Angel Dust (2 page)

I had the rest of the evening to kill. So I thought I'd wander down every back street I could. I'd eavesdrop on conversations and explore. I was quite invisible, of course. Nobody was going to see me. I'd make a thorough night out of it. Why not? We have so little time on Earth, we Seraphim. (No time, in fact, under usual conditions.) Anyway, snooping around back streets wasn't against any rules, was it? Come to think of it, now I was down on Earth, I could snoop anywhere I wanted. The Seraphim can travel in the beat of a wing, to the furthest corners of the sphere. I started wondering if I wouldn't prefer to go somewhere else. Paris? Rome? The summit of Mount Everest? Monte Carlo? What names!

But, you know, there's something about the perfume of the streets in Earthly cities that's completely beguiling. And I'd never been anywhere quite like this downtown place before. I was fascinated. I stood still and drunk in the night air. I wanted to make it all last forever. God, how I loved it. I wanted to stare into shop windows and listen to the roar of traffic until all the seas ran dry.

Traffic.

What
was
it like to ride in a car? I peeked into a late-night minicab office, just trying to imagine. Inside men sprawled on seats, smoking cigarettes. Real genuine nicotine. They looked so bored. Imagine being bored! There was a girl with greasy hair plastered down one side of her cheek sitting behind the most incredible steel grille. She was reading a magazine. I wanted to have a look at it. It might have enticing images. How I would have treasured a magazine with enticing images.

But I couldn't wait until she put it down. And of course she couldn't see me, so I couldn't ask her. But I did look over her shoulder. When I did that she went all shivery and flicked her hair in my eye.

‘Flipping freezing in here, innit?' she said to no one in particular.

I laughed. I loved her voice. It was all deliciously crispy and hoarse. And she wasn't even trying to be funny! One of the men grunted.

‘Just had this weird déjà vu thing, like someone's standing on my grave,' the girl said.

I grinned and tickled her neck.

But of course, I was fooling myself. The real reason I wanted to hang around there was Marcus. Fooling yourself can be very convenient. And it's also not against God's rules, either. I decided to fool myself a bit longer and visit his home.

Marcus lived in a high rise called Curlston Heights. I adore high rises. On my last Collection mission I was sent to Manhattan, for a cleaner who died mopping the floor in a penthouse. I'd soared straight up the side of the building, straight through the downdraught, and peeked in at windows as I flashed by. I love lifts too, all that concrete and metal, that smell of humans! I love the way a lift clangs around you. It makes my skin flutter. I went up and down in that lift in New York five times!

Gosh, I make it sound like I was such an old hand at Collections. Not! The truth was I'd only been doing it for three days. I'd only ever done five deaths in fact. (The cleaner in the penthouse, a nasty old man and three sleepers.) Actually I was a complete novice.

You see, for most of my angelic existence I'd been praying for the Redemption of Humankind in the Cloisters of the Holy Heavenly Host. And if it hadn't been for the Declaration of War, I guess I still would be. It's really an awful reason to be allowed out, isn't it? Satanic war. Imagine. I really
shouldn't
have been so thrilled about it.

Anyway, the thing was, when Satan declared his ‘New Offensive' against Heaven, God took it very seriously. Immediately we went into Code Yellow. I don't really know why everyone got so panicky
–
it wasn't like Satan was going to win, was it? But they did. And you know, you can't argue with God.

So you see that's why I was down on Earth in the first place. Because Code Yellow means that no lesser celestial creature or low-ranking angel is allowed out of Heaven. When we're on Code Yellow, God is always very fussy about whom he lets pass the Pearly Gates: only the brightest and the best. Those above temptation
–
just in case.

Still, it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good – I suppose. And Death Collections still have to be done. I mean people don't stop dying just because Satan challenges God, do they?

I soared up the side of Curlston Heights at an amazing speed, faster than Apollo 11. Imagine doing that at the Cloisters! What a flibbertigibbet they'd dub me! I landed on a tiny window ledge outside number 56, the home of Mrs Faustina Montague, her two daughters, Jasmine and Rayanne, and her eldest child, Marcus Montague.

We can do that, you know; just be somewhere and know everything
–
by touching it. I could tell you all the names of everyone who'd ever lived in that flat, plus the names of every builder, carpenter and plumber who'd ever worked on it. But only the facts: names, dates, figures, never the thoughts or feelings
–
plus it takes time and it's boring.

I was only interested in Marcus.

I pressed my nose up against the glass and peered through. Inside was a small front room bursting with furniture. A huge three-piece suite was crammed in beside a shelving unit of fake wood and brassy handles. The sofa and chairs were angled around a deep pile rug, which lay on a cheap laminate floor, in front of the widest wide-screen TV, ever.

On the sofa sat a woman. She was sniffing and talking on the telephone. Marcus's mother.

‘I just don't know what to do any more,' she said.

There was a pause as if someone was telling her exactly what to do.

I slipped into the living room and stood beside her. I listened to the conversation.

‘He's never here . . .'

‘It's his friends
,' said the other.

‘He's gone for days, without . . .' Mrs Montague's voice broke.

‘He's using drugs.'

‘No . . .'

‘I hope you're not giving him money?'

‘No, it's Marcus who's bringing in money . . .' said his mother, rallying.

‘You'll have to tell him to go
,' said the person.

Marcus's mother sighed. ‘But where to?' she said. ‘And where is he getting the money?'

‘Give him a choice. Stick To My Rules Or Find. Your. Way!'

Marcus's mother sighed again.

‘What he needs is a shock. A Big Nasty Shock!
'

‘But it's his birthday . . .'

‘Fat lot to celebrate. He wants to be De Man, doesn't he? Then he better act like one!'

