by Dane Cobain
“I didn’t even stop to pick her up. What can I tell you that you don’t already know?”
“How did it feel? What went through your head? Time is not important to us.” They stood there like impassive statues outside an ancient castle, barring the way for strangers.
And so Jones talked and talked until he thought he could talk no longer. He told them about the pride he’d felt during the birth of his son, and his subsequent inability to be a ‘real’ father. He told them about his ruthless streak, about the way he used to squash bugs as a child because he wanted to feel the power of life and death over something, anything. And he told them about the way that sometimes, at the bottom of the bottle of scotch when it was too late to be the night before and too early to be the day after, he sometimes thought about ending it all, until the first rays of dawn sent him to bed for a couple hours of troubled sleep.
But there was only so much to say, and Jones was tired, and he started to babble incoherently. It was something about someone long ago, and he couldn’t remember whether he’d slept with her or not. They started to press in closer and closer, until he was ready to give up and hand himself over.
Then the doorbell rang and they scattered like dust in a hurricane. Jones remained where he was for a couple of seconds to give his lagging brain a chance to catch up before he opened the door.
“Good evening,” said Father Montgomery. “I picked up your message and came over as soon as I could. It sounded like something was wrong.”
Jones smiled and invited the old man inside.
“It’s an evil night,” he said, standing aside to allow the dripping priest into the hallway. He took Montgomery’s jacket and hung it from the coat-rack with shaking hands. The priest could see that something was terribly wrong, and the concern dampened his wise, old eyes. Jones poured out two measures of Bell’s and handed one of the glasses to Montgomery.
“So what happened?” Montgomery asked.
Jones stared at the floor, saying nothing while he allowed his thoughts to form. At last, he sat down, gestured for Montgomery to do the same, and drained his glass. “They were here, Father,” he said. “The Angels.”
The priest’s face flushed with interest and he leaned forward in his chair. “They were? What did they want?”
“I don’t know,” Jones said. “But I’m sure they’ll be back.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“You weren’t here, Father. They didn’t look like they’d go away and forget about me. I doubt they’ve ever forgotten anything.” Jones pulled himself to his weary feet and strolled over to the window. An early morning fog shrouded the city in a misty jacket, and the temperature was beginning to drop. “Help me, John. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” Montgomery said. He spoke with the voice of reason – calm and controlled in a world of confusion, like a midwife at a birth. “We’ll wait for them, together. If they are what they say they are, I’d like a word.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: EXORCISM
Sunday December 13th, 2009
“THANK YOU for coming, Father.”
Montgomery looked tired and worn; his aged face needed ironing. He smiled, thinly.
“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Andrews. The Lord has blessed our meeting. Now let us hope that he blesses your daughter. Is she upstairs?”
“Yes. You’ll find her where you left her, although I should warn you… she’s grown worse. A lot worse.” She stifled a sob as her husband wrapped a tender arm around her heaving shoulders. “Do you want to go and see her?”
“I’ll do just that, but I need to prepare before I go in there. May I use your bathroom?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” Montgomery said. “Perhaps you should take this time to visit your daughter. This will be a stressful experience for her. Does anyone know that I’m here?”
“No, Father. We’ve kept the whole affair a secret. It’s not something to tell the neighbours.”
“Good,” he replied. “That’s how it should be. You understand, I’m here as a friend and not a priest, but I’ll do what good I can.”
“Yes, Father,” Mrs. Andrews replied. “I understand. But we have to try!”
Montgomery smiled and excused himself, before locking himself in the bathroom. He caressed the simple crucifix that he carried – a gift from her – and tried to decide what to do. Sighing, he pulled two vials from his briefcase; one was full of ‘holy’ water, prepared on the sacred grounds of the church, and the other was empty. With exaggerated care, he filled the empty vial at the bathroom sink, replaced the stopper, and dried it on a towel. Then he said a short prayer, gathered his thoughts and belongings, and climbed the stairs to the young girl’s room.
As soon as he opened the door, his nostrils were assaulted by the stench – it was like a glue-boiling vomit factory. The possessed lay comatose in her bed, her skin scabbed and raw. A cold wind blew through the open window and slammed the door behind him; the apparition in the bed sat bolt upright.
“So,” it said. “You came.”
The child’s voice was unholy – it grated at the ears and reverberated inside the skull, like the death howl of a dozen people.
“Of course,” he replied. “We have unfinished business. What are you?”
“What do your eyes tell you?”
The priest ignored the question and began to unpack his suitcase – a Bible, a bell, and a candle. He muttered a short prayer and turned towards the girl.
“My eyes tell me that your heart has stopped and that you’re no longer breathing, but my mind says that’s impossible.”
The child leered at him.
“May I check your pulse?” he asked.
“I won’t stop you,” she replied.
The priest didn’t trust her, but he reminded himself that she was just a child and bent down beside her with his eyes on hers. They were jaundiced and reptilian, like something from a comic book or a horror film. He pressed her wrist, looking for an elusive pulse, but he quickly pulled away – her skin was so hot that his fingertips burned and sizzled.
