Chapter Text
Crowley stared at the address on his notepad, neatly jotted down in black ink. He tapped at it with an irritated flick of the pen he’d found at the back of the glovebox – as if the tapping could magically turn it into the right address, the one he was supposed to be driving to. Meanwhile, the obnoxious holding music kept blasting from his phone speaker.
Just as he was going to give up, the scratchy melody was cut off and a woman’s voice came chirping down the line: “You have reached Trafford Park Animal Shelter, how can I help you?”
Crowley awkwardly retrieved his phone from the dashboard and slouched back into the driver’s seat.
“Hi,” he oozed into the receiver, a shade too sweetly. “So good to catch you – Mary, isn’t it? I was, um, wondering about that address you gave me earlier.”
The woman, whose voice he’d recognised immediately, responded with unbroken enthusiasm: “Oh, Mr Crowley! I’ve been wondering all evening when you’d be calling to give me an update on how you and the little rascal are getting on. Now – what was that about the address?”
“Would you be so kind and check it for me?”
“Of course!”
He heard some rustling on the other end of the line, presumably as Mary went through the records in front of her to track down that critical bit of information. “You must know, Mr Crowley, I was so relieved when Dog was adopted by that family, he’s such a lovely fella! Was really not happy in his kennel, poor thing…”
Crowley’s gaze slid to the crate in the passenger’s seat next to him. “Yeah. Nice dog. Such a creative name, too.”
Two very attentive eyes stared back at him through the bars of the dog’s temporary plastic prison. The little black-and-white terrier didn’t look half as tired as Crowley felt. A quick glance at his watch told him that it was nearly 11. In any case too late to be dog-sitting, for heaven’s sake.
“Here we have it!” Mary announced. “92 Carisbrooke Avenue.”
There was a pause.
“And… the city?” Crowley asked, helpfully. Maybe it was not too far away, maybe it was just around the next corner, or perhaps four or five corners for all he cared – wouldn’t that be a nice bit of luck? Hell, at this point he’d even drive to the very outskirts of London just to finally drop off the dog.
The chirpy voice decided to put a cruel stop to his glimmer of hope: “Middlesbrough.”
Crowley pushed his glasses up to rub his eyes, slumping ever deeper into the car seat. Dog whined despondently.
“You know how earlier,” Crowley began, his sweet tone fraying at the edges, “– nearly five hours earlier to be precise – right before I was setting off from Manchester… I was telling you about this conference I was going to, at the University College London? It might surprise you to learn that the University College London is in fact not located in Middlesbrough!” The last words came out in something like a hiss.
“Oh. Oh dear me,” muttered Mary, her tone shifting for the first time from carefree to troubled. “I’m so sorry Mr Crowley, there must’ve been some kind of misundestanding…”
“Tell that to the wide-eyed boy who expected me to turn up with two degus instead of one dog. What even is a degu anyway?!”
“Ah... then I know what has happened. You must have been given the address that should have been handed to–”
“Don’t tell me,” Crowley said gloomily. “There’s currently two unassuming degus on their way to Middlesbrough.” His pen scribbled irritated patterns around the mismatched address on the notepad in his lap. Wrong address. Wrong boy.
Middlesbrough! He was supposed to show up at that blasted conference in nine hours and he currently had a passenger who would not be welcome there – or at a hotel, for that matter. Probably.
Mary interrupted his thoughts, trying her hardest to sound encouraging: “Well, there is another shelter in London we collaborate with sometimes. If you could drop off Dog with them, I’m sure they will be able to organise transport to Middlesbrough.”
“Fabulous. I’m assuming they are open on a late Sunday evening?”
If Mary registered the biting sarcasm, she didn’t let it show. “I don’t believe they will be, unfortunately. I’m only working late today because of our audits, you know, and because I’m waiting for updates from you and Ryan. Ryan is the chap who is travelling to Middlesbrough… oh, bugger. He’ll be almost there by now, I really should call him about the mix-up.”
“While you’re at it, make sure that someone calls the family that had the pleasure of opening the door to the wrong pet delivery just now. I’m still parked near the house – nice neighbourhood, really. The degus will love it if they ever make it here.”
Mary didn’t seem to listen. Crowley heard busy typing and mouse-clicking from her end, and the next thing she said was: “The London shelter opens tomorrow at 7:30, is there any way you could look after Dog until then?”
“Nah. Was thinking I’ll let him start a new life in Soho.”
“Mr Crowley…”
“Yeah yeah, alright. I’ll find a hotel that takes us both for the night and I’ll drop him off safe and sound in the morning.”
