by Dane Cobain
“Justify your existence.”
“How did I ‘release’ you?” he pleaded.
“Justify your existence.”
“Not until—” he began, but he was cut short.
Their leader reached out in a Nazi salute and clenched his fist so tightly that it could’ve melted matter. Foster dropped to the floor, dead. His heart had combusted inside his chest, charred beyond recognition, an un-solvable riddle for an autopsy team.
The Angels left the way they had come, nonchalant and determined, floating through the roof like the final breaths of a dying man. They didn’t look back.
CHAPTER EIGHT: A CLANDESTINE MEETING
Thursday November 15th, 1962
MONTGOMERY DRAGGED a comb through his dark, unruly hair and examined himself in the mirror. He didn’t look handsome, just pious and respectable. His hair, after preening, looked presentable, and his twenty-year-old face was set in an expression of sorrow. He pressed his trousers and ironed his shirt, shined his shoes until his fingers hurt, then sighed.
He glanced at the clock, though he already knew the time – he had to leave. Casting a tired eye around the room, he spied a bottle of gin beside his prayer book, mocking the communion wine. It was emptier than he would’ve liked, but he picked it up and drained it anyway, wincing as the liquid fire ravaged his throat. He cried sweat, but he needed courage.
At the washbasin, he squeezed a pea of toothpaste onto a finger and rubbed it across his teeth. I wasn’t expecting this, he thought. He lived at a seminary in a sleepy Scottish town, slowly adjusting to his minimalist lifestyle. When he wasn’t studying, he was working, volunteering in the community to serve his people. It was demanding work, and it left him drained and lethargic. The bags under his eyes were from sleepless nights and busy days.
With a sigh, he picked up his leather shoulder-bag and walked out of the door. He didn’t bother to lock it – no-one steals from a priest. Before long, he was walking out of the compound.
He was a mile away and running late, but he didn’t hurry – he wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. His thoughts wandered with him, and he asked himself, “Am I doing the right thing?”
Sarah was already there when he arrived, a hunched figure on a bench with her back to the sun. Her mousy hair was tied in a bland ponytail, and her overcoat looked like a prop from a detective movie. She wore a hat, and her slender hands were hidden beneath delicate gloves.
“Hello,” she said, rising unsteadily to greet him.
Montgomery reached for her arm, but she pushed him away irately.
“No, don’t touch me.”
He looked at her and smiled, sadly.
“Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Sarah tried to climb from her seat, but her body was still too frail.
“How are you holding up?” Montgomery asked.
“I’ve been better,” she replied. “No matter what happens, I can’t go back.”
“I know. Where have you been?”
“With my parents. Father thinks I’m a disappointment, I can see it in his eyes.”
Montgomery’s brow furrowed as she spoke – he’d never liked the old man, but this was a new low.
“Mother says nothing, but I know she doesn’t want me. The convent won’t take me back, and none of my friends will speak to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was my fault, too. I just feel so tired.”
Montgomery said nothing, thinking desperately.
“And now we must decide what to do. I presume that’s why you’re here.”
“I wanted to make sure that you were all right,” he said.
“I’m not all right.”
“I know.” The conversation faded to an awkward silence. Montgomery bit his fingernails until he could contain himself no longer. “So what are we going to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“With our son,” he replied. “What are you proposing?”
“Quiet!” she barked, looking around nervously.
Straight away, he knew what was going to happen. Sarah had nothing left to lose, but he could lose it all. Their doomed affair was compromised, but she didn’t have to drag him down with her. Montgomery felt almost tranquil.
Sarah was still incensed. “Couldn’t you find somewhere more private?”
“I come here when I want to be alone.”
“But what if we’re caught? If the truth comes out then there’s no turning back.”
“Where else could we go? No, we stay here.” He bit his lip and cast a glum eye over the skyline.
Then they looked at each other, and a spark of intensity passed between them. Sarah tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. She took a deep breath before continuing.
“There’s nothing else we can do. I told them that I didn’t know the father’s name. I hope you realise what that means. But I had to do it, to protect you.”
Montgomery paused and allowed the enormity of her sacrifice to sink in. She was subjecting herself to the scorn and rejection of her friends and family so that his own name would remain clean. He wanted to apologise, but he couldn’t.
Instead, he fixed his eyes on hers and whispered, “Are you sure that you know what you’re doing?”
“No, I’m just trying to do some good. The church has treated me badly, but I still believe in love. I’m going to give the baby up for adoption.”
A tear trickled from the corner of her eye, but her sad voice stayed steady.
Montgomery didn’t know what to say – he didn’t even know how to feel. “Is there no other way?”
“Not that I can see. Just think about it. It’s the best option. You can continue your training, and I can move away.”
“What about our son?”
Her face flushed. “I’ll put him in an orphanage. It’s the best thing for him. I don’t want him to be the bastard son of the village whore. Neither do you.”
“You’re not a whore,” he whispered.