The caller was getting irritated. I prowled around the living room looking at pictures: Marcus as a baby, Marcus with his arms round his mum, Marcus with his sisters, Marcus in a football team, Marcus posing like the Original Badman, Marcus in dark glasses. Marcus looking manly. My throat caught. There's something unbearably sad about being on Collection Duty. However beautiful you make the death, however gentle, however welcome.

I went into his bedroom.

What a delicious mess! Clothes thrown everywhere, ash trays full of butt ends, CD covers scattered on the floor, expensive trainers showcased on their shoeboxes, an Xbox still playing over and over the opening sequence to
Call of Duty
. And everywhere there were pictures of girls, tacked up alongside sheets of paper covered with lyrics in a small spidery scrawl.

I looked at a T-shirt flung carelessly on the floor. What was it, to be human? To feel the breeze against your face and know that nothing lasts? If Marcus could have lasted, would he have changed? I could smell change and goodness somewhere in his scent. Standing there, in his room, his life spread out before me, in clothes and music and passion, I saw the speed at which he'd lived. No time for regrets. No thoughts of the hereafter.

I didn't return to the living room. Right then his mother was grieving for the loss of that little boy in the photo with his arms around her. There was nothing I could do to comfort her. Not true. I could have touched her, I suppose. I could have given her oblivion. Would she have wanted that?

I started to fret about the Collection again. The palms of my hands began to sweat. I could feel my feathers tingling. I had to get this absolutely right. Marcus had a definite time pencilled in against his name. There must be no mistake. I must get back to the nightclub. Maybe demons were already sniffing him out. Demons are foul creatures. They feast on unclaimed souls. They soil every death they touch. I went over my checklist:

• Catch him as he falls.
  
• Give him the chance to repent.
  
• Get there before the demons.
  
• Deliver him his Final Moment.
  
• Pinch out his life.
  
• Collect his soul.
  

Even if he was bound for Hell, he shouldn't fall into the hands of demons. What the heck was I doing wasting time snooping about?

I must get to the club immediately.

Ready to kill Marcus.

I think I was putting it off. I really
hadn't
been on Soul Collecting Duty very long (actually it was only two and a half days) and I still felt nervous. The sleepers had been OK. They were my very first ones. They were quite easy. I just arrived and sat at the end of their beds, and waited for them to drift into my arms. All very nice and quiet and respectable. Demons don't give a damn about them. And the ones I'd done had all been little old ladies, too. They'd all led nice little lives and put out food for the birds. They were headed straight for the First Gate. They had nothing to repent. St Peter fast tracked them through at once. God was very pleased with them.

Of course there'd been that one soul to be guided downwards. He'd been vicious and hateful. I was even happy when I'd pointed out the river he needed to cross. I didn't care if the demons got him.

Marcus was going to be
so
different. Not only was he young and full of life, but he'd seen me. That was so odd. Nobody had ever told me about being seen. I went back over it in my mind. I'd been watching him from the Twelfth Gate. He'd lifted up his head and winked. I was certain of it. Perhaps it meant something? No mortal has ever seen the Seraphim. Not like that. So that made him? I don't know what it made him.

And suddenly I realised that it was
very
weird. What did it mean? It must be some kind of omen,
or a sign?
I'd heard of signs – rainbows, burning bushes. There's
always
a sign when things are meant to happen – when something is predestined . . . when two people are meant to be together . . .

How strange. But now I'd thought of it suddenly I couldn't get the idea out of my head. It
must
be an omen. Somehow my destiny was entwined with his.

In the beat of a wing I got down to the club. And it was a good job I did. Immediately I could tell it was going to be much, much worse than I'd expected. For a start there was music. Loud music. I love loud music, but it's so distracting. And then there was alcohol too, lots of it: gin, whisky, cognac, champagne and alcopops. Imagine being able to drink alcopops! If I were human, and set on living at great speed, I might try one. But drink and music were going to confuse things. I didn't want confusion. I wanted to bring Marcus the best death he'd ever have.

And then there were the girls. Big girls, slim girls, girls in tight dresses, girls in high heels, girls with huge breasts and girls who were so drop-dead gorgeous I instantly hoped one of them would. Seeing all those girls clouded my judgement. And there were guys too: hunky guys, chunky guys, funky guys, guys in tight jeans, guys fresh out of sports cars, guys in gold chains, gorgeous guys and guys with amazingly sexy smiles. How in Heaven's name was I going to be able to stay focused on split-second timing?

And of course there was Marcus.

I smelt him as soon as I got there.

Marcus Montague. Birthday boy. Just turning eighteen and looking like he was already in Heaven.

I stood in the doorway quite overcome. Not just because of the music and the drink. I think I was grieving for the first time. Grieving for all the things that might have been, and never were. Someone turned the music up. I became disorientated. For a brief second. I tried imagining what it would be like to be human. Not an Angel of Death. Not immortal. I started to sway to the music. I imagined I had a body. A real body. Flesh and bone. A body that someone, some day could hold.

I watched Marcus. I watched him drag the prettiest girl into his arms. I watched as she moulded herself against his chest. Something inside pierced me. A strange pain tightened around my heart. I saw the muscles in his arms straining against his shirt. I saw the way he used the music to send the girl crazy. For some reason my throat went dry. I tried to swallow. I tried to catch my breath against a sudden longing. I saw Marcus smile, a lovely crooked smile showing off his pearly teeth.

But he was not smiling at me.

The chimes of midnight struck. I bit my lip. At any minute his death would arrive. I tried to prepare myself. I looked around. I was right. Demons were already gathering.

Someone put on a record for him. Marcus dragged the girl into the centre of the dance floor. Everyone stepped back. Someone whistled. Marcus crushed the girl to him.

Go, go, go, go, go, go . . .

His eyes were wild with excitement.

Go Marcus, it's your birthday . . .

He shivered in delight.