Angel Dust

by Sarah Mussi

  The last stroke of midnight fell. In a panic I cast an aura of ethereal light around us. This was the moment when I should be making his death beautiful beyond compare, when lyres should be playing, when Paradise itself should envy him his Final Moment.

  ‘Don’t let me die,’ he whispered.

  But I should be letting him die. I should be easing his soul out of his body and taking it by the hand. I should be guiding it to the broad highway that stretches past the Twelfth Gate.

  But I wasn’t.

  I was gazing down into the darkest, wickedest eyes imaginable. I was holding the firmest, tautest body I’d ever touched. Holding it as if I had no intention of letting it go. Anywhere.

  What madness was this?

  I crouched there, stunned at what I was doing (or rather not doing), when the stranger who’d caught Marcus (that glorious helpful being) knelt down close and laid his hand on mine.

  Serafina 4

  It was a strange sensation. We angels don’t have corporeal bodies. We don’t feel the cold or heat in the way an Earthly being does; rather we feel through things – to the core of things. We feel in images. In essences. But the feel of that stranger’s hand on mine was different. It was like the touch of an Archangel. It was tingly and warm and it sent delightful spirals of heat into my chest. The only thing that marred it was that slight whiff of drains again.

  ‘Let me help,’ he said.

  I looked at him. ‘Help?’ I said, puzzled. For who can help an Angel of Death?

  ‘There is a way,’ he said.

  ‘A way?’ I repeated.

  He laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said, raising his eyebrows, ‘a way out even for you.’

  I smiled up at the stranger. I pressed Marcus nearer. I cradled his head, covered his blood with my feathers.

  The stranger smiled back at me as if I were being very slow. He cocked his head to one side in an enchanting way. ‘You like him. Don’t you?’ he said.

  I looked at Marcus. I looked at the stranger. Yes, I liked him. But ‘like’ was such a tame, human sort of word. It came nowhere near the feeling I had. I was mesmerised by the life force in him. I could never be alive, not in the way Marcus was. This was the nearest I would ever get. And I was appalled at the thought of pinching it out. But most of all he trusted me. And despite all his wickedness, I’d looked into his eyes and seen he was good and kind.

  ‘And he hasn’t repented, either, has he?’ said the stranger. The lights from the disco ball sparkled off his teeth. They were very white teeth, very even, very clean.

  ‘No,’ I whispered.

  ‘So you know what you must do.’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded. I knew what I must do.

  ‘But there is a way – not to do it,’ said the stranger, a smile playing around the corners of his white teeth. ‘A way to give him more time.’

  More time? Yes! That’s what he needed. More time. Oh, if only I could make time stand still forever. I would bend every beat of Heaven’s great heart to help him. How could he not repent with such powers to guide him?

  ‘More time,’ repeated Marcus – as if he could hear my thoughts.

  ‘What way?’ I said, looking at the stranger.

  ‘It’s really very simple,’ said the stranger.

  I studied him, this stranger who could make everything very simple. He was beautifully dressed in a white suit, with a yellow rosebud tucked into his lapel. On anyone else that might have looked phoney, but on him it was exactly right. And he was good-looking too, clean-cut and smooth-skinned, with golden hair scooped back into one of those adorable ponytails. I liked him immediately – did I tell you that already? No? Well, I liked him very much.

  So there I was. Marcus lying in my arms, time behaving very strangely – in fact so strangely that all around us the club waited. In freeze-frame the revellers stood, caught between dancing and screaming, between living and dying. I couldn’t make it out. Everything was not as it should be. Even the church bell seemed to be stuck. Perhaps this stranger really could help.

  ‘You can ask for an Extension,’ he said, and smiled another white-toothed smile.

  Ask for an Extension?

  What did he mean?

  Frantically I looked up at him, clutched Marcus tighter, tried to think straight. The room swayed. Time shifted. Music blared out again.

  Two of the girls screamed and screamed.

  The crowd drew tight around me, around Marcus. They pressed in on us. Yet nobody touched him. While he lay in my arms none could do that.

