'Do you mind if I smoke?' the Angel asked.
Michael waved, go ahead. It makes no difference. Once you go, my lungs will clean up again.
The movements of the Angel's pale, pudgy hand were jagged, as if pins were prodding him. With one hand, he flipped out a fag and then a match. His left hand tapped out a nervous rhythm on his thigh. The Guard had broken out in a sweat, and his eyes grew narrower and brighter as he looked about him. His eye fastened onto the wall covered with jumping Picassos. 'Did one of us paint those?' he asked, jabbing a finger at them. 'One of us copies.'
'You're quick,' said Michael.
'Have to be. Everyone in my family's a thief.' The Angel tapped the end of the cigarette on the matchbox before finally lighting up. He drew in gratefully, then blew out. 'You eaten anything?' he asked.
Michael had to think. 'No,' he said quietly. 'I meant to get a takeaway, but I forgot.'
'It's all right, I got plenty of dosh, I'll go get it for you.' The Angel bolted up from the sofa as if it were electrified.
'That wouldn't be honest,' said Michael.
'Why not, I bet I make more than you do.'
'Once you go back to whatever it is you come from, the money you gave the man will disappear. It would be like stealing. I'll give you my money.' Michael heaved his wallet out of his trousers.
'Disappear?' The Angel did a little shuffle in place.
'Mmm hmmm,' said Michael, and held out a tenner.
He took the money, then he said, 'I'll need the keys.'
Laboriously Michael passed those and then he said, 'You don't come back with them, I'll wipe you out of existence and they'll be back here in my pocket.'
'Not if I give them to the man. Then they'll stay there, won't they?'
A long pause.
'You don't really know what would happen with either the keys or the money.' The Angel rocked back and forth slightly on his heels.
That's right, Michael didn't. Another experiment he could make, if he had the heart for another experiment. If he hated killing chickens, why would he want to wipe out the Guard to discover if he got his keys back? And what would happen if his keys stayed lost?
'Knock and I'll open the door,' said Michael. 'Sorry, but you did say you were a thief.'
'I never. I said my family was. I tried all my life not to be, and I'm not, see?'
Michael nodded.
'Though… it does kind of leave you crook inside. Bent, in all kinds of directions.' The Angel smoothed down his hair, like drivers do after they've done something stupid like veer out of their lanes. Michael walked down the stairs with him, to let him out. The air felt like glue he had to fight his way through.
The Guard stopped to breathe out smoke. 'Funny, innit? I already know, nothing I say or do can make a difference to anything.'
'It's a shortcut to a lot of things, being an Angel,' said Michael.
The Guard said, 'Angel, huh. That's what you call us.'
'What would you call yourself?'
'Oh, a right little devil. What do you want to eat?'
'There's a little takeaway place, it looks like a minicab office. It does steak sandwiches. Turn left and left again. You'll find it, just follow the smell. Get something for yourself, too, if you want.'
'Right. I'll be back then.' There was an awkward smile and Michael rocked himself wearily to his feet. They thumped down the hollow wooden steps together, each of them sounding as real as the other.
Michael let the Guard out, and gave him a wave as he walked across the street. Michael discovered he had no energy to climb the stairs. He sat down on them instead, and waited. He thought of the Guard, the pale glow of his sweatiness, his pudginess, the crispness of the gelled hair, the rounded jelly of his arse in the tight trousers. It was as if repugnance were a sock that could be turned inside out. Michael thought of the wedding ring on the Angel's finger. He thought about that business of being bent in all directions. We'll do it if he wants to, Michael thought. That was the extent of the attraction.
Michael wished again that he were in love. If he were in love with someone, it would be sit-down meals and not takeaways. He would have someone he could talk to about the grant and the project and how he was to live through it. There was wisdom in love. Without love, wisdom stayed unformulated simply because there was no one who cared enough to talk.
There was a thumping on the door. Michael groaned to his feet, fumbled with the lock, and the Guard burst into the stairwell wafting a kind of freshness, interwoven with a delicious smell of steak.
'Brrrrrr, it's parky out there,' the Guard said, and bounded up the stairs. He strode ahead of Michael into the kitchen area. Cold vapour steamed off him. 'I should have borrowed one of your jackets. Right. I'll just put this away to keep warm.' He peered at the cooker and deciphered its ancient markings. 'Where are the plates?'
'Top shelf over the cooker.'
'Might as well warm the plates as well.' The Angel cast him a sideways glance. 'So. Can I spend the night here?'
'Yes, if you'd like.'
'Thanks,' said the Angel. 'Where are the place mats?'
'Um.' Michael couldn't remember. He had to remember where the place mats were and when he went to get them, he walked as if he had lead boots on.
'Knives… forks… salt.'
A lovely little setting for two was laid out on the table. Michael was aware of something like a mismatch between the man and his behaviour.
The Guard sniffed. 'You got anyone to clean this place?'
'No,' admitted Michael. 'I probably should. My last boyfriend wasn't exactly tidy.'
'Not exactly, no,' said the Angel. 'The whole place is covered in china clay. Did he do all those paintings then?'
'Yup,' sighed Michael. 'He's only been gone a couple of days.'
The Angel's back went very still. 'Where'd he go to?'
'His agent found him a place. He has his first exhibition next week.'
'Ah… so you do let some of us live, then?' The Guard said it as he stood up with candles for the candlestick.
Michael wasn't sure why he didn't like the Guard saying that, knowing that. He didn't have time to work out why he didn't like it.
'There we go,' said the Angel, holding out his hands to the professionally set table. He's worked as a waiter, Michael realized. 'You got any serviettes?' the Angel asked.
Later, Michael waited for him under the duvet of the bed. The Guard was one of those people who brush and spray. They try to wash their private parts without making a sound of water splashing, and they powder themselves. Michael knew the result well: the Guard would taste of alcohol base and smell like the ground floor of Selfridges.
The Guard walked back upstairs from the John wearing Michael's robe and holding in his tummy. He still had on his socks. He would have been handsome if he didn't leer and his body language had been less jerky and angular.
The Guard dumped himself next to Michael. He did indeed smell like a floral tribute. But the body was alabaster – smooth, plump and cool to the touch.
The Guard asked, 'What do you like doing?'
'It's more important to know what you like doing,' said Michael. 'You're married.'
'Yeah, well, I do other things too.'
'What, are you bi?'
'Yeah, sort of. I'm not a thief, but when I was younger… well I got sent down. My brothers needed some help on a job and I got caught. I wasn't so big then, in fact as it happens I was a bit small for my age. Anyway, while I was in the nick I sort of found out that if you let the other guys do things, then they weren't so… I don't know,