He noted down the address of the shelter (and would be sure to triple-check it himself on his phone after hanging up), then he answered a couple of Mary’s questions about Dog, namely if he’d had his evening treats (Yep) and if he’d been any trouble on the drive or on the potty breaks (Nope). Mary wished him a good night, Crowley muttered a resigned reply, and the call disconnected.
He checked if the crate was still fastened tightly to the passenger seat. It wasn’t the safest option to transport a terrier but Dog had started whining miserably in the back – only calming down when he was able to see Crowley from his crate. ‘He likes you!’ Lucy had said, grinning from ear to ear. That woman could still talk him into things like it was nothing, if she really wanted to. Not that her persuasion didn’t have limits.
For all his internal lamentations, Crowley had actually been enjoying the company of his furry co-pilot. But now he was tired and exhausted and longing for the little road trip to come to an end.
He jerked the Bentley into gear and started to make his way towards the city centre. Even though there was a good chance that dogs would not be allowed at the hotel he was supposed to stay at tonight – it was worth a try.
‘Spread your little wings and fly away | Fly away, far away,’ sang Freddy Mercury from the Bentley’s stereo. Crowley wasn’t sure if the CD was even supposed to include this particular song. Sometimes the car seemed to have a mind of its own anyway, skipping one song at random and playing another one three times in a row – and Crowley wasn’t in a mood to argue right now.
‘Pull yourself together
Cause you know you should do better
That's because you're a free man.’
There was a big, glaring NO ANIMALS sign at the door of The Mayfair Hall Hotel. Crowley could already see it from the car as he pulled up in front of the looming building. Drat.
With a dramatic sigh, he lowered the window a little to let in some fresh air. Then he leaned over Dog’s crate and started rummaging in the glovebox for a second time tonight. He produced a pair of glasses almost identical to the one he was wearing, only the tint of the lenses was noticeably darker. His eyes were burning from the night drive and he knew they would only get worse from staring at his phone. He tried to remember where he had put his eyedrops, patting down his coat pockets without much hope. The way this night was going, the small bottle was probably buried somewhere in his suitcase. Ah, what the hell. The drops would make his eyes blurry anyway, for quite a few minutes, which he a) hated in general and b) didn’t have the patience for right now.
Crowley changed his glasses and tossed the redundant pair aside carelessly.
The next half an hour or so was spent on looking up dog-friendly hotels nearby. He rung up several places that sounded promising (‘we welcome furry guests’ and ‘bring your VIP: your Very Important Pooch!’ and ‘you and your dog will have a pawsome stay’) but was told every time that the hotel was already fully booked. That was, if anyone was picking up at all. Tough luck.
“Right,” he finally said, glancing to his passenger. “What’s it to be, Rover? A night in the car, I reckon. Or we somehow smuggle you into my hotel room. I could really do with a shower y’know. And a bed.”
Dog snorted and put his head down on his paws. He also seemed to dislike the notion of being stuck in his crate for the whole night.
“On the bright side, did you know that degus can’t have sugar?” continued Crowley, pointing at his phone. “Get diabetes from it, poor little blighters.”
There was a knock on the window.
Crowley turned his head, frowning. He half expected a junkie asking for some change, or a girl with too much makeup and too few clothes offering her services. Who else would come knocking on a random car window at this hour?
“Awfully sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid you can’t park here,” said someone from outside whose face he couldn’t make out.
Crowley blinked. Well, that made sense. The Bentley was kind of blocking the entry to the hotel’s car park. Part of him was already formulating a sarcastic response – something about how he was ever so sorry to hinder the hoards of cars queuing for the hotel in the middle of the night – but another part was too occupied with trying to figure out what on Earth was going on.
Objectively, that question was not hard to answer. One of the hotel’s staff members must have spotted him which is why they’d come outside to make sure he made up his mind: check in or get lost, basically.
Why was it then that his body seemed to know something his mind hadn’t caught yet? He wasn’t usually susceptible to random heart palpitations, nor inexplicable knots in his stomach. As if something deeply instinctual in him tried to get some kind of message through. Over the years, Crowley had learned to listen to these gut reactions. They were never wrong.
He narrowed his eyes behind his glasses, trying to make out the person who’d tapped against his half-open window. The only notable light source were the streetlights that flanked the hotel’s front door, illuminating little more than the back of the person in question. The light caught wisps of bright, curly hair, almost like a halo. And then there was the voice. That bloody voice.
“Hello? Everything alright?” came that voice from outside – sounding concerned and way, way too familiar to belong to some faceless stranger.
