At ten, Angel went to bed. There was nothing to stay awake for. She wanted to sleep, to forget for a few blissful hours, before

she had to wake and remember that she was in this trap with no hope of ever being released.

In the morning she washed and dressed, then went into the lounge and yanked back the curtains. There Dora was, asleep on the couch as usual. Angel sighed. She picked up the empty voddy bottle and took it through to the kitchen. Filled the kettle and slapped it on the stove. Then she went back into the lounge, yanked back the dusty curtains, let in thin grey daylight. She gazed out at rooftops, buildings, pavements, people going about their daily lives when she and her mother were stuck here like slaves.

Angel went back into the kitchenette and made two mugs of tea. Then she carried both back into the lounge and set them down on a side table and sat down on the edge of the couch.

‘Time to wake up, Mum,’ she said, but Dora didn’t answer.

Fuck. She’s dead drunk again.

‘Mum! Come on, time to . . .’ She shoved her mother’s shoulder and instantly recoiled. Dora’s skin was cold.

‘Mum?’ Angel said, louder. Then she saw the small brown bottle that usually contained paracetamol. She picked it up from the floor. It was empty.

For the first time she looked, really looked at her mother. Dora’s face was bleached of all colour. With shaking hands Angel reached out, clasped her mother’s wrist. Oh God, she was so cold! Angel felt for a pulse. There was nothing there. She leapt to her feet and backed away from the couch, whimpering.

What to do, what to do?

Then she slumped down on the floor and wept bitter tears for Dora, and for herself, because now she was all alone in the world.

93

Lenny Axelford was seething. Tom had droned on and on about what a great asset this ‘Angel’ would be to the company, how terrific she was, and now, again, she’d failed to show up for interview.

The new motor for the middle stage had been fitted, but even that hadn’t gone right; the City boys had all taken the piss and were now chiselling away at the bill, wanting a refund, because again – this time during the actual performance – the damned thing got stuck halfway. Lenny had been on the phone to the suppliers half the morning, chewing their arses, and they were going to order in another new motor, which would arrive sometime next century he supposed.

‘That’s it,’ said Lenny. ‘Don’t give me the cow-eyed look, Tom, cos I ain’t buying. She had her chance and she fucked it up. She don’t get another one.’

Lenny surged toward the office door and then he stopped dead. He turned and fastened Tom with an angry stare. ‘No. Wait. Where does this cousin of yours live? You got her address?’