  ‘Don’t move him!’ a girl screamed. ‘Don’t move him!’

  A knot of dancers crowded a little further off. Someone else was down. I peered through them. Marcus’s friend, Joey Bigga, was sitting, heaving, spewing blood. He was hit, but he couldn’t be dying – there was no other angel near to Collect him. It was all very confusing.

  ‘An Extension,’ repeated the stranger in a charming drawl. ‘Think about it. All you have to do is ask,’ he teased.

  ‘Ask who?’ I said. Wasn’t I the Angel of Death? Wasn’t it my job to pinch out the light in Marcus’s eyes? Wasn’t I the one I had to ask?

  ‘Oh, anyone,’ he said airily. ‘Ask the Grim Reaper if he’s around! Hey, ask me, I’ll stand in for him! Go on,’ he added, ‘give it a whirl, live dangerously. You can only ask, can’t you?’

  Marcus’s eyes fluttered, looked up into mine, so trustingly. ‘Then please, please, give us – I mean – give Marcus some more time,’ I said, bowing my shining head over Marcus’s dark one.

  Marcus stirred a little and tried to raise himself. ‘Shush,’ I whispered, ‘I’m trying to save you. Please,’ I said to this golden-eyed, golden-haired stranger who had already helped me more than I deserved.

  ‘OK, then,’ he said and did a little twirl, as if I’d asked him to do a dance routine.

  From far away the wail of an ambulance siren split the night air. I could hear it even over the music.

  ‘How long d’ya want?’ asked the stranger playfully.

  ‘Anything: a minute, an hour, a day, a week, a lifetime,’ I said. Anything. If only there was more time.

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Marcus, ‘more time.’

  ‘Done, dusted and delivered,’ said the stranger. ‘You can have three weeks! How’s that?’

  I stared at him in amazement. Was that all it took?

  He nodded as if he could read my mind. ‘Pretty straightforward, isn’t it?’ he said.

  I think my jaw went slack. Lord, was I such an innocent! No wonder the other Seraphim got on OK on Earth. Even death, it appeared, was negotiable!

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I whispered. I bent my head over Marcus and instead of pinching out his life with icy fingers I breathed fire kisses over his head. They landed in little tiny sparks. His eyes opened wide. He smiled. He tried to sit up. He was going to live.

  Marcus was going to live!

  I turned to the stranger, wanting to ask him how all this worked – to explain I’d never done Extensions before, that I hadn’t been on Collection Duty long. I should have thought of Extensions straight away – I should have asked, shouldn’t I?

  ‘You just have to sign on the dotted line,’ smiled the stranger. ‘It tells you that you have taken out an Extension on Marcus Montague’s life, the reason for the Extension: to enable him to fully repent and save his soul from Hell. And disco, voilà! C’est tout!’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, amazed that it was all so simple.

  ‘And that, as his Angel of Death, you underwrite his life with various undertakings, blah, blah, blah. Boring stuff.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, wondering vaguely what such undertakings might be.

  ‘You’ll have to sign soon, though, if you really do intend to save him.’ He nodded in the direction of the demons. They were already throwing shadows out again, thick creepy shadows that coated the walls, slid to the skirting and slithered on to the floor.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I took the pen he proffered and signed in the air with fiery le
tters.

  ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Easy-peasy, really, isn’t it?’

  ‘Thank you, so much,’ I breathed.

  ‘Any time,’ smiled the stranger. He swept my fiery letters into his grasp and said, ‘Verbal commitment accepted. Will deliver paperwork in a tick.’

  The crowd around me fell back. The ambulance reached the street door. The sirens wailed louder than ever. Someone hollered, ‘They’re here.’ The paramedics rushed in, shouting: ‘Stand aside! Give us space!’

  I held Marcus so gently. Soon I’d deliver him to their care.

  ‘You saved me?’ he whispered, gazing up into my eyes.

  I looked down at him and nodded. ‘There’s a condition,’ I said.

