“Hello, Abercoch Lifeline, how can I help you?”

“Miss Angelotti?”

“Speaking.”

“Your controller said that you would help me.”

“Dr Vine?”

“Will you help me?”

Angel paused. The use of her surname had taken her by surprise; the voices on the telephone were largely anonymous, first name terms only. The mention of Steven Vine’s name had jolted her even more. But that is the least you can expect when you are having an affair with a married man, she thought bitterly.

Ever the professional, Angel forced herself to concentrate on the caller’s needs. She prided herself in being able to form swift mental images of her clients. This lady sounded cool and composed, calm and collected, outwardly in control. What Angel would have given to have had just an ounce of that control.

Angel spoke into the telephone. “What is your problem?” she asked.

“I want you to go to the funfair on Pavilion Road. Do you know Pavilion Road?”

“I am sorry,” Angel said. “But we are a helpline; we are not allowed to make home visits.”

“Dr Vine said you would help me!” The voice had suddenly cracked and its composure had gone. Angel could picture the elegant sounding lady; in her mind’s eye she conjured up an image of someone close to tears. “He said you would understand,” the voice continued.

Angel searched for her most reassuring tones: “I do understand,” she said. “I promise you.”

The tears on the other end of the telephone line were reduced to a sniffle. “I am sorry,” the voice said. “It’s just that...”

“It’s all right,” Angel said. “Take your time.”

“Dr Vine said you would help me,” the voice repeated.

Angel was puzzled by this. Steven didn’t usually pass on his clients to her. “Are you a friend of Dr Vine’s?” she asked.

The voice became harder: “I know all about you and Dr Vine.”

Angel’s fingers strangled the receiver, her knuckles shining white. When she spoke, there was a huskiness to her tone: “Who is this?”

“Take your mobile phone. Be outside the funfair in twenty minutes.”

“Who is..?” Angel stopped. The elegant sounding lady had broken the connection; the line was dead.

Angel sat back, the telephone purring away in her ear. A wave of guilt washed over her. Why did she always have to feel like this whenever someone mentioned Steven’s name?

Hurriedly, she checked her wristwatch; ten minutes to eight. The evening shift finished at eight o’clock. It was a ten minute drive from the Lifeline offices to the funfair. She should make it in time.

 

* * *

By the time Angel arrived at the funfair her initial feelings of guilt and confusion had evaporated. Instead, anger and resentment had taken their place. Her resentment was directed at Steven; she seemed to blame him for everything these days. Her anger was directed at herself, because it wasn’t fair to blame him...

Her thoughts went back to their first meeting. From the start, there was a mutual attraction. Yet, her instincts told her that nothing good could come of it and that she should resign. The warning signs were clear: Steven spelt trouble. Even though Angel loved her job and many people regarded her as an outstanding counsellor she knew that there was no alternative but to resign.

Then everything was turned on its head. Steven refused to accept her resignation. He wanted to know her reasons. Angel told him; she was a firm believer in honesty being the best policy. Typically, Steven had been very sympathetic and supportive. He had asked her to reconsider. He had begged her to stay. He had pleaded with her to trust him. It was all Angel wanted to hear. She fell even deeper into the spell cast by his dark, intelligent eyes; she became totally captivated by his carefree, boyish manner. Angel and Steven started to see more of each other. They became lovers.

Angel stared into the deserted fairground and the chalk white face of a painted ghoul. “You’re a bloody fool,” she swore at herself.

Then, her phone rang.

“I’m here,” said Angel.

“Go to the Lover’s Knot on the coast road,” the dignified voice instructed. “In a phone booth there you will find a parcel in your name. Collect the parcel and await further instructions.”

“What is this all about?” Angel demanded.

A tortured laugh on the other end of the phone was swiftly followed by silence.

Angel jumped into her rusty old Triumph Herald and, still fuming, she made her way to the Lover’s Knot, Abercoch’s most popular public house.

