Bad Angels

by Rebecca Chance

  ‘I read about it in a Regency novel by Georgette Heyer, going to Gretna Green to get married,’ Zhivana piped up excitedly. ‘Black Sheep. You can still do it! I was so excited!’

  ‘Jesus,’ Dasha said, looking at Zhivana contemptuously. ‘That’s what’s going to breed my grandchildren?’

  ‘Dasha!’ Grigor turned to yell at her again. ‘Shut up! Suka ty sumasshedshaya! You are a mad, crazy bitch!’

  But Dasha was on the move, pulling Aniela with her, the glass of the Christmas star still pressed deep into Aniela’s neck. She was edging round the tree, heading for the cover of the second lift bank.

  ‘I’m going out the back door,’ she said loudly. ‘Don’t try to stop me. Or I’ll kill this big Polack cow.’

  She jabbed the tip of the glass shard so hard against Aniela’s skin that she drew more blood: Zhivana let out a wail as she saw the blood trickling down onto the collar of Aniela’s uniform. Aniela was very pale, her head tilted at a painful sideways angle as Dasha dragged her along, forcing her to walk in front of Dasha, a human shield. The two women, wedged into each other awkwardly, like a parody of an embrace, moved past the base of the tree, almost their entire bodies exposed to view now. Blood was clotted on Aniela’s arm from Dasha’s nails, and smeared into Dasha’s hair where Aniela had hit her with the bowl. The sight of the two combat-scarred women was so grotesque that everyone stared at them in horror. Grigor’s bodyguards had their guns drawn, but none of them knew what to do: this, after all, was their boss’s wife.

  ‘Tell him to take the gun off me!’ Jon said urgently to Grigor. ‘She’ll kill her! I can stop her!’

  Grigor barked the order at the bodyguard holding the Glock on Jon, who dived for his gun. But Dasha and Aniela were already out of range for Jon’s Glock; they were concealed by the angle of the tree, the jut of the lift shaft.

  ‘That’s right, you dumb Polish cow,’ Dasha hissed at Aniela, twisting the glass into the wound on her neck, making Aniela gasp in pain. ‘Keep up with me or I’ll tear your throat out...’

  The next second, a shot rang out. Dasha toppled back, grasping her arm, from which blood was spurting. Aniela pushed her away and fled, jumping over the tree, heading straight for Jon, hitting his body like a cannonball fired at close range. He took the impact without flinching, a net in which she landed, his arms wrapping round her, her head buried against his chest. Everyone else looked around in shock, unable to understand who had fired the bullet, because no one had had a clear shot at Dasha: the lift shaft blocked them almost completely.

  And then, as one, their heads slowly turned. Everyone gradually worked out the angle from which the shot must have come, and they swivelled round to stare in disbelief towards the lobby doors, where Melody stood with James. He was lowering the Glock that Melody had retrieved earlier, a modest little smile of satisfaction on his face.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s Dr Who!’ Andy exclaimed. ‘Did you use your sonic screwdriver?’

  ‘You?’ Grigor exclaimed in disbelief. ‘But you are an actor! You shot my wife?’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ James said apologetically. ‘But she was hurting that poor girl, and I thought she really ought to be stopped. I just winged her.’

  ‘You make an amazing shot!’ Grigor said, shaking his head in disbelief, and several of the bodyguards murmured in respectful agreement.

  ‘She’s getting away!’ Wayne called, as Dasha, one hand plastered to her arm, from which blood was pouring, ducked around the back of the lift shaft, going for the back door; Grigor barked an order and two guards ran to cut off her escape route, catching her shoulders, frogmarching her back.

  ‘I’ve been cast in Mission Impossible VI,’ James explained, carefully clicking on the Glock’s safety. ‘I’m the German villain, rather amusingly. The director’s awfully keen on authenticity, so he’s been having me do lots of target shooting – it turns out I’m rather good with handguns. My instructors are very pleased with me.’

  Jon, raising his head from Aniela’s, let out a long slow whistle.

  ‘Jeez,’ he said. ‘That was quite a risk you took, buddy. You could have shot my girl.’

  ‘Oh, I’m used to moving targets too,’ James reassured him, smiling. ‘I’ve been clay pigeon shooting since I was ten. Not to worry.’

  ‘Clearly,’ Jon said dryly.

