“Who? I can’t resolve your situation if I don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
Anger flashed in the man’s eyes. He banged his fist on the table, making the machete jump and slide closer to him. “Just call them!”
He threw the phone to Dylan and then stood—grabbing the machete—and moving across the room to stand over Dylan. “I’ve got the number right here, so don’t try any funny business.”
A scrap of paper drifted down towards Dylan as the door to the room opened. Tony stared in like a rabbit caught in headlights.
“Fuck off!” the man roared.
“Um . . .” Tony stuttered. “Dylan has a phone call in the next room. Could he step out for a minute?”
“No. He’s staying here until he’s sorted this mess. Don’t open that door again or I’m gonna hurt someone, I swear.”
Clearly lacking any better ideas, Tony disappeared, the door closing with a quiet click. Dylan eyed it and wondered if he was fast enough to scramble through the man’s legs and make a run for it, but a steel-capped boot connected with his shin before he could weigh it up.
“Dial,” the man growled.
Footsteps in the corridor spurred Dylan into action. He grabbed the piece of paper the man had tossed down to him and studied the number, recognising it immediately as the tax credits call centre. “If I call this number, we’ll be on hold for ages. There’s another one I can use that’s just for Citizens Advice centres and goes straight through.”
“You think I’m stupid?”
“No.” Dylan swallowed the fear bubbling up from his gut. “I think you’re in a hurry, and the quickest way I can help you is by calling a direct number. It’s on a clipboard in that drawer over there if you want to check it yourself.”
More footsteps and voices sounded from the corridor. Fabric brushed against the door and Dylan pictured Helen frantically trying to see through the tiny glass panel. Don’t open the door, woman. Dear God, don’t open the door.
The door remained closed. Dylan held eye contact with the man and nodded again at the desk drawer. “The number is in there.”
Keeping the machete trained on Dylan, the man backed up to the desk and opened the drawer. The clipboard with the telephone directory on it was right there, and he threw it at Dylan’s feet. “Don’t fuck about, mate. I’m not in the mood.”
Dylan inhaled a shaky breath and took the phone off the hook. “I’m going to need your name and national insurance number—your wife’s too, if the claim is in her name.”
“What?”
“I need your information. I can’t negotiate a claim if I don’t know who it’s for.”
“Are you taking the piss?”
“No.” Dylan put the phone back in its cradle. “You’ve given me the number for a tax credits call centre. Who’s on the claim? You and your wife? Just her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you call her and find out?”
Dylan offered the man the phone and, for a split second, thought he’d take it, but then something changed in the man—something snapped—and the phone was kicked out of Dylan’s hands.
It sailed sideways and hit the wall, fracturing into three pieces. The man bellowed like an angry bull, then set about destroying the room while Dylan cowered in the corner. A chair flew past his head, scraping his knuckles, and the desk splintered as the man kicked and stamped at anything that crossed his path. The machete zipped through the air, slashing at the noticeboards, and Dylan covered his head with arms, waiting for the blade to bite into his flesh.
“I’m done with this,” the man shouted. “Someone’s gotta pay.”
Chapter Fifteen
Police cars zoomed past Angelo one after another—three, four, five, six. And then vans too, three of them. He sat up on the bench he’d crashed on when he’d got Dylan’s message, unease prickling his sensitive skin. Police activity wasn’t unusual in the city, but as a string of ambulances followed the police vehicles, something—everything—felt off.
He stood, adrenaline fizzing in his veins, and tracked the vehicles as they disappeared into the distance. Stratford wasn’t as familiar to him as Romford, but the blue lights were heading in the same direction as Angelo had been when Dylan’s text had stopped him in his tracks, and as far as Angelo knew, there was nothing at the end of that road but a kebab shop and a disused pub.
