A is for Angelica Read Online Free PDF

now ten feet high with just a handful of branches and even fewer leaves. It looks like a short telegraph pole. When people talk about the trees on Cressington Vale, they always
count seven. They forget about the withered post planted by the children to celebrate Diwali. It’s a nuisance. They fractured the pipes when they dug the hole. That’s why the
water’s brown. When the tree loses what leaves it has, they land in the drain directly below. They block it so that when it rains, the street floods. Last year, it rained so hard the water
ran into gardens and ruined lawns. It has a plaque nailed into its trunk. The Joanne Gaubert memorial tree. No-one knows who she was. She could be anyone. She might not even be dead.
    The tree stands outside Angelica’s house.
    I can’t see her television.
    Note: Phase 1 = find trimmers. Phase 2 = remove branches. Phase 3 = dispose of branches. Phase 4 = remove trunk. Phase 5 = dispose of trunk. Risk factor = 9.5. Note
end.
    I’m by the tree. My balaclava keeps slipping and it’s making my face hot. I can feel myself sweating. I found the hedge trimmers under a pile of old newspapers. I
knew he had them. I was right. Don Donald has become a liar. I give the trimmers a test. A giant pair of scissors. He’s looked after them well. He’s sharpened them and put new handles
on. I try a few snips in mid air. They sound good. Efficient. I start on the branches. They come off easily. I do them one at a time and pile them up on the pavement. When I’ve finished, I
take them to the skip outside John Bonsall’s house. He’s having a conservatory put in. I saw the van pull up this morning. The skip is barely half full, just soil and stone. And a
bicycle wheel. I throw the branches on top and walk back to the tree. A bare trunk. I pull my sleeve up and look at my watch. I’ve been outside an hour. I can hear the hedgerows rustling.
Soon the birds will start to twitter. It used to wake me up before I went to work. Before they put the double glazing in.
    I open the hedge trimmers as far as they’ll go and hold them where the two blades cross. The metal is freezing. I can feel it through my gloves, the cold working its way through my
fingers. I need to be quick before they stiffen up. I twist my shoulders, flex my arms and start hacking at the trunk of the tree. It jars my shoulders and sends a pain up my back and neck. But I
keep going, keep gripping the metal and slashing away at the tree. My wrists begin to ache, so I try using the weight from my hips to turn and hack. Turn and hack. It’s working. I’m
half an inch in. I stop a second to catch my breath. I look up at the houses. Benny is standing at his bedroom window with the light switched off. I recognise his silhouette. I’ve no idea if
he can see me. I stand perfectly still and wait for him to disappear. It takes almost three minutes.
    I look at the tiny indent in the side of the tree. The fruits of my labour. The sky is losing darkness. Not much, only ever so slightly, but I know it’s happening. I can make out the
colour of things. Reflections in house windows. The yellow skip with patches of rust on it. Parked cars, two lines of deep maroon. Angelica’s big blue door with the peeling paint. Even my
clothes are getting lighter. They look less black. I hear a noise in the distance. A whirring sound, like the draught through a gap in a door. Bottles, close enough to shake in the wind, vibrate
against each other. I can hear them rattling. Someone whistling. The milkman.
    I close the hedge trimmers and hurry towards the house. I arch my back and lift my head. Another new walk. This one to make me look guiltless. But that’s impossible. I’m wearing a
balaclava. So I walk quicker, through the gate and into the garden. I jog the last few steps to the door, struggle with the key and barge inside. I climb upstairs to the spare room and watch the
milk float trundle along. It crawls past the half-ruined tree and the