Fallen Angel. Andrew Taylor

Horrible name.’

      He looked up. She was leaning towards him, her face blurred by the steam like the city by its smog. It seemed to him that her features were dissolving in the vapour. She said something he didn’t catch.

      ‘What was that?’

      ‘My friends always call me Angel.’

      Over the next four months it seemed natural to keep Thelma in the dark about what was happening, though there was no reason to be secretive about their growing friendship. Eddie derived great pleasure from pretending at home in front of his mother that he and Angel were still on the old footing of lodger and landlady’s son. It amused Angel, too.

      ‘Children enjoy make-believe,’ she told him on one of their outings. ‘I think I still do.’

      They met in a succession of public places – cinemas, Primrose Hill, the National Portrait Gallery, a coffee shop attached to an Oxford Street store, a pub near the Heath where children played while their parents drank.

      Being with Angel allowed Eddie to watch children without worrying about what adults might be thinking. After all, he and Angel were roughly the same age: they might be taken for a married couple; in any case, a man and a woman together were much less threatening than a single man.

      Once, in the garden outside the Hampstead pub, a little girl fell off a swing and scraped her knee. Angel picked her up and calmed her down. Eventually the child managed to tell them that her mother was inside the pub.

      ‘Then we shall go and find your mummy.’ Angel picked up the child, who was no more than three, and handed her to Eddie. ‘This nice man will give you a ride.’

      The girl nestled in Eddie’s arms. He could not help wondering whether Angel had known that carrying her would give him pleasure. The three of them went into the pub.

      ‘Where’s Mummy?’ Angel asked the girl.

      The mother found them first. She rushed in front of Angel and snatched her child from Eddie. She clung so tightly to the little girl that the latter, until then perfectly happy, began to cry.

      The woman stared at Eddie, her face reddening. ‘What happened? What –?’

      Angel cut in with an explanation which was an implicit accusation, delivered in her clear, confident voice. The mother reacted with an unlovely mixture of gratitude, guilt and surliness. She was a squat little woman in a long, dusty skirt; she wore no make-up and her arms were tattooed; piggy eyes glinted behind gold-rimmed glasses. She was also quite young, Eddie realized, perhaps not much older than the girls he had taught at school.

      ‘You can’t be too careful. Not these days,’ she said in an unconscious echo of Thelma. She backed away from them, swallowed the rest of her drink and towed the child outside.

      Eddie and Angel queued at the bar.

      ‘If I hadn’t been with you,’ Angel said casually, ‘that wretched woman would probably have thought you were trying to steal her child.’

      As autumn turned to winter, Thelma seemed to sense that the atmosphere in the house had changed, that the emotional balance had tilted away from her. She grumbled more about Angel to Eddie. She became suspicious, wanting to know exactly where he’d been. There was not an open quarrel between her and Angel, but the old cordiality was no more than a memory.

      Eddie was cautious by nature. (It was this which had kept him away from the networks of people who shared his special interests; he knew they existed because he read about them in the newspapers.) He did not want a rift with his mother. Sometimes he tried to imagine what life would be like if he and Angel could afford a flat or even a small house together. But financially this was out of the question. He had nothing to live on except what the state and his mother doled out to him.

      It was wiser to keep a foot in both camps, at least for the time being. This was why Eddie did not tell Angel about his mother’s snooping. He did not want to run the risk of provoking a quarrel between them.

      The policy worked well until midway through January. One evening Eddie ran downstairs. He was due to meet Angel in Liberty’s in Regent Street: they planned to see a film and then have a pizza before coming home.

      ‘Eddie,’ Thelma called from the kitchen. ‘Come in here a moment.’

      He glanced at his watch, irritated because he was already a little on the late side and he didn’t like to keep Angel waiting. He hesitated in the kitchen doorway. His mother was sitting at the table, breathing heavily. Her colour was high and there were patches of sweat under her arms.

      ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

      ‘Where are you off to?’

      ‘Just out.’

      ‘You’re always going out these days.’

      ‘Just a film.’

      Thelma’s face darkened still further. ‘You’re seeing that woman. Go on, admit it.’

      Surprised by the sudden venom, Eddie took a step backwards into the hall. ‘Of course not.’ Even to himself, his voice lacked conviction.

      ‘I can smell her on you. That perfume she wears.’

      Powerless to move, he stared at her.

      ‘I tell you one thing,’ Thelma went on, ‘she’s paid up till the end of the week, but after that she’s out on her ear.’

      ‘No!’ The word burst out of Eddie before he could stop himself. ‘You can’t do that. There’s no reason to do that.’

      ‘She fooled me at the start, I admit that. But I’m not alone in that. She’s fooled everyone.’ Thelma tapped a sturdy manila envelope which lay on the table before her. ‘Wait till Mrs Hawley-Minton hears about this. Unless she’s in it, too. It’s fraud, I tell you, barefaced fraud. It’s a matter for the police, I shouldn’t wonder.’

      Eddie stared at her. ‘What do you mean? Are you all right?’

      His mother opened the envelope and took out a British passport. She flicked over the pages until she found the photograph. She pushed the passport across the table towards Eddie, pinning it open with grubby fingers.

      Reluctantly he came into the room and peered at the photograph, which showed a thin-faced, short-haired woman he had never seen before.

      ‘So? Who is it?’

      ‘Are you blind?’ his mother shouted. ‘Look at the name, you fool.’

      Eddie stooped, holding the glasses on the bridge of his nose. The name swam into focus.

      Angela Mary Wharton.

      Eddie’s memories of the next few hours were vivid but patchy. This was, he supposed later, a symptom of shock. He remembered slamming the front door of 29 Rosington Road, a thing he’d never done before, but after that there were missing links in the chain of events.

      He must have walked to Chalk Farm underground station and taken the Northern Line to Tottenham Court Road. He could not remember whether he had changed on to the Central Line for Oxford Circus or simply walked the rest of the way. But he had a clear picture of himself standing just inside the main entrance of Liberty’s: the place was full of people and brightly coloured merchandise; a security guard stared curiously at him; he tried to find Angel, but she wasn’t there, and he felt despair creeping over him, a sense that everything worthwhile was over.

      Suddenly she touched his shoulder. ‘Let’s go outside. I’ve got you a present.’

      Taking his arm, which was something she had never done before, she urged him outside. There, standing on the pavement in Great Marlborough Street, she gave him a small Liberty’s bag.

      ‘Go on, open it.’ Angel was like a child, incapable of deferring pleasure. ‘I knew I had to get it for you as soon as I saw it.’

      People flowed steadily past them like