Angel Dust (32 page)

I read the note. I look at the neat little pile of clothes. I'm overcome with some kind of emotion that makes my heart catch. ‘Oh, Jasmine,' I whisper.

I determine at once that I won't burden her with any of the sad things I know. I won't burden Marcus's mother either. They have too much to worry about.

I rise and wash. Quickly I put on the clothes that Jasmine left: a tight lacy black top, a flared Victorian witchy skirt and high-heeled, laced-up boots. I stand in front of Jasmine's mirror. I look at my new human self.

I'm quite pretty. Not in the way I used to be, not in the curvy way of the girls at the club. I comb out my hair. It's truly jet black. I look at my fringe. I try pinning it to one side. I settle for a dark wing over one eye. It frames my face and makes it tinier than ever.

Jasmine has left her make-up bag out for me as well. I think of Kookie as I look through it. God bless Kookie. In honour of Kookie, who first baptised me with mascara and black kohl pencil, I make my eyes up as dramatically as possible. I put on the make-up she'd like me to wear. Red lips, darker and huger eyes than ever, with teardrops drawn on my cheeks, pale foundation and shimmery stardust highlights. I'm not very good at it. I get make-up in my eye and it stings horribly.

When I'm finished I stand back and take a last quick glance at myself
–
small, pretty (make-up a bit weird). He doesn't love her, that scary pointed-little-chin girl in the mirror. There is no hope of that.
He won't love you,
I tell her
. His arms will never enfold you.
I don't cry. I didn't throw away Heaven to sit and watch myself weep in a mirror edged in fluffy pink. I just want her to get the message. She needs to stay strong and if she longs for his touch too much, she may weaken.
You love him.
I tell her. That's all that matters. And you'll save him because you do.

I catch my throat. I abandon hope. I don't let any thought of being loved back stay. It'll weigh me down with its sad longings. I wanted to become human. I wanted to be one with Marcus. But I left Heaven to save a soul. A soul which will surely burn in Hell if I fail.

Mrs Montague is resting. Rayanne has left for work. Marcus is awake (please don't let him be grumpy). This is it. I steal to his room. He's taped on the door a picture of a skull made out of shining stars. Under the picture is a caption which reads:
Abandon hope all ye who enter here.
Only he would display such a message. I tap softly on his door. My heart is beating. My throat is dry. I hear a noise from within. I listen. I stand there as quiet as a mouse, quieter than a feather falling. I tap the door again. I hear the squeak of a mattress. The rush of covers thrown back.

‘What?'

‘Can I come in?' I whisper.

‘Well come in, if you're going to,' says the voice I know so well.

Tentatively I turn the door handle. I push it gently in.

‘And?' says Marcus.

So I step into the room.

Marcus is sitting up in bed. His dark hair is tousled, his voice gruff with sleep. But the room smells good, clean and warm and somehow scented. Marcus looks at me like he's never seen me before in his entire life.

‘Who the hell are you?' he says.

He doesn't remember me. It must be the changed clothes, the new hairstyle, my clumsy attempts at make-up. Something inside me sinks, but it's not important. He doesn't know me. He doesn't need to, so all I say is: ‘Please, don't invoke that fearsome place.'

He looks confused.

‘Who are you?' he says, ‘and what're you doing here?'

‘I'm sorry,' I say. I don't know if I'm sorry or not. I've a mission to accomplish. I must do it.

Marcus waits. He looks at me and simply waits. I stare. Something thrills inside me. It feels all excited and shivery. But I must not be sidetracked. I fix my eyes on the floor. I must not look at his clean strong chest, the way his arm muscles flex. His wounds have healed well. There is only a patch of clean gauze over his heart.

I sigh. I don't even bother with ‘I'm Serafina' any more; instead I say: ‘For now you can call me Zara.'

‘So,' he says, eyeing me, ‘you think there's going to be a later
–
when I'll call you something else?'

I breathe in and tighten my resolve. ‘There's something I have to talk to you about.'

