’ said Gabriel matter-of-factly. They both looked at him sympathetically.

  ‘Where is everybody?’

  “Everybody” consisted of an editor, the IT guy, and Big Dave, the other writer.

  ‘They’re in there,’ one of them said, pointing to the editor’s office. ‘They said to tell you to go in.’

  Well, then why didn’t you, thought Gabriel, who by now was a bit suspicious. As soon as he opened the door, everyone looked at him and Big Dave said, ‘Hello mate, know of any good jobs?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘They’ve pulled the plug,’ said the editor. ‘I got a phone call late last night. No more website. We’re all out of work.’

  ‘Ah, fucking bollocks.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Dave.

  ‘I’m going to fuck up the software,’ said the IT guy. ‘By the time I get through with this equipment, they’ll be selling those computers off as hairdryers.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s a good way of ensuring you get redundancy pay,’ said the editor.

  ‘How much?’ asked Gabriel.

  ‘A month’s salary for every full year you’ve been here, plus another month.’

  I’ve been here five years thought Gabriel, that’s six months’ salary. ‘That’s not enough.’

  Silence.

  ‘Sports websites are not exactly booming at the moment,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Pub?’ said the editor. ‘First round’s on me, then it’s every man for himself.’

  ‘Is the pub open?’ asked Gabriel.

  ‘I know one that will be,’ said Big Dave.

  In the pub—one of those large, open-plan affairs with TV screens and onion rings on the lunch menu—Gabriel sat next to Dave.

  ‘What you going to do?’

  ‘No fucking clue,’ said Dave. ‘All I know is, that it’s not just us. Tellsport.com has laid off all its writers. It’s just a betting site with a picture of a naked woman now. Worldsports.com closed two weeks ago. The only sites left are betting sites or fronts for TV companies. What are you going to do?’

  ‘No bloody idea,’ said Gabriel. ‘But to start with, I may get drunk.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Big Dave.

  By lunchtime, workers from some of the companies that shared the building had heard of the redundancies and arrived to sympathise and buy drinks. These included Gabriel’s mate Sam, who was Ellie’s best friend’s husband. Such was his friendship that he was buying them Scotch.

  ‘Will you be able to get work?’ asked Sam.

  ‘I can’t see it, no work on the websites, all the papers and magazines are full,’ said Gabriel. ‘Best I can hope for is some freelance, and that’s not going to be easy. There are plenty of freelance journalists willing to write about football for next to nothing as long as they get a free ticket and a by-line. I’m a bit old to be competing with them. I need money.’

  ‘What did Ellie say?’

  ‘Haven’t told her yet.’

  ‘Right,’ Sam said before adding, ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’d like to offer her a solution to the problem rather than just the problem. She’s got enough to worry about at the moment, what with the IVF and the crap boyfriend. Feels like she’s doing all the work. Appreciate it if you didn’t say anything yet.’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘We need a money-making scheme, Gabe,’ said Big Dave, who was tanked. ‘Both of us—you for the kid you haven’t got and me for the kids I never see.’

  ‘Well, short of robbing a bank …’

  ‘Nobody robs banks any more.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘There’s always GamesandGirls.com’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘It’s work.’

  ‘So is drug dealing.’

  ‘Not strictly speaking, it isn’t.’

  ‘What is “games and girls”?’ asked Sam.

  ‘It’s a porn site,’ said Gabriel.

  ‘Well, they would describe themselves as a cross-interest website for men,’ said Dave. ‘Tabloid sports, top-shelf girlie pics, you can access chat with women and read all the latest gossip about football transfers. While you wank.’

  ‘Are they hiring?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Dave. ‘They virtually run themselves with freelancers. £120 a day, no benefits.’

  ‘How do they keep people with money like that?’ asked Sam.

  Dave and Gabriel just looked at him.

  ‘You thinking of going over to the dark side?’ Gabriel said to Big Dave.

  ‘I have child support to pay mate; I can’t afford principles. Can you?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I’m going to give them a call. Want me to mention you?’

  Gabriel nodded. ‘I’ll get us both a drink.’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ said Sam. ‘Scotch?’

  When Dave came back he was clearly not a happy man.

