Guardian (8 page)

And in the surrounding darkness that meant nothing to them, a praetorian guard of recently arrived angels took up a defensive box formation around me and then faced outwards. With only occasional glances towards each other for mutual encouragement, they reserved their taunting smiles for the slavering pack of red-eyed, repulsive demons swarming not far above their heads. A pack compelled to retreat and now holding at a distance sufficient to allow themselves the feeling that really, if only they could summon the courage and discipline to attack en masse, they could take the angels down.

Inhabitants of another world, they were ignoring what I could not – passing backwards and forwards around and through my prison walls with impunity, as though they didn't exist, which as far as they were concerned was as good as fact. Always just out of sword range, they slavered over the thought of me, their intended victim, from whom they had so recently been forced to flee, hissing and snarling at each other in their efforts to stay clear of the angels, lashing out with spiny fingers and sharp stiletto blades whenever one of their own kind got in the way. Brave enough amongst themselves, they were never quite able to defy the immense and dazzling immortals who now stood sentry just outside the four corners of my cell. Guardians of the insignificant lump of flesh and blood slumped against the cell wall, they waited quietly, hands resting lightly on the pommels of their flame-like swords, the razor-sharp tips of which seemed to pierce even the rock upon which their owners stood.

Light glittered along the folds of their fine-woven, thigh-length togas stirring gently in fluid movements that had little to do with any recognisable gravity. Breastplates of pure gold matched by dazzling gold greaves defended them to the front. Across their backs were slung wide silvery white shields embossed with what looked like liquid red lacquer in the shape of a vertical cross, the whole glowing with all the appearance of a living light, so swiftly did a myriad of vivid hues coruscate across their broad surfaces. Completing their protective armour, magnificent red-crested helmets, gold with beautifully worked silver inlays, covered their heads and lent an air of quiet, intimidating authority. Swarming and muttering angrily, the cloud of satanic spirits undulated back and forth as though some ethereal wind blew them, while they threatened and darted in the hope of getting back to me, their unwitting victim. One more moment with me was all they asked, one more moment to finish what they had begun, to savour the forbidden invasion of my body and send me spiralling down through unbearable pain into sudden, grisly suicide. Death, their ultimate spectator sport, their definitive thrill, the final obscenity each longed to inflict on every mortal before their due time.

For long moments the angels stood still, relaxed, almost indifferent to the gruesome creatures flitting round above them. But then a dozen or so, gaining courage in numbers, surged too close. For a second it looked as though, between them, they might even succeed in achieving a co-ordinated attack and actually break through to me but, in the blink of an eye, the two nearest angels launched themselves into action. As one, they stepped swiftly forward and upward, whipping their long, laser-like swords with the expert precision of prolonged practice to cover the six-dimensional hemisphere they were constrained to defend. Behind them, the guard commander spoke quietly and with utter assurance. “To God be the victory.”

Perhaps he failed to understand the import, but the nearest demon, bolder than the rest and wearing the insignia of a captain, launched himself straight at Israfel, one of the guards. Instinctively, the latter's sword arced down flat onto the creature's head, as though disdaining the inconvenience of a kill, and the snarling beast was flung backwards to bounce against his nearest subordinate, setting off a chain reaction deep into the rushing horde. Quick as lightning, the second angel thrust forward, impaling another adversary on the end of his weapon before cutting swiftly down then up to split him end to end. But the marauders were quick too, and for a moment there was a melee of cutting, thrusting swords as they tried to take advantage of greater numbers. For several seconds no words were spoken, but the disorganised and hellish rabble was no match for the angels' co-ordinated speed and precision. Nor did their shrunken, withered limbs oozing with undressed sores and rank with the odour of sulphur permit them to deploy any meaningful opposition. They were comprehensively and immediately out-fought and they knew it. Leaving several dead and a dozen or so nursing gaping wounds as they dragged themselves weakly out of sword range, the rest backed off far enough for the four guardians to once again stand easy.

