Scarface and the Angel

  If it is your intention to knock me on the head, boy, kindly get it over and done with. If it is robbery you’re bent on, I might as well warn you the pickings will be slim, scarce worth your effort…

  There are two sides to Damon. You can see it in his face – Good Face, Bad Face. But which is the true Damon? The one who hits first and asks question later? Or the one who acts out of kindness?

  When the mysterious Esther enters his life, Damon finds his mask beginning to slip. And even he doesn’t know what he’ll find behind it.

  Good Face. Bad Face. Good Face. Bad Face. Same Face? One Face?

  Scarface and

  the Angel

  William Taylor

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the Author

  Also by the author

  Copyright

  For Rebecca

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Pack up time, Damon. Told you we were closing early today,’ she looked at the boy. ‘Stopwork. Us librarians are getting militant.’

  He flicked her a quick glance and a small half-grin before turning his head from her. ‘Jeez, Mrs Henderson. Bet you lot have really got the mayor sweating, council’n all. Strike, eh? Wow! Bigtime!’

  ‘That’s enough from you, young man. You can give us a hand by putting your own books back. If you must use this place as another home you can help with the housework now and then.’

  ‘Can I go on strike with you guys, too?’ he did not turn his head back to her.

  ‘Stopwork, Damon. Not a strike.’

  ‘Shoot, Mrs H. Go on strike, please. Wanna see you lot out in the rain holding up placards and doing all that picket junk. What you striking for?’

  ‘None of your business and it’s not a strike, it’s a stopwork. Come on, get a move on.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. What about the old duck over there? Boot her out, why don’t you?’ he nodded.

  The librarian sighed. ‘One mountain at a time, man,’ and she glanced across at the old woman.

  ‘What the hell’s she do in here all day, anyway? She think this is an old folks’ home?’

  ‘She might well ask the same about you, Damon. Come on, boy. Don’t make things more difficult for me.’

  ‘Okay,’ he repeated. ‘But you get rid of that old tart, too. Can’t just pick on me, Mrs H.’ He stood, angling his body away from the librarian, packed his bag, piled the books he had been using, took from his top pocket his sunglasses, put them on. ‘Go on, then, Mrs H. Get off to your strike. I’ll do your job for you,’ he indicated a littering of books on nearby tables. ‘And you just chuck that old tart out. You’re always yakking on about libraries being quiet dumps. That old chook’s in here all the time talking away to herself. Drives me bloody mad. Can’t think. Can’t work. She’d be a right good one for – what they call it? – yeah, voluntary euthanasia? I’d even offer to give a helping hand with it.’

  ‘I’ll let her know your thinking on the matter, Damon,’ said the librarian. ‘I’m sure she’ll appreciate your kindly and generous offer.’

  He stood outside on the library steps. Late afternoon, winter. A heavy, foggy mist enshrouded. So heavy it was almost a drizzle. Chill. Half-dark. Damon did not remove his sunglasses. He fossicked in the pockets of his jacket, took out cigarettes, lit one, idly watching the smoke drift out and melt into the mist. He leaned against the brickwork of the old building, mentally tossing up whether to wait, catch a bus, or whether to walk home. As he stood, undecided, the old woman came out from the library. No indecision here. She pulled up the collar of her coat, took out a scarf, shawled it across her head and tied it under her chin. Looking to neither right nor left she bustled, beetled down the steps of the library and away into the gloom.

  Damon took a last drag on his cigarette, flicked the butt, pulled up his jacket collar, slung his backpack over one shoulder and followed the old woman.

  She was fast, this old dame. The tracking was easy to begin with. Through the well-lit streets of the central city, into a mall, out of it and on. And on. The hunter was intent. He stayed at some distance from his quarry. No need for the old girl to get wind of him too soon. He tracked her with a calculating and almost grim intensity, first one side of the street, then the other. He didn’t let up. She didn’t falter.

  Shops gave way to office blocks. Street lighting, now, was not as bright. People were fewer in number. Most of these filing cabinets of human life had already disgorged their loads. Certainly not the weather for lingering and really nothing around here worth lingering for. Damon reined in, shortened the distance between himself and his prey. He became more intent on not letting her escape, more stealthily silent in his tracking.

  Then he lost her. ‘Shit!’ he muttered. ‘Where the hell she gone to?’ and he was almost at the point of calling it a day, a night, when he spotted the bent and beetling figure well up ahead of him. The old woman came out of some by-way, by-lane shortcut and, head well down, forged again into the yellowy mist. ‘Gotcha!’ another mutter, and, running doorway to doorway, Damon halved the distance between the two of them, closing in until he could hear the sound of her footsteps.

  Office blocks gave way to small factories. Almost no lighting now. Frequently no footpath. Certainly no people, next to no traffic. Mean streets and getting meaner. Again he lost her and now, for the first time, he became conscious of his surroundings. He shivered and, almost involuntarily, he moved slowly on ahead.

