Angel on the Inside Read Online Free PDF

wooden flooring.
    Somewhat ungainly, she righted herself in time to whip the door open so I could barrel my way by her, yelling ‘Car keys!’ as I did.
    â€˜Where are they?’
    â€˜Trouser pocket,’ I said, halting at Armstrong’s side.
    Her hand plunged into my trouser pocket and groped for the keys. There wasn’t time for this. My bundle of towels was shape-shifting alarmingly, the growling was definitely getting louder and I distinctly heard the ripping of material.
    â€˜No Fenella,’ I said reluctantly. ‘They’re in the other pocket.’
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    I let Springsteen have the whole of the back of the cab to himself. It wouldn’t have been fair to let Fenella ride locked in there with him, so I told her to get the bus round to Homerton High Street and meet me at the vet’s surgery. I also suggested she might put some clothes on.
    Getting him out of Armstrong actually went smoother than I could have hoped. I parked on double yellow lines outside the surgery’s front door and for a second considered writing a ‘Vet On Call’ note to stick in the windscreen – which never fails with policemen and parking wardens. Then I remembered I had a black London cab and thought, to hell with it, I can park anywhere.
    In Armstrong’s boot I found an old pair of oil-stained black leather gloves and pulled them on. I could have done with the gauntlets they use to handle nuclear fuel rods, but these would have to do. Then I made a point of appearing in the offside passenger window before sinking down out of sight and crab-walking like a demented Cossack round the back of the cab to get to the nearside door as quietly as I could. At least a dozen good citizens of Hackney passed me on the pavement. Not one said anything or even gave me a second glance. That’s why I love the place.
    Then it was take a deep breath, whip the door open and play the roll-the-cat-in the towel game again – although one of the towels I noticed was now in two pieces – keeping low and turning my face away just in case.
    A rising howl of primeval pain split the air, but nobody came to my aid.
    I think it was the howl that made Springsteen relax for a second, thinking he had scored a vital hit. That was all the time I needed to mummify him in towelling, for I was past caring about the blood. I was just grateful he’d missed my left eyeball.
    Then I was kicking the door shut and running towards the surgery with my bundle clutched to my leather jacket, yelling: ‘Coming through! Gangway! Emergency! Clear a path! Trauma case!’
    An elderly lady with an ancient Jack Russell was just leaving the surgery as I charged up to the door. Both of them looked as if they could have done with hip replacements, but both were nimble enough to get out of my way and she even held the door open for me, a startled expression on her face.
    I shouted ‘Thanks’ over my shoulder and burst into the waiting room, where all eyes turned towards me. For a moment I thought they were going to dare me to jump the queue, but nobody said anything. There must have been 20 people in there and at least the same number of animals, which made about 39 eyes, allowing for the caged parrot with one eye bandaged up. The parrot looked pretty depressed, probably sick of pirate jokes from other parrots, but if he had any sense he would keep his beak shut, as I simply wasn’t in the mood.
    I had to walk between two rows of chairs, knees and animals to get to the reception desk, where a buxom young blonde was making notes, a phone clamped to her right ear. She looked up and stared at me as well, disturbed by the fact that the surgery had gone totally silent. Well, silent apart from a constant one-bass-note growling that was coming from my chest area. I think that, plus the fact that I could feel blood running down the side of my face, gave the impression that perhaps I did deserve to jump the queue after all.
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