  He looked at me. ‘Don’t go,’ he whispered, ‘not yet.’

  The paramedics made ready, unfurled the stretcher. I loosened my hold. He didn’t want me to let go.

  ‘You must repent,’ I said. ‘That’s the condition.’

  He hesitated, tried to clear his throat. ‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was deep. ‘I’ll try, don’t know if I can.’

  My heart stopped. Don’t know if I can. What did he mean?

  ‘I’ll help you,’ I said, ‘I’ll be there for you. We’ll do it together.’

  ‘If you’re going to repent,’ he said slowly, the blood rattling in his throat, ‘your heart has to be in it.’

  He was right, of course.

  ‘Can’t lie – about something like that.’ He shut his dark eyes, and let his bloodied hand fall to his side.

  ‘You’ll change,’ I said. ‘You’ll see it differently when you’re better.’ I stroked his brow. I was so proud of him. That was why he hadn’t repented. He wasn’t sure his heart was in it. Even on pain of everlasting damnation he’d refused to lie.

  ‘I’ll watch over you,’ I said. ‘On my Holy Oath I promise.’ I don’t know why I said that. On whose authority I could even pledge it. But I did. I swore in God’s name to watch over him.

  He smiled sadly. The paramedics moved closer. The screaming girls calmed down. I let him go. He was going to live.

  I turned at once to the golden stranger to thank him. There he stood, leaning up against the great mirror, his hair tousled in a film-starry way. His cool, clean, white suit as crisp as ever.

  ‘Happy?’ he said, smiling, showing all his white teeth.

  I nodded. That hint of drains was back. I was so happy. I’d saved Marcus. I shook out my feathers. I smiled. ‘I’m very happy,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘So that’s that. Now there’s only the matter of the small print.’

  Serafina 5

  ‘Small print?’ I said, puzzled.

  ‘Sorr-ee,’ joked the stranger, his bright eyes laughing. ‘But we gotta do the small print.’

  Perhaps I frowned, because he quickly added, ‘Hey, it’s not as bad as you think.’

  ‘Oh, no . . .’ I started to protest. I didn’t want this kind, helpful being to imagine I’d quibble over a deal that had saved Marcus for me. ‘It’s just that I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Small print on the contract.’

  ‘The contract?’ I said. I seemed to be repeating myself in a worryingly moronic way.

  ‘Hey,’ said the stranger. ‘You’re upset, stressed out – all that blood.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said faintly. It was true – my wings were coated, my hands too.

  ‘Best get washed up before we go over it,’ smiled the stranger. ‘I’ll get it all down on paper for you.’ He nodded at the girls’ restroom. ‘And quit worrying. He’s safe.’

  I looked over at Marcus. The ambulance crew were bending over him, his dark curls almost hidden behind them. Marcus, the birthday boy who’d shone so bright. I could still smell his blood on my hands. Even from here, I could smell the spilt champagne, the scent of perfume.

  Even as I watched a paramedic cheered. ‘Got a heartbeat!’ He turned to his colleague. ‘Stanley, get the BP cuff on him, get a reading. Quick – don’t know how we’re holding him. Bullet passed clean through the left ventricle.’

  They fumbled with a blood pressure monitor, searched for a pulse. Then the other paramedic cheered too. ‘80 over 45, but rising,’ he said. ‘Pulse only 45, arrhythmic?’

  They’d got a heartbeat. They were overjoyed. I smiled and made the sign of Our Father in their direction.

  ‘Steadying, picking up . . .’ said Stanley. ‘Oxygen? Get the oxygen.’

  ‘Freaking miracle.’

  Suddenly the whole team swooped down on him: taking his pulse, checking his airways, attaching wires, staunching the bleeding, checking the bullet holes, putting an oxygen mask over his face.

  ‘I’ll buy you a drink at the bar after you’re done washing up,’ the stranger reminded. He was still nodding towards the restroom.