When Angel arrived at the pub, she found the place crowded. The alcohol induced bonhomie was so at odds with Angel’s mood that she started to feel depressed.

Angel hated pubs. She hated alcohol. On the one occasion she had succumbed to an excess of alcohol a man had tried to rape her. The memory made her shudder. She was relieved when a tall, smart lady dressed in a white trouser suit vacated the phone booth. Angel noted that the lady wore a gold chain around her neck complete with an interlocking P and F. Sighing, Angel gained access to the phone booth. Once inside, she closed the door, shutting out the smell of the pub and the noise of the crowd.

The parcel caught her eye immediately. It was by a telephone, nestling on a shelf. Angel picked up the parcel. She ran an unvarnished fingernail over the string. What could it be? Her curiosity gnawed away at her like an aching tooth. She had to find out. She pulled at the string.

The telephone rang.

Startled, Angel fumbled the parcel. Like confetti, a shower of fifty pound notes slipped out and fluttered their way down to the floor. In her confusion, Angel forgot about the telephone. She took hold of the parcel and she stuffed it into her shoulder bag; she had never seen so much money before.

The telephone stopped ringing.

Angel stared into the pub in a state of confusion. What was she supposed to do? With the notes in the parcel and those gathered from the floor she estimated that she had £50,000 in her possession. How could she possibly explain away all that money?

The telephone rang again.

Relieved, Angel snatched up the receiver. “Hello?” she said.

“Miss Angelotti?”

 

“I’m here. Where are you?”

“I want you to go to the car showrooms on Gower Street. Take the parcel with you. I want you to buy a car, an Aston Martin. Do you understand?”

Angel glanced at her shoulder bag and the parcel; the sight of all that money made her feel lightheaded. Grinning, she said: “Any particular colour?”

“Red,” the voice said sternly. “It has to be a red car. Do you understand?”

No, Angel thought. “Yes,” she said.

Once again, the line went dead.

 

* * *

The next morning Angel bought the car. She was at home, enjoying a belated breakfast of honey, toast and eggs while trying to rationalise what she was doing. The more she thought about the previous day the more her mind wandered into a maze, only to lose all sense of direction. Her thoughts were tying her in knots. Then, the telephone rang.

“Miss Angelotti?”

Angrily, Angel stared at the receiver. “How do you know my home number?” she asked.

The voice ignored her. “Have you bought the car?”

Angel continued to stare at the receiver. What was this? How much did she really know? She knew where Angel worked, she knew where Angel lived. She even knew about Steven Vine. Angel wondered how many other people knew about her and Steven. Not many, if any, she guessed, for they had been very discreet.

“Have you bought the car?” the voice demanded.

“I’ve bought the car,” Angel said, “but I refuse to carry out any more of your instructions until I know more about you.” Angel paused. Idly, she wondered where her assertiveness had come from; from somewhere deep in her past, she concluded. “Have I made myself clear?” Angel continued. “What is your name?”

“My name is not important.”

“Where do you live?”

No answer.

“How did you find out about me?”

Silence.

Angel sighed. She had had enough. She would return the car, collect the money and then return the money to the telephone booth. Her mind made up, she moved to replace the receiver.

“Miss Angelotti...! Angel...!  Wait!” The voice had cracked again. Angel could picture her face, desperate, streaked with tears. The image made her feel guilty. Reluctantly, she placed the telephone close to her ear.

“What is it?” Angel asked.

“Don’t hang up on me,” the voice pleaded. “I need your help. I can’t do this on my own.” She sniffed, choking back her tears. Angel had heard a lot of people crying on the telephone; this lady sounded a stranger to tears. “Will you help me?” the voice sobbed. “Please.”

Angel was renowned as a soft touch; that was her nature, the essence of who she was. Her instincts told her to replace the receiver and walk away. But she could not be so callous. It was like meeting Steven all over again. Someone was taking over, someone was taking control.

