Fallen Angel. Andrew Taylor

have agreed to almost anything Angel said. Soon they were discussing insulation, dry-lining and replastering. Angel said that the tenants might be noisy so they decided to insulate the ceiling as well. They touched lightly on plumbing, wiring and decorating. Neither of them mentioned money. Within minutes of Mr Reynolds’s arrival they both seemed to take it for granted that he would be doing the work.

      ‘Don’t you worry, Miss Wharton. This will be a Rolls-Royce job by the time we’re done.’

      ‘Please call me Angela.’

      Mr Reynolds stared at his hands and changed the subject by suggesting that they start by hiring a skip. Neither then nor later would he call Angel anything but Miss Wharton. His was a form of love which took refuge in formality.

      Mr Reynolds did most of the work himself, subcontracting only the electrical and plumbing jobs. It took him over two months. During this time a friendship developed between the three of them, limited to the job which had brought them together but surprisingly intimate; narrow but deep. Mr Reynolds worked long hours and, when reminded, invoiced Eddie for small sums. Angel paid the balance with praise.

      ‘I’m not sure I can bear to let this room, Mr Reynolds. You’ve made it such a little palace that I think I might use it as my study.’

      Mr Reynolds grunted and turned away to search for something in his tool bag.

      The weeks passed, and gradually the jobs were completed. First the new floor, then the ceiling, then the walls. A hardwood door was made to measure, as was the long, double-glazed window overlooking the back garden.

      ‘Beginning to come together now, isn’t it?’ Mr Reynolds said, not once but many times, hungry for Angel’s praise.

      If Mr Reynolds was curious about the relationship between Angel and Eddie, he never allowed his curiosity to become obtrusive. Almost certainly he guessed that Eddie and Angel were not living together as man and wife. Nor did Angel behave like a lodger: she behaved like the mistress of the house. Eddie came to suspect that Mr Reynolds did not ask questions because he did not want to hear the answers. Mr Reynolds was never disloyal to his wife, but from hints dropped here and there it became clear that he did not enjoy being at home; he liked this job which kept him out of the wet, earned him money and allowed him to see Angel almost every day.

      When he had finished, the basement was dry and as airless as a sealed tomb. The acoustics were strange: sounds had a deadened quality. It seemed to Eddie that the insulation absorbed and neutralized all the emotion in people’s voices.

      ‘It’s perfect,’ Angel told Mr Reynolds.

      ‘Tell me if you need any more help.’ The tips of his ears glowed. The three of them were sitting round the kitchen table with mugs of tea while Eddie wrote another cheque. ‘By the way, what did happen to all those old dolls’ houses?’

      Eddie glanced up at him. ‘My father used to raffle them at work for charity.’

      ‘Which reminds me,’ Angel said. ‘Some of his tools are still in the cupboard downstairs. Would you have a use for any of them, Mr Reynolds?’

      The flush spread to his face. ‘Well – I’m not sure.’

      ‘Do have a look. I know Eddie would like them to go to a good home.’

      ‘I remember your dad making those dolls’ houses,’ Mr Reynolds said to Eddie. ‘Your mum and dad used to ask our Jenny round to look at them. She loved it.’ He chuckled, cracks appearing in the weathered skin around his eyes and mouth. ‘Do you remember?’

      ‘I remember. She used to bring her dolls to see the houses, too.’

      ‘So she did. I’d forgotten that. And look at her now: three children and a place of her own to look after. It’s a shame about Kevin. But there – it’s the modern way, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Kevin?’ Angel said.

      Mr Reynolds took a deep breath. Angel smiled at him.

      ‘Kevin – Jen’s husband. Well, sort of husband.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s not general knowledge, but he’s a bad lot, I’m afraid. Still, he’s gone now. Least said, soonest mended.’

      ‘I’m so sorry. Children are such a worry, aren’t they?’

      ‘He ran off with another woman when she was expecting her third. What can you do? My wife doesn’t like it known, by the way. You’ll understand, I’m sure.’

      ‘Of course.’ Angel glanced at Eddie. ‘You and Jenny were friends when you were children, weren’t you?’

      Eddie nodded. He’d given Angel an edited version of his relationship with Jenny, such as it had been.

      ‘Your mum and dad were very kind to her,’ Mr Reynolds went on, apparently without irony. ‘And she wasn’t the only one, they say. Maybe they’d have liked a little sister for you, eh?’

      ‘Very likely,’ Eddie agreed.

      ‘And he took some lovely photographs, too,’ said the little builder, still rambling down Memory Lane. ‘He gave us one of Jenny: curled up in a big armchair, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. We had it framed. We’ve still got it in the display cabinet.’

      ‘Photographs?’ Angel said, turning to Eddie. ‘I didn’t know your father took photographs.’

      Eddie pushed the cheque across the table to Mr Reynolds. ‘Here you are.’

      ‘Do you have some of them still?’ Angel smiled impartially at the two men. ‘I love looking at photographs.’

      Angel questioned Eddie minutely about his past, which he found flattering because no one else had ever done so. The questions came by fits and starts and over a long period of time. Eddie discovered that telling Angel about the difficulties and unfairness he had suffered made the burden of them easier to bear. He mentioned this phenomenon.

      ‘Nothing unusual about that, Eddie. That’s why so many people find psychotherapy appealing. That’s why confession has always been such a widespread practice among Catholics.’

      Since his father’s death, Eddie had kept the surviving photographs in a locked suitcase under his bed. Angel cajoled him into showing them to her. They sat at the kitchen table and he lifted them out, one by one. The photographs smelled of the past, tired and musty.

      ‘How pretty,’ Angel commented when she saw the first nude. ‘Technically quite impressive.’

      In the end she saw them all, even the ones with Eddie, even the one with Alison.

      What a Little Tease!

      ‘That one’s Mr Reynolds’s daughter,’ Eddie said, pointing to another print, anxious to deflect Angel’s attention from Alison.

      Angel glanced at Jenny Wren. ‘Not as photogenic as this one.’ She tapped the photograph of Alison with a long fingernail. ‘What was her name?’

      Eddie told her. Angel patted his hand and said that children were so sweet at that age.

      ‘Some people don’t like that sort of game.’ Eddie paused. ‘Not with children.’

      ‘That’s silly. Children need love and security, that’s all. Children like playing games with grown-ups. That’s what growing up is all about.’

      Eddie felt warm with relief. Then and later, he was amazed by Angel’s sympathy and understanding. He even told her about his humiliating experiences as a teacher at Dale Grove Comprehensive School. She coaxed him into describing exactly what Mandy and Sian had done. The violence of her reaction surprised him. Her lips curled back against her teeth and wrinkles bit into the skin.

      ‘We don’t need people like that. They’re no better than animals.’

      ‘But what can you do with them? You can’t just kill them, can you?’

      Angel arched her immaculate eyebrows.