There was still a hopeless sort of resistance within him that tried to withstand the onslaught of pure, devastating recognition. The thing was: he had not been recognised yet in return. Curtesy of the way he was positioned in the car seat, his face was completely hidden in shadow. He could just… leave. He could find a quiet parking space not too far from the shelter he’d be going to in the morning. He could still get a few hours of rest before dropping off Dog, downing six shots of espresso and –ta-da!– he’d be ready to plough through a day of polished keynotes, recycled ideas sold as the next new thing, and overly polite networking. He’d be back on his way to Manchester in no time, really. And once he was back home, caught up in his usual routine, he wouldn’t even think about…
“Angel.”
He didn’t even state it as a question. There was a soft finality in that one word, a strange kind of surrender.
“…Crowley.”
An answer that came not quite as certain, not as final. And it was still enough to make Crowley feel as if he’d been stripped naked on the spot, vulnerable and exposed – carefully arranged shadows and tinted glasses notwithstanding.
“Um, sorry. Gonna be gone in a sec.” Now that’s what he should have said right away. Or better still: not saying anything at all, just leaving, what happened to that?!
“Gone?” The voice sounded confused. “But… you have got a reservation for tonight, have you not?”
Crowley just stared, dumbfounded, with stinging eyes. The silhouette had taken half a step back as if to leave him some space. When Crowley still didn’t say anything, the strangely familiar man gestured to his left in a manner that suggested he’d done this many a time before – showing lost people where to go. The tone of his voice was warm, yet decidedly professional: “The entrance to the car park is right here. I shall await you inside.”
***
Angel’s given first names were Angel Princeton Zion Cortese. These names were amongst the less unusual ones given to children during the naming ceremonies held in a certain muddy valley field in Wales.
When Angel was six months old, his mother Janet decided she had had enough of Returning to Nature and moved to London instead where she remembered the undergraduate law degree she’d acquired years ago and subsequently began a successful legal career. So successful, in fact, that she was able to pay for a private tutor for Angel by the time he was supposed to enrol in primary school.
Malicious gossip had it that Janet’s professional achievements were tied to her liaison with her employer Mr Matthews, the head of the legal firm she was working at. How else would a woman be able to climb the career ladder this swiftly? Hard work? A most preposterous notion, surely!
When Angel was around ten or eleven, Mr Matthews started to show an interest in the boy’s development and education. He called it “taking the lad under his wing” (sadly, he wasn’t a man who would have noticed the unintended angelic pun). Angel was a quick learner and what he picked up on most quickly was the fact that some of the things he liked were all right to like in front of Mr Matthews and some others, not so much. He was praised for his intellect, his advanced vocabulary and being naturally good with numbers. Books were usually a safe bet too, though Mr Matthews would sometimes bring up the imbalanced ratio of fiction to non-fiction books that Angel was reading.
At some point, Angel resorted to disguising his novels by means of a dust jacket that proclaimed ‘The Unexpected Beauty of Mathematics’ or ‘Introduction to Space and Time’ or even ‘Understanding the Basics of British Law’. (That last one made Mr Matthews pat Angel’s shoulder proudly, suggesting that the boy could start calling him ‘John’ from now on – all while Angel was smiling nervously, shielding the contents of Jane Eyre from view.)
When Angel was twelve, John Matthews had a long conversation with Angel’s mother about how the boy was ‘progressing very well’ but was ‘still lacking in interpersonal skills’ and had been, all in all, ‘too sheltered from real life’. Eventually, Janet agreed to put Angel’s private tutoring on hold and to enrol him in a state school, namely in one of the rougher parts of London. One of those that would ‘teach the boy some valuable life skills’, according to John.
September 1987
(C 11, A 12)
On his first day of secondary school, three boys came up to Angel at break time and asked him his name (‘We didn’t quite catch it, y’know, during attendance,’ said the tallest of them with a broad grin). By this point, Angel had spent 12 ½ years of his life collecting various looks from people whenever they heard his name for the first time. Sometimes the look he received was surprised, sometimes amused, sometimes it was slightly pitiful. What Angel wasn’t prepared for was a mocking look, accompanied by spiteful sparks of glee in the eyes of his new classmates. The three of them had set out to find any excuse at all to lay into the weird, posh boy reading his fancy book at the far edge of the courtyard – and they had struck gold.
They continued their questioning remarks (‘Are y’sure that’s your actual name, Angel?’, ‘What primary did you go to, then?’, ‘What’s that you’re reading?’), slowly closing in on him.