Resignedly, Angel said: “Before I help you, I need to know something about you. I need to know where I can contact you. Please give me your telephone number.”

The voice gave her a telephone number. Satisfied, Angel returned to her breakfast of honey, toast and eggs.

 

* * *

 

“Annunziata! What kept you?”

Angel climbed out of the Aston Martin and melted into Steven Vine’s arms. She stared up into his smiling dark eyes. She smiled too. No one called her by her given name anymore, not even her parents. Steven had made her name his sole property and when they were together, sharing each other, Angel did not mind. Happily, to Steven, she would have sold her soul. He made her feel brave and strong. He convinced her that what she was doing was right. He made her feel alive.

Steven Vine kissed the top of Angel’s curly hair. Then, he took her by the hand and he led her up the garden path towards a rundown old farmhouse. Smiling at the building, he said: “What do you think of that?”

Angel ran her eyes over the tangle of ivy, the missing slates and the cracks in the walls. She shivered. “It’s a bit dilapidated, isn’t it?”

“Nothing that an artistic pair of hands can’t put right.” Steven held up Angel’s hands. His strong fingers traced her fate line. His lips brushed against her love line. His moustache tickled her life line. “I have always thought that you have artistic hands, Annunziata.”

Angel pulled her hands away. She knew what Steven was thinking and it made her feel uncomfortable. Although she liked him and, on occasions, she convinced herself that she loved him, she had no desire to become like one of the toy soldiers he was so fond of collecting; if Steven had his way, she would be billeted in this house, waiting on his beck and call.

They approached the farmhouse. Steven opened the front door. The door creaked and they were engulfed in cobwebs and showered with dust. Steven wiped the dust from Angel’s shoulders and he picked the cobwebs from her hair. “I got this place at a knock-down price,” he said. “The estate agent couldn’t sell it; he reckons it’s haunted.”

Once again, Angel shivered. Maybe she was coming down with a cold. Her office at Lifeline was the coldest in the building. She had talked to Steven about the chill in the office and he had reassured her that he would arrange an exchange. That was three months ago.

Angel became aware that Steven was staring at her and so she forced up a smile. “Aren’t you going to show me around?” she said.

“I thought you would never ask.” Steven took hold of her elbow. “Let’s start with the bedroom...”

They were in the bedroom, admiring the patterns the damp had made on the walls, when Steven said: “You haven’t told me what you think.”

“Does it matter what I think?”

“Of course it matters,” Steven said. “I care about you; your opinion means the world to me.”

“And what about Eliza’s opinion?” Angel asked. “And your children? Do they still mean the world to you?”

“Of course they do.” Steven walked over to Angel’s side. He placed his arms around her waist and he pulled her close. He kissed her. “But you are special to me; you are my Annunziata.”

“I am not your anything,” Angel said, in a rare show of anger. Annoyed, she pulled away.

Steven’s face became a mask of concern. “There is nothing wrong, is there?”

“Nothing,” Angel said, while staring at her shoes.

Steven made a tentative move towards Angel. “You know that I can’t leave Eliza; she couldn’t cope without me.”

“I don’t want you to leave her,” Angel lied. Or was it the truth? Her emotions were beginning to overwhelm her; in her desperation, she could feel nothing but confused.

Steven walked over to the bedroom door. He stared at his watch. Angel knew what that meant; it was time to go back to Eliza; it was time to visit her at the alcohol dependency clinic.

“I have to go,” Steven said.

Silently, Angel nodded.

“I will ring you when I can; is that all right?”

Angel shrugged her delicate shoulders. A cloud of resentment had settled over her head. She was angry with Steven. She was angry with herself. She felt like shouting: “Clear off; stop messing up my life!” Instead, she said: “Ring me when you can.”

“I love you, Annunziata.”

