Angel Dust (17 page)

In the beat of a wing, I was at his mother's address at Curlston Heights. I soared to her flat, feeling the wind rushing in my wings, feeling the stars crashing towards me.

But he wasn't there.

He'd been there though.
He had been there!
I could smell the scent of antibiotics clinging to the sofa. I could tell from a packet of tablets thrown down by the TV.

His mother was in the kitchen cooking. She was chopping onions far too quickly. I tried to use that as a clue. She wasn't happy. I shivered. Was he in danger? I touched his mother (always risky to touch those not scheduled to have an angelic visit) to see what she knew. But she didn't know where he was.

Had the Crow shot him? Was he lying dead? I searched in my memory for the Manifest. No death today with his name on it. Should I be relieved? But would it appear on the Manifest? After all as far as Heaven knew, Marcus was already dead. My head suddenly started to throb.

Had he gone to see Candy?

He'd said she was ‘something'. What madness if he had! There'd been a card from her at the hospital. I'd seen it. I searched my memory – had it contained an address? Was he with her? The card had been covered in kisses.

I whirled through the flat looking for Candy's address. I stormed through the kitchen. I blasted through the tiny congested hall and tore like a hurricane everywhere else.

His mother drew the windows tight, checked they were locked. I lasered through papers, letters, mail, magazines. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I raised my head and threw back my chin, and called his name in a voice that would have woken the dead. But there was no reply, only his mother dialling up a friend, saying she felt spooked, saying she could hear the wind whistling down the Heights.

I left. I tore down to the street. I couldn't believe what I was doing. I swirled through gardens, through parking lots. There was ice in my eyes. There was something hurting my throat.
Where was he? Where had he gone?
I sank to the pavement. I pressed my ears to the concrete slabs. I listened through a million hurried steps, searching for his.

And at last I found them!
Light, slow steps as if he was in pain. I drew in a long, deep breath. He'd been here. He'd been here recently. He wasn't well. I could feel it in his tread. Now I could follow him – as long as he was walking – as long as he didn't take a bus, or get in a car. Please God, let him not disappear again.

I must stay calm. His footsteps were very faint. I must focus. I'd read his intent. I'd conjure it out of the very earth. I must listen to see if he took anything from his pocket, used a bus pass, or if he opened his cell to call a friend. I found his next step and I pressed my hand against it. I listened. In between the beats, in between the silences. I heard his intention.

He hadn't spoken on his cell. He hadn't thought of a bus or taxi. He hadn't slowed, nor stopped. He knew where he was going. A little relieved, I followed.

Step after step, I traced him. At the corner, at the end of the street, he took a left. I swung a left. Halfway along the street he crossed the road. I crossed it too.

He stopped. I stopped. He stood there for a full five minutes. Why? In front of me was a flower shop, its windows brimming with bouquets: roses, carnations, rich red peonies.

He'd stopped to buy flowers.

I stepped into the shop determined to fathom this new mystery. Flowers? Had he come to buy flowers for his mother? If not, who? I stopped. I couldn't help myself, I sank to my knees.
Please God, not Candy.

If he'd bought flowers for Candy, if he loved her – what was I to do? I suppose I'd hoped somehow – in some way – he might have loved me, or grown to love me. If he'd loved me he might have changed, repented freely, willingly, with a whole heart, for my sake. With love on our side we could have done it – we could have faced his responsibilities together – found ways to help those who depended on him. I'd have stopped time. Read lottery numbers. Made cards fall. Fixed races. Thrown dice.

But if he loved her, it was hopeless. He might ‘try' to repent because he ‘owed me' but it would not be from his heart, nor of his own Free Will. I'd fail. He'd burn for eternity. And I'd have to tell St Peter.

I'd risked everything for him. I'd be handed over to God's Army, have to appear at the Day of Judgement Courts. I'd have no soul to show, no reason to explain my actions, only broken rules and bad judgement.

No Joey. No soul. No Marcus.

I'd be vaporised.

