by Paul Crilley
I’m still staring at the sky when I notice a vague shape taking form. It takes a while for it to register because it’s so far away, nothing more than a tiny dot against the sallow sky. But it gets bigger. Closer.
I frown. Some sort of bird? I definitely see wings flapping. But it’s huge. It can’t be a bird.
It’s—
‘Pull over,’ I say urgently.
Armitage doesn’t ask questions. She steers the car to the side of the road and switches the engine off. Her hand moves to her hip, touches the butt of her police-issue berretta.
‘What is it?’
‘Trouble.’
I push the door open. Climb out the car. The afternoon heat crawls across my skin, stifling, oppressive. The threat of rain is heavy in the air. I wince and squint up into the sky. The figure is much closer now, soaring towards us much like Superman does in the movies.
That is, if Superman happened to be seven feet tall with wings.
The angel plummets straight towards the ground. At the last moment it flares its wings wide and stops abruptly, pulling sharply up and bobbing in the air.
The figure blocks out the sun, a silhouette of holy fury. It hangs there for a moment, watching us, then descends to the ground, slow-flapping wings raising a cloud of dust.
I wait, my heart hammering. What to do? I’m not going to attack another angel. Two in as many days is a bit much, even for me. My fingers are clasping and unclasping. I’m itching to grab my wand, but I don’t. I’m not very good with it and I barely survived a fight against a demented angel that was spaced out and high. I wouldn’t stand a chance here.
Unlike yesterday, this angel looks exactly how you imagine an angel to look. A face like a cold statue, hard lines and smooth skin. Curly hair that falls to his shoulders (it looks like a he, but it’s hard to tell with angels). As he walks towards us his wings fold down around him, draping over his shoulders and changing, forming into a dark brown trench coat.
Neat trick.
I resist the urge to take a step back, something I’m pretty fucking proud of. An angel is a pretty scary figure.
I raise my hands in the air. ‘In the immortal words of one of our forgotten, modern-day poets – “It wasn’t me”.’
The angel stops walking and folds his arms. ‘What wasn’t you?’
‘Uh . . . whatever. Anything. Nothing. What is this anyway?’
Yeah. Cocky denial may not be the best route. Babbling confusion might be better.
I hear a match scraping to life, turn to see Armitage lighting a cigarette as she squints up at the angel. She’s not looking very impressed.
‘Do you know who I am?’ says the angel.
‘The Easter bunny?’ I say.
‘I am Michael, Lord of the Archangels. Prince of the Heavenly Hosts. I am the Angel of Deliverance. My name is a battle cry. My wrath is the wrath of God. I am the Archistrategos. I am the defeater of the Dragon.’ He sighs and looks around, frowning at the sky. ‘And I fucking hate it here.’ He turns back at us. ‘It’s the heat, you know? Reminds me of you-know-where.’
‘Texas?’ I say. ‘Australia?’ Michael stares at me. ‘Sorry. I get snarky when I’m nervous. Not that I’m nervous. Why would I be?’
‘Yeah, why would you be?’ asks Armitage, amused.
‘Shut up, Armitage. So, why are you here? If you hate it so much, I mean?’
I tense, waiting for him to bring up the angel at Addingtons. Not that he has any moral high ground to stand on. One of his own was buying kids and snorting their souls. But still, you have to be careful how you handle these guys.
Michael sighs. ‘You must stop pursuing this inquiry.’
I pause, the words of denial and righteous indignation dying on my lips.
‘What inquiry?’ asks Armitage.
‘This death. The ramanga. I will find the perpetrator. I will punish him. This is not for you to deal with. If you continue on this course, you might be in danger.’
Armitage blows a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘Sorry, pet, was that a threat?’
A pained look flashes across Michael’s face. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Believe me, you would know if I was threatening you. But there are . . . things going on here—’
‘What things?’
‘Delicate things. Things you are in danger of getting caught up in.’
