Page 55 of Dark Angel

Gulping down the lump forming in his throat, Matthew enters the all too familiar stand where Tarin sits quietly on her wooden stool. Greasy raven hair looped into a messy knot on top of her head. Permanently bloodshot eyes follow him as he approaches her.

Sliding off the stool in one smooth movement, Tarin saunters to stand in front of her stock with her arms crossed. Wooden crates of glass bottles stacked four feet high, carrying various kinds of spirits, wines and brews, are packed messily behind her. “Back so soon, Blackwell?” she purrs in her Welsh accent.

A smile fails to reach Matthew’s face. “Yes. I need three bottles this time, please.”

She clicks her tongue regretfully, “Only have two left, my love. That’s the best I can do until Monday.”

Matthew curses to himself. He can’t really wait another two days for an extra bottle. “Fine, the two then.” He grits out.

Tarin turns her bony back to him. She’s a skinny little thing but scary enough that nobody will have a go at her. The Foreshadower Mark branded on the back of her hand in a deep indigo shade.The eye that sees all.

Sifting through some of the wooden crates stacked at the back, Matthew takes a moment to look through everything else she’s selling. Glass bottles of rum, gin and wine line shelves. All sorts of colours, mixes and shapes. There’s also some merchandise he has never noticed before, despite being her most loyal customer for years now.

Tarin normally has the bottles of whisky ready for him, but not this time. Maybe she didn’t expect to see him in here again so soon. It’s only been a day and a half.

A basket sits at the end of a shelf. Matthew picks up one of the small hessian bags the size of his palm and sniffs.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Tarin says without even looking up from the crate she is digging around in.

Matthew drops the bag and clears his throat. “What’s in them?”

Tarin stands up, spinning to face him with two bottles of amber liquid filled to the brim. “Let’s just say lucky dip,” answering him vaguely.

Matthew scoffs as she places the bottles on the counter. “Eight pounds.”

“Sure. Thank you.” He mutters, handing her the notes and taking the bottles out of her hands.

He stalks out of the stall before she can question him about his early return. He doesn’t want to talk about it with her, or anyone, really.

Tucking the bottles underneath his coat, Matthew heads back to his house. He wishes his family’s estate looked similar to his friends’ manors, but this one is dilapidated and hasn’t been looked after in over a decade.

Alice tries her best to keep it as tidy as possible, but the paint is chipping off, dust cakes every surface, and the garden is overgrown and wild. Ivy has consumed most of the single-storey house and the hedge surrounding the property is too tall and thorny. The windows are caked in so much dirt and grim that sunlight doesn’t even properly filter through them anymore.

Yanking open the rusted iron gates, Matthew walks into the unlocked house. The stench of bile and burnt grass fills the air, making him want to vomit right there in the entryway.

Gulping down the bitterness burning in his throat, he pulls the bottles out from his hiding spot and strolls into the kitchen.

Lawrence Blackwell is slumped over in a chair at the dingy looking dining table. His head resting in his arms as he snores softly to himself.

Tiptoeing past, Matthew sets the bottles down.

There’s already another empty one gripped in Lawrence’s palm. There’s no glass beside it because Matthew can’t remember the last time his father used a glass to drink from. Ever since his mother died, Lawrence has gone through an entire bottle a night at least. His breath constantly smelling of spirits that Matthew doesn’t even notice anymore.

Stepping past his father, Matthew takes the empty bottle from his hand and goes to take it outside when his father’s voice stops him. “Did you do get me some more like I asked?” It’s more of a demand than a question.

He looks at his father, who’s sitting up, swaying a little from dizziness.

“You have two more up there.” Matthew points out.

Lawrence looks behind him to see the filled bottles on the bench. “I said three, you imbecile, or can you not count?” his voice thunders through the room.

Matthew’s pulse skitters, his body readying to fight like it’s used to. “Tarin only had two left. She will have more on Monday.”

“Monday!” He shouts angrily, standing from the chair and almost toppling over himself. “I need more than that before Monday!”

“Well, go somewhere else then.” Matthew tries to keep his voice calm, even though his own rage is bubbling up through his veins and threatening to spill out of his mouth. His hands curl at his sides.

The chair falls with a crash as his father storms towards him. Yanking the empty bottle from Matthew’s hand, he grunts angrily, smashing it on the edge of the bench and holding the jagged end towards his son’s chest.

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