Fallen Angel

‘I wish – I wish I’d known.’

‘Why? What could you have done? Given her a new set of coronary arteries?’

He tried to rid his mind of the figure on the bed in the front room upstairs. Never large, Thelma had shrunk still further in death. He glanced at Angel, who was making coffee. She was quite at home here, he thought, as if this were her own kitchen.

‘What happened last night?’

She turned, spoon in hand. ‘You don’t remember? I’m not surprised. The wine had quite an effect on you, didn’t it? I didn’t realize you had such a weak head.’

He remembered the basement restaurant in Soho. Snatches of their conversation came back to him. The silk tie, blue with green stripes. Himself vomiting over the shiny bonnet of a parked car. Orange candle flames dancing in Angel’s pupils. The three white tablets in the palm of her hand.

‘Did you see my mother last night?’

‘No.’

‘So what happened when we got back?’

‘Nothing. I imagine she must have been asleep. I took you upstairs and gave you some aspirin. You went out like a light. So I covered you up and went to bed myself.’

‘You’re sure?’

Angel stared at him. ‘I’m not in the habit of lying, Eddie.’

He dropped his eyes. ‘Sorry.’

‘All right. I understand. It’s never easy when a parent dies. One doesn’t act rationally.’

She paused to pour water into a coffee pot which Eddie had never seen before. He sniffed. Real coffee, which meant that it was Angel’s. His mother had liked only instant coffee.

A moment later, Angel said in a slow, deliberate voice: ‘We had a pleasant meal out last night. Your mother was asleep when we got home. We went to bed. When I got up this morning I was surprised that your mother wasn’t up before me. So I tapped on her door to see if she was all right. There was no answer so I went in. And there she was, poor soul. I made sure she was dead. Then I woke you and phoned the doctor.’

Eddie rubbed his beard, which felt matted. ‘When did it happen?’

‘Who knows? She might have been dead when we got home. She was certainly very cold this morning.’

‘You don’t think …?’

‘What?’

‘That what happened yesterday might have had something to do with it?’

‘Don’t be silly, Eddie.’ Angel rested her hands on the table and stared down at him, her face calm and beautiful. ‘Put that right out of your mind.’

‘If I’d stayed with her, talked with her –’

‘It wouldn’t have done any good. Probably she would have made herself even more upset.’

‘But –’

‘Her death could have happened at any time. And don’t forget, it’s psychologically typical for survivors to blame themselves for the death of a loved one.’

‘Shouldn’t we mention it to the doctor? The fact she was … upset, I mean.’

‘Why should we? What on earth would be the point? It’s a complete irrelevance.’ Angel turned away to pour the coffee. ‘In fact, it’s probably better not to mention it. It would just confuse the issue.’

The dreams came later, after Thelma’s funeral, and continued until the following summer. (Oddly enough, Eddie had the last one just before the episode with Chantal.) They bore a family resemblance to one another: different versions of different parts of the same story.

In the simplest form, Thelma was lying in the single bed, her small body almost invisible under the eiderdown and the blankets. Eddie was a disembodied presence near the ceiling just inside the doorway. He could not see his mother’s face. The skull was heavy and the two pillows were soft and accommodating. The ends of the pillows rose like thick white horns on either side of the invisible face.

Sometimes it was dark, sometimes misty; sometimes Eddie had forgotten his glasses. Was another pillow taken from Stanley’s bed and clamped on top of the others? Then what? The body twitching almost imperceptibly, hampered by the weight of the bedclothes and by its own weakness?

More questions followed, because the whole point of this series of dreams was that nothing could ever be known for certain. What chance would Thelma have had against the suffocating weight pressing down on her? Had she cried out? Almost certainly the words would have been smothered by the pillow. And if any sound seeped into the silent bedroom, who was there to hear it? Who, except Eddie?

There had not been an inquest. Thelma’s doctor had no hesitation in signing the medical certificate of cause of death. His patient was an elderly widow with a history of heart problems. He had seen her less than a week before. According to her son and her lodger she had complained of chest pains during the day before her death. That night her heart had given up the unequal struggle. When he saw the body, she was still holding her glyceryl trinitrate spray, which suggested that she might have been awake when the attack began.

‘Just popped off,’ the doctor told Eddie. ‘Could have happened any time. I doubt if she felt much and it was over very quickly. Not a bad way to go, all things considered – I wouldn’t mind it myself.’

After Thelma had gone, 29 Rosington Road became a different house. On the morning after the funeral Angel and Eddie wandered through the rooms, taking stock and marvelling at the possibilities that had suddenly opened up. For Eddie, Thelma’s departure had a magical effect: the rooms were larger; much of the furniture in the big front bedroom, robbed of the presence which had lent it significance, had become shabby and unnecessary; and his and Angel’s footsteps on the stairs were brisk and resonant.

‘I think I could do something with this,’ Angel said as she examined the basement.

‘Why?’ Eddie glanced at the ceiling, at the rest of the house. ‘We’ve got all that room upstairs.’

‘It would be somewhere for me.’ She laid her hand briefly on his arm. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, but I do like to be by myself sometimes. I’m a very solitary person.’

‘You could have the back bedroom.’

‘It’s too small.’ Angel stretched out her arms. ‘I need space. It wouldn’t be a problem, would it?’

‘Oh no. Not at all. I just – I just wasn’t quite clear what you wanted.’

There was a burst of muffled shouting. Eddie guessed that it emanated from the basement flat next door, which was occupied by a young married couple who conducted their relationship as if on the assumption that they were standing on either side of a large windy field, a situation for which each held the other to blame.

‘Wouldn’t this be too noisy for you?’ he asked.

‘Insulation: that’s the answer. It would be a good idea to dry-line the walls in any case. Look at the damp over there.’

As they were speaking, she moved slowly around the basement, poking her head into the empty coal hole and the disused scullery, peering into cardboard boxes, rubbing a clear spot in the grime in the rear window, trying the handle of the sealed door to the garden. She paused by the old armchair and wiped away some of the dust with a tissue.

‘That’s nice. Late nineteenth century? It’s been terribly mistreated, though. But look at the carving on the arms and legs. Beautiful, isn’t it? I think it’s rosewood.’

Eddie remembered the smell of the material and the feeling of a warm body pressed against his. ‘I was thinking we should throw it out.’

‘Definitely not. We’ll have it reupholstered. Something plain – claret-coloured, perhaps.’

‘Won’t all this cost too much?’

‘We’ll manage.’ Angel smiled at him. ‘I’ve got a little money put by. It will be my way of contributing. We’ll need to find a builder, of course. Do you know of anyone local?’