Naked Angels. Judi James
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He placed planks over the bath to use as a table and there was a red bulb in the socket that gave an eerie glow in the darkness. Claude apologized every time they got squeezed together and Mikhail didn’t know what was worse, the touching or the bleating apologies. There was a certain magic in the printing process that enthralled him every time, though. You put paper into a tank of fluid and faces appeared on that paper. He saw Claude’s face, weak and beaming, appearing slowly as he slooshed the stuff around.
He could almost stand Claude’s simpering smiles since he had come to the decision about leaving. He was not going back onto the streets, though. That much he knew for sure. He looked at the money again. Half of it, that was fair for all he’d been through. Half of it would be enough to teach Claude a lesson. He counted the notes into two piles and then worked out how long he could live on the money. He would need a job when it ran out; or he would need a job straight away if he was to spend the cash on a plane ticket. He stood up and padded into the studio. Claude’s camera was still on its tripod.
Mikhail unscrewed the camera carefully and wrapped it in a sheet before stuffing it inside his jacket and pulling up the zip. As he did so he heard Claude’s key in the lock.
‘Guess what,’ he heard Claude holler, ‘a robbery at the bank!’ He sounded happy. ‘Thieves broke in last night, and once we had been interviewed by the police they said we should have the rest of the day off while they cleared up—’ He saw the carnage inside his precious apartment and froze in the doorway.
‘Holy shit…’ Mikhail had never heard him swear before. It sounded funny and made him want to laugh. ‘Mikhail?’ Claude’s voice dropped. Mikhail heard him creeping around, looking for burglars. Two robberies in one day! He would spend the rest of his life telling the story.
He reached the studio and Mikhail hid behind the door. Claude’s head appeared first, low down, as though he were crouching. ‘Mikhail?’ he whispered. He sounded genuinely scared.
‘Claude.’ Mikhail stepped out suddenly. Claude’s eyes bulged with the shock and he looked as though he might have a seizure.
‘Jesus! Oh Christ, Mikhail, I thought you were … what happened? Did someone break in?’
Mikhail smiled. ‘No,’ he told Claude, ‘I’m leaving, that’s all. I’ve taken some money – all you owe me for posing – and I’ve borrowed a few of your things to see me through. You wouldn’t want me to starve, would you?’
Claude’s eyes were perfect circles. You could see the red veins all around them. His mouth drooped at the corners like a clown’s.
‘Leaving?’ he asked.
Mikhail nodded.
Claude stared around the room in disbelief. ‘You can’t leave me, Mikhail,’ he whispered, ‘not like this!’ ‘How, then?’ Mikhail asked him.
‘I don’t know.’ Claude looked desperate. ‘Sit down with me first. Have some coffee. We can talk. I’ll pay in future, I swear. I love you, Mikhail. Don’t leave me.’
He was on his knees again. Mikhail watched in disgust as he crawled across the floor and grabbed at his legs.
‘Please, Mikhail.’
Mikhail nearly lost his balance. ‘Stop it, you crazy bastard, you almost had me over!’
Claude looked up at him and his tearful eyes focused on the bulge in Mikhail’s jacket. His expression changed suddenly and he reached up towards it.
‘What have you got there?’ he asked. He ripped the jacket open. ‘My camera! No, Mikhail! Drop it, you little bastard! Give it back!’ He tried to wrest the camera from Mikhail but the boy was too quick for him. Mikhail walked towards the door to leave. When he turned Claude was behind him, an iron poker in his shaking hands and his face distorted by anger.
‘Give it to me, you bastard!’ he screamed. He lifted the poker above his head to strike but Mikhail moved first, ducking out of the way as the thing whistled past his ear.
‘Stop it, Claude!’ he shouted. ‘Are you mad, or something?’
‘My camera!’ Claude’s voice was completely unrecognizable. He lifted the poker again but Mikhail punched him in the face before he could strike. There was a sickening sound of bone being crushed and then a blinding pain in Mikhail’s knuckles. The pain doubled him up, and he thought his hand was broken. He shoved it between his legs and let out a howl.
Claude stood very still for a moment and then crumpled to the floor with blood spurting from his nose. The blood seemed endless, it flecked the walls and even reached the ceiling, where it speckled crimson against the white paint. Claude was silent. He sat propped against the hatstand, his eyes open but not moving. Mikhail thought he was watching him but when he stepped out of the way, the eyes stared straight ahead. The blood was bubbling now, making Mikhail feel sick.
‘Oh, Jesus, Claude, are you dead?’ he whispered to himself. He didn’t care so much, except for the fact that it would be another thing the police would come hunting him for.
Claude let out a moan and Mikhail let out a sigh of relief.
‘Don’t go, Mikhail,’ Claude gargled. Blood cascaded from his nose into his open mouth as he spoke. He spat the blood out and some of it peppered Mikhail’s jacket.
‘You stupid bastard!’ Mikhail said. The door opened at the far end of the hall. They both looked round at the same time. Claude’s father was standing in the doorway, clutching the wooden surround for support.
‘Fuck off!’ he said. There was no strength in his voice; it sounded as though he was already dead.
Mikhail looked at the old man and then he looked down at Claude.
Then he left.
Evangeline’s real father stayed at the house for a few days, until things got so bad between him and her grandmother that you could see sparks in the air. Grandma Klippel went through the motions of playing hostess but anyone could see it was as though a nasty smell she couldn’t quite place was hanging about the house. Evangeline’s father, on the other hand, acted as though he couldn’t wait to be away, however hard he tried not to show it. Grandma Klippel’s wealth seemed too much for him. He didn’t sit up straight at dinner and he ate with the wrong fork.
He tried to be friends with Evangeline in an edgy sort of way.
‘Don’t call me Mr Castelli,’ he said the first time they were alone, ‘call me Nico – everyone else does.’
‘My grandmother doesn’t,’ Evangeline pointed out.
Nico pulled a face. ‘Your grandmother is a very special kind of lady,’ was all he would say.
‘Are you poor or something, Nico?’ Evangeline asked.
He laughed, but he didn’t look as though he found her comment funny. ‘No, I’m not poor. I might look it next to your grandmother, but then so would fifty per cent of the population, come to that. I just live differently, Evangeline. I have a different style of life.’
He ran out of conversation after that; it was obvious he wasn’t used to being around children. Evangeline wanted to help him out but she didn’t know how. She didn’t know what he was there for, either, though she heard him and her grandmother arguing about money a couple of times. She didn’t understand what all the arguments could be about. Grandma Klippel had enough money for all of them.
She got called into the lounge again. Her father’s face was red and he looked angry and embarrassed at the same time. Her grandmother was sitting down, staring at her hands so that Evangeline could not see the look in her eyes.
‘Evangeline,’ she began, ‘dear, your father wants to take you back to New York with him …’
So it was the painting. Evangeline had shown no talent for art and now her grandmother, too, was fed up with her. She had been one long disappointment to everyone. She sucked in her bottom lip. She hated them all