Angel
by Arty

Chapter 3

1997
====

The shouting and whistling from the builders was an almost
constant backdrop to the journey to and from school. Most of
the girls, who were the targets of the comments, professed
to be upset by it, but I noticed as the days went on, that
girls who received the least notice one day, were dressed
far more provocatively the next. Once I realised this, it
became a game for me to play, as I waited for my friends to
join me: spot the girl who was ignored yesterday. 

Today, it was one of Angela's friends, Sarah, who had felt
the least appreciated and she had gone for the full
mini-skirt and belly shirt look in an effort to ensure that
she received her due measure of wolf-whistles. I decided to
follow and see what happened. 

As they approached, Sarah was spotted and the volume of the
whistling increased tremendously. For some reason, this
seemed to bother Angela, so she stopped to adjust her shoes
and, surreptitiously, to roll the waistband of her skirt to
raise the hemline a bit more. I noticed that she seemed to
be surrounded by a glow as a shaft of sunlight illuminated
her. I started to walk towards her, drawn by a feeling of
dread. 

"BELOW!" The sound of a workman screaming a warning
penetrated the background noise of whistles and catcalls. I
sprinted the few feet that separated me from Angela and
pushed her out of the way of the scaffolding pole that was
about to fall onto the pavement, inches from where she had
been standing. The fact that I was now in almost the same
position that Angel had been, meant that I was going to
suffer almost the full effects of the falling pole. I
watched with helpless horror as the pole fell towards me. It
fell vertically and smashed into the pavement less than a
foot from where I was standing, paralysed. The noise of the
pole hitting the pavement was enormously loud at such close
proximity. Chips from the paving stones flew up and
lacerated my face, the pole fell sideways and crashed into
my shoulder, numbing it in a way that boded no good when,
eventually, the feeling returned. 

Angela had fallen when I pushed her aside and scraped her
knees. The shock of her fall was wearing off and she started
to cry. Again. Her crying made her the centre of attention
and soon she was surrounded by her friends and other shocked
adults who had seen the pole fall. By then, I knew that
Angela injured and me in the vicinity was not a good
combination. I took my chance and I sidled sideways along
the wall trying not to draw attention to myself. With luck I
could be round the corner before someone remembered me and
perhaps this time I wouldn't be the subject of Angela's
mother's unwelcome attention. The last thing I needed was to
raise my head above the parapet; unlike other folks I never
seemed to get a second chance. 

Someone whispered in my ear. "That's number eight." I turned
to see Susan shielding me from the fracas surrounding
Angela. "Shall we get you away from here before you get
blamed for something?" I nodded my agreement and she put her
arm around me and helped me to stumble away from the scene.
The sounds of the crowd questioning each other about what
had happened filtered through the growing ache in my
shoulder. 

"Saved her life, I reckon." 

"Pushed her out of the way." 

"Did you see?" 

"No, just a blur, he was so quick." 

"Is she all right?" 

"Could have been a lot worse." 

"Is he all right?" 

"Who?" 

"The lad that saved her." 

"Must be, he's not here now. I wonder where he went?" 

"This must be her mother." 

The pain in my shoulder was getting much worse. The last
thing I heard as I rounded the corner was the frantic tones
of Angela's mother. "Who did this to you? As if I didn't
know. Where is he?" The sound of approaching sirens spurred
us to speed up and with Susan supporting me we walked as
quickly as I was able towards the medical centre and some
first aid. 

Even though things were definitely bad, there were
compensations; like being this close to Susan. She was
gorgeous; trouble was while I lusted after her she still saw
me as the little boy next door that she treated like a
younger brother. I tried to take my mind off the growing
pain in my shoulder by concentrating on the sensations of
her proximity: the smell of her, fresh and slightly musky;
the softness of her. I let the arm that I had around her
waist drop slightly and revelled in the feel of my hand on
her bottom. I could feel the muscles flexing there as she
walked. 

"Hey! Hands off!" She smiled at me to show me that she
wasn't too serious. "Not too injured to cop a feel, eh?" 

I blushed and said nothing, but she didn't move my hand. By
now we'd reached the medical centre and since it was early
we got seen straight away. By unspoken consent we told a
story of a fall off a wall onto my shoulder. I explained the
cuts by suggesting that there was some broken glass. The
nurse who was strapping my shoulder didn't quite believe me,
but in the end it didn't matter. However I received my
injuries the treatment was the same. 

We left the centre, walking slowly, the streets quiet now
that the school rush was over. Had I not been so hurt, I
probably could have sneaked in over the fence, but I knew
that I was in no fit state to do so. I convinced Susan that
I would be all right and made her leave me I felt bad enough
as it was, getting her into trouble would just make me feel
worse. And trouble was inevitable. I sighed and began to
walk through the front door of the school. This wasn't
allowed for pupils of my age, but then I was in trouble
already and this wouldn't add much to the inevitable tirade…

.oOo.

Things were certainly going downhill. 