  Damon stopped for a moment on the corner of the street down which he was positive the old woman had gone. He peered into the damp gloom. Nothing. Nothing at all. Only one dim lamp lit this street. Not even a street, really. Some sort of cul-de-sac. He felt uneasy and very unsure as to where it was his tracking had led him. He peered again down into the street. An unlikely destination if ever there was. Nothing more than a clutch of old warehouses. Some still stood, derelict. Others, many others, were in process of demolition. Here and there were empty sites where demolition had already succeeded. There was no longer the sound of any footsteps. A dark and gloomy silence surrounded him, seemed almost to be swallowing him into its emptiness. Somewhere, a long way away, he could hear a muted, distant hum of traffic. There was no sign of traffic in these miserable parts. He backed off from the corner, half-decided calling quits to the hunt, annoyed that he had bothered to waste time coming this far. ‘Just go to that bloody light… if there’s nothing… well, bugger it and bugger her…’ and he edged his way on down into the street. As far as he could see and for as far as could be seen there was nothing. Nothing at all. He was on the point of turning, heading back out, retracing, making his way home.

  ‘If it is your intention to knock me on the head, boy, kindly get it over and done with. If it is robbery you’re bent on, I might as well warn you the pickings will be slim, scarce worth your effort…’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The voice was quiet, almost soft, husky. Not really the voice of an old woman. Soft her words may have been but their impact on Damon was as if he had been shot. He recoiled from the sound. ‘I don’t… er…’

  ‘Well, then? What is it you want, boy?’ a slight edge to her tone. ‘Take my word for it, there is no money,’ and then a slight
throaty chuckle. ‘I cannot for the life of me think that any young man looking as you do could be after my body,’ another dry cough-like laugh. ‘Not unless you are seriously disturbed.’

  ‘What do you mean, looking as I do?’ a sharpened, raw edge to his voice.

  ‘Handsome beyond belief, boy, is what I mean.’

  ‘You poking fun at me?’ and now he moved towards her, purpose and menace in his step and the notion of finishing off this old madwoman in this deserted alley not too far from surfacing.

  She held up a hand, spoke very quietly. ‘I make no fun of you, boy.’

  He stopped. He did not know what made him stop. He swallowed back down into him what had been dangerously near surfacing. The feeling ebbed. ‘I er… why…?’

  But she had gone off from him and now made her way further on down into the dark lane. Without pause and without turning back to him she called out, ‘I intend making a pot of tea. Join me if you will.’

  She was almost gone from sight before he began, hesitantly, to follow. The old woman turned off from the cul-de-sac into a narrow alleyway and headed toward a spot of light in the distance. Damon shivered. The damp and cold bit into him. The woman skirted around piles of rubble at the rear of a half-demolished building, reached the light, opened a door and, turning, said, ‘Come inside.’

  There was little enough to come into. One room. One dim light lit the outside doorway into the room, an equally dim and unshaded bulb lit the sparse, spartan interior. A very small room. Its shape, and a couple of interior windows suggested that a long time ago it may have been the office for a factory or warehouse. Against one wall was a low couch-cum-bed. Neatly folded on the bed were two or three old blankets. There was a small wooden table the size of a school desk. A battered chair, an old stool and a couple of boxes completed the furnishings. An electric kettle, two or three jars, a small assortment of plates, cups, mugs and a few packets stood on a waist-high shelf. The only sign of any interior decoration was a plant growing in a pot.

  The woman took the kettle from the shelf and filled it with water from a single tap that sprouted, oddly, from the middle of one of the walls. There was no basin or sink beneath the tap. Probably, once upon a long time ago there may have been.

  ‘Sit down,’ said the woman, plugging in her kettle. She spooned tea leaves into the teapot from one of the jars and waited for the kettle to boil the water. She waited with a quiet patience. Damon sat on the stool and wondered again to himself why had he come here, what had driven him to track and trail this old grey woman?

  ‘Here is your tea. Take it,’ she handed him a steaming mug.

  ‘Thanks. I take some milk.’

  ‘Not here,’ she said. ‘I keep no milk,’ and then she smiled. ‘Besides, boy, milk would spoil this tea.’

  ‘What sort of tea is it? What you giving me?’ suspicious.

  ‘It is a herbal tea.’

  ‘Yeah? What sort of herb?’ even more suspicious.

  ‘A good herb,’ she smiled again. ‘I collect it during the summer months, dry it, prepare it.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Try it. You will like it,’ she said.

  He sniffed at the steam rising from the brew. Seemed okay enough. He sipped. ‘Hey! It’s all right,’ took another sip. ‘It’s sort of good.’

  ‘I said that you would like it, Damon.’

  Suspicious again. ‘How come you know my name? I haven’t told you my name.’

  The old woman sat on the chair and sipped her tea. ‘Ah, me. So very wary. Don’t worry, boy. It is not by magic. I hear the library woman use your name. You and me, we are her best customers I think?’

  They sat in silence awhile and drank their tea. The woman looked at the boy. The boy did not take his eyes off the woman, secure in knowing that the darkness of his glasses in the dim light of the small room meant that she would not recognise his blatant stare.

  She spoke. ‘Take off your glasses, boy, and then you may see me better. Take them off.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please yourself. More tea?’ and without waiting for his reply she poured more tea into his cup. ‘I am sorry there is nothing to eat.’