His phone buzzed. Dylan. He ripped the phone out of his pocket, but the message was from Harry, confirming an appointment for the following week. Angelo swiped it away and opened WhatsApp, clicking on the ever-growing chat thread between him and Dylan. The reply he’d sent to Dylan’s last message remained unread, and Dylan hadn’t been online since he’d told Angelo he’d been delayed. The rational part of Angelo’s brain told him that Dylan was simply with a client, but a monster of panic dug in the other part, seizing control of Angelo’s imagination. He’d only ever seen that many police cars before when the Tube had been bombed a decade ago, but the world had changed since then. Bad shit happened all the time, especially in London. What if—
No. Angelo shook his head to clear it, almost laughing at himself, though the knot in his chest made that impossible. Since when had he been a fucking drama queen? Why would he bother when life kicked him in the tits regardless? Dylan’s fine. But even as he thought it, the nerve-jumping anxiety having a party in his gut rebelled. He needs me.
The realisation hit Angelo like a truck and made no more sense than the cold sweat beading on his tingling skin, but his soul knew it was true.
Running hurt Angelo’s knees, his hips, and his back, but he barely felt the pain as he tore down the street, chasing the sirens still wailing in the distance. He dodged commuters heading for home and early evening drinkers already stumbling outside the bars. Ahead, flickering bursts of blue light lit up the evening sky, and Angelo’s heart dropped as the police cordon came into view. A wall of emergency vehicles was blocking the road that Dylan’s office was on—nothing and no one was getting through. And no one wanted to, if the crowds of people running away from the area were anything to go by.
Angelo crashed into a woman as a million catastrophic scenarios flashed through his panicked brain. He grabbed her arms, and somehow they both stayed upright. “What’s going on? Why have they closed the road?”
“Terrorists,” the woman hissed. “Probably those dirty Muslims again.”
Angelo didn’t have time to challenge the blatant racism. He let the woman go and tore past her, elbowing his way upstream until a policeman caught his arms and lifted him clean off the ground, propelling him five paces back before he set him down.
“Can’t go down there, mate,” the policeman said. “Road’s closed.”
“Why?” Angelo forced himself not to fight the policeman’s hold. “What’s happened?”
“An incident. We need to clear the area, so go back to the train station and go around.”
“I can’t go around. My friend’s in there.”
“In where?”
“The Citizens Advice office.”
Something flickered in the policeman’s eyes and chilled Angelo to the bone. “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Dylan.”
“Dylan what?”
Angelo’s mind went blank. He’d seen Dylan’s surname on the neat stack of post he kept in his kitchen by the kettle, heard it when he’d met his father, but as hard as he tried, couldn’t recall it. He shook his head. “I can’t remember.”
“Can’t be that good a friend then,” the policeman snapped. “Head back to the station and go around.”
“No—you don’t understand. I can’t remember because there’s something wrong with me, not because I don’t know it.”
The policeman hauled Angelo to one side, impatient scepticism deepening his frown. “Look, mate, there’s some serious shit going on here. I ain’t got time for any nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. I—” Angelo’s words stuck in his thro
at. Brain fog short-circuited his ability to string a sentence together and he fumbled desperately for his wallet. The shiny plastic card the ME nurse at the clinic had given him that morning was at the front. He pried it out and passed it to the policeman. “I can’t get my shit together to explain myself, but I’m not wasting your time. My friend Dylan works in the Citizens Advice Bureau—he’s a debt advisor there—and I need to know if he’s okay.”
The policeman took the card and studied it, his expression as impassive as his impatience would allow. “How well do you know your friend?”
“What?”
“Your friend,” the policeman repeated. “How close are you? Do you know his family?”
Panic like Angelo had never known roared in his ears. Faint and dizzy, he grabbed the policeman’s arm. “He’s my boyfriend.”
* * *
The optimistic declaration didn’t get Angelo very far. The policeman led him through the cordon but then dumped him in the back of an open police van and ordered him to stay put, and with armed officers as far as the eye could see, he had little choice but to do as he was told.
