Nine

Late winter, and a night as cold and as silent and as dark as the grave. The worst of the weather was over but spring had limited itself to shoving up a few snowdrops. The temperature was above freezing but still nipple stretching cold as Marion locked the back door and hid the key beneath her usual flowerpot. She was confident that Brain would sleep on as she had spent the evening filling him with single malt. Just the right amount to ensure uninterrupted slumber until morning. There were to be no more close calls.

The lane behind their garden was an untidy rubbish strewn mess, but at three o’clock in the morning, when all but the owl slept, it was paradise for a middle aged naked woman. With every sense fully alive Marion slipped along the lane skipping from one shadow to the next. Her destination was the nearby wood with no name. One obstacle stood between her and the forest, and that was the blind street. It was named thus as it led to nowhere. Sixty years ago a small housing estate had been planned but bankruptcy followed by the Luftwaffe had put construction on hold, and then along came the Green Belt legislation which killed the project forever. All that remained was the beginnings of a street flanked by the blind sides of two houses. No one would see her as she slipped across the road. And if they did, who would recognise her, after all nobody would be looking at her face.

Marion reached the end of the lane and stopped. She was as vigilant as a bird on garden feeder, alive to every sound and movement in the shadows. Something wasn’t right. She felt in through the soles of her running shoes. Standing very, very still in deep shadow she checked behind and then ever so carefully she poked her head into the light to check the road. She caught a brief glimpse of a shambling figure before she jerked her head back into the safety of the dark. The sensible course of action was retreat, slip back through the dark areas and the calculated path through the garden. Something held her there, something inside her that felt the risk and fed off the danger of being caught. Marion held her breath and listened to the beating of her heart and waited. Nothing came past the end of the alley; he should have been there within seconds. Perhaps the interloper into Marion’s adventure had taken a wrong turn and returned to street. The staggering gait had suggested he was drunk. She had come so far now that she didn’t want to go back so carefully, ever so carefully she manoeuvred one eye so she could see. What she saw caused her to curse under her breath, the man had collapsed and was lying twitching on the ground, a dark heap spread across the line of amber light drawn by the street lamp on their avenue beyond. Somehow she knew he was not drunk. She shivered with the cold in the dark winter night as the realisation dawned that he would not survive if she left now.

With hindsight it was all so simple. She should have returned home, and telephoned for an ambulance saying that she had heard something in the street and when she looked there was a man clearly in some distress. Then she could have donned a long warm coat to become his Florence Nightingale. But the light of hindsight is always blinding and strong, and instead of being comforted by a Samaritan ,Tomas O’Leary was looking at an angel. He knew she was an angel because who else would be standing over him in the middle of a freezing night on a street to nowhere. He had been told all angels were naked and this woman certainly filled the bill, although he dimly recollected that angels were supposed to be hermaphrodite and this one was most certainly female. If was to be picky he would have chosen a younger, less plump angel to escort him to St Peter’s Gates, but she had decent sized breasts and a good figure and frankly he was in no position to complain.

Tomas O’Leary had suffered a mild stroke as he left the restaurant where he worked as a chef. This had confused him to the extent that he had caught the wrong bus. When he had realised his mistake he was far from the city centre and heading away from home. Having been assured by the bus driver that another bus was due in the opposite direction he had disembarked at the end of Belvoir Avenue. The shock of the cold air had triggered a second stroke, and now, blind in one ey,e and very greatly confused had staggered drunkenly along the avenue to the dead end street where his naked angel witnessed his third and almost fatal stoke. He smiled as she stroked his head, her long dark hair covering her face, he wanted to tell her he was prepared and waited as she began to speak. Tomas expected a voice of purity ushering him towards the heavens, instead a low gruff voice told him he needed an ambulance and asked if he had a mobile phone on him.

Stunned at the earthliness of his angel he asked a stupid question “Don’t you have one?”

“How could I carry a mobile phone” asked Marion in her own voice. Suddenly she realised she was squatting in front of him, his head level with her crotch. “Don’t answer that” she said quickly. By way of reply Thomas moved his on good hand weakly towards his jacket pocket. His naked angel understood. “What’s your name” she asked as she pulled the phone from his pocket. Surely she should know, an angel sent to usher him to paradise? Perhaps it was a test? “Tomas O’Leary” he mumbled, hoping that his name was on her list.

Marion took the phone from his pocket wondering what she should do next, the man was clearly very ill, but how could she stay with him. She retreated against the wall of the street very conscious that the light from the phone’s keyboard would illuminate her bare body. Quickly, before she had time to change her mind she dialled for an ambulance.

“What is the problem Sir” She smiled, her gruff voice had fooled them.

“I think I’ve had a stroke”

“What symptoms do you have?”

Marion reeled off what Tomas had complained of and told them where she was and that her name was Tomas O’Leary. She finished with a low moan that she hoped would be interpreted as another stroke and, leaving the line open returned to the prone chef. She carefully wiped off her fingerprints and laid the phone on the pavement. The plaintive pleas of the operator for more information, followed by the blessed announcement that the ambulance was on it’s way sounded like the public announcer at Waterloo Station in the quiet dark street.

“You’ll stay with me until the end?” Tomas asked weakly.

Marion smiled and assured him in a warm voice that she would stay until they came. She gripped his hand which was even colder than hers. This was not good, she was crouching over an ill, but fully clothed man, and he was colder than stark naked her. To Marion it seemed like an age, although in reality it was but a few short minutes, but finally the walls of the houses reflected the blue light of the emergency vehicle, and with it came the unlikely dawn of hope. Marion laid her hand gently on Tomas head and whispered into his ear. “They are coming now, I must leave now,” and with a final “good luck” Tomas naked angel sprinted for the alley way. She reached the haven of its shadow just as the lights of the ambulance swung into the road, picking up the mound that was Tomas. Whatever happened now it was out of her hands, she had done all she could. Marion’s main priority now was the race for home before any of her neighbours were woken and poked their nosey heads through the curtains.

At least the run had warmed her up she thought as she kicked off her trainers and put on the robe she had left waiting by the door. Quickly, but quietly, Marion climbed the stairs and went into Isla’s vacant bedroom where she opened the curtains just a chink and looked into the avenue, just in time to see the ambulance speed past, blue lights flashing. That must be good news she thought to herself, they wouldn’t rush if Tomas had died. There was even better news when she returned to bed, Brian was fast asleep, so he would have no suspicions.