“You three!” came a raised voice from the other side of the yard. All three heads jerked. Another student came strolling towards them, both hands in his pockets, and a bored-out-of-his-mind expression on his face. “Mr Harrison says he wants to see you.”
“And who’s that?”
“Dunno, one of the teachers.” The newcomer pointed over this shoulder. “Office. Wouldn’t keep him waiting if I were you, sounded a tad pissed. Knew all three of your full names and he wasn’t afraid to use’em.”
When the headmistress, Mrs Hodges, had taken attendance in the morning, only one student had been missing – Anthony Crowley. She’d called that name a couple of times, without receiving a response, before moving on to the next name on the list. Anthony Crowley turned up half an hour later, slinking into the classroom so very quietly that even Mrs Hodges almost didn’t notice. When she did, she scolded him for being late and for not wearing his uniform, making all the other students’ heads turn to curiously examine a boy with ginger hair, dark clothes and the aloofness of an antisocial cat.
Angel watched as the three bullies made their way towards the school office. Anthony was watching too – his expression slowly shifting from boredom to grim satisfaction. “Fucking pricks, them.”
“Erm… pardon?” Angel asked nervously.
“Fucking pricks,” repeated Anthony. “Went to the same primary as them, they’re a pain in the arse. Pretty stupid, though. Let’s see how long it takes’em to find out there’s no Mr Harrison.” He glanced at Angel, almost cheerfully. “I’m Anthony, by the way.”
“Mh,” said Angel, squirming inside.
“You got a name, too?” prodded Anthony.
For a moment, Angel considered shaking his head but that would have probably been even worse than the alternative. “Angel.”
What kind of look would it be this time? A confused side-eye? A frown as if to ask whether or not Angel was pulling his leg?
Anthony smiled. A bit of a crooked, cat-like smile, but not a mocking one. Teasing? Hard to tell. “Angel? Really?”– and then, when Angel nodded: “That’s wicked!”
Present Day
Crowley watched two sets of sliding doors part in front of him. They rattled faintly as they slid into place, waiting for him to step inside. Which he did, of course. He certainly did not think for a moment about turning on his heel and hurrying back to the Bentley in the car park (and to Dog who he’d left behind for the moment with a chew bone). Instead, he buried his hands in the pockets of his coat and strode purposefully towards the reception. Behind him, the glass doors closed again.
In principle, the task was simple: telling the person behind the desk to cancel the booking in the system, please and thank you very much, wouldn’t be needed anymore. That blasted booking that – of course – must have his name on it, even though it was the university that was going to pay for it. Or not. He wasn’t actually sure if he would have to pay the cancellation fee out of pocket.
The whole reception area seemed deserted. No guests lingering about and no staff members either, for that matter. The clock on the wall showed half past twelve. A quiet, old-fashioned melody was playing from some hidden speaker. The lights were dimmed, which he was grateful for, but not as grateful as he felt for his tinted glasses. He had briefly considered switching back to the ones that weren’t quite as dark. Very briefly.
Crowley flicked a finger against the bell on the counter, flinching from the sharp ringing sound. As if it wasn’t enough that his eyes felt strained and overstimulated, now his ears were giving in?!
“Just a moment!”
Crowley’s hand slipped back into his pocket, closed to a fist. His tentative gaze went to where the muffled voice had come from: the door behind the counter, slightly left ajar. It was pushed open by a man in a cream-coloured waistcoat and a bow tie. He was balancing a tray in one hand, closing the door behind him with the other.
“Good evening,” the man – evidently the hotel’s night porter – said cordially, putting the tray down on the counter. On the tray was a glass of sparkling wine, next to a steaming cup of tea. “I am so glad you arrived safely. I trust your journey wasn’t too troublesome?” He made a small gesture towards the tray. “I was able to arrange the complimentary welcome drink even though our bar is officially closed for the night – truth be told, we were expecting you earlier in the day. Alternatively, I took the, er, liberty of preparing a hot beverage as well, since the night is rather chilly.”
He paused, looking from the tray to Crowley.
“Um. That– uh. Thanks. But that– well, that won’t be necessary, really.” Crowley avoided the attentive gaze by inspecting the tray longer than necessary. “It’s– well. Turns out, I won’t need the booking anymore. Sorry for the short notice.”
He forced himself to look up, though he wasn’t sure if the man in front of him would even be able to tell (thanks to tinted lenses plus mood lighting). “So, yeah. You can just go ahead and cancel…” – he stopped mid-sentence, trying to get his eyes to focus. What the–
He read the name tag again. And again. Finally even dragging his glasses down his nose, despite himself, to peer over the rim in disbelief. “Zi-on?”