Eventually, a plain-clothed officer came to find him. “Angelo Giordano?”
Angelo slithered out of the van. “Yes. Where’s Dylan? Is he okay?”
The officer held up her hand. “ID?”
Angelo passed over his ancient provisional driving licence. “Where’s Dylan?”
“He’s safe,” the officer said. “A few cuts and bruises, and he’s a bit shaken up, but he’ll be okay.”
Relief rushed through Angelo and cleared his mind, blowing away the haze of panic that had left him so dizzy. “What happened?”
“A client brought a machete into the office and triggered a terrorist alert. We have him in custody now. Dylan and his colleagues are at the council offices next door. I’ll take you there now.”
Dazed, Angelo followed the officer through the eerie closed-off streets. The need to get to Dylan outweighed every emotion somersaulting through him, but as they got closer to the second cordon, perspective came back to him. Was Dylan expecting him? Or would he flip his shit when the police announced Angelo as his boyfriend in a room full of his work colleagues? Shit. What if Dylan wasn’t even out at work? What if—
“He’s in the last room on the right.” The officer touched Angelo’s shoulder and turned him gently in the right direction. “The team in there are expecting you.”
She probably meant her smile to be reassuring, but Angelo felt sick. He’d barged his way into this part of Dylan’s life under false pretences and seemingly couldn’t stop. His legs moved of their own accord and carried him into the nondescript building and down a dreary corridor. A policeman at the end took his name and pointed to a closed door. Angelo touched the handle and resolve crashed into him. If Dylan was angry that he’d lied to get to him, Angelo didn’t care—couldn’t care—because nothing mattered except putting his hands on Dylan and knowing for sure that he was okay.
He opened the door. At first, the small room appeared empty, but then he saw Dylan sitting on the floor in the corner, bruised and bleeding arms a cage around his head. “Dylan?”
Dylan looked up slowly, his gaze hooded and heavy. “Angelo?”
Angelo crossed the room and dropped to Dylan’s side. He pulled Dylan close and wrapped his arms around him, holding him so tight that he didn’t know where Dylan ended and he began. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.”
* * *
Dylan was wrecked. “Please, Angelo. I just want to go home.”
“I know, I know.” Angelo held him tight. “I’ll get you out of here, I promise.”
But escaping turned out to be easier said than done. It took a while for the paramedics to check Dylan over and then for him to convince the police to let him leave, and by then, the reopened streets were overrun with press.
They snuck out a side door and jumped into a waiting cab. Dylan said nothing on the journey back to Romford, and by the time they pulled up outside Dylan’s place, his trembling outshone Angelo’s, even on his worst days.
Alarmed, Angelo swiped the cab driver’s machine with Theresa’s debit card and hauled them both out of the car. He patted Dylan’s pockets for his keys and let them into the flat. Safely inside, he leaned back on the front door and released a long breath. The hint of colour returning to Dylan’s cheeks eased the worry banding his nerves, but it wasn’t nearly enough.
Dylan toed off the grey plimsolls he wore to work, his gaze fixed on the floor. Angelo went to him and took his hands. “Do you want some tea?”
“How did you know?”
“What?”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“The police told me. I—um—said I was your boyfriend.”
Dylan stared blankly. “They never mentioned that. Just said that someone was waiting for me. When they said your name, I thought I’d imagined it and my dad would come waltzing in.”
Angelo chewed his lip. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“I don’t really know.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across Dylan’s drawn face. “If it’s for telling the police you’re my boyfriend, you can stop that shit right now—unless you didn’t mean it, of course. Then you can go fuck yourself.”
There was no malice in his tone. Angelo squeezed his hand and stepped into his personal space, pressing their bodies together, his chest so tight against Dylan’s that he felt his hammering heart. “I don’t know how to be a boyfriend. I’ve never had time, until now. But there’s nothing I won’t do for you. You know that, don’t you?”