  ‘Don’t listen to him!’ Dasha screamed from the far side of the lobby; she was being bundled away by the bodyguards. ‘He’s from the CIA! He’s an assassin for them! He’s a CIA assassin, Grigor – he was trying to kill you, not me—’

  In Jon’s arms, Aniela stiffened with fear. But he remained perfectly calm, shaking his head, smiling, as if he couldn’t help being amused by this blatant lie.

  ‘She’s just angry because I wouldn’t do what she wanted,’ Jon said to Grigor. ‘I don’t even know why she asked me in the first place. I’m just a stuntman – I don’t go round killing people.’

  ‘Liar!’ Dasha shrieked. ‘You are a liar!’

  ‘And you,’ Aniela yelled back at her, ‘don’t even know your history! The Poles didn’t do anything to the Russians at Stalingrad, you stupid bitch! It was the Germans!’

  But then the bodyguards shoved Dasha into one of the lifts, and the insults she screamed back at Aniela were blurred by the closing doors. They could still hear her for a few seconds more, ululating in fury as the lift descended.

  ‘She is a mad, crazy woman!’ Grigor said furiously. ‘You saved me from her on Christmas Day,’ he added to Jon. ‘I know you are not trying to kill me, my friend. Not to worry.’

  He slapped Jon on the shoulder; Jon staggered a little, and Aniela, remembering that he had been shot, pulled back, shocked.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she moaned, her usual professional calm completely deserting her, ‘your leg...’

  Everyone looked down at Jon’s thigh and winced.

  ‘It went straight through,’ he reassured her. ‘I’ve had—’ He was about to say worse, but remembered, just in time, that he was a stuntman, not a hitman. ‘I’ve taken plenty of knocks in my job,’ he corrected himself. ‘But we should get this cleaned up, make sure there isn’t any fabric in the wound.’

  Grigor snapped orders at the bodyguard who had been holding the Glock on Jon; the big, burly man strode over to Jon, took him firmly under one arm, and half-carried him over to the door that led to the Clinic, Aniela bustling after them.

  ‘Everyone!’ Andy, the party organiser, called. ‘It’s nearly midnight!’

  ‘Quick! We must go up to the party!’ Grigor said excitedly.

  ‘No, there isn’t time!’ Andy raced over to his desk, turned on his little TV and cranked up the volume to maximum. ‘There’s only a couple of minutes to go!’

  ‘ – a really amazing atmosphere in Trafalgar Square, despite the falling snow,’ the reporter said, her voice raised over the din of the happy crowd behind her. ‘You can hear them now – “God Save The Queen”’s being sung by a big group behind me, very patriotic – and the countdown is about to start, it’s almost just a minute to midnight—’

  The noise of cheers, singing and revellers yelling poured from the TV’s speakers. Dmitri took hold of Zhivana’s hands, the two newlyweds smiling with enchantment into each other’s faces. By the Clinic door, Jon paused, and the bodyguard stepped back as Jon reached for Aniela.

  ‘I’ve never been so scared in my life as when I saw those lift doors closing on the two of you,’ he said solemnly. ‘I felt so shitty not being able to protect you.’

  ‘But I am all right!’ Aniela reassured him. ‘I was so scared for you – I didn’t know if she had killed you—’

  She shivered at the thought.

  ‘Aniela, I want you to come with me,’ he said, pulling her into his arms. ‘To the States. I want you with me the whole time, so I can do my damndest to make sure nothing bad happens to you.’

  ‘I can’t be with you the whole time,’ Aniela said, happiness flooding through her like bubbles, making
her feel as light as air.

  ‘I’ll keep you as close as possible,’ he vowed.

  ‘And when you’re not there, I can be saved by Dr Who!’ she said, dizzy with disbelief that this was actually happening, that her dream was coming true.

  Jon laughed. ‘So you’ll come?’ he said, his arms tightening round her. ‘You’ll come to Montana with me and live on a huge ranch with just me and a whole bunch of animals?’

  ‘I would love to!’ Aniela said joyously, her eyes sparkling at the prospect. ‘I love animals! I am a farm girl. Can we have dogs?’

  ‘Sure! Maybe Rotties?’ he said. ‘You OK with them? They have a bad rep, but—’

  ‘Oh no, they are very good dogs,’ she agreed. ‘And if you have cows, they are very good indeed. You know, they were bred for—’

  ‘Herding cattle,’ he finished, grinning. ‘You really are a farm girl. You won’t be lonely?’ he added. ‘Out in the middle of nowhere with me and the dogs?’

  She reached up and pulled his head down for a kiss.

