1977

By Michele

He opens the door and almost retreats from the wall of sound and scent that immediately assaults him. The bodies undulate on the dance floor below him, the sensual movements hypnotizing. Feels the bass pound through him, the heat, and need almost as thick as the smoke that permeates the air. The urge to flee back to his dark, quiet, and safe room nearly overwhelms him and he turns to go.

"Hey, buddy, in or out!"

And then he is being moved forward by a new mass of bodies and the choice is made for him. Down the stairs, already scanning for his prey, and realizing how really difficult it's going to be to find one sixteen-year-old girl in this crowd.

Hands that settle briefly on his chest in invitation are sloughed off with a muttered 'no thanks'. She's not the one he seeks and he leaves her behind without a second thought.

But the place where her hand rested burns under his cheap polyester shirt, a quicksilver reminder of how very long it has been since he's been touched.

Lights flash in his eyes and the chips of light from the revolving mirror ball hanging from the ceiling make the floor seem to move, giving the entire club a surreal quality that makes it hard for him to concentrate. The smells of tobacco, cannabis and just a hint of hashish, float on the air adding to the scents of lust, arousal and desperation, waking something dangerous deep inside of him and he, once again, turns to
go.

Someone else can do this. But not him. It's really none of his concern.

//"Please… she's only a child. She's been gone for almost three weeks!"// An attempt to grab the hand resting on the table and then tears. //"She's the only really good thing I ever did in my life."//

Eyes close with the memory of the tired, tear stained face, begging him for this one favour. Offer of gratitude and a rent-free month in the boarding house if he will only do this for her.

//"They won't let me in. I'm not one of the beautiful people any more. But you, you could get in with no problem."// No hint flattery in the words, only a statement of the facts. No need to explain which club she means. Only one in town and even he knows where it is.

//"No one should have to suffer a lifetime for one mistake in judgment. I beg you, get her away from them. She doesn't understand…"//

The words, more than the tears, propel him out the door with a recent picture of the girl he's seen only in passing in the months of his stay in her mother's converted home and a reminder that she probably no longer resembles it except in the most basic way.

Sixteen and thinking that the world belongs to her now. There is no evil in her world, no users, no ugliness. The whirlwind of glamour, music, promised stardom, drugs and being treated as if *she* were *someone* blinds her to the true intentions of her benefactors.

But he sees. Has seen, over and over because the years change but the people don't. A few months, at most, and she'll be a husk when they're done with her. When she's no longer fresh and new, no longer able to start the day without a few lines up her nose or a needle in her arm, pills to take her through the afternoon, pills to go to sleep. Only to start the whole process over the next day until she's all used up.

Eyes fly open when he feels a body press against the length of his back; delicate but masculine hands unashamedly reach around him, flicking his dark jacket out of the way to grasp the tab of his belt. Warm puff of air in his ear, "Hey, baby. Wanna fly with me?"

Grabs the hands and removes them, maybe a little too roughly, but he can't care. Can't afford to do anything more than get away. Away from the temptation of flesh, of warmth and comfort and the never-ending call of the blood...

Get out before it becomes too easy to give himself over.

No.

He stops himself after three steps and remembers his purpose.

//"No one should have to suffer a lifetime for one mistake in judgment."//

Yes. Knows the truth in that statement and maybe it's not too much to at least try.

He turns again to the hunt, urgently now, scanning and discarding possibilities. This one too tall, that one too shapely, knows not to eliminate any hair colours and so moves closer to examine the possibilities.

Too close, too many hands, and maybe he'll just come back again the next night because it really is all too much and…

There. A curving booth set in a corner. Three men, slightly fleshy and laughing. Players. Gold chains nestled in wiry chest hair visible above half-unbuttoned shirts and open jackets, diamonds flashing from nearly every finger. Four women, more skin showing than covered, sparkling with glitter and jewels and all flying on whatever one of the men hands to a slim man now slipping out of the booth.

And she is there. The one he's looking for. The landladies' daughter. Marsha.

Marsha, looking anything but sixteen in her loopy silver dress and upswept hair. Make-up so skilfully applied that it almost looks a part of her.

He approaches the table and waits until the man closest to him acknowledges him. "Help you with something?" Shouting to be heard over the music, a quick flash of teeth to show sincerity. "Maybe you wanna dance with one of my girls?"

"No." A shift and Angel sees the gun on the nearest man's belt. "Marsha is coming with me." No patience for more words or games.

She turns her head when she hears her name and the fog lifts enough for her to remember where she's seen him before. "I know him, Barry. Fucker, lives at my mom's place."

"That so?" Barry nods and motions to someone that Angel can't see. "What's your name, boy?"