Dylan shook his head slightly. “I don’t know much right now. My brain’s fried.”
And as Angelo lost himself in Dylan, the truth of that statement made itself known. He’d seen Dylan panic before—in the club when his hands had been tied—but this was different. This was worse because Angelo didn’t even halfway understand it. “Will you tell me what happened today?”
“The police didn’t?”
Angelo kissed Dylan’s forehead and then stepped back, tugging Dylan towards the kitchen. “Just that a client had come into your office with a machete. It was all over by the time they told me that, though, and you seemed so freaked out when I got there that I just wanted to get you home.”
“I’m glad you did.” Dylan let go of Angelo and drifted past him to the kettle. “I was losing my fucking mind.”
I could tell. But Angelo said nothing. Just watched as Dylan made tea with shaking hands and waited for him to talk.
“I don’t know who he was,” Dylan said eventually, still mechanically stirring over-brewed tea. “I went through the records after they took him away. He’d never been in before, nor had his wife, though he seemed to think she had.”
“His wife?”
“Yeah. That’s why he was so angry. Her tax credits had been stopped and they were losing their house . . . at least, that’s what he said.”
Angelo searched his brain for what Dylan had told him about tax credits over the last few weeks. “This was the government thing you were worried about?”
Dylan nodded. “It’s always chaos, but it’s never kicked off like that before. He hardly touched me, but I honestly thought he might kill me before the police tasered him. And then I thought that they’d killed him, and somehow that was worse.”
“Why?”
“Because he was desperate, not evil, and that isn’t his fault.” Dylan dropped the teaspoon on the counter and turned his back on the tea. “He wasn’t my client, but he could’ve been. Do you know how many cases I couldn’t fix this week? How many people face months with sanctioned incomes because there was nothing I could do for them?”
“Um . . . no?”
“Neither do I, because I lost count. Shit, I need to call my dad. And why the hell am I still shaking?” Dylan stared at his trembling hands.
Angelo was beside him in an instant. “You’re shaking b
ecause what happened today scared you. But none of it was your fault. You didn’t create the system, and you can’t solve everyone’s problems when the world is so messed up.”
“But I’m supposed to be able to help the people who walk through that door. That bloke got tasered because he hit rock bottom and lost his head. How is that fair?”
Angelo had no answer to that because the last twelve months had kicked the shit out of him. His only blessing was that his bad luck had brought Dylan into his life, but the man who’d been tasered? That he’d hurt Dylan made Angelo want to kill him, but an eye for an eye made everyone blind, and none of it was fucking fair.
Dylan shuddered. Angelo put his hands on his face and let his agitation crackle through his own nerves, like he could take it all away. Dark smudges under Dylan’s eyes told Angelo that he was exhausted, that he needed to sleep and forget this day ever happened for a while, but as he held Dylan and absorbed his excess energy, he realised there was no way Dylan was sleeping anytime soon. “Call your dad.”
“Okay.” Dylan stared at his phone.
Angelo took it off him and found Mick’s number. The call went to voicemail, and when Dylan shook his head, Angelo typed out a text message instead.
D: If you see the news, don’t worry. Home and safe with Angelo
Dylan smiled. “Home and safe. I like the sound of that.”
“Me too. I think you should show me round your place, though.”
“What? Why? You’ve been here before.”
Angelo shook his head. “We talked about this at your dad’s place. I’ve slept in your bed, used your shower, and I know where the kettle is. Show me the rest.”
Perhaps it was the break in the cycle that Dylan needed. He shook himself slightly and then led Angelo out of the kitchen. “I forget that our relationship is totally abnormal because being with you is like breathing . . . I can’t imagine not doing it.”
He spoke absently, but the sentiment hit Angelo like a truck all the same. “I can’t really remember not having you in my life, either. I know I fuck up pretty much every day, but I’m as crazy about you now as I was from the start.”
Dream: A Skins Novel Page 17