  ‘I am not hungry,’ he lied. ‘What is your name. You know my name. What’s yours?’

  ‘Esther.’

  ‘Esther who?’

  ‘Esther. You may call me Esther.’

  ‘You must have another name.’

  ‘Hah!’ she gave her short bark of a laugh. ‘If I have, I have forgotten it. If I have, well, it is not important.’

  ‘Why do you live here?’

  ‘Why do you wear dark glasses? Why do you wear dark glasses on a dark day?’

  ‘You hiding here?’ he asked. ‘What are you hiding from?’

  ‘Take off those dark glasses so that I may see you properly.’

  ‘No,’ and he drank more tea. ‘This place is a dump. Can’t be healthy living here. Can’t be healthy living here at your age.’

  ‘I’ve lived in worse,’ said Esther. ‘This place is a palace compared with some I have known. It is not important. I am comfortable.’

  ‘You can’t be,’ flatly.

  ‘Take off your glasses.’

  He stood. ‘Stop going on about my bloody glasses. They’re none of your bloody business,’ he was angry. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Leave you alone? Goodness, boy. It was you who followed me here. I did not invite you to track me down. I am perfectly content to leave you alone,’ she looked at him. ‘Tell me, boy. Why did you follow me?’

  Damon paced the small room. ‘Dunno. Dunno, really. Guess something made me.’

  ‘It seems that you do not want to rob me. Well,’ she spread her hands. ‘As I have said, a silly robber indeed who would think to trail me all the way back here… Will I make you more tea? Sit down. Keep your glasses on. It matters little. It is of no importance.’

  He sat. He looked at her for a moment. Then, almost shyly, tentatively, he raised a hand, took off his sunglasses and placed them on the table in front of him. ‘So? Satisfied? You satisfied now?’

  ‘Ahhh…’ a long sort of sigh. ‘I knew.’

  ‘What the hell did you know?’

  ‘Such eyes. Ah, such lovely eyes.’

  He stood again, knocked over his stool. ‘You being smart to me, old lady… old Esther?’

  ‘As if I should. Sit down, boy. Hah! I know well what you expect me to see. I know, too, what you expect me to say.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  His fingers strayed to his face as he talked, touching, feeling, outlining. Sometimes, using his palm, he managed to cover all of the damaged surface. Movements of instinct. ‘I was five when it happened. I was just about five, I think. I’m sure I was because I was just about ready to start school. It was my grandma and grandad, they done it to me… Well, sort of, they done it to me. See, my mum had to go away to do something and she left me for a few days with Grandma and Grandad. For them to look after me, see. Often she would leave me with them when she had to go away to do things. See?’

  ‘I see,’ said Esther.

  He looked at her. ‘Why don’t you take your old coat off? You got me to take off my shades. Why don’t you take that old coat off? It’s not all that cold,’ he looked her up and down. ‘You need a new coat.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Sure do. That one looks like it might have been an old army one. Well, once upon a time. The sort you get for next to nothing in those army surplus shops.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Must have picked it up real cheap. It’s got no buttons. You reckon that’s the best you can do – those old safety pin thingys? Well, they are sort of old safety pins,’ and he stared intently at the four brassy-looking pins that held her coat together.

  ‘It’s of no importance. It serves its purpose. It keeps me warm, keeps me covered,’ she said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I stayed with them on their farm. Big farm, they had. My grandad raised horses for racing.’


  ‘Did he?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Should’ve seen their house, my grandma’s and grandad’s. Wowee, man! That sure was a real palace they had.’

  ‘Very nice for them,’ murmured Esther.

  ‘Shit, man, it was big. Big’n rich. You know they even had servants to do the cooking and stuff – even for their gardens. Sure was real cool staying there. They spoilt me rotten because I was their only little grandkid.’

  ‘You make it sound wonderful,’ said Esther.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ suspicious.

  ‘Goodness, boy. Why should I not believe you?’

  ‘They’d take me everywhere, my grandma and grandad. Everywhere little kids should go. You know, they’d take me to the beach and the zoo and circuses and all that crap. Geez, was it cool? Yep, it sure was,’ he paused for a moment. His hand had left his face and he played idly, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. Then he looked at Esther. His eyes met hers. ‘You see, that’s how it all happened.’

  ‘How what happened, Damon?’ very softly.

  ‘This,’ and he touched his fingers to his face. ‘I think it might’ve been the zoo we were heading for. Might have been the beach. Dunno now, do I? Helluva long time ago.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Grandma wasn’t killed,’ he spoke slowly. ‘Me, neither,’ a sharp little laugh. ‘Well, I’m still here, aren’t I? Here talking to you. Bit knocked around but I’m still here. You see, Grandad was driving and he took this corner up in the mountains too fast… much too fast and the car – it was a real flash one, not your Jap crap – went over this cliff. Down, down, down, down it went. Over and over and down to a river at the bottom. Broke his bloody neck, did old Grandad, and not a scratch on him. Dead! Dead as a dodo! Stone bloody dead! Grandma got knocked out and she was never the same again, not ever. Died of internal things and a broken heart, well so Mum reckons, just about a year to the day later…’