"Angel." Ignoring the slur because it's not important and he *needs* to go before all control is gone. "Marsha comes with me, now."

Too late Angel feels the hands close on his arms and propel him towards a door cut into the wall next to the booth. An alley, stink of trash and decay. Three muscle men, barely contained by their coats, leer at him, rubbing their hands together in anticipation of resistance.

But the air is cleaner here than in the club and Angel can feel his head clear and focus return. Then Barry is there, with the other two men from the table, the girls hovering near the closed door, giggling.

"Marsha doesn't want to go anywhere, boy. She's happy where she is. Isn't that right, babe?"

"Yeah! And tell my mom to mind her own fucking business." Doesn't bother turning away as she lays out a white line on the back of her hand and lifts it to her nose. "Bitch…"

Eyes narrow and rage rises as one of the gorillas pushes Angel farther back and laughs. The picture of him with his throat ripped out and bleeding rises in Angel's mind and he tries to shake it off because it's just too good and right. Feels his face flicker with his slipping control and steps farther into a shadow.

"The girl comes with me and nobody has to die." Too much growl in his voice, but a last undeserved chance is given and Angel is not surprised when it's not taken.

They are on him almost before he finishes speaking but he is ready and the fight lasts only minutes. The bodies hit the ground one by one, holding various body parts and trying to stem blood flow from noses.

The girls are quiet and Angel hears the hammer click back a split second before a slug slams into his shoulder. Sharp pain giving focus, away from the blood smell, and Angel is across the alley before Barry can shoot again, wrenching the gun away with one hand and grabbing Marsha with the other.

A screech from the girl as they exit the alley, knows he must be nearly pulling her arm out the socket but doubts she feels much pain. He picks her up and jogs down the street, shouts of outrage behind them but no one follows. Slows after three blocks, mind clear again, and puts her down, gripping her upper arm tightly.

"Let go of me, you fucker! Who the hell do you think you are?"

Marsha struggles against his grip and he releases her and she doesn't seem to notice that she keeps walking beside him down the street. "Your mother is worried about you."

Knows it's useless. Knows she won't listen, they never do. Tries anyway. "This isn't the way."

"What do you know?" Pauses to remove her shoes and continues stomping towards home. "Tim has an audition set up for me next week and Barry buys me nice things and Francois says I have potential. I'm finally getting to live and that dried up old bitch is jealous."

"They lie, Marsha. As soon as you're too strung out to be of any use to them you'll be cut loose with only your memories and an addiction to remember them by." And that's a best-case scenario. No heat in the words, only truths he's seen too many times. "This is not the way to live."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm sure you're just full of good advice. Let me guess, you're speaking from experience and just because *you* couldn't handle it, you think no one can." A tiny hand pulls on his arm to stop his progress and he looks down into her too bright eyes. "It's *my* life and what I do with it is none of your business!"

It's no use, just wasted breath, and wasted concern. She's sixteen and sure she'll live forever. Knows all, sees all, can handle anything. Two blocks from home and one last try.

"Have you started whoring for them yet?"

Her head dips and then she's walking away. "I'm not a whore! Barry said I don't have to do anything I don't want to do." So, it's already started. Gentle pressure now, soon she won't care what she has to in order to get her next fix.

Catches up, voice conversational. "For now. Tell me about this audition you have. Barry say what kind of part it is?"

She doesn't answer so Angel answers for her. "Didn't really go into details, did he? Let me guess, it's a 'friend' of his and this friend is doing him a favour. I'm sure Barry has mentioned how you should be nice to the guy for doing this 'special favour' for him, right?"

"YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT!" A sniffle but Angel can't tell if it's from tears. "You just don't understand anything, do you? You have to do favours to get favours. It's the way the world works and if you don't know that by now…"

Her mind is already made up and maybe she does know what's coming but nothing that anyone can say will make a difference. She's made her choice. A few months of excitement in exchange for everything she has.

Walk home completed in silence, waits at the bottom of the stairs, motions for her to go inside. Doesn't follow her up, doesn't want to see the reunion or hear the words of gratitude for something that has only delayed the inevitable. She'll be back at that club, in that same booth, with those same men, as soon as her mother's back is turned.

Times change, but people don't.

Turns once she's inside and heads for the drug store for the supplies he'll need to remove the bullet from his shoulder. Dark coat hides the stain well enough for now.

And tomorrow night it won't matter because he'll be moving on. It's time and he doesn't want to be around when the police come to notify Marsha's mother in a week, a month, a year that they've found her little girl and can she come to the morgue to make an identification.

Angel knows it will happen because people never *really* want to change until it's way too late.

~Fin~