Simultaneously, Tamar, their field commander, acknowledged a voice coming directly to his ear alone, then, nodding, he turned to the others. “The captain of the Lord's Host has ordered that all those involved in this insurrection, dead, wounded or living, are to be dispatched to the pit of Hell. Apollyon
⁽¹⁾
, the keeper of the Deep Pit, can have them. They have wantonly overstepped the mark and done too much harm and there is to be no appeal allowed and no quarter given. This time they went too far.”

His voice was deliberately loud, designed to carry to the belligerent mob hovering far enough from the guardians so as not to provoke them, but not so far that they couldn't take advantage of any perceived weakness. But Tamar's words, ringing out with serene authority in a voice that sounded somewhat like a river thundering over a precipice, changed everything. As the significance of the verdict dawned on them, a wave of sound like the wailing of souls already in torment rolled out of their midst, growing in sobbing volume with every passing second. “Not there, not there, it isn't time yet, it isn't ‘Judgement Day' yet. It isn't fair, it isn't fair.”

Yelping despair mixed with frightened, pointless defiance poured out of them as they flew in an ever tighter, swirling pattern, each lost in the torture of their own depravity, sunk into the total isolation of corruption. Eternally lost and completely beyond rescue through their own free choice. And as the howling lament rose in pitch, those on the edges of the spinning mass got their final look at retribution in the form of a squadron of immense, dazzling angels who appeared as if from nowhere, dividing with military precision to surround and drive the demons. Every one of whom had once been a contemporary of their appointed executioners until they had cast in their lot with Satan, rebelled against God and been thrown out of Heaven.

Whirling a vast net of silver cords, the avenging angels closed relentlessly until, with pinpoint accuracy, they launched an inescapable trap, like fishermen throwing a weighted net ahead of their boat, and promptly drew it tight. No sooner was that done than the newly arrived Squadron Commander, an incredible being of ethereal perfection and masculine splendour, strode forward to swing his blade in a wide arc below the writhing ball of doomed evil. And – as though the very space–time continuum had been rent – a great fissure opened in the living rock. Far, far below, outlined in the awful glow of what looked like red-hot lava, the colossal, fire-blackened demon named Apollyon glowered upwards in enraged anticipation. And in the same instance, the depraved globule of netted misery was swallowed forever as the earth's maw snapped shut above them, once again impenetrable, leaving them lost to Heaven and Earth as if they'd never been. In their wake, only disciplined ranks of the invincible host stood at ease in mid-space, knowledge of a job well done brightening the moment.

And in my cell, totally oblivious to all this, it yet seemed for a moment as though the gloom had lifted slightly, almost as if some profound darkness had been momentarily pierced. For the second time since my arrival. Or was it simply imagination?

Jill's heart went out to the vulnerable young girl sitting beside her and she put an arm out to hug the slim shoulders still shaking from the storm of receding tears. They were sitting together on one of the comfortable, faded old sofas. This one nestled into the far corner of the veranda, tucked away from the glare of the sun that was painting everything around them with an almost silvery sheen of heat. In the distance, through the light green tops of the palms marching down to the wide sandy beach, they could just glimpse the brilliant blue of deep water beyond the reef. Far out at sea, the vivid colours were complemented by an occasional dhow on slow passage north, white triangular sail stretched to the southern monsoon winds that riffled the long rollers arriving all the way from Australia. A tranquil, idyllic scene, in complete contrast to the frenzied distress that, for an hour or so, had been in danger of gaining the upper hand in the Joubert household.

Secretly, Jill harboured very little hope that Paul could be found, but she was impressed by the courage and tenacity Roz had shown over the past few days of tedious, non-stop searching and she wasn't about to dent the girl's hopes any further. “Come on, Roz, I know it's tough, but I'm sure you'll find him. He can't have vanished completely. He has to be somewhere and anyway, Malcolm won't let you down. He'll give you all the help he can. I'm sure Paul will be OK and you said yourself you're convinced he's still alive.”

Turning her head, Roz managed to raise a watery smile, grateful for the real friend Jill was rapidly becoming and indebted to her wholehearted support.

