“Put your right hand over your heart,” requested Guardian Angel.
“What?” Paul was confused. He went to pick up the pendulum.
“No need for that. I am responsible for your wellbeing. Now, do as I have asked.”
Paul was surprised and, without much thought, did as he was instructed. He could sense Guardian Angel in the background.
Paul felt a surge of the most extraordinary happiness. It filled him like sunlight fills shadow. It brought with it a burst of energy that made Paul laugh out loud.
“What are you laughing at, Dad?” Annie called from outside his office. Paul pushed the pendulum across his desk under some papers. He got up and went to the door.
“Nothing, something funny just crossed my mind, that’s all. Right, time I made your mother a cup of coffee.”
Paul pottered around the kitchen preparing coffee. Kate had fallen asleep in front of the television. He was trying to make sense of these recent events.
Outside, a three-quarter moon was reflected from the river snaking through the wide valley. It must have been his imagination, or the result of that extraordinary burst of euphoric energy he had just experienced, but he could swear he could see ripples of light shimmering from the river. Competing for energy. That’s what Guardian Angel had said. It made sense. Everything competed for energy. People competed with each other, sometimes people pumped energy into other people galvanizing and inspiring them; while others sucked you dry, or tried to. Just being in their presence or within the wavelength of their auras was enough to make you weary or even depressed.
Paul stood staring out of the window at the river with his shoulders hunched and with one shirtsleeve up and the other down.
He glanced at the kettle waiting for it to boil. They were lucky to live in a place like this, he thought. It was bright outside; a night for angels and spirits to be abroad. There was a light breeze ruffling the trees that stretched from the garden down the long hill to the river, interrupted only by stretches of arable land and the only road that ran up from the valley and into the forest.
“Coffee?” Kate’s voice sounded hopeful from the living room just as the kettle came to the boil.
Paul shook himself out of his reflective mood and made two cups of instant.
“Coming,” he called.
He could not get his mind away from the angel contact. He couldn’t work out whether he was just suffering from the first signs of stress. If not, it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened. If it was really true, that is.
“Are you all right?” asked Kate as she took her coffee.
“Sure, what makes you ask?”
“I don’t know. You’ve been disappearing a lot.”
“I’m just working on some interesting ideas for a client.”
“All work and no play,” she said. “Are you really keen on India?”
“Sounds great,” he said. “Yes, let’s do it. Annie will come but what about asking Rory?”
“I don’t think he’ll be here. Besides, he’s too old to come on holiday with his parents anymore. He can stay and look after the house.” She paused. “I do worry about that boy. He’s just drifting.”
“Maybe he needs to drift. He’ll find something, or someone, eventually. I envy him going to Australia. I’d love to go. Wouldn’t you?”
“You know me when it comes to travelling. Yes, but it’s such a long way to go. You couldn’t just pop over for a couple of weeks.”
“He reminds a bit of me when I was his age,” said Paul.
“I’m not sure if that’s good or bad,” commented Kate with a kind of half laugh.
“Whatever he is now, we’ve helped make him.”
“He’s a good boy,” said Kate. “He has a good heart. But I just wish he’d settle at something.”
“I’m sure he wants to settle. But he needs to explore himself first.”
“I’ll book India then for maybe later. I’ll surprise you with whereabouts. How much notice do you need from the work point of view?”
“I’ll make sure things are all right. Give me about three months.”
Later that night, Paul lay awake staring out of their bedroom window at a distorted moon. Kate was snoring softly beside him. He lay there thinking about angels and wayward spirits. He imagined a cosmos not subject to the restrictions of time, and therefore of memory. He imagined galaxies crammed with spiritual entities going about their existences much as he was going about his. Could they exist without a brain or was this just peculiar to human beings?
An odd feeling began again in his solar plexus. The pendulum was downstairs, locked in his filing cabinet so how could there be any contact without it? He blinked at the moon.
“You can call me Punishment Angel,” snapped a rather crusty voice.