“What are you?” he gasped, horror-struck.
The creature laughed. “Surely you recognise us, Father. Are you not a priest?”
“I am,” he said.
“And we are Angels.”
He nodded; he’d had his suspicions.
“You’ve heard of us?”
“As a rumour,” he replied. “But why are you here? And what do you want?”
“We want to see sins. We feed on them like you feed on the planet. We will not rest until we feast on all of the corruption in this wicked world.”
“And a child is corrupt?” Montgomery asked. It bared its teeth at the priest, little chunks of calcified tissue set in foul, rotten gums.
“Do you not remember your childhood, priest? Corruption is forced upon you before you even leave the womb. Your people are conceived in sin, born in shame to an ugly world, fed with processed food that’s bought with dirty money. You lie, you cheat, you steal. You kill animals and insects for food and fun. You lust after others, have pornography force-fed to you by the media, gossip about death, war, pestilence, and famine, then die alone with the knowledge of secret sins that will never be discovered. Do you want us to continue?”
“Some would argue that we don’t have a choice,” the priest replied.
“Perhaps. But that doesn’t concern us.”
In silence, Montgomery reached into his case and withdrew the vial of tap water. The creature in the bed looked unconcerned.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
There was no response.
“This is holy water, blessed by the Lord.”
Without warning, Montgomery removed the stopper and threw the water at the demon in the bed. It sizzled and boiled on the skin, but the creature barely reacted. He sighed; then without warning, he threw the contents of the second vial towards her. She fr
owned at him.
“We know what you are trying to do,” she said. “If you wanted us to leave, you should have asked.”
The light of intelligence disappeared from the child’s eyes as she slumped forwards in her bed. The priest dashed to catch her, but he recoiled at the touch of her skin – ice cold and clammy, like a corpse. Without hope, he checked for a pulse – there was nothing.
The outcome was written in his eyes when he climbed reluctantly down the stairs towards the dining room. The parents looked up expectantly – Father Montgomery lowered his eyes to the floor.
“Your daughter is… with God now,” he said.
“What are you telling us?” screamed Mrs. Andrews. Tears clouded the beautiful eyes that looked so much like her daughter’s. Her husband dragged the old priest to the door.
“You did your best,” he said. “We expected nothing more from you. Now go, no-one must ever know that you were here.”
The door slammed shut in his face; the priest looked up through the night at the girl’s bedroom window. Cursing to himself, he picked up his briefcase and walked away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THE PLAN
Monday December 14th, 2009
FATHER MONTGOMERY and Robert Jones sat in silence at a table in Jones’ apartment. They talked, made notes, drank endless cups of tea, and asked questions that neither of them could answer, then arrived at the conclusion that something must be done. “I have a theory,” said the priest, breaking a half hour of silence. “Although I have no evidence to support it, and I can’t pretend I understand the science.”
“I’m listening,” Jones replied.
“Well, I’ve been thinking… do you remember the furore at CERN? You know, the black hole scandal?”
“I remember,” said Jones. “The media said the world would end, that CERN’s machine could create black holes. We watched the coverage at work. But what does that have to do with Angels?”
“From what we understand,” Montgomery began. “From what they’ve told us and from what our eyes make us believe, they’re made entirely of light. Conscious light, but still light. The rumours got it backwards. CERN’s machine destroys black holes instead of creating them.” The old priest’s eyes were aglow with passion.
Jones imagined Montgomery as an artist or musician. The same sense of urgent creativity surrounded him, little thunderclouds of thought. “Is that possible?” he asked.
“It’s… theoretically possible,” Montgomery replied. “Look at Newton’s third law. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. If it’s possible to create a black hole, should it not be possible to destroy one? Besides, I saw it on the television. CERN practically confirmed it.”
“It makes sense,” conceded Jones with a shrug.
“Now if that were the case, that would explain a lot,” continued the priest, oblivious to anything outside his technological sermon. “Black holes swallow light and compress it. Perhaps that’s where the Angels were, trapped in hibernation. And if black holes were destroyed, the light could spill back out into the universe.”
The priest took a sip of his drink and closed his tired eyes. Jones’ head still whirred, but he was a product of the times – he had to see proof before he supported a theory.
“That assumes they’re really made out of light,” Jones said. “Which seems like quite the assumption.”
“Tell me…” Montgomery sighed. “You’ve seen them, you’ve talked to them. Do you believe they’re made of light?”
“Yes,” Jones replied.
“So do I.”
They exchanged glances, and Jones felt his mouth go dry.
“Do you understand what that means?” Montgomery asked. “This is huge; we need to get to the bottom of it.”
“Agreed, but where do we start? We know next to nothing.”
The old man smiled, enigmatically. “I suggest we start at CERN. Perhaps they know something, although they won’t be happy to speak to us. We must keep our eyes and ears open, follow up on every lead, and find out as much about the Angels as we can. They seem to be an enemy of yours, and so they’re also an enemy of mine.”
