Henderson’s plan was a simple one, but it involved one more piece of help from Angela. After waking from a doze and watching her fitful dreams for a few minutes he realised he wasn’t able to sit in the flat with her; he decided to let her sleep off her fix for a few hours. The place stank anyway, it was utterly rank. Worse than prison. There were pools of vomit on the floor; used works scattered every where; used condoms. How could he live like this? He didn’t want to be there any more, but he had nowhere else to go, no money. Certainly not the type of money he needed to repay his debts to Boaby Stevens. The thought burned in him, haunted his every thought like an incubus.
Henderson took the money Angela had earned on the Links and went to the nearest pub, ordered up a pint of lager. The bar was quiet, only dole moles and an old jakey with a blue nose who was likely to be turfed out at any minute for singing ‘Danny Boy’. Henderson retreated to the corner, selected a bentwood chair, glabrous with age, and positioned it against the wall. As he supped his pint he felt himself watching the window, the door; he didn’t want to be caught in there — on the piss — when he had a debt to pay to Shaky. That would be like incitement; suicidal. He found himself anxious to leave, and, after only a few sips, started to gulp the lager.
Outside on the street again he felt even more self-conscious, found himself hugging the shop fronts as he headed back to the flat; he was desperate not to be seen. Once inside the main door he lunged up the stairs, holding the door key out in front of him. As quickly as he had opened up he closed the door again, pressed his back to it. He felt his heart beating fast beneath his denim jacket as he rested there. He was sweating, hard. He removed a hand from the door, ran the back of it across his brow, trailed wearily towards the front room.
Angela was still lying face down on the stained mattress. Her hair was spread either side of her head like she had brushed it out that way. Henderson put his key in his trouser pocket, started to undo the buttons on his jacket. He stood over her for a moment, scratched at his elbow then spoke, ‘Ange… Time to make a move.’
She remained still.
‘Ange, come on… Get yourself out that pit.’ He reached down, pulled a clump of her hair.
She raised a hand, yelped. ‘What is it?’
‘Come on, get yourself out that fucking bed…’
‘Why?’
‘Cause I fucking said so.’ He dug a shoe in her ribs, not hard, but enough to make her sit up.
Angela’s eyes drooped as she tried to take in Henderson, standings above her with a mobile phone in his hand. She lifted her arm, ran fingers topped with chipped red nails through her long hair. ‘What time is it?’
‘Never fucking mind that… Here take this phone.’
Angela reached out, took it. ‘What’s this for?’
Henderson had started to pace the room, his shoes thumping on the dusty boards. ‘I want you to phone that school of yours.’
‘What?’
‘You fucking heard… Call them up and ask where this Crawley prick went to.’
Angela stared at him; he had his hands on his hips, then quickly removed one to brush at the stubble on his chin. He moved forward, sat on his haunches as he spoke to her, ‘Look, all you need to say is that he used to be your teacher and that you’re having some kind of a reunion and wanted to ask him along.’
Angela looked weary now, she slumped on the mattress. Henderson leaned forward, pitched himself on his knees as he pointed at the mobile phone. ‘Look, I’ve even put the number in there for you… See, scroll down, Porty Academy… Easy.’
Angela looked at the small screen on the phone, then back to Henderson. His mouth was twitching, there was sweat on his brows. ‘What if they say no?’
He shot up from the mattress, ‘They won’t say no… if they say no it’s because you’ve fucked it up, because you’ve put the shits up them.’ He walked to the doorway, pointed at her. ‘Get on that fucking phone now, call them and find out where this Crawley cunt is because if you don’t your life’s not going to be worth two fucks, Ange. I mean it.’ He left the room and headed into the bathroom.
As she sat on the mattress Angela’s breathing ramped up, she stared at the little screen on the mobile and then she pressed the button Henderson had shown her.
In the bathroom he heard Angela’s voice in the other room. She was doing what he had asked her. He didn’t want to consider the junky whore messing it up; that didn’t bear thinking about. He didn’t want to picture some snooty school secretary refusing to answer a simple question either. He remembered what they were like when he was at school; they were all old boots. All middle-class square pegs that looked down their noses at you. Why would they do you a favour? Why would they help you out of a hole? They had never done anything for him before, that lot; or anyone like them. But Henderson knew that if he didn’t find Crawley soon, he might as well hand himself over to Boaby Stevens right away.
He ran the taps in the bathroom and put his hands under the water, splashed his face. He rubbed the water on the back of his neck and then he ran more through his hair. It felt cold, relieving some of his tensions. It was short-lived though. As Henderson dried himself off with the towel, he realised that Angela had stopped talking in the other room.
She knocked on the bathroom door.
Henderson turned, opened up. ‘Well?’
She stood there with her dishevelled hair flopping in her eyes and the black eyeliner she wore from the night before streaking her face. ‘He’s at Edinburgh High.’