  ‘No. Only you and some dogs, that is fine,’ she said contentedly. ‘I told you before I didn’t like people.’

  ‘Yeah, I never got that,’ Jon said. ‘How come you went into nursing if you don’t like people?’

  Aniela, whose name in Polish meant ‘angel’, smiled at him.

  ‘I wasn’t a nurse because I liked people,’ she said simply, ‘but because I like to fix things. Make people whole.’ She reached up and patted Jon’s cheek. ‘And now I’m fixing you.’

  He stared down at her, swallowing hard, because he was unable to speak.

  Slowly, he shook his head, not in denial, but in shock at how his life had utterly changed since he had met Aniela just nine days ago.

  ‘Oh!’ He reared back. ‘I have to tell you something – before you decide to come to the States with me – This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, he thought. The bravest I’ll ever have to be.

  ‘I killed my father when I was seventeen,’ he blurted out in a rush. Looking anxiously down at her, waiting for her reaction, he had never felt so nervous in his life. Not even on his first mission.

  To his amazement, Aniela reached up and stroked his cheek again. ‘I’m sure you had a good reason,’ she said.

  Over at the doors, James was handing the Glock back to the bodyguard it belonged to, who received it with a ceremonial nod of his head.

  ‘You shoot good, Doctor Who,’ he said, backing away as James turned eagerly to Melody.

  ‘Darling, you got the part!’ he blurted out. ‘You got Beatrice! Isn’t that wonderful?’

  Melody actually thought she was going to faint; the blood rushed from her head.

  ‘That’s why I shot over here, to tell you! I was at a party with Martin, and he’d had quite a few – he told me he’d talked Cate round, convinced her to cast you – and of course, I’ve been telling both of them that you were the only one I wanted for Beatrice,’ James went on eagerly.

  ‘Not Felicity?’ Melody asked in disbelief. ‘You didn’t want her? She said—’

  ‘Felicity said a lot of things,’ James said grimly. ‘She told me you and Brad were having an affair from the moment you went to LA, that you pulled the casting-couch thing to get the part. And that you were only trying to get back with me because LA didn’t work out.’

  ‘Oh no! I—’

  ‘I should never have believed her,’ James said softly. ‘She made a big push to seduce me at my Christmas Eve party, and I was so lonely, I fell for it. I was a total idiot. Kathy tried to warn me, but I was pretty much on a bender for a couple of days, and Felicity sort of clamped on and wouldn’t let go. God, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry!’ Melody said quickly. ‘It was my fault, I left you in the lurch—’

  ‘Stop, darling!’ He kissed her again. ‘I’ve forgiven you. I saw those photos of you in the press, and I felt so awful about what you’d been through – all the pain you put yourself through. Kathy told me a couple of days ago that she was sure it was Felicity who set the paparazzi onto you.’ He shook his head. ‘I was such an idiot to get involved with Felicity at all. I promise it didn’t mean anything. I was just so lonely without you – in our house, with all the memories of you everywhere... I was so hoping you’d get Beatrice. I thought it would be a perfect way for us to get back together – and when I saw Martin, and he told me, I couldn’t wait, I wanted to come and see you right away, and so I rang Kathy and badgered her until she told me where you were staying, and I found a cab and rushed straight over—’

  ‘Oh, James, I’m so happy!’ Melody said, clinging to him. ‘I’m just so happy!’

  ‘Wey-hey! Happy New Year!’ yelled a loud voice. ‘We brought you the party!’

  It was Patrice, who, with a couple of other footballers, tumbled out of the lift, a few of Diane’s girls in their wake. Patrice was carrying a magnum of champagne, its wire and foil already pulled off: his thumbs were cupped under the cork, and he started to ease it out, yelling, with the others, ‘Four! Three! Two! One!’

  Wayne, standing beside Grigor, suddenly sprang to life, running across the lobby. His stocky body moved with a sprinter’s speed, and as he reached Andy’s desk, he put one hand on top and vaulted up and over it. Gymnasts, male and female, can’t grow too much: when coaches cherry-pick children for training, they ask how tall the parents are, to make sure that they’re not wasting their time coaching kids whose bodies will be too long to be effective. The push of Wayne’s big thighs sent him flying through the air, and his compact body made it easy to control his direction. He landed exactly where he had planned to, squarely next to Andy, who goggled at him, amazed.

  He was even more amazed when Wayne pulled him into his arms, announced loudly:

  ‘I’m gay, everyone! I’m totally gay!’

