128

The world has an alarming tendency to fall right in on your fucking head when you least expect it. Such was the case for Angel when she awoke one morning to find someone hammering on her front door.

Well, it was hers for now. An official order had been passed, freezing all Lenny’s bank accounts – though not yet hers, thank God – as it was pretty certain that all his millions were the proceeds of crime. The house was nearly empty, although they had left Angel the bed to sleep in at least. That too would go soon, she reckoned. Everything would go. At least the phone didn’t keep ringing any more, with people talking to her like she’d crawled out from under a rock, because BT had cut the damned thing off when the payment didn’t go through, and thank Christ for that.

The house was in Lenny’s name, and yesterday he’d received a letter from the bank who were supplying the mortgage. Angel had steamed it open in the kitchen and read the repossession order.

She was going to have to tell Lenny about all this when she saw him today. She’d received his visiting order and now she was bracing herself to go to Wandsworth and tell him that they were being hung out to dry and to ask him what the hell he’d been playing at. She crawled from the bed, wincing, groaning with exhaustion, hating to face yet another day.

Knock, knock, knock . . .

And that bastard out there kept pounding away at the door, in sharp counterpoint to her banging head. Last night, she’d drunk half a bottle of vodka and then poured the remainder down the sink. Drunk and reeling, she’d felt nothing but self-disgust; she’d reminded herself far too powerfully of her mother. Not good memories. Bad ones. Because every time she thought of Dora, she thought also of Donny Maguire abusing them both. Driving Dora to suicide. Driving Angel herself to despair and finally – horribly – to murder.

Shuddering, pushing the memories away again, she pulled on her robe and trudged down the stairs, crossing the hallway. Of course when Lenny was here, nobody could have even got to the front door. Apart from on the night of Lenny’s disastrous fortieth, when everything had been left open, Lenny would have had the gates closed and the alarms on and the intercom would have to be accessed before anyone came even close.

Angel hadn’t bothered with security since it all hit the fan. What the hell was the point? There was nothing in here worth stealing any more. All the pals Lenny’d been so close to had steered well clear since his arrest, they didn’t want any of his mud sticking to them and she could understand that.

She’d always known in her heart of hearts that he was dodgy, really. Feeling safe with him, protected, she’d just turned a blind eye. And now that all Lenny’s pigeons had finally come home to roost, she didn’t know how she felt. Maybe shattered. Maybe – weirdly – also a little relieved, because hadn’t she felt for some time that none of this could last?