“You and I know that, but what about the rest of the world? Think about it, then tell me I’m being heartless. I love my son,” she said, crying openly. “But I want him to be happy and successful. I can’t even support myself. He’ll be better off without me.”
Montgomery didn’t know what to say, so he took a seat beside her and covered his face with his hands. Neither spoke for several minutes – instead, they listened to the singing of the birds and the distant hum of the traffic.
Finally, Montgomery spoke. “I’ll come with you.”
CHAPTER NINE: A NEW DEVELOPMENT
Thursday September 10th, 2009
IN THE DARK ROOM in the back of Jessops, the sales manager took his tongue out of the new intern’s mouth for long enough to speak.
“You’ll never believe this,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“What is it?”
The manager grabbed a wad of negatives and waved them under the intern’s prominent nose. “A bunch of photographs?”
“Just take a look at them.”
The photographs showed a young family on a day out, laughing and joking with endless ice creams. The mother was beautiful, with deep hazel eyes and long, blonde hair; the father was stern and chiselled, with a face that spoke of long nights of hard work and years of dedication. But their daughter – she was something else.
“It’s the same in every picture,” he explained, leafing through the stack. “The way her face blurs and distorts, it’s terrifying.”
“Don’t talk like that,” she said. “You’re scaring me.”
“It gets weirder – look at the background, do you see what I see?”
“It’s blurry...” She leaned in closer and adjusted the crooked spectacles on her nose.
“Yeah,” he replied. “But they’re definitely people – at least, they’re shaped like people. They’re following them, look.”
It was true. In every photograph, the figures lurked in the background and w
atched over the family like prison wardens.
She looked at the manager in alarm. “Should we tell someone?”
“Like who? Who should we tell? No, it’s pointless. Even with the photos, people would find an explanation. It’s probably just a trick of the light.” He slipped them back into the envelope and chucked it across the room. “We’re not paid to think. Let’s just get back to business.”
As he eased himself back in to her, they were too deep in the thrall of a mutual climax to notice their surroundings, but the Angels were in no hurry. They watched in grim silence from the walls until the fleeting sin was completed. Then they burned the photographs and prepared to pass judgement.
CHAPTER TEN: A CLIPPING FROM THE OBSERVER
Friday November 20th, 2009
UNEXPLAINED DISAPPEARANCES ON THE RISE
UNOFFICIAL REPORTS of mysterious disappearances are sweeping the nation, as the public pressures the government to investigate.
Third-party estimates suggest a substantial increase in the number of missing persons, and anonymous sources from the Metropolitan Police Force have supported the claims.
The whistle-blowers are not the only ones to worry. In a recent press release, Scotland Yard stated, “We ask the public not to report a crime unless [they’re] sure that a crime has actually been committed.”
Meanwhile, local councils are understaffed and over-budget.
“Most of our regular patrols have been called off,” confessed an anonymous MP. “And nobody will tell us what’s happening.”
According to some, there’s a sinister force at work.
“It’s the Angels,” said mastodon444, a self-proclaimed member of ‘hacktivist’ group Anonymous. “They’re coming for us all. We don’t understand the true meaning of the Bible. Angels aren’t ‘angelic,’ after all.”
He goes on to explain the theory – that a secret, international group of terrorists is carrying out co-ordinated kidnappings. Their motivation is unclear, but ours isn’t the only country to be affected. In France, they have Les Séraphins Maléfiques; in Germany, Der Schleichender Tod. The attacks are spreading across Africa, Asia, Europe, Australia, and the Americas. Many supporters of the theory believe that this should be enough to force the British government to investigate.
Whatever the truth, it’s clear that the pressure is on for the authorities to provide an explanation. So far, Downing Street is silent.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: BEINGS OF LIGHT
Sunday November 15th, 2009
MONTGOMERY STAYED BEHIND long after the service, sweeping the floors and adjusting the religious displays. In the glory days, they’d had a cleaner; now, the church was falling apart. It was tiring, but the priest worked hard to look after the place himself. He liked the hallowed silence that the church offered, and he wished he were strong enough to carry out repairs. As it was, he satisfied himself by dragging an old broom across the dusty stone and polishing every surface he could reach.
It started on a quiet November night. Most people had to work in the morning, and those who didn’t were kept inside by the cold air and the dark sky. Cars rumbled hypnotically past, as easy to ignore as a ticking clock.
He was wiping down shelves in the old rectory when he heard the commotion. For centuries, the room had mostly been used for storage, but meetings were occasionally held there. Strange noises startled him, but the courage and curiosity of his youth prevailed. His old brain decoded the pattering of running feet, and a pair of heavy fists smashed against the door.
“Father!”
The voice had a thick Irish accent, and it radiated panic and despair. The oak portal rattled in its hinges, and Montgomery raced towards it, wrenching the rusty bolts back and fumbling with the key. When the bolts snapped open, the door flew out and almost knocked the Irishman over. As soon as the drunk was over the threshold, Montgomery slammed the door behind him and jammed the bolts home.