  Angels don’t need restrooms, actually, and I was too absorbed with Marcus. I stepped nearer to the busy medics, my hand ready to instantly freeze time – in case they should let him fall when they eased him on to the stretcher. Not for a second was I going to take my eye off him, not until I was absolutely sure he was OK.

  ‘That’s a drink, as in alcohol,’ repeated the stranger.

  Had I heard that right? I blinked. Buy me a drink! Buy an angel a drink? Gosh, almost as if I were human!

  But angels don’t drink.

  Or do they?

  Maybe on Earth they do.

  The screaming girls had stopped wailing. Some of the guests were trying to get out. They were shoving and pushing like mad. The rest were clustered around Joey Bigga, shouting the place down. Except for one lonely being who was sat watching everything from a corner – strange how motionless he was amidst all the chaos.

  ‘When you’re ready,’ prompted my saviour.

  Now that Marcus lay on the stretcher breathing and calm, now that he had three medics checking him out and lifting him up on to the wheelbase of a gurney, I hurried to the washrooms. I slaked myself with water. I didn’t really need to. I could have twirled in a sunbeam and cleansed myself straight away, if there had been a sunbeam – if it’d been daylight. I could have soared through moonlight and been purged of every stain if I cared to step outside. But I liked the idea of being a regular girl at a regular nightclub. What fun! I’d pretend to be human.

  I sent a breeze of angel breath through the entire restroom. That would sweeten it. Next I pumped the soap dispenser about a hundred times. I worked up a wonderful lather. Then I turned on all the hand dryers at full blast. I pirouetted around and around in front of the mirrors until the restroom shone in fire and brilliance, soap suds and bubbles, and was one great rush of hot dry air.

  That should do it. That should keep the gentlebeing in white happy.

  Suddenly I paused in my dance. Wasn’t it rather strange that there was a gentlebeing in white? And that he’d been able to see me? What kind of a being was he? Must be some kind of angel. I was sure I’d seen a glimpse of wing, folded very neatly beneath that white tuxedo. I ran through all the angelic possibilities: Announcer, Avenger, Destroyer, Guardian, Healer, Herald Mercy, Miracle-worker; none of them seemed to fit.

  Oh no! I suddenly gulped: Maybe he was an Inspector. I’d heard some Collection Duties do get inspected. After all we were on Code Yellow, and there was a war going on in Heaven. Oh Lord! Just my luck, to get inspected on my very first week!

  I stopped twirling. I’d better shape up quickly, get rid of all these bubbles, start behaving in a very professional celestial way.

  But oh my Lord, Marcus was alive! And had looked into my eyes! And hadn’t wanted to let me go! And I hadn’t failed him either! I can’t tell you the thrill it gave me. Everything was going to be OK.

  I danced out of the washroom and over to the bar. There was Mr Lovely Golden Hair waiting for me, his suit immaculately white, his shoes spotlessly clean. The disco lights spun like sunshine off his blonde hair, bounced yellow from his bright eyes.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you loo
k great.’

  I smiled nicely, thanked him for the compliment and told myself to be composed. Angels of Death should look dignified. I was being inspected. I must impress.

  ‘What a night,’ he said. ‘You’ve been to a disco; you’ve fallen in love; you’ve saved your boyfriend’s life and you still look dazzling! Let’s drink to it!’

  Laid out on the bar were two frosted glasses and an ice bucket with a bottle already chilling inside. But instead of reaching for a glass I turned to him, confused. I must tell him Marcus wasn’t my boyfriend. Surely he knew love between a mortal and an angel was expressly forbidden. Perhaps he was testing me.

  So I did. I told him that I’d only been doing my duty, that Marcus deserved another chance and angels love everyone (as he knew), that Earthly love was something very different: a savage thing, so I’d been told. A thing that drove men to murder and women to despair. That I couldn’t possibly be in love, and that I’d been warned about it in the Cloisters.

  He wasn’t listening, though. He was pointing at the bottle in the bucket. ‘Champagne,’ he said, ‘pink champagne!’ He winked at me. ‘I’m Harry, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Sera,’ I said. ‘Well, Serafina, but –’