Jones looked up at him, in awe. “You’ve really thought things through, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Of course,” Montgomery replied. “You realise that the steps we’re taking are unprecedented? We’re about to leap off the diving board and into the unknown. We can’t know what to expect, but it could be dangerous. If the Angels are what they say they are, victory may be impossible. I hope you realise that.”
“I understand.”
They lapsed into silence again; then Jones stood up and put the kettle on.
“This is real,” he said. “Isn’t it?”
The priest nodded, morosely. “If only it weren’t.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: CERN
Wednesday December 16th, 2009
THE COMMERCIAL JET glided noisily through the sky, battered by the storm that assaulted the city. Thousands of metres below, Geneva was witnessing its worst weather of the year.
“Are you ready?” asked Jones, looking carefully at his friend and companion.
The priest was reclining beside him, with one eye closed and the other eye focused on the window. “We’ll land soon, there’s no going back after this. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Of course I am. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. You can hardly prepare for the unexpected.”
The aeroplane made a shaky final descent, and the travellers finally disembarked and made their way through passport control.
“Let’s grab our cases and find the hotel,” Montgomery said. “We can plan our next move from there.”
It felt strange to be among ordinary people with such an unnatural goal, but snatches of foreign conversation and childish laughter were alien enough to remind them of their mission. Their bags were quick off the carousel – they were travelling light and only half-expecting to return. Jones and Montgomery were soon on their way to the hotel, gliding stylishly through the streets of Geneva in the back of a bright yellow taxi. When they arrived, a guest was waiting.
“Mr. Blaise Atkins,” said the receptionist, introducing them to a middle-aged man with designer stubble and expensive glasses. “He said he had an appointment to see you.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Montgomery, shaking their visitor’s hand excitedly. “So pleased to meet you, we’ve heard a lot about you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Atkins said, with an accent that was so bizarre, Montgomery couldn’t place it. “I hear that you have some important questions for me. Is there anywhere private we can go?”
“There’s our room, once we get the keys. I’m sorry we’re not prepared. We weren’t expecting to see you until tomorrow. We’ve only just arrived,” Montgomery explained, gesturing towards his luggage with an expressive sweep of the arm.
“I know, but this can’t wait,” Atkins replied, lowering his voice. “No-one knows that I’m here, and certainly no-one official. I could lose my job. You understand, gentlemen, that this conversation isn’t happening?”
“Ah,” said Jones. “It’s one of those meetings. We’ll see what we can do. Perhaps we can hijack the lounge.”
But the lounge was busy, and so they waited in silence to be shown up to their room; the concierge arrived ten minutes later and pointed them to room 108. Atkins looked cautiously around to inspect for potential bugs, while Montgomery brewed a pot of coffee to be served in plastic teacups.
“So,” Montgomery said. “We’re all ears. What is it that you have to tell us?”
“Let me explain why I’m here. You see, Father Montgomery, everyone who worked on the project was sworn to secrecy, an oath that I had every intention of keeping. But I was having a crisis and needed someone to talk to, and then you called my office. A priest, asking questions that I’m not allowed to answer,” Atkins laughed. “But I’m here now, and you will hear my confession.
“As you somehow seem to know, the troubles w
ith the Angels are linked to the Collider that’s buried beneath the border. I was there when we turned it on, our moment of glory before the trouble started. Everything was running smoothly until we began the first collisions.”
“Your first attempts at discovering the God particle,” murmured Montgomery, thoughtfully.
“Correct,” Atkins replied. “At first, we were just confused by some unexpected readings. Light inside the Collider and unexplained energy surges. We investigated, but we didn’t know whether they were the results that we were looking for or something else entirely. I mean, we’re on the cutting edge of physics. Half of the time we make it up as we go along. Oh yes, it looks neat and tidy from the outside, but you should see the chaos behind the theory. Do you know how terrifying it is to be testing something that could blow the scientific world apart?”
“I don’t,” admitted Jones. “But I know what it feels like when two irreconcilable truths collide, and I imagine it’s roughly the same.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Atkins agreed. “It’s hard to explain. Strange things have been happening, and things have gone missing. People said the LHC was haunted, and it wasn’t hard to believe it. Then the ‘accidents’ started. Old Josef had a heart-attack, and when they found him, he looked ungodly. You know The Scream?”
“The painting?”
“The very same,” replied Atkins. “He looked like that, only worse. Then there was Nikolas, a veteran cyclist and boxer. They found him burned in a rubbish bin, with his ribcage broken in two. There aren’t many people who could’ve done that.”
“So you don’t think it was a person?” asked Jones. The scientist gave him a look that he couldn’t understand, and Montgomery waited patiently for the story to continue.
“You could be right. Who can tell? Shortly after that, the rumours of avenging Angels began to surface. Kolinsky swore that he’d seen them, but we didn’t believe him. A week later, he was killed in a car crash. They said that he swerved to avoid something and lost control of the vehicle.”