He looks at me. Maybe there's something in my voice that reminds him of who I once was, for a certain curious, hopeful, puzzled look lights up his eyes. It's almost as if he recognises me – almost but not quite
–
as if my voice, or the light glancing across my face reminds him of something.

Quickly he grabs his T-shirt and pulls it on. He swings his legs out of bed. His bare legs are so taut and strong and smooth. I gasp as I see them. He stands up. I see he's wearing only shorts. I turn my eyes away. I do so out of politeness, and because looking at him makes me ache in a strange new way.

He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls on his jeans.

‘OK,' he says, ‘whatever your name is. Let's start with what you're doing in my bedroom.' He raises one eyebrow.

‘I'm sorry,' I say.

‘Well, if you'd walked in a couple of weeks ago, you might have been sorry – or maybe not.' He arches both eyebrows. ‘But I'm a changed man now. I've had a heart attack.'

I look at him a bit blank. He points to where the gauze is taped on his chest. ‘Heart,' he says. ‘Attacked?'

I get it. It's one of his jokes. He's joking with me. I smile. Should I laugh?

‘Marcus,' I say, taking a deep breath. ‘This may seem like a strange request, but . . .'

Marcus looks at me. I nearly lose my nerve.

‘Would you just listen to everything I have to say?' My heart is thumping so loudly I'm sure he must hear it.

‘Are you one of Jasmine's friends?'

‘Will you
promise
you'll just listen,
whatever you think?
'

‘Hey, kid,' he says, ‘I'll listen; don't look so nervous.'

I bite my lip. ‘Do you remember Serafina?' His reaction is too fast and harsh for me to get another word out.

He's half off the bed. ‘I see who you are,' he says suddenly. ‘I didn't recognise you at first. You're that weirdo girl from yesterday.'

‘I'm sorry,' I say again. I stammer. Nothing matters. Only listening matters now. I mustn't mess this up. His face looks so serious. His lips so soft . . . so sweet . . . A mad idea – should I kiss him – will he recognise me then? He must. I would know his kiss anywhere. I want to kiss him. I let it pass. Instead I say: ‘I've news from the angel.'

Marcus looks at me. He screws up his face. ‘News from the angel?' he says.

I nod.

‘Who the hell
are
you?'

He's seen the hesitation in my face. My throat goes dry. I know I must speak. I take a very big breath and I say, ‘On the night you were shot a number of things happened that you may not have been aware of . . .'

He gives me a look, as if to say: And why would
you
know them? But he doesn't. There's something that stops him. ‘I'm still listening,' he says.

‘You were shot,' I say gently. ‘Nobody could expect you to know them.'

He's standing there poised, looking at me, trying to figure something out.

‘And you were dying,' I add.

He lowers his eyebrows. Maybe he's already considered that.

‘And . . .'

‘What?' he says.

There's no easy way to tell him.

‘I was sent –' I correct myself. ‘Serafina was sent to Collect your soul. Serafina was an Angel of Death.'

He shakes his head. He looks like he's going to react. Like yesterday.

‘You . . .' He opens his mouth.

‘Please listen,' I implore.

He shuts up his mouth, and twists it into a disbelieving line.

‘You were shot through the heart,' I say.

He looks at me.

‘But you didn't die.'

He seems to be thinking about this, as if it has been puzzling him as well.

‘I'm not dead,' he says, trying to turn it into a joke. ‘Go on, pinch me. Here, have a squeeze.' He offers me his forearm.

‘But you should be.'

He knows that's true.

‘You're not dead, because the angel . . .' (I want to say: fell in love, couldn't bear to let you die, wanted to help you) ‘. . . the angel took out a contract on your death,' I say.

He leans back on his pillows.

‘Well I've heard of a contract killer taking out a contract on a life, but never an angel contract killer who takes out a contract on a death!' he says flippantly.

‘She signed a document,' I say, going pale, for it's not funny; it's not even the remotest bit funny.

But Marcus is suddenly smiling, as if taking out a contract on his death is the funniest thing ever.

‘You must have wondered how you survived? Your recovery?'

‘Not really,' he says, as if natural good health is his divine right.

