Angel and the Assassin: Be Brave

slaves are disrespectful.”
    Kael raised the paddle and landed a powerful swat across Angel‟s buttocks,
    raising a welt instantly. Tensed against the pain and with no warm-up, it would
    hurt like hell. Angel cried out. Ignoring him, Kael followed it with two more
    perfectly placed heavy blows before returning the paddle to its hook. Angel
    remained exactly where he was. He knew better than to move without permission.
    But Kael doubted he could have moved anyway just then. The blows had been very
    hard. They were a punishment, not for pleasure.
    “Pull your pants up,” Kael said. He left Angel to recover and went to the
    bedroom. From the wardrobe, he took a pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt and
    changed before going barefoot to the kitchen. A couple of minutes later, Angel
    followed him into the kitchen, his cheeks flaming, his head hanging. “Sir, I‟m sorry.
    I was showing off.”
    “I know.” Kael opened the fridge. “You took a picture of me and showed it
    around?”
    “On my cell phone, Sir,” Angel admitted.
    “Delete it.”
    “Yes, Sir.”
    “You left your Irlens on the couch where they could get broken. Do you know
    how expensive they were?”
    Angel put his hand over his mouth. “I‟m sorry, Sir.”
    “Don‟t do it again. Now make some dinner. I‟m hungry.”
    “Yes, Sir.”
    Angel always reverted to Sir when he wanted to be extra respectful or because
    he had done something wrong. Kael accepted that the boy was well aware of his
    misconduct and left it at that.
    When at last they sat down at the kitchen table, Angel presented a fairly
    decent plate of fish and vegetables. He always set the table nicely with place mats
    and napkins even though Kael rarely allowed them to use the dining room. They ate
    in silence, Angel still wary, throwing him furtive glances here and there. When Kael
    was finished, Angel removed the plates. “How was it, Daddy? I got the recipe for the
    fish from Delia Smith on the TV.”
    “ C’était bon. As-tu reçu des devoirs ?”
    “What? Oh, it‟s French week. I forgot.” Angel was taking a GCSE—a General
    Certificate of Secondary Education—in French, and Kael insisted on teaching him
    other languages too, marking on the calendar which language he would be
    reinforcing that week and insisting they speak it exclusively for at least an hour

    24
    Fyn Alexander

    each day. Angel thought for a minute, then replied in French. “No, Sir. I had a free
    period. I did my homework then.”
    “ Bon garcon . Get the dishes done.”
    By the time Angel joined him in the spacious living room, Kael was sitting on
    the black leather couch with his laptop on his knees. An e-mail from the language
    department confirmed what Conran had told him. His morning language classes
    would now be taught by others. His afternoon classes, which often went into the
    early evenings, were only Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays.
    When he had been strictly an operative, weeks often went by before he got a
    new assignment. But always he had his eye on the next, always training hard at the
    gym, going for long runs beside the river or through Hyde Park, and practicing for
    hours at the firing range. For recreation he would go to the opera or to Europe for a
    few days. Every couple of months, he‟d visit his mum in Liverpool and take her on
    fun excursions, doing things she never dreamed of when Kael was growing up. They
    hadn‟t two ha‟pennies to rub together then, even though she worked every hour God
    sent at the launderette and the old peoples‟ home.
    The rest of the time he was in S and M bars finding subs to play with, having
    sex at every opportunity.
    What was he going to do with his time now? Angel was in college five days a
    week, and he had to keep his boy in school so he could get his GCSEs and then his A
    levels and go to university. Angel would have a future and a normal life. Just the
    kind of normal, boring life Kael was attempting to live now with zero success.
    “Daddy, do you want your whisky?”
    “Yes.” He watched Angel go to the polished glass and oak sideboard and pour
    whisky into a cut crystal tumbler. The boy‟s elegant, leggy walk always kept Kael‟s
    gaze fixed on his backside. Angel gave him the glass with a little, respectful nod of
    his head. Usually he threw himself down beside Kael in the evenings after dinner
    and melded into his side for cuddle time. Tonight he stood waiting, still reticent
    about taking any liberties.
    Kael drank a