I couldn't bear it. Not because I feared God's Army. They could do their worst. I unfolded my wings in defiance. Damn You!
‘Do your worst!'
I yelled. The flowers swayed, a leaf detached itself from its garland and tornadoed across the shop. And not because I dreaded failure. I'd rather fail a thousand times – in the eyes of everyone – than see Marcus brought to Hell.

I couldn't bear it. How he'd suffer.

I rose from the floor and swept the freesias and petunias aside. I would not let this happen. Even if he loved another, I could bear it. I'd still save him. Even if I could not bear it, I must bear it.

For I loved him.

It was the first time I'd admitted it to myself. And it felt like a blow struck hard against my chest.
I loved him.
This was the feeling that drove men to murder and women to despair. I must not despair. I repeated the words directed by God to be written in his Holy Book:

‘Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy . . . it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered . . . it keeps no record of wrongs . . . It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.'

My love for Marcus must be just as pure.

So I rose up from the mess of petals on the flower-shop floor and bowed my head under its new burden. I closed my eyes in acceptance of my new understanding of love and felt humbled. I loved Marcus. I loved him so much I wasn't going to let anything stop me – even if he loved another.

I left the shop and followed his steps. The ice in my eyes hurt. The beating of my heart was overshadowed only by the nervous fluttering of my wings.

It's better, I told myself, that he should have a human love. Easier. A love between an angel and a mortal could come to no good. If the girl was sweet and ready to die for him, had led a good life and wasn't bound for Hell, then he might repent for her sake. And I would try my best to help him.

And then, when I was sure he had repented, I'd deliver sweet death to both of them, at the same moment, in the same way. I could make their deaths glorious and beautiful – perhaps they could die together drowning in a great flood or like Romeo and Juliet for the love of one another.

Marcus didn't take the bus. Instead he walked along the riverbank. He didn't seem to be in a hurry, but he kept a steady pace nonetheless. He cut through back streets, dodged a huge shopping mall and passed through parkland. It was easier to follow him over grass. He ducked through tangled trees until he came to an opening, a green vista with the view of the city. He stopped there by a pool filled with water lilies and rested on an iron bench. I sat there too, aching at every thought of him. Where was he now? Why had he come here?

Then I got it!

He was going back to the club. This was a short cut. I was puzzled. Had he arranged to meet Candy there? Maybe in the upstairs café? In the flick of a feather I was at the door. The instant I was, I knew he was there too.

He was not in the café. He was downstairs in the club. Like an arrow I was inside, through wood and steel, through brick walls. With the speed of light I arrived at the foot of the staircase. Before me stood the great mirror. I twirled in its silvery depths, letting for an instant my fire and beauty invade every atom of the place. That cheered me up. Gave me courage. Then I folded my wings and looked around.

It was just the same as the night of the birthday party. The same black leather sofas, the same upholstered walls. It all still reeked. I caught my breath and remembered how I'd stood there waiting for Marcus's death, how I'd missed the moment, how Larry had saved me, how I'd saved Marcus, how I'd held him in my arms, how he'd looked into my eyes . . .

There is nothing as heartbreaking as memory. When you're all alone, when you've been passed over for another, when you remember that hour when you first met – memories so bittersweet . . .

There was the dance floor; there the tired disco ball, no longer shedding its glittering light; there the bar stools. There was where Larry had sat, where Larry had talked me through everything. There was where I'd held him. I looked across at the spot.

And there was Marcus.

My heart stopped at the sight of him. I stepped back, involuntarily, as if my presence were toxic. I hid in the shadows. I waited.

He was standing still. I sent an eerie show of moonbeams across the walls. Outlining my silhouette. Did he see me? No. He couldn't see me. But like a thief I still stayed hidden.

He sighed. I imagined how eager he was, how anxious for her to come, how he needed to hold her.
Oh, to be held.
I tried to imagine it. Imagine his arms around me, feel his mouth on my neck, feel his lips against my skin.

He sighed again. I longed to jump from my hiding place, to apparition before him, rush to him, fling myself into his arms. Arms that couldn't hold me. Hands that couldn't touch me. But I didn't. It wasn't me he was thinking about. So we waited, the two of us.