  ‘How’d you get on?’

  ‘Bastards.’

  ‘No go?’

  ‘Oh we can go, both of us: tonight at seven o’clock for an informal chat, put us through our paces. After that, any new freelancer is on £100 a day for the first two weeks, until they get to know the ropes. They knew who we were, both of us—said they’d read our work and whilst it might be appropriate for other sites, it might take a while for us to learn to produce material in their style. They fucking loved it.’

  ‘£100 a day?’ said Gabriel

  ‘That’s not so bad,’ said Sam.

  ‘After tax, and national insurance, you’re looking at about £65 a day,’ said Gabriel.

  ‘Which is shit,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘But better than nothing.’

  ‘Yeah—just. You up for it?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Gabriel. ‘I’d rather eat my feet.’ He paused and listened to himself. The bloke who was going to go home drunk and probably bicker again with the woman he loved. The woman who was, as he spoke, injecting herself in the arse with hormones—again—in order to give herself a one-in-four chance of getting pregnant with his child. And as of today, he couldn’t even pay for the treatment, let alone—and this was the first time this had occurred to him—support them both if she did get pregnant.

  ‘But if I did, I’d just fall over even more. So until something better comes along, GamesandGirls it is.’ And he knocked back the whisky.

  ‘Meet you there at five to seven,’ said Dave. ‘Leave your pride at home.’

  Gabriel got home at 2 p.m. and fell asleep on the sofa. He woke with a start when Ellie came in, and with a headache. He was confused for a moment, and still drunk. And his mouth felt like someone else’s trouser pocket.

  ‘What are you doing home?’ asked Ellie.

  ‘Home early,’ said Gabriel, an octave higher then he was expecting.

  ‘Yes, and drunk.’

  ‘No no, well a little, yes, I had to do this … thing …’

  He looked at her. She was so beautiful, swaying about a bit, which was a surprise, but beautiful nonetheless. He looked at the wall because he couldn’t lie to her and look at her at the same time, and the wall was swaying around a bit, too. He breathed deep, hated himself a little bit more, and said, ‘I’ve got to work this evening.’

  ‘What? You never have to work in the evenings. Not even during the football season.’

  ‘I do sometimes,’ said Gabriel, who found himself feeling quite defensive about the quality of his chosen lie.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well, now,’ he said irritably.

  ‘We are doing this together, aren’t we?’ said Ellie, who was
jammed full of hormones and feeling unusually tearful. Instantly she regretted it because she knew they were doing it together, and she didn’t really mind that he had to work late; it was just that she wasn’t really comfortable with the unexpected at the moment. She liked the routine they had established, it felt like balancing on a log, and if either one of them did anything that made them lose their balance then, well, maybe the drugs wouldn’t work.

  ‘Oh come on love, don’t do that.’

  ‘Well, what work exactly?’

  ‘They are talking about making some changes—I don’t know what that means—I am just watching my back and not making a fuss, pet.’

  ‘Don’t go losing your job, Gabe.’ Which felt like she’d taken a kitchen blender to his liver.

  ‘Well quite, which is why I think it’s best I work late on the rare occasion I am asked.’

  If Gabriel were the kind of man to be proud of his capacity to lie, this would constitute a double whammy. He had not only re-emphasised his commitment to keeping his job no matter what, but also put the prospect of his company being in a little trouble on the agenda, without worrying Ellie too much. However, lying well wasn’t a major ambition and so he felt sick.

  Later, after they’d eaten, washed up, and Gabriel had drunk two litres of water, he watched her as she folded clothes in the bedroom. She moved more carefully than she used to, more conscious of her body than before.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Swollen,’ she smiled.

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, I expect I will be, I mean waiting for them to make the embryos, I’ll be nervous. And then after that I will; won’t you?’

  Gabriel nodded.

  ‘But at the moment, it’s not nerves. At the moment I think I quite like the feeling of possibility, you know what I mean?’ Ellie had tears in her eyes but was looking away.

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘It doesn’t much matter.’

  ‘Oh come on.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Gabriel paused. How did he feel? ‘I don’t ever want to let you down, Ellie.’

  ‘I know, but how do you feel?’

  ‘Drunk?’