“Ah, well, it is pronounced ‘Zion’, actually. Similar to ‘Lion’, no stress on the o-sound,” said Zion, in the patient voice of someone who wasn’t explaining this for the first time. He adjusted the tag on his waistcoat as if it needed straightening (which it didn’t).
Crowley pushed his glasses back up and stared at ‘Zion’ with growing irritation. In his defence: he was exhausted, his eyes were killing him and the longer he was lingering in this slightly rundown yet admittedly quite cosy hotel lobby, the more he wished he could take a hot shower and fall into a freshly made bed.
“Found out who you are, then?” he said testily.
Zion stiffened, though his facial expression quickly settled into a well-practised professional smile. “Well. I’m sorry to hear you’ll be cancelling your booking with us tonight. Can I help you in any other way?”
“Nah,” Crowley snapped. “Have a nice… whatever you think you’re doing here.”
He grabbed the drink – the one with the sparkling alcoholic substance, not the mug with the tea in it – and downed it in one go. Then he put the glass firmly back on the tray.
Zion’s smile hardly wavered but his eyes, oh, his fucking eyes. Crowley hated this. Sad, sad puppy eyes, boo-fucking-hoo.
“Ciao,” he said coldly and turned away. The first set of glass doors opened up as he stepped towards them.
“What happened?” asked Angel. No, not Angel. Zion. Or whoever it was who was calling after him like that. The thing was: for the first time since Crowley had set foot inside the building, the words actually struck a chord. Some subtle change in tone, perhaps. Or maybe it was just the phrasing. What happened?
The doors closed again, right in front of Crowley’s near motionless figure. (Only near motionless because one of his feet was tapping on the floor nervously.) He tried to work out what Angel was asking. Was it What happened to you? He could have asked the same question. ‘What happened? – No, listen, what the fuck happened? – What happened to YOU? – to… us?’
Crowley half-turned but couldn’t bring himself to face Angel fully. His gaze meandered over the shabby wallpaper of the entrance area. “What?” He surprised himself by how non-committal he managed to sound.
When he didn’t receive a reply for a few moments, he dared to look back. Angel was typing something into the reception’s computer, briefly lifting one hand to wipe something from his eye – but the motion was so fleeting that Crowley could have blinked and missed it. Something in him wanted to yell and hiss and run up to Angel and shake him. ‘Don’t do this to me – Don’t you DARE do this to me – Because you know, you KNOW that I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I made you cry – And wouldn’t that be a shame since I’ve been doing quite alright with the whole forgiveness thing lately, been doing just fine–’
“I-I mean…” Angel cleared his throat. “I’m expected to ask what happened – why the booking needs to be cancelled. You are not obliged to answer this question, of course.”
“Oh.”
Crowley considered this. How strange. Although the words were all ‘night porter’ again, the whiplash failed to hit. He shuffled closer to the reception desk to stop the stupid doors from being activated. “Mh. Long story. Got stuck with a dog.”
“A… dog?”
“Yah. I’m a part-time pet delivery person, apparently.”
Angel looked hopelessly confused. Crowley managed a smile, painfully close to a grimace. “Are you telling me that your fancy hotel software does not provide a cancellation reason along the lines of ‘still needs to finish a livestock delivery’?”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Like I said, it’s a long story. Anyway, the blighter is waiting for me in the car and it’s gonna be a long night for the two of us, so–”
Angel interrupted: “Are you planning on sleeping in your car? Why, it’s nearly freezing outside!”
‘Nearly freezing’ was definitely an exaggeration – his coat would keep him reasonably warm at a pinch –, but Crowley didn’t correct him. He caught himself enjoying the indignation in Angel’s voice.
“Bit short on alternatives,” Crowley said, shrugging. He could see the gears turning in Angel’s head and prepared himself to explain that he’d already tried to scout out potential backup options in the area.
“I’ve got a room for you and the dog,” Angel said.
Crowley opened his mouth and closed it again.
“That solution is a shade unorthodox but… bear with me.” Angel turned his attention back to the computer and started typing again. “Sometimes I wish I could just… talk to the thing and tell it exactly what to do,” he muttered.
Crowley waited awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other until Angel nodded and looked up from the computer screen. “Follow me.”
Although he would have loved to make a teasing remark on the conspiratorial tone, Crowley kept quiet and watched Angel put up a ‘Back in a minute’ sign on the desk. And then – he followed.