‘You must have wondered about the visions of the angel?'

He stops short. The blood drains from his face. ‘How did you know about them?' he says.

‘She told you there was a condition,' I say.

‘How did you know I had visions?'

‘She tried to tell you everything at the hospital.'

‘
How do you know?
' he demands.

‘She said she'd come to save your soul.'

He turns aside, seems to be struggling with something. Turns back, says, ‘It was the side-effects of morphine, that's all.'

‘She said she would heal your pain.'

Marcus shakes his head. ‘No no no,' he says. ‘Disorientation; irregular heartbeat; hallucinations; mood changes – exaggerated sense of well-being – shortness of breath; shallow breathing; sudden chest pain – all hallucinations.'

‘She sent the Light of the Lord to heal you.'

‘I'd pulled out the tubes.'

‘She walked with you in the garden.'

‘It's a normal reaction after life-threatening trauma.'

‘She appeared again at the funeral.'

‘She was bang out of order.'

‘She told you to repent.'

‘She should have told me about Joey.' Marcus frowns and turns away.

‘She's been trying to tell you about the contract.'

‘How the hell do you know all this?' His voice is suddenly sharp and loud.

I lay my finger over my lips. ‘Shush,' I say, ‘your mother . . .
please listen
. . . you said you would.' I take a deep breath. ‘There was small print.'

‘Small print!' He relaxes. As if the idea of angels and visions and small print don't go together. The spell is broken. He breaks out in a fresh round of smiles. ‘Of course there's always small print!'

So I wait. I wait until he can stop finding it so funny. For that is what he's doing; silently laughing out loud at a funny, pale, skinny girl who knows more than she should, who is trying to tell him something he doesn't want to hear. And maybe he'll never understand. For a minute I wonder about humans, but I'm human now; I'm no longer sure of anything.

‘And . . .' he says, all mock serious, pulling a long face at me, ‘what does the small print say? Will I be sent to the Devil after twenty years to fry for eternity? Come on, little Zara – who pretends to know everything – surely you know that too, don't you?'

I breathe a huge sigh of relief – so he does know. I nod. Thank God he knows. He must have been more awake than I thought.

‘Only not after twenty years. Much sooner than that.'

The look on his face changes.

‘Oh, really?' he says.

‘Yes. And you don't
have
to go to Hell,' I say, ‘not if you stick to the condition.'

‘And what condition would that be?' says Marcus, all charming smiles, effortless grace.

‘To repent, to mend your ways.'

He frowns.

‘The condition is . . .'

‘OK, OK,' he says. As if he is just testing me.

‘Completely, in word and deed,' I emphasise.

‘So, the small print?' says Marcus, leaning his gorgeous face upon his hands. His eyebrows knit together in a new quizzical way. ‘What
did
it
actually
say
?'

‘It said . . .' I continue, determined not to be put off. ‘It said that an Extension on your mortal body could only be given if the books balanced.'

‘And what exactly did
that
mean?' asks Marcus, narrowing up his eyes.

‘That meant that another life was taken in your stead.'

‘I see-ee,' says Marcus with a long-drawn-out nod.

My eyes fly wide. My jaw drops. I clamp it shut. This is it. I know what's coming.

‘So let me get this right,' says Marcus. ‘In order for my soul to remain in this gorgeous handsome body, somebody else had to take my place in Hell, is that it?'

‘Yes,' I say.

‘So, dear, pretty little Zara – who did that for me? Who took my turn on Death Row?'

I look up at him and gulp. Surely he must have guessed?

But his eyes (so very dark now) look back at me. Guileless.

I take a deep breath. This is it.

‘Joey,' I say very simply. ‘Joey took your place.'

‘Joey?'

His face goes ashen. His jaw trembles.

It's not OK. He's not OK.

His eyes bulge. ‘
Joey took my place?
' He can't believe it. He's trying to believe it.

‘Yes,' I whisper.

Marcus gets up, paces around the room. I watch, scared he will smash something. But it's worse. He's gone quiet like the hush after gunfire.

‘I don't think
that
's funny,' he says.