Read Online Angel City by Mike Ripley - Free Book Online
Authors: Mike Ripley
Tags: Fantasy, Crime, London, Novel, angel, Comedy, Violence, wizard, Poor, dungeons and dragons, homeless, sad, misery, mike ripley, comic crime, crime writers, fresh blood, lovejoy, critic, birmingham post, essex book festival, wand, 1990, 90s, flotsam, gay scene, broke, skint
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Sunday evening, Lisabeth and Fenella werenât talking either. Well, certainly not to me and probably not to each other.
They were still plotting a move to Glastonbury as a centre of ley lines and the Earthâs sacred and spiritual linear forces. Lisabeth had found a book in the local library that seemed to substantiate this theory by referring to Feng-shui , one of the ancient Chinese beliefs similar to the basic philosophical principle of Taoism, which regards the Earth as a living thing through which life-force flows on âdragon pathsâ. The Feng-shui practitioner would build his house or tomb along these flow lines to ensure the best vibes, just like an acupuncturist knew exactly which flow line to tap with his needles.
I upset them first by reminding them that their last experiment with acupuncture had cost them a fortune in Elastoplasts. Then I pretended to understand what they were on about and conned them into wasting Saturday morning in the library looking through guide books trying to find pubs called the Green Dragon, which would be good pubs because they were bound to have been sited on ley lines.
While they were out, I left a message near the communal wall-phone telling them to ring the number of the nearest Chinese take-away as their Feng-shui was ready and did they want noodles or plain rice?
I even managed to give the mysterious Mr Goodson the hump, though I didnât intend to.
Mr Goodson keeps himself to himself, doesnât drink, smoke or indulge in illegal substances and doesnât play loud music. In all other respects, heâs a perfect housemate. We rarely see him during the week and never at weekends, so maybe I over-reacted when I saw him letting himself out of the front door as I emerged on the Sunday morning to collect my milk.
It was still some ungodly hour, say about ten oâclock, and I hadnât expected to meet anyone on the stairs, so I was wearing just a towel scooped up off the bathroom floor, and to be honest, was still half asleep. So when I yelled a cheerful, neighbourly greeting, it actually came out as: âGood son, Mr Morning.â
He gurgled something from the back of his throat, nodded in my general direction and hurried out the door. He was wearing a knee-length duffel coat of the sort you only see these days on historical newsreels of Ban the Bomb marches â and you only see them when a Socialist politician or archbishop snuffs it. He was carrying a huge sports bag over his shoulder, and though it said CICA in big letters, it didnât fool me into thinking he was off to do something athletic. Maybe he was doing a moonlight flit or just deserting the sinking ship like everybody else seemed to be.
If he was, I wondered how long it would be before anyone noticed.
Â
Monday morning involved two big decisions. The first was whether to hide in the bathroom until our esteemed landlord Nassim Nassim had been and gone, thus avoiding paying the rent. Again.
Given the mood of the rest of the house, any one of them was likely to grass me to Nassim, so I bit the bullet and clocked on with the dispatch company. By seven oâclock I was on Baker Street again, facing big decision two: whether to hang around Porter Street and use the McDonaldâs or defect across the street to the Burger King, which had put out tables and benches to try to win back trade. As Tony, the Beast from the East, was already sprawled out on one of the benches, that made it easy; I would wait until he wasnât looking, then nip into McDonaldâs.
Before I could, the radio squawked.
âOscar Seven, Oscar Seven. You out there?â
I started Armstrongâs engine again before answering. âOscar Seven. Am in West One, heavy traffic.â
The only thing moving on Baker Street was a Vulture refuse truck, its great iron jaws at the back gobbling up the black plastic sacks as the bin men hurled them in with unfailing accuracy.
âSpecial request for
They were still plotting a move to Glastonbury as a centre of ley lines and the Earthâs sacred and spiritual linear forces. Lisabeth had found a book in the local library that seemed to substantiate this theory by referring to Feng-shui , one of the ancient Chinese beliefs similar to the basic philosophical principle of Taoism, which regards the Earth as a living thing through which life-force flows on âdragon pathsâ. The Feng-shui practitioner would build his house or tomb along these flow lines to ensure the best vibes, just like an acupuncturist knew exactly which flow line to tap with his needles.
I upset them first by reminding them that their last experiment with acupuncture had cost them a fortune in Elastoplasts. Then I pretended to understand what they were on about and conned them into wasting Saturday morning in the library looking through guide books trying to find pubs called the Green Dragon, which would be good pubs because they were bound to have been sited on ley lines.
While they were out, I left a message near the communal wall-phone telling them to ring the number of the nearest Chinese take-away as their Feng-shui was ready and did they want noodles or plain rice?
I even managed to give the mysterious Mr Goodson the hump, though I didnât intend to.
Mr Goodson keeps himself to himself, doesnât drink, smoke or indulge in illegal substances and doesnât play loud music. In all other respects, heâs a perfect housemate. We rarely see him during the week and never at weekends, so maybe I over-reacted when I saw him letting himself out of the front door as I emerged on the Sunday morning to collect my milk.
It was still some ungodly hour, say about ten oâclock, and I hadnât expected to meet anyone on the stairs, so I was wearing just a towel scooped up off the bathroom floor, and to be honest, was still half asleep. So when I yelled a cheerful, neighbourly greeting, it actually came out as: âGood son, Mr Morning.â
He gurgled something from the back of his throat, nodded in my general direction and hurried out the door. He was wearing a knee-length duffel coat of the sort you only see these days on historical newsreels of Ban the Bomb marches â and you only see them when a Socialist politician or archbishop snuffs it. He was carrying a huge sports bag over his shoulder, and though it said CICA in big letters, it didnât fool me into thinking he was off to do something athletic. Maybe he was doing a moonlight flit or just deserting the sinking ship like everybody else seemed to be.
If he was, I wondered how long it would be before anyone noticed.
Â
Monday morning involved two big decisions. The first was whether to hide in the bathroom until our esteemed landlord Nassim Nassim had been and gone, thus avoiding paying the rent. Again.
Given the mood of the rest of the house, any one of them was likely to grass me to Nassim, so I bit the bullet and clocked on with the dispatch company. By seven oâclock I was on Baker Street again, facing big decision two: whether to hang around Porter Street and use the McDonaldâs or defect across the street to the Burger King, which had put out tables and benches to try to win back trade. As Tony, the Beast from the East, was already sprawled out on one of the benches, that made it easy; I would wait until he wasnât looking, then nip into McDonaldâs.
Before I could, the radio squawked.
âOscar Seven, Oscar Seven. You out there?â
I started Armstrongâs engine again before answering. âOscar Seven. Am in West One, heavy traffic.â
The only thing moving on Baker Street was a Vulture refuse truck, its great iron jaws at the back gobbling up the black plastic sacks as the bin men hurled them in with unfailing accuracy.
âSpecial request for
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