  And slammed his mouth into Andy’s just as bells rang out and fireworks exploded on the TV screen.

  ‘Happy New Year!’ Patrice shouted obliviously, spraying everyone with champagne. The girls squealed, the bodyguards backed off, Grigor waved his arms in delight.

  ‘Happy New Year!’ he yelled, beaming wide. ‘Happy bloody New Year!’

  Patrice, swivelling the huge bottle like a machine gun, turned to direct it on Wayne and gawped at the sight of him embracing Andy, not having heard Wayne’s coming-out battle cry.

  ‘Mate!’ he exclaimed. ‘What the fuck! Is that a man?’

  Sergei, by Grigor’s side, sneered in triumph at the sight of his rival kissing a man so passionately. He looked as if, several days late, he had been given the best Christmas present he could conceivably have wanted.

  ‘I’m gay, Patrice!’ Wayne dragged his mouth from Andy’s. ‘Get used to it!’

  Patrice’s eyes bugged wide in shock. He turned to Grigor.

  ‘Mr K?’ he said weakly. ‘You know about this?’

  Grigor glanced over at Wayne and Andy. Beside him, Sergei was so eagerly awaiting his boss’s reaction that he had completely stopped breathing; his cheeks were blowing up like a chipmunk’s, and he was red as a turkey-cock.

  ‘Wayne can fuck sheep if he wants, as long as he keeps scoring goals for me,’ Grigor said, shrugging. ‘What do I care where he puts his dick?’

  All the breath shot out of Sergei as if he had been punched in the stomach. His lower lip trembled visibly with his disappointment at Grigor’s indifference to Andy and Wayne having coupled up.

  ‘It’s where he puts his balls that matters!’ Andy said irrepressibly. ‘Right, Mr K?’

  Grigor roared with laughter. ‘Right! Andy, you are a good boy! You keep him happy!’

  ‘But – Chantelle—’ Patrice managed, still having a hard time processing this revelation.

  ‘Patrice, she’s a lezzer!’ Wayne said. ‘She fucks your Corinne every chance she gets! They’re probably at it right now!’

  ‘Really?’ Patrice’s eyes widened.

  ‘Everyone!’ Grigor shouted, waving both arms in the air. ‘We go upstairs no
w, to set off fireworks! Everyone is invited!’

  Andy wrapped his hand into Wayne’s as the guests began to head towards the lift.

  ‘You all right?’ he said in an undertone.

  ‘Never better,’ Wayne said decisively.

  ‘It wasn’t the drink talking? You’re not going to regret this when we sober up?’

  Wayne shook his head, squeezing Andy’s hand.

  ‘I feel like I’ve got the weight of the world off my shoulders for the first time ever,’ he said, grinning like a madman. ‘It’s brilliant! I wish I’d done this years ago!’

  ‘Oh my God, Mr Bingham-Smythe! I completely forgot about him!’ Aniela pressed her hands to her cheeks in horror and turned to the bodyguard helping Jon. ‘I can take Jon – please, can you go up to the fortieth floor, there’s a man in a wheelchair there, can you bring him back down and into the Clinic—’

  But just then, a ping came from the closer bank of lifts, and out of one of the cars came stumbling a very confused-looking man in stripy pyjamas and with a heavily bruised face.

  ‘I just woke up in a wheelchair,’ he said, ‘and there was no one around – so I thought I’d better come down here and see what was going on – oh, I say,this is the party those chaps were talking about!’

  Holding onto a marble pillar for support, he took in the scene around him: water and champagne puddled over the tiled floor, a whole cluster of people turning to stare back at him. Jeremy Bingham-Smythe looked from the famous face of Patrice, still clutching the magnum, to the even more famous face of Wayne Burns, hand in hand with a burgundy-uniformed concierge, to a gaggle of impossibly beautiful girls in tight dresses and high heels, to black-clad looming bodyguards with Grigor at their centre, to Zhivana and Dmitri still in their coats, thin and pale – and over by the lobby door, to a couple who were the most recognisable of all—

  ‘Oh my God, I’m hallucinating!’ he exclaimed, clapping one hand to his forehead, and looking at the contents of his other hand with bemusement. A bodyguard rushed over to relieve him of the Glock he was carrying.

  ‘Thank you so much! Is it yours?’ Jeremy Bingham-Smythe said. ‘It was in the lift for some reason – I thought I’d better retrieve it. Not particularly safe to leave it lying around, eh?’