Angel on the Inside Read Online Free PDF Page B

middle-aged woman with long curly red hair, wearing a Barbour and green wellies (in Hackney?) gave me a limp smile and reigned in a long-haired Golden Labrador so I could squeeze by. A couple of cats in plastic carrying boxes with wire grilles for doors scuttered as far back into them as they could get. A ten-year-old girl with two small, gerbil-sized boxes with air holes and the words ‘Sparky’ and ‘Millie’ crayoned on them, bunched up her knees and covered them protectively with her arms. A shaven-headed man with tattoos on his neck and knuckles tightened his grip on the lead of a pit bull as the dog shrank backwards under his chair. ‘Steady, Laydee, steady,’ he said, a look of doubt on his face.
    I reached the reception desk and rested my towel bundle, still keeping a firm grip.
    â€˜I need a vet,’ I said, deadly serious.
    The young blonde put down the phone and gave me a killer smile. The name tag on her starched white medical smock said ‘Amber’ and I didn’t need contact lenses to read it. I was close enough to feel the static.
    â€˜I bet you do,’ she said with an Australian twang. ‘But animals come first here.’
    Before I could come up with the obvious reply, which would probably have earned me a fist in the face, Springsteen took matters into his own paws. One of his back ones actually, which burst out of his towelling shroud and lashed at Amber, missing her arm but sending the white plastic phone crashing on to the floor.
    Amber kept on smiling, not a tooth out of place, not an eyelid batted.
    â€˜The vet will see you straight away. And the name is?’
    â€˜Springsteen,’ I said, leaning on him in a vain attempt to muffle his growls.
    â€˜Like the old rock star?’
    â€˜I prefer legendary.’
    â€˜My mum really liked him,’ she smiled.
    â€˜Er … the vet. Can we see him?’
    â€˜Oh sure. It’s a cat, right?’
    â€˜Right.’
    Just to prove it, Springsteen produced the sort of smell only nervous cats can. The towels were no substitute for a gas mask and personal oxygen supply.
    â€˜Any idea of the problem?’ Amber said, her nose wrinkling but the smile still cemented in place.
    â€˜A totally meat diet plus a metabolism designed in the seventh circle of Hell, if you mean the smell,’ I said helpfully. ‘In more general terms, a psychotic personality that has not mellowed with age. Specifically, a broken leg, which, if it’s not treated soon, will bring that metabolism and that personality into play full whack, in which case I would fear for everything you hold dear and every living thing in this room.’
    In the waiting room behind me, you could have heard a pin drop. Then I heard the big bald guy whispering to his pit bull: ‘Come on, Laydee, we’ll come back later.’
    Amber still held me in her gaze and I couldn’t help but stare at her smile. Under fluorescent lighting, I would have needed sunglasses.
    â€˜Will you be paying cash, Mr Springsteen?’ she said.
    â€˜Absolutely.’
    â€˜Then let’s go through, shall we?’
    Â 
    When we finally emerged, the waiting room was empty apart from Fenella, sitting there good as gold, changed out of her pyjamas, knees together, reading a copy of Hello! magazine.
    I wasn’t surprised she was alone. Once Amber had led me into the surgery, the vet’s shout of ‘Oh fuck, not that cat!’ must have disconcerted some of the waiting patients.
    The following cries of ‘Amber, lock the door!’ and ‘Just bloody believe me, this one can do door handles, it’s happened before!’ and particularly ‘For the love of God, don’t let go’ were also probably upsetting if you heard them in isolation coming from somebody, obviously hysterical, to whom you were about to entrust the health and well-being of your pet.
    Of course I kept calm throughout – I think blood loss does