“I know you're right, but it's just so hard. We've walked miles and drawn a complete blank with everyone we've talked to. Nobody's seen him, or even had the slightest idea where he might be.”

For the eighth straight day in a row, Roz had been up since before dawn and out with Malcolm, tramping the early morning back streets of downtown Mombasa, braving the often gut-wrenching smells slithering out from the open drains, stepping delicately round the less recognisable deposits smearing the cobbled passageways, and stopping to talk to every trader, every early rambler and every late street walker who chanced across their path. They had begun at the railway station and worked their way outwards, following the only road into town, sometimes driving, sometimes walking and always stopping to question anyone they passed, asking the same questions over and over again: “Have you seen or heard about a young white man with thick ginger hair and covered in brown freckles – probably very sunburned?”

The fact that he was almost certainly on his own, without money and in need of help, should have helped concentrate minds, they felt, but few seemed to have any interest. Stubbornly they had pressed on, however, covered from head to toe in the ubiquitous white coral dust and sweating profusely under the stinging heat. But no matter how often they asked, every enquiry drew a complete blank, occasionally accompanied by a sympathetic stare and, rather less often, an offer to contact them if the ‘red bwana' turned up. Each day their search had gone on until the setting sun called a necessary halt to progress and a welcome retirement to a cold shower and an even colder Tembo beer. To Malcolm, the only really sensible end to any day, never mind the sort they were currently experiencing.

Slowly at first, but with aching feet and a hoarsening voice, Roz had begun to wallow in the gathering pangs of discouragement. The search that had seen her begin with such high hopes now seemed almost futile. Except for one tenuous possibility that had surfaced right at the very beginning, but which had failed to actually register with them, there had been nothing. A single jarring note amidst a myriad of facts filed away at the back of their collective memory. Filed and forgotten, destined to eventually drop forever from the mental map they were building. They had a tentative lead, but they didn't know it. One of the first people they had questioned, a station porter, had been too hasty in reply, too shifty-eyed in response, too quick to press on with work and it was this that had registered, albeit subconsciously, and neither of them had realised it.

Now today, the eighth successive day of searching, they were back home early, having finally acknowledged to each other the hopelessness of continuing as they were. They needed to sift through what little they had gleaned, gather their thoughts and perhaps re-plan their strategy. Something different, an alternative approach, a new discernment was needed, if they were to break the cycle of endless failure and move into the realms of progress. And whatever they came up with would have to major on luck, because the way things were progressing, they were unlikely to achieve anything more than premature exhaustion. Certainly no obvious lead from a rapidly cooling, if not entirely imaginary, trail.

Eventually, sensing the storm was over, Malcolm gingerly put his head round the corner. Like so many men before him, the moment feminine emotion had come to the fore he had made himself conspicuous by absence. “Hi, how're you doing?”

A sniff greeted him, followed quickly by a proffered hand. “I'm sorry, Malcolm. You've been so good, but I just couldn't help it. I don't know, it all seems too much at the moment. But it won't happen again, I promise.”

He grinned at her. “Don't you worry, Roz, I understand. Anyway, while I was outside I was doing some thinking. Going over everything. We've been at it non-stop for over a week now and nobody admits to knowing anything, nobody's seen anything. But do you remember the porter we talked to at the station? Almost the first person we saw? The more I think about him, the more I'm convinced something wasn't quite ‘kosher' about his reaction. We've talked to all sorts of people since, but as I think back, his attitude now seems all wrong to me. He was definitely different. I may be mistaken, but I have a feeling he knew something he wasn't telling. I've racked my brains, but it's all I can come up with and, if you recall, he's one of the few who wouldn't look us in the eye. Does that ring any sort of bell? At the time I didn't think too much of it, but mulling it over just now, it seemed to me that of all the people we've stopped, his response was the least convincing. OK, lots of them didn't want to know, but at least they said so up front. In fact, the more I considered it, the more I wonder why we didn't spot it at the time. But then, hindsight is a wonderful thing. Of course, there's no guarantee this will lead anywhere, but I think we should at least go and see him again. It's a long shot, but I can't think of anything else we could usefully do.”