Angel ignored Steven’s words. She walked out of the farmhouse towards the car. She was about to drive away when Steven ran up to her.  “I nearly forgot,” he said. “I haven’t given you my new phone number.”

Angel wasn’t sure if she wanted the number. She glanced back to the stone farmhouse. “What is it?” she asked, half-heartedly.

Steven read out his new number, a number at once strange and familiar, for it belonged to the voice.

 

* * *

 

Angel didn’t sleep that night. She never did after a ‘clandestine’ meeting with Steven. She stared into the depths of her bedroom mirror and she wondered what Eliza knew about her. She wondered what Eliza thought about her. She wondered what she would do if she were in Eliza’s position.

Eliza and Steven had met in medical school, Angel knew that. They had qualified and become doctors, specialising in psychiatry. They had two children, Mathew and Paul, aged nine and seven. Angel wondered how the children managed, living with an alcoholic mother.  She wondered: what had driven Eliza to drink? Angel could guess the answer to that question, but she did not want to dwell on that.

At 5 a.m. the telephone rang and Angel was grateful for the distraction; anything to pull her mind out of the pit of despondency into which it had sunk.

“Angel?” It was the voice.

“I am here.”

“Oh, I am so glad.” The voice sounded genuine, pleased, filling Angel with a feeling of warmth. “For some reason, I thought that you wouldn’t want to speak to me this time. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Angel smiled to herself in the darkness. She was getting the hang of this; lying was easy, if you put in enough practice. “How are you?” she asked.

The voice did not answer. Instead, after a long pause, she said: “I want you to drive the car to the Lover’s Knot. Do it this evening, at eleven o’clock. I want you to leave the keys in the car and the car open. Then, I want you to return home.”

The voice paused. Angel could sense that she was smiling. “You are a pretty little thing; I expect that you own some pretty dresses,” the voice reasoned.

“A few,” Angel said.

“Do you own a red dress?”

Angel nodded. “A summer dress.”

“That will do,” the voice said. “After you deliver the car, I want you to return home. Change into your summer dress. Then drive out in your own car to Devil’s Point. You know where Devil’s Point is, don’t you, Angel?”

Once again, Angel nodded; it was where she went, with Steven, for summer picnics. “What happens when I get to Devil’s Point?” she asked.

“I will tell you when you get there.”

There was a long pause and Angel sensed that the voice was reluctant to replace the receiver. To Angel’s consternation, she found herself unwilling to break the connection too. Eventually, the voice said: “Take care of yourself, Angel; I will be thinking about you.”

 

* * *

 

Angel could not concentrate on her work that day. She tried to contact the voice, dialling her number several times, but there was no reply.

Her duty at Lifeline was coming to a close when she received an unexpected telephone call; it was Steven. He said: “Annunziata, listen to me.”

“Steve?” Angel frowned. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the farmhouse.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“No. Just listen. I’ve been doing some research on the history of this place. The previous owner was someone called Penelope; Penelope Fitzwalter.”

Angel’s frown intensified. “What has this got to do with me?”

“Penelope Fitzwalter died a year ago to the day.”

Realisation dawned and Angel found that her stomach muscles had tightened; she felt slightly sick. “How did she die?” Angel asked.

“She was killed in a road accident.”

“What happened?”

“She was knocked down by a hit and run driver.”

Angel felt that she knew the answer to the next question, but she asked that question anyway: “Where did the accident happen?”

“Devil’s Point,” Steven replied.

 

* * *

 

Angel drove the Aston Martin to the Lover’s Knot. She stared out through the car windscreen to the pub. A face stared back; a man’s face. He had slicked back dark hair, dark beady eyes and a rat’s tail of a moustache. Angel shivered. To her, the man had a satanic face. The man who had tried to rape her had possessed a similar visage.

The more Angel stared into the pub, the more the beady eyes stared back. It was like a game – a competition to see who would turn away first.