It was only when he moved that I noticed exactly where he was standing. He suddenly bent down and lowered himself gingerly to the floor. Then he knelt – almost as if he was going to pray. I stared, hardly believing it. He closed his eyes. His shoulders shook. He seemed smitten by some blow. Was he going to ask forgiveness? Pray for her to come? I held my breath. His head dropped to his chest. His arms hung slack. In his hands the flowers quivered.

I bit my lip. He seemed to be intoning something.

. . . Yea though I walk through the valley . . .

A prayer, perhaps?

. . . of the shadow . . .

No, not intoning: singing. I strained to catch the words.

. . . of death . . .

There on the disco floor, Marcus laid a wreath, a simple circle of white lilies, of red roses.

Right on the spot where Joey died.

How could I have imagined he was meeting another? Oh, faithless Seraph: miserable, culpable, guilty, ignominious angel. He hadn't come here to meet anyone. He wasn't up to anything. How full of distrust, suspicion, doubt: I wasn't fit to be a celestial being. I closed my eyes. I asked for forgiveness. I asked for faith. Recklessly I sent my prayer straight up to Heaven.

But I didn't move from my hiding spot. I didn't apparition. I couldn't. It wasn't because I wanted to snoop or anything. It wasn't because I even wanted to be near him. No, I had no right to hide and spy on his private grief. But I didn't want to interrupt it, either.

And I had to talk to him.

Oh, Marcus, from the moment I met you I was trapped.

After a while Marcus stood up. I'd wait until he was composed, then I'd leave my alcove and appear before him, tell him the truth about Joey, why he died, how he died, how he owed Joey everything: the morning, the breeze on his cheek, the afternoon to come, the days he had left. I'd brave his fury. If he blamed me I'd ask his forgiveness. That's all.

Marcus drew a red rose from the wreath and, crossing over the disco floor, held it aloft, and said: ‘To my angel. This is for saving me.'

To my angel!

I watched, held my breath. He kissed the rose, right on the spot where I'd first held him.

He kissed the rose!

‘I wish you were real,' he said.

He stood looking at the rose. Should I reveal myself
now?
I held my breath, wondering where to apparition. How beautiful it would be to appear right before him and accept the rose . . .

But just as I prepared to do so, it seemed a vision appeared right before
me
, exactly as it had at Devil's Pass. I saw myself as a young girl, thin and trembling, with angel wings coated in blood, lying there, bleeding to death, right on the spot where Marcus had fallen.

And whilst I stood there dazed, trying to understand, I heard Marcus sigh. He crossed to a leather couch on the far side of the room and sat down. And holding the rose quite steady, he tore out a petal.

He let the petal tumble to the floor. Then he tore another. Marcus ripped out a third. He let it fall as before. He ripped a fourth, and a fifth and again and again. He tore savagely at the rose until, by his feet, strewn all around him, was a battlefield of red fragments. There they lay like drops of blood staining the floor. The poor rose had only a few petals left, but Marcus was on fire, relentless.

I watched, horrified, mesmerised. I watched until there were no more than two petals on the carcass of the flower. Marcus tore out the last but one. He held it between his fingers as if it were accursed.

Then he let it go. As it floated down to rest with the others, he said something.

I'd been so busy watching, I missed it.

Quickly I listened. When the Seraphim listen they can hear a strand of coral rustle at the bottom of the ocean, they can hear the dew settle on Mars. I pressed my ear against the wall and searched for his words through boards, through tiles, through space and dust, until at last I found something, still hanging unsteadily in the air. It was only one word.

Liar.

Marcus had said, ‘Liar.'

That was it.

Marcus looked at the last petal as it trembled there on the stalk. His fingers quivered. He went to pluck it. His lips squeezed up, as if he was going to say something else. Then he flung the stalk with its one remaining petal straight against the mirror. The petal smacked into its reflection, blossomed in mirrored petals, came to a standstill, twisted, twirled and fell.