Angel blinked, squinting against the sudden glare. They were standing in a huge entrance hall. There was a big sweeping staircase to their right with a tan leather porter’s chair tucked in beside it; the vast highly polished floor was chequered black and white marble; and above their heads, elaborate crystal chandeliers dazzled the eye.

A woman was standing right there beside them. She was tall and wearing a black skirt suit with a wide-collared white shirt. Her thick chocolate-brown hair hung loose onto her shoulders. Her face was arrestingly beautiful, her eyes dark like green tourmalines, her mouth painted a vibrant red. Her whole demeanour seemed to shout Don’t fuck with me or you’ll be sorry. She looked at Lenny, at Angel. Then her face softened and she held out her arms.

‘I’m Annie Carter,’ she said; her voice was low and husky. ‘Christ, you poor kid!’

The sympathy in the woman’s eyes broke Angel. Suddenly she was sobbing. She rushed forward and into the woman’s arms.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ Annie Carter told her, holding her close and steady. For the first time, Angel dared to hope it might be true.

105

Annie Carter took Angel upstairs into a large empty bedroom. The lighting was soft, the furnishings luscious – all pale pinks and golds. She went to a cabinet at the side of the room and came back with some amber liquid in a glass. She was also carrying a big plastic bag, which she dropped onto the floor.

‘Drink,’ said Annie.

‘I don’t,’ said Angel.

Annie almost smiled at that. ‘You do now. It’s brandy. It’ll make you feel a bit steadier. You’ve had a nasty shock.’

‘No. I don’t . . .’ Angel shook her head.

Annie eyed the girl’s face closely. ‘Your mum a bit of a drinker?’

Angel thought of Dora, drink-sodden and out of it on the couch. She nodded.

‘Then we got something in common,’ said Annie. ‘Mine was too. The drink killed her. What killed yours? Come on. Just a sip.’

Angel took the glass in both shaking hands and sipped. It burned all the way down, and left warmth behind it. Tears started in Angel’s eyes. ‘My mum overdosed. Pills.’

‘Never easy is it? Losing your mum.’

‘What will they do with him? With Donny?’ Angel asked. She sipped again at the brandy.

‘Not your problem,’ said Annie. ‘Let’s get you tidied up now. OK?’

‘I killed him,’ she gulped out, shuddering.

‘Listen. All that happened to someone else, a long time ago. Not to you. You didn’t kill anyone and you are never to say that, ever again. Not even to a priest. You never knew anyone called Donny Maguire. You got it?’

Annie took the brandy glass out of Angel’s hands, took the hat off her head and threw it into the plastic bag.

‘You got pretty hair,’ she said. ‘Lenny’s completely smitten, from what I hear.’

When Angel didn’t comment, Annie unbuttoned her coat as if she was a little girl. She paused and drew in a breath when she saw the bloodstains on Angel’s skirt and blouse. She folded the coat, shoved that too into the bag. Then she went over to a French armoire, opened a drawer and drew out a white nightdress.