‘We’re already caught up in it,’ I say.
‘Then extricate yourself. I do not want to have to come back here again. If I do I might have to peel your skin from your body and dip you in vinegar.’
I blink.
‘That was a threat,’ says Michael kindly. ‘In case you didn’t catch it.’
‘No, no. I caught it all right.’
‘Good. I do not wish to see either of you again. Good day.’
The trench coat unfurls over his shoulders, spreading out to either side to form Michael’s wings. He flaps them a few times, rising up into the sky. He stares at us the whole time he does this. Then, when he is about thirty feet up, he turns and puts on a burst of speed, disappearing into the liver-bruised clouds.
There is a deafening crack of thunder and the storm hits.
Armitage tuts and shakes her head. ‘Bloody angels.’
It’s already four in the afternoon by the time we get back to the Division, so I spend the last hour starting my report into the ramanga’s death and typing up the first few statements from those we interviewed. (If you don’t like paperwork, don’t become a cop. We spend about seventy per cent of our time filling out expense reports, balancing personnel budgets, filing crime reports, and typing out interviews that we already have on tape and video.)
I stop as soon as the clock strikes five. We’ve been told that there’s no overtime any more, so it’s pointless carrying on. I shut down my computer and lean back in my chair, stretching.
I glance across at Parker. ‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘Nothing much. Dinner and some TV. You?’
‘I need a drink. A few drinks.’
Parker makes a face. ‘The Cellar?’
I nod. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against that place.’
‘It’s so . . .’
‘Down to earth?’
‘. . . Disgusting. The place is a dive.’
I shrug. She’s right, but I know the owner and he lets me run a tab till payday, which is a huge plus in my books. He also makes the best club sandwich in town. Sweet chilli sauce, chicken, bacon . . . my mouth’s watering just thinking about it.
I get to my feet grab my keys. ‘See you tomorrow then. Same time, same place—’
‘Same shit.’
‘You got it.’
Back at the flat and I can feel the stiffness creeping up on me. My joints ache, and my muscles are seizing up. The magical hangover has been with me all day, but this is my body reacting to the battering it took yesterday. Walking around at the kraal staved off the pain, but it’s coming on hard now, armed with heavy bats and crowbars. The wards the dog applied saved my bones from breaking and my insides from spilling inconveniently out my mouth, but the beating still had an effect.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ I call out as I enter the flat.
‘Did you get my sherry?’
I hold up the brown bottle. ‘Is that all you can say? We don’t talk any more. I feel like you don’t even care about me.’
‘Pour the booze and I’ll listen to you whine about your day all you like.’
‘God, it’s like I’m a kid again. You even sound like my ma. Same throaty growl.’
I pour the entire bottle of sherry into the dog’s huge bowl.
‘So how was your day?’ I ask.
‘Epic. I watched movies and licked my balls. You?’
‘A ramanga was murdered out in the boondocks. Been out there all day cooking in the heat.’
‘Lovely. Now we’re all caught up, let’s have some silence. I need to drink.’
I leave him to his afternoon tipple, grab a beer from
the fridge, and head into the bathroom to run a bath. Steaming hot and filled with all that relaxation shit Becca used to buy. I have no idea if it will help, but it can’t hurt.
I wince as I strip off my clothes and slowly lower myself into the scalding water, sinking down until only my head is exposed.
I close my eyes and drift as the steam and heat attempt to relax my muscles. My thoughts float to Becca, drawn towards her by the scents floating around me.
Maybe I should call her.
Then again, why bother? She’s made it clear on numerous occasions she wants nothing to do with me. I can’t blame her, either.
So, no. No phone calls. The past is in the past. Leave it there. At least until I have something concrete to tell her. Something to put her mind at rest. One way or another.
The best thing for me to do is to give the dog my mobile phone, head down to the Cellar, get drunk, talk crap with anyone who will listen, come home, try (and fail) to get my phone back to drunk text Becca, then fall into bed and wake up tomorrow with a natural hangover so bad it will make demons weep.