To Angel’s relief, her wristwatch showed eleven o’clock and she could abandon the car. Following the voice’s instructions, she returned home, changed into her red summer dress and then drove her own car out to Devil’s Point.

A notorious ‘black spot’, Devil’s Point was shrouded in mist when she arrived there. Squalls of cold rain blew in from the sea. Angel eased herself out of her car and she stood in the rain. Soon, the rain had soaked through to her skin, hugging her red dress to her petite body. She shuddered as she looked around for shelter. She spotted a phone booth across the road and she decided that she would wait there.

Angel was halfway across the road when the headlights hit her. She turned and stared at the lights while rooted to the spot like a startled rabbit. Then, her fears abated and she found that she could stare at the lights with equanimity. Recalling the pub, this was an extension to the game, a challenge to see who would run away first. Angel felt up to the challenge. The demon that had tormented her soul was losing all its strength. Resolutely, she stood her ground.

The car was getting closer now, weaving all over the white lines on the road. Angel smiled. She felt her body soften and relax. She knew that the solution to her problem was near.

There was a squeal of brakes and the air was filled with the stench of burnt rubber and the profanity of blue language. As the car had approached, Angel had closed her eyes. Now, she opened her eyes and she saw the satanic man standing near.

Angel blinked as the man glared at her, his face angry. He grabbed hold of her dress and snarled: “What the hell do you think you’ve been playing at?”

“What are you talking about?” Angel asked, innocently.

“Leaving phone messages; upsetting the kids. My wife thinks that I’m having an affair.”

The man waved his hands menacingly above Angel’s head and she turned away, not so much from fear, more from the smell of stale beer.

Submissively, Angel said: “I’m sorry if that’s what your wife thinks.”

“You will be sorry if this gets as far as the divorce courts. And this...” He grabbed hold of Angel’s dress again, tearing it just above her thigh. “What are you doing wearing this? Are you sick, or something?” Releasing the dress, he pushed her up against her car. “It’s got to stop! You understand? It’s got to stop!”

Angel eased herself away from the car. Calmly, she said: “Is that what she told you?”

The man frowned. “Huh?” he grunted.

“Your drinking,” Angel said. “Has your wife told you that you’ve got to stop?”

The man grimaced, rocking back on to the heels of his shoes. “Did that bitch put you up to this?”

Angel moved forward. She felt her old confidence returning, and more. “You’d been drinking on that night too, hadn’t you? One year ago...”

“It was an accident,” the man complained. “She stepped out into the road; how the hell was I supposed to see her?”

“You killed her,” Angel said.

“It was an accident!” he yelled.

“You killed her,” Angel said sadly. “You killed Penelope Fitzwalter.”

The man was shaking now. The rain gave his skin a translucent, ghostly appearance and he felt compelled to draw his hand across his face and wipe away the moisture. Then, he glanced around frantically, seeking an escape. His eyes caught sight of the phone booth. The telephone was ringing. Angel did not understand exactly why, but she knew that he would run there. She also knew that he would not get there. She could not see it, she could not hear it, but she knew that something was lurking in the mist.

Angel guessed that the man did not see it either; he did not hear the truck that killed him.

As the truck driver got out of his cab and stared blankly into the road, Angel started to cry. Her tears were partly for the man; she felt sorry for him. They were also for her, because she knew what she had to do.

 

* * *

The next morning, Angel telephoned the Lifeline offices. She told Steven that she was resigning. She also told him that she would not see him anymore. Steven tried to change her mind on both counts, but Angel remained resolute; she had reached her decision and nothing could alter her thoughts.

With her mind made up, Angel felt like celebrating. She pondered for a moment, then she knew exactly what she would do: she would buy herself a new summer dress, a red one, and she would contact a girlfriend; she felt too good to be on her own. Angel was wondering who she should contact when a telephone number caught her eye; it was the voice’s number.

Smiling, Angel picked up the phone...

 

 

 

Copyright © 1994 Mansel Jones. All rights reserved