Before, I'd been merely verbally harassed as result of one
of these incidents, apart from the slap, but this time I'd
been hurt; quite badly. My shoulder ached with the
remembered pain of the pole landing on it. This was
definitely no fun. Being in Susan's arms was some
consolation, however. Not that my younger self was in any
position to appreciate it. Perhaps being a passenger wasn't
so bad after all! I luxuriated in the feel of her soft… 

I was struck be the realisation that when Angela had bent
down to fiddle with her shoes, a stray shaft of sunlight had
illuminated her. She'd appeared to glow. I remembered that
I'd noticed it the first time through too. 

I decided that I'd had enough of these bubbles. Wasn't I
ever going to get some sex? In the stories that I'd read,
the protagonist got to indulge in great sex, his enthusiasm
bolstered by adult technique and insight. All I ever seemed
to get was the vicarious thrill of Susan's firm yet… 

I berated myself for these thoughts. Pissing off the
Almighty was not the way to go. Ah fuck it! I'd read Dante's
Inferno and the Niven and Pournelle update of it. Even
though my memories of the details of Hell's geography were a
bit hazy, I knew the topography. If I ended up in Hell I was
pretty sure I could navigate my way out of it. I'd have all
eternity anyway. A memory of the final cantos filtered
through to my consciousness and I laughed silently. 'When
Hell freezes over', is a common expression, but according to
Dante the centre of Hell is a frozen plain! Since Hell
freezing over was supposed to be an uncommon occurrence
then, maybe, me getting to re-live some other, more
personally satisfying, experiences was more likely, now that
I was conscious of the fact that Hell was already frozen.
Then again what if Dante was wrong? 

As this mish-mash of connected yet random thoughts whirled
through my mind, I realised that many of them were bolstered
by remembered facts that previously I doubted that I'd have
been able to recall. Perhaps the shock of whatever had
happened to me to put me in this place was wearing off. Even
in my thoughts, I shied away from the bald idea of 'my
death'. Anxious to derail this macabre train of thought I
consciously switched to thinking of my sexual experiences. I
was frustrated: I wanted to re-live some sex, perhaps if I
prayed? Since I was praying for sex should I pray to God or
the other guy? I remembered something that I'd read
somewhere, by Heinlein, if I was not mistaken, a couple of
characters were discussing the merits of which denomination
of Padre was best. One had offered the opinion that what
they needed was a 'good Satanist'. His argument was that
since God was good, you were okay with him; it was the other
guy that you needed to appease! Perhaps I should… 

I had no more time to gather my thoughts; the next bubble
was upon me… 

1998
====

I could hear the raised voices, jeering and taunting, even
before I turned the corner. I knew that the gang of bullies
that hung around these parts had cornered themselves a
victim. I wondered who it was this time. The sound of
someone screaming in real pain made me break into a run and
I sprinted towards the gang determined, this time, not to
'pass by on the other side' as I had done so often in these
situations. 

The gang surrounded Angela. She was being pushed randomly
from person to person. Occasionally one of the girls in the
gang would yank on her hair. She was crying, and holding her
arm to her side, it looked terribly bruised and her nose was
bleeding. I couldn't blame her for crying this time. I
shouldered my way into the circle and she huddled herself
into my chest. 

The very unexpectedness of my actions kept me safe from
immediate retribution from the gang. Capitalising on this, I
decided that I could try and bluster our way out of this. Or
at least delay things until someone else came past and
either interfered or called for help. At the very least, I
could probably expect Angela's mother to appear, she usually
did. She seemed to have an unerring instinct for the times
when she and I were together. I gathered my courage and
shouted at them. 

"Fuck off and leave her alone, you wankers!" 

"How you gonna make us then?" 

I stared at the speaker: a tall podgy girl. She had a
reputation as a real hard case. But then so had I, and I
knew how little such reputations actually meant. Still,
there were seven or eight of them, and I resigned myself to
a beating of some sort. I just hoped that Angela would have
the presence of mind to run when I told her to. 

"Why should I?" 

She was nonplussed. This was not how these conversations
were supposed to go. She threatened, the victim pleaded, and
then someone got hurt: simple, predictable, and safe. They
were in an ugly mood, their last victim had been
hospitalised, everyone knew who was responsible, but proving
it in court was another matter. I waited, silent, not
wanting to give them any excuse to start. 

"Let's do 'em both!" This came from a little weasel of a kid
who suffered from a seriously bad case of acne. I could hear
sounds of agreement from the rest of them. The tall girl
still looked uncertain. I'm not sure how long this strange
tableau would have lasted, but I never got the chance to
find out. A familiar cry of outrage reached my ears. This
time I was almost glad. 

"Leave her alone!" 

Angela's mother pulled her from my arms. She glared with
withering scorn at the group and, I realised with
resignation, she was including me. "Oh what big heroes you
all are. It only takes nine of you to make a little girl
cry." Then she wound back her hand and slapped me across the
face. "I told you what would happen last time." And then she
stalked off, as she left I could hear Angela saying, "But
mum, he didn't…" I never found out what I didn't do, as with
the inevitability of an avalanche, the gang turned on me. 