I soak for another half hour and finish my beer, then heave myself out of the tub. I choose a Dolce & Gabbana suit, leaving the jacket in the closet. (Too hot.) I pick a white Veneta shirt with pink pinstripes, a grey waistcoat and a dark grey tie. I slip my phone into a zip-lock bag and toss it onto the dog’s chair.
‘Going out. Getting drunk.’
He opens one eye. ‘Don’t ask for it back.’
‘That’s the whole point.’
‘What if it rings?’
‘Take a message.’
‘I’m not your secretary.’
‘Ignore it, then.’
I grab my wallet, my keys, and I head out into the summer evening to get spectacularly wasted.
Chapter 5
The dream always starts with the rain.
It pours from the night sky. A torrent. A flood. Sheets of solid water cascading across the pine trees, over the mountains, turning the road into a river of mud. The noise – a thundering roar, a constant, heavy assault on the ears.
His car breaks down a kilometre from the lodge. He can see it, nestled against the craggy backdrop. The windows are just visible, yellow light struggling to lift the darkness.
He gets out the car and is instantly soaked. Like he’s jumped in a pool. He slithers around to the trunk, yanking it open for his torch. He sees his gun case, pulls it towards him and flips the catch to reveal his shotgun. He loads the shells, slips extras into his jacket pocket, then starts to run.
The man with the gun falls over, pushes himself up and keeps moving. The rain is blinding, pushing against him, the wind trying to force him back. He fights against it, struggles on.
The lodge is so far away. He doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. The panic sets in. He thinks he’s stuck in a nightmare. The one where he’s trying to escape something but can’t get anywhere.
The mud flows past his legs. His feet are numb, freezing cold. His bobbing flashlight picks out brief snapshots of his surroundings – leaves, the bark of a tree, the sharp rocks, the flowing mud. His breath sounds harsh in his ears. His chest is on fire, getting worse with every step.
The panic is driving him on. Pushing his feet one in front of the other. He didn’t think he could get any more scared, but he was wrong. The fear keeps rising. A sickening, heart-wrenching darkness that is cresting higher and higher, driving his sanity away.
He realizes he’s uttering words as he forces one leg in front of the other, wading through the mud.
‘Cally.’
Step.
‘Cally.’
Step.
‘I’m coming, honey.’
Step.
‘Hold on.’
Step.
When he finally gets to the lodge, all his training deserts him. He doesn’t do a perimeter search. He doesn’t assess. He doesn’t make a judgement based on observation.
He kicks in the door, the shotgun levelled before him.
Into the lounge. Looks around.
And sees the blood.
So much blood.
It covers the wooden floorboards. A massive puddle. A lake of crimson.
Three figures. First threat, the big one. Hulking, massive. Easily six feet six. Shaved head, with a bushy black beard. He’s standing with his hands resting on the head of a second man. The second man is facing away from the blood, kneeling in a doorway, his eyes closed, head bowed.
He looks like he’s praying.
The third figure is seated in the centre of the pool of blood. Smiling. Running his hands over the blood in wide circles.
He lifts the shotgun. The big man spots him, lunges through the door, trying to escape, shoving the kneeling man ahead of him. The shotgun goes off, tearing a huge hole in the doorframe.
He runs forward, but the corridor beyond is empty. He hears a door slamming on the other side of the house. He hesitates, glances over his shoulder.
The man sitting in the blood is getting to his feet, blinking and looking around in confusion. The man with the shotgun turns back to him, knowing his priority is to find the kids, find his daughter. The sitting man has . . . he has blood around his mouth, caked beneath his nails.
He lunges forward and hits the figure with the butt of the shotgun.
‘Where is she?’ he screams. ‘Where’s my daughter?’
