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was standing with. Yet he stopped as he saw Charlie move away. “Charlie, where the fuck are you going?”
    “I’ll be right back,” Charlie replied, moving towards the dance floor.
    She looked like Michelle Pfeiffer’s more beautiful sister. She was with some friends, but still shone out like a star, surrounded by empty space. Charlie had watched, transfixed, as the small black dress she was wearing clung to every angle of her body. In a moment he was dancing beside her; he’d barely consciously moved between her friends.
    “Shit, you’re Charlie O’Neil,” he heard one of her friends say.
    Jackie’s eyes fell on him and he felt like he had just been born. Her eyes were beautiful; they had a sparkle in he had never seen before.
    “Who? Are you some kind of film star?” he could hear the beautiful girl say.
    “You ain’t heard of me?” he asked, suddenly desperate for her recognition. It was as if every bit of infamy and local talk about him had been built towards this point. Just so this girl should know his name. As if this moment was the whole point and purpose of his reputation.
    “No?” she smiled.
    “He’s some big time gangster,” another of the beautiful girl’s friends explained.
    “Oi! Charlie, what the fuck?” Robert shouted from the side of the dance floor, hands in the air in disbelief. Mickey, standing next to him, looked equally confused.
    “Is that your gang?” the beautiful girl asked, almost mockingly.
    Anyone else who had dared used this tone with him would be on the floor, but her words brought a smile to his face. It was as if his firm now meant nothing to him—it was all a joke in comparison to being near her.
    “They don’t look very scary,” she said with a laugh.
    “You’d be surprised,” he replied.
    “You like the music?” she asked, gesturing to the band on stage behind them.
    Charlie was barely aware of them, barely aware of any music.
    “They’re pretty shit,” he said.
    “What?” the beautiful girl said, looking shocked. “They’re fucking great!”
    Was that how it went? One thing he knew for sure was he spent the rest of the night by her side—and then as much of the next twenty years as he could. She was his angel; the only part of his life that was clean, untouched.
     
    “My John Travolta,” Jackie said, stroking Charlie’s hand, pretending to be oblivious to the tremble. The monitoring device continued to bleep, but no longer had his attention now.
    He looked at his wife closely, holding her gaze for what seemed a long time. Jackie was still the same girl; the sparkle was still in her eyes, despite her condition. And all that mattered was her. He gripped her hand, hoping the energy in his body would somehow enter hers and fight away everything bad, everything that was infecting her.
    “Listen, enough of this depressing talk!” Charlie said, breaking the silence. “It’s your birthday at the end of the week, and we are going to have one hell of a party!” 
    “Charlie, I’m in the hospital,” Jackie reminded him through a grim smile.
    “We’ll smuggle you out for one night,” Charlie replied.
    “How will you do that?”
    “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I'm a gangster,” Charlie said, sitting back in his seat. He felt more comfortable now. “Some say that I run most of London,” he said, with pride in his voice. Somehow, gripping her hand had had the opposite effect to that which he intended; it was he that had been re-energised.
    Jackie laughed.
    “And I’ve got an even better idea; I’ll get that band to play at the party,” he continued, looking pleased with himself.
    “You said you don’t even remember their name?” Jackie said. “You said they were shit!”
    “Wild n’ Weird,” Charlie boasted. “I remember everything about that night.”
    He could feel the power returning to his body now. Making Jackie smile had brought the old Charlie back—his angel had saved him again.

Chapter Three - John