Paul blinked once for yes, then thought.
“Punishment, what punishment? I don’t want to be punished.”
“Wrong,” the rather irascible voice seemed fed-up and short-tempered.
“Punishment is part of your development. It is part of the dual universe you live in. It is also part of the time-free universe. Do not think of it as punishment in the puerile sense. Think of it as re-direction. Think of it as burning off what you might call karma. Punishment comes in many forms, the most common of which is seen as bad luck, misfortune or things going wrong that should have gone right. In some cases it does mean spiritual pain. Think of it also as the vibratory universe breathing: in and out, inhaling and exhaling. It’s a process. In your case you will require a degree of pain and discomfort if you are to make progress, especially as you have been chosen.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be chosen.”
“This first session will be very short. Then you will speak with Prosperity Angel. This does not happen often.”
“What do you mean?”
Paul found suddenly that he could not use his vocal chords. He could still see the moon shimmering through the opaqueness of his window. He could feel Kate stirring then turning over beside him.
He could also feel the piercing of what felt like lashes to his buttocks and legs. The pain was both intense and, in a perverse way, pleasurable. He could not cry out. His eyes bulged as the lashes continued and the intensity of the experience almost filled him with horror and pleasure simultaneously.
Just what the hell, or heaven, was going on? He didn’t sign up for this. Suddenly, the pendulum and that little sorcerer Nuttley who had sold it to him, seemed a million miles away. Paul suffered the pain, unable to move or breathe. He just wanted to get out of bed, rush downstairs and scream into the sofa cushions.
He lay rigid in bed as the experience continued. He found himself begging for it to end.
The instant it stopped, Paul felt somehow purged of something but he had no clear idea of what. Something had been removed in the same way a stain is removed by intense scrubbing.
Remarkably, although he felt as though he had been beaten red and raw, when he tenderly touched his skin he could feel nothing. Not a weal, nor a bruise or a cut. And there was no after burn. That was it. First thing tomorrow the pendulum was going straight into the trash. He wanted to get back to normal, cherubim or no cherubim.
“Paul,” whispered a new voice. “I am Prosperity Angel. Please do not worry. I have been sending you vibratory impulses since you were born. I work on the balance between prosperity, in the sense of the good things in your life, and the elements you need to erase. It’s a process. Everything and everybody is part of it, whether they realize it or not. I will contact you from time to time.”
And before Paul could respond.
“I am Development Angel, Paul. I am sorry you had to undergo the experience with Punishment Angel, but it was necessary to purify you a little in order for us to make contact.”
“Just let me sleep,” Paul thought as powerfully as he could.
“We will talk tomorrow,” said Development Angel. “There is news, Paul: wonderful news for you. Now sleep
.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Energies and fantasies
His dream was vivid. So vivid he felt himself travelling. He could see himself in his dream, or a version of himself. Out of a mountainous landscape flew a figure. It was achingly familiar. Paul tried to pin down the being but it appeared to be constructed of just an impressionistic face and a swirl of tail-lights.
The figure seemed to surround him. He stared into its eyes and experienced the full force of unhindered love. It almost took his breath away. He knew now who this figure was or who it was supposed to be.
“Mom,” said the dream Paul. He filled up with tears.
“Mom,” he could say no more.
There was no communication save the feeling of intense love. Paul, with the instant understanding that comes in dreams, knew this had been his mother and yet many other individualities.
He saw the old, thin, grey house they used to live in. The road curved like a boomerang bordering the railway tracks that ran in a straight line at the bottom of a steep embankment of rough stones and weeds.
There are moments when life changes forever. These events are like small quantum leaps or shifts when you know that nothing will ever be the same again. Paul was remembering and yet dreaming. He saw the rain falling on the flagstones, drops as big as plates spattered on the dry concrete slabs that formed the sidewalk in his street. He recalled vividly thinking at the time that he was moving on, moving away. The giant raindrops were the signal, pushed by the wind swirling up from the railroad tracks, of an inexorable move to another plane; leaving one life behind and staring straight ahead at another.
He was now in the small living room with the scullery attached. His father sat in his favourite chair, legs crossed, one leg swinging to and fro like a metronome with irritation and frustration. Paul was like an observer of his own life. He was immersed in the drama of this place and his father’s pain. The emotional intensity within the room was palpable.
Paul’s mother sat rolling cigarettes. She had an old newspaper spread out on the kitchen table. On it was a pile of old cigarette buts. Carefully, with her eyes moving from side to side in concentration, she broke open the buts piling the old tobacco in the centre then used a little cigarette making machine shaped like a rectangular box to make new cigarettes. She opened the lid then she licked the gummed edge of the cigarette paper, placed it into the folded rubber sleeve inside the box then closed the tin lid. A ready rolled cigarette emerged from a slot on the other side of the lid. She placed it carefully in lines in another tin box. Paul watched the regiment of white tubes forming with a strange fascination.
His mother was wearing her smart printed dress with the red rose pattern. This was the dress she saved for special occasions. What was she doing wearing it at this moment? Paul used to lie in bed when he was a child, silently weeping when he thought that one day his mother would die. He swore he would keep a piece of that special dress forever, in memory of her. But he never did.
Paul could hear music but could not place the piece or find its origin. Paul’s father was standing, opening a worn cupboard door at the side of his chair. Inside was a jumble of collected rubbish, boxes, letters, shoelaces, empty tins, an old accordion which Paul remembered trying to play. His father swayed, cursing to himself. He was the victim, in his mind, of a lifetime of illness. His disease had worn him down mentally and physically. It had spawned numerous other complaints; his blood would not coagulate normally; there was a hole in his back the size of a man’s fist where they had drained his lungs; cataracts in both eyes had left him partially blind and his chronic diabetes, contracted shortly after the discovery of insulin, had ravaged him.
He stared bleakly at the crucifix hanging on the wall behind his chair. In the smoky atmosphere of the paraffin stove that was the only source of heat in the house, he clenched his veined fist and shook it at the figure of Christ on the cross.
“You cursed me, you bastard,” he roared at the figure hanging in supplication and sacrifice for the sins of humanity. “If it wasn’t for you giving me this cross to bear I’d be a rich man today. I’d have houses and cars and wear a new suit with shiny shoes. By God you’ve cursed me and no mistake.”
Paul’s mother sighed as she watched him go through the familiar ritual. Her life was not much better. She had sacrificed her existence chained to man whose illness had dominated both their lives. Her fervent hope for the future, and that of her husband, lay in their only child. Paul would have a better life than they. He would have an education. It didn’t matter what the cost or what the sacrifice. Paul’s mother and father had both left school before the age of twelve. His father was self-taught and could read and write pretty well. His mother still had difficulty reading and her writing was simple with large letters and poor spelling.
Paul, at that moment, felt like Ebenezer Scrooge being shown aspects of his life by the ghosts of Christmas. He felt the love emanating from his mother and, to a degree, from his father and he realized he had chosen this life before he had been born. How he knew this he could not say.
An old gramophone sat in the corner of the room. A record was playing, spinning at 78rpm, scratchily revolving under a thin needle. It was a song Paul remembered but couldn’t place. It was melodramatic and sentimental. His mother sang along with the tune. Then his father turned from his apoplectic berating of the crucifix, smiled the smile that had first beguiled her and charmed everyone whom it shined upon and began to sing. Paul’s mother stood up and held his arm. Under the swaying electric bulb that illuminated the faded wallpaper, the home-made dining table and the mantle piece crammed with statues, photographs of stern relatives and the old clock Paul’s father wound every night before going upstairs to bed, the two of them sang in harmony. They were oblivious of the world at that moment.
The dream faded into blackness and a deep sleep.
Kate was up first in the morning.
“God, you were restless last night,” she complained. Before Paul could say anything she carried on: “You haven’t forgotten that we’re going to Jack and Brenda’s wedding party today? Do wear something smart. Marcie and Mike are picking us up at ten thirty.” She dabbed at her face with tissue. “I’m going to beautify myself. Oh, and take a shower. You need one.”
“We’re not invited to the wedding are we?” Paul remarked. The dream was still in the front of his mind. He scratched his groin idly.
“You know we’re not,” sighed Kate as she went to the bathroom. “Just the party.”
It had rained a little during the night. There was still dampness in the air as Paul closed the bedroom window. He held on to the memory of the dream for as long as he could. It had been vivid. He knew he should write it down. He had been doing some reading about lucid dreaming and what they said was that you should always write down your dreams then practice remembering them.
This had been more than a dream, he was sure of that. Was there a connection between this angel business and the dream? He didn’t need to write this one down. He’d remember it all right. He did think about his life a good deal. He went back over it and over it looking for clues. He thought it was important to know how a life developed. Maybe it was a subconscious preparation for death, another subject he thought about a lot. So, Paul knew it had not been just an ordinary dream, if there was such a thing. He did remember his early years with his mother and father from time to time. Maybe the dream figure he encountered had once been his mother. Maybe she had been responsible for placing the images into his mind.
Either way, Paul was going to forget about angels, demons and dreams and look forward to the day. Marcie and Mike were good friends.
Paul was sitting in the front of the Mercedes with Mike while Marcie and Kate chattered in the back. They were driving through rolling hills on a sunlit road. It was a good day for a wedding.
“Poor bastard,” said Mike. “I don’t know what they’re getting married for. They’ve been living together for years.”
“Ma
ybe it’s the ritual,” said Paul “Maybe they’re really sure now.”
Mike stroked his short spiky hair.
“Do you still see that Malone character?” he asked.
“Now and again.”
“He’s totally out of his mind.”
“He’s eccentric sure but he’s not stupid.”
“No wonder his wife left him. I’ve only met him a couple of times with you. Know what he told me last time?”
“Go on.”
“He was extolling the virtues of anal sunbathing,” gasped Mike. “Can you believe it? He went on and on about it. I almost felt like putting one on his chin.”
Paul laughed.
“He does get fixations. He claims the sun’s rays go right up your, you know, and pour good vibrations up into your seat of Kundalini.”
“Your seat of what?” Mike said.
“Oh, it’s a kind of Hindu thing. Kundalini is the essence of life force coiled at the base of your spine. During tantric meditation…”
“That’s enough. You’re as bad as he is. I can see I shall have to intervene to bring you back to reality,” Mike chuckled.
Paul was conscious of Marcie in the back. She was attractive and sensual with nut-brown hair and long thighs.
Almost on cue, a lump formed in Paul’s solar plexus. No, he thought, not here, not now.
“She wants you, she wants you,” said a voice in his head.
Paul blinked twice. Then he asked mentally if his Guardian Angel was present. Instead an image of a naked Marcie hit Paul’s frontal lobes with the power of a cruise missile.
He could swear Marcie herself was in direct communication with him. Behind the images of sexual excess with Marcie that were invading his mind, Paul sensed a presence. Something, some kind of force was occupying a ringside seat as Marcie, in Paul’s fevered and uncontrollable imagination, had arrived unannounced at the house where he was alone, propositioned him, and demanded unbridled passion and kinky sex. Paul could hear Marcie still chattering to Kate in the back of the car. He could hear Mike droning on about something. And he could sense a presence tweaking his cerebral cortex. Just what had this pendulum unlocked? Had a new spiritual highway opened up into his mind down which any twisted spiritual entity could travel? He concentrated, managing to make small talk with Mike but feeling Marcie’s presence wrapping itself around him. He was conscious of her long thighs encased in black leather trousers. This must be just a random fantasy, he thought. Not surprising the way she looks.
An Angel on My Shoulder Page 6