The man slips, falls back into the blood. ‘Wh-who?’ he says. ‘I don’t . . .’ He shakes his head, looks around in confusion.
‘Where is she?’ the man screams.
‘Who?’
He needs to search the house. She could be dying. Locked away somewhere. But he has to make sure this man doesn’t get away. Not till he’s told him everything he knows. He pulls the man’s leg out, angles the foot to the side, and then hits his ankle as hard as he can with the gun.
The crack of snapping bone. The man starts to scream.
He leaves, frantically searches every room in the house. But there are no kids. No Cally.
He comes back to the lounge. The man is still lying on the floor, his face clenched with pain. The man with the gun doesn’t care about that. All he cares about is finding his daughter.
‘Where is she?’
The man blinks at him. ‘I . . . I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t . . . don’t remember—’
‘Liar!’ He hits the man in the face with the gun. ‘Where is my daughter?’ he screams. His daughter is supposed to be here. All five kids are supposed to be here. This is where the informant said the kidnappers took them.
‘I have no idea!’ the man wails. ‘I don’t even know where I am!’
The man with the gun doesn’t understand. It’s as if he really doesn’t know. The look on his face is too genuine to be faked.
He looks around at the blood, despair washing over him.
He’s too late. He knows it. The blood is hers. And those other kids. And later DNA tests will prove him correct.
An inhuman howl erupts from him, a scream of loss and pain. A primitive shout of emptiness and loss. He turns and unloads the last barrel into the man on the floor.
The dream might start with the rain.
But it always ends in blood.
Chapter 6
Your mind breaks when you lose a child. You have to go a bit insane, because there’s no actual logical way for the human mind to deal with something like that.
It’s like your limbs have been torn off, like some demon has injected an empty void into every waking moment of your life and you know you’ll never be able to fill it again. Memories are torture. Reminders of your failure. A lead ball forms in your stomach and weighs down every single moment of your life. Guilt is no longer a simple emotion, something you feel then eventually get over. It becomes the dominant presence in your life. A new companion to everything you do. A treacherous whisper in your ear. Why are you smiling? Why have you woken up without tears? Why aren’t you thinking about Cally?
Who are you to think about the future? How dare you contemplate a life that might some day involve happiness.
Anything that gives pleasure becomes a catalyst for the guilt, until your whole life, every waking moment, revolves around the pain and loss.
And then you give in to the guilt. You have to. There’s no other way. Like an abused spouse you realise it’s right, even as it’s hurting you. You let it destroy your life, your marriage. You let the pain win. Because the pain is right.
And then three years have passed and you realise you’re still no closer to finding the people responsible.
It’s always worse in the mornings. When I wake up covered in sweat, the facade built up the day before hanging in bloody tatters, my soul exposed to the harsh reality of life without the daily filters in place.
On bad days, like today, when the nightmares last all night, I just want to make the world burn. For everyone to suffer, for everyone to feel exactly what I’m feeling. I’m utterly . . . enraged that other people have normal lives. How dare they? Who the fuck do they think they are? Nothing is normal anymore. Everyone should know that. The whole world should know that.
Other times, when I’m not so angry, when the dreams fade into dull grey images that hover just out of reach, I want to warn everyone that the world is bad. That the world is a horrible place and they need to take their kids and hug them and never let them go. To play with them. Read to them. To take those moments and hold them tight. To remember them now, because the bad days are coming, and these little moments will be all you have left. You have to stack them up inside your soul. They’re what keep you alive when nothing else seems worth it.
And you have to fight for them. Because your mind will forget, it will just let them drift away like ash from a fire.
And other times, when I wake up remembering Cally from before that night in the mountains, when the memories aren’t of blood and horror, but of us playing with her Star Wars toys, or us goofing around in the pool, I want to protect everyone. I want to go out and catch every bad guy alive, round them up and drop them into the ocean. I want to show the world that there’s still someone out there who wants to help. That no matter how it looks, not everyone is corrupt.