“Ah,” said Montgomery, calm and composed in the face of insanity. “Niall. And what can I do for you?”
“They’re after me, Father,” Niall whimpered, grabbing Montgomery’s arm and steering him into the shadows. “I seen ‘em, I really did.”
“Calm down. What is it?” The lairy Irishman was a notorious drunk, and Montgomery often looked after him. Niall didn’t have a home, so he slept on the floor in the rectory. This arrangement was under threat since he’d been caught with the communion wine.
“I seen ‘em, Father. All in a line behind the bushes. Well, we’ve all heard about ‘em, sure enough. It’s all anybody talks about, these days.”
“Slow down, Niall. Start from the beginning.”
“Sure thing, Father,” he said. “They can’t set foot in the house of the Lord. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
The priest was used to the Irishman’s ramblings, but he normally flowed through topics as though the boundaries didn’t exist. For once, Niall made sense – sort of.
“You were being followed?”
“You don’t know the half of it. It’s these Angels. That’s what I reckon.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Montgomery said, and he had. Half of the country was alive with the rumour. “Go on, I’m listening.”
“There I was, sitting in the car park and minding my own business. You know how it is, Father. I was drinking my medicine, if you catch my drift.”
“I understand.”
“Out of nowhere, this fella comes up to me… I thought he was the fuzz until I found my glasses and got a proper look. D’you know what, Father? He was naked, I’ll swear it. Naked as the day he was born. He was handsome, though. Reminded me of my younger days.” Now that the sense of imminent danger had passed, Niall was settling into the story.
Montgomery was patient though, and he said nothing as he parsed reality from the tale.
“He was a strange fella, and not just ‘cause he was naked. He seemed to shine. I thought I was seeing things. It’s happened before, it’s the nature of the beast. It was like he was lit up by a spotlight, only more like he was the spotlight, and I was on the stage.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“You see, that’s the weird thing… he did. He had a deep voice that echoed like he was standing inside the church. And he said to me, ‘Justify yourself.’ Then he told me to wait, and I was just about to run. He said there were more on their way, and that’s all I needed to know. I’m telling you, it was hard to move my legs.”
“Catatonia,” Montgomery murmured. “Interesting.”
“And then he said, if you’ll believe me, ‘His fear is building. Follow him, but don’t catch him yet. This fruit is not yet fully ripe.’ Well, Father, that got me moving all right. I ran across town and they followed me all the way here. They ain’t coming inside the church, though. They wouldn’t dare.”
But Montgomery was no longer listening. He could hear voices through the walls, and he sidled over to the door to listen. He wondered if they were real. Could the drunkard’s tale be a trick? Cautiously, he slid the bolts across and opened the door, peering out into the darkness. He couldn’t see anything unusual.
“Hello?” he called, but there was no response except for the faint echo, which mimicked his gentle accent and faded into the night. He tried again, and then a third time, but nothing changed. It was raining, and a fine mist was rising from the river and tickling the horizon. He called one last time, before giving up and returning to the warmth.
The old Irishman had slumped to the floor and fallen into a dazed half-sleep in his absence, and Montgomery frowned at the recumbent figure like a mother at an unruly child. It was getting late, and it wouldn’t be easy to take Niall to the shelter. With the long, deep sigh of an impatient man, he grabbed Niall’s legs and dragged him to the corner.
The Irishman smelled like a distillery, and the priest marvelled at his aptitude as a drunken raconteur. Montgomery poured a glass of water and stood it beside him, knowing all along that Niall would only touch it if his life
depended on it. There was nothing else to do – Montgomery couldn’t make the stone floor more comfortable, but comfort was a luxury that Niall could rarely afford. Montgomery’s heart was racing, and the rest of the cleaning would have to wait for another day.
He turned off the overhead lights and left Niall on the floor, illuminated by dim side-lights that skirted the great religious precinct and lit the pews. He knew from experience that the church could be unnerving at night, and who knew what hallucinations his alcohol-riddled mind might produce?
Montgomery dismissed the experience as the work of a gullible fool with a drunken imagination, and he felt no fear as he walked through the churchyard in the near-darkness. He left the doors unlocked so Niall could leave, though he’d never left them open before. There wasn’t anything worth stealing, but he held a secret dark opinion of human nature. He was a deeply spiritual man, but he was also a realist – faith wouldn’t protect the church from graffiti and vandalism.
He was deep in thought as he began the long walk home through the dusty estate. For a fleeting moment, he thought he was being watched, but he shrugged it off and walked calmly through the sleeping city. It was a feeling he was about to get used to.
CHAPTER TWELVE: THE RENDEZVOUS
Sunday November 18th, 1962
THEY MET AT NIGHT, on the same bench they had used days earlier. Montgomery’s eyes were dark and sunken, and a three-day stubble framed his greasy face with a haunted shadow. He hadn’t been sleeping, and his volunteer work was more intense than ever. His team had been carrying out repairs on the youth centre, and his hands were callused and splintered. You have to suffer for your faith, he reflected.