Early on in the beating I'd been tripped and this meant that
they could protect their hands by using their feet. I curled
up as much as I could but I could escape all of the kicks to
my face. Suddenly it stopped and I heard running feet. 

"Oh Mark, what have they done to you?" 

It was Susan. She'd heard Angela's mother telling my mother
how she'd saved her daughter from my gang, and me, and it
was only a matter of time before I was caught and put in
gaol where I belonged. Susan had guessed the truth and
collected a group of friends to go looking for me. She'd
been worried for my safety and she'd been correct. 

"Is Angela all right?" 

"Did you hear that, you lot?" I looked up to see Susan
kneeling next to me, her eyes bright with tears. "Next time
someone tells you about how Mark Connors is a thug, remember
how the first thing he asked, after a terrible beating, is
'is Angela all right?'" 

"You're wasting your time." I tried to get to my feet and I
cried out as the pain from one or more cracked ribs
assaulted my senses and made my vision swim. "I think I need
to get to casualty." 

By now our little group was the centre of a small crowd. The
arrival of the strangers changed the mood as the identity of
the victim filtered out. I could hear murmurings: 

"Serves him right." 

"'Bout time he got a taste of his own medicine." 

A policeman stopped to see what all the fuss was about. The
crowd were moved on and he called an ambulance. Susan tried
to tell him what had happened, but since she wasn't a
witness and I wasn't saying anything, there wasn't much he
could do. 

Several hours later, the same policeman was back at my
bedside saying that he'd received an official complaint from
Angela's mother. He asked me if there was anything that I
wished to say. He cautioned me, it wasn't necessary I was
too tired to talk and I fell asleep as he was speaking. 

I woke to see my mother sitting by the bed. She smiled at
me. 

"I'm sorry mum." 

"I'll ask this just the once and then I'll never ask you
again: did you do what she says you did?" 

"No." 

"Well that's OK then." 

I nodded and drifted off once more. When I woke again, the
policeman was back. 

"Hello Mark." 

I grunted in reply. 

"You're a very lucky boy." I didn't feel lucky but I just
stared at him, "the CPS say there isn't enough evidence to
proceed, so the case is being dropped." He abandoned his
official manner and grinned at me. "Someone took some
pictures of you before you were treated, the defence would
have had a field day, you were obviously a victim too. What
have you done to make the girl's mother hate you so much?" 

I shrugged, I couldn't say for certain and I didn't feel
like talking anyway. The policeman patted me on the shoulder
and left. I felt myself drifting off again… 

.oOo.

The blackness returned like a welcome friend. These episodes
in the bubbles were getting more realistic; I seemed to ache
all over and the shock of pain, as each booted foot
connected with me, was fresh in my memory. This dual
consciousness lark was murder. I could hear, see and feel
everything that went on; I even knew what the younger me was
thinking. However I was helpless to change anything, I was a
spectator; I was getting all of the disadvantages of a
replay with none of the benefits. What was the point of it
all? 

As the memory of the kicks and punches faded slowly, I
realised that the blackness was definitely greyer. And there
were other sensations too. My nose itched, but I couldn't
scratch it. I thought about the scene again, why did
Angela's mother always make me the villain of the piece?
What had I done to make her hate me so much? 

My nose still itched. 

I remembered being cradled by Susan as we waited for the
ambulance. Her breasts were definitely heavenly. What
wouldn't I have given for a chance to take a nipple in my
mouth? Definitely worth a few cracked ribs! 

The itching faded. I tried to imagine what she would have
looked like without clothes, but all I could conjure up was
a vision of a much younger girl. I realised with a shock
that it was Angela. And then unbidden I remembered that
she'd been playing alone in her garden. She wanted to play
families. I could be her daddy and it was time for her to
have her bath and go to bed. She was only three. Before I
could stop her she'd stripped off her clothes and pretended
to be sitting in a bath. I was embarrassed and, even though
I was only six or so, I knew if her mother caught us, there
would be hell to pay. 

And then it had happened. My worst nightmare was nothing
compared to this. 

"What do you think you're doing, you little pervert?" 

My protests had fallen upon deaf ears. 

"Leave her alone. If I catch you near her again, I'll…
I'll…" He threats degenerated into incoherency. All the more
frightening for a six year-old, I'd never seen anyone so
angry before. I'd been terrified by the unspoken nature of
the threats and done my very best to forget that this had
ever happened. 

I'd been successful. 

Now somehow the memory was jogged loose and the warmth of
discovery had robbed it of its potency. I knew why Angela's
mother hated me. Before I had a chance to investigate the
ramifications of this the next pearlescent bubble was
looming in front of me. Was this going to be another Angela
episode, or would it be something different? The half-formed
prayer for some sex was interrupted as the skin of the
bubble slid past me and the sights and sounds of screaming
schoolkids overwhelmed me. 

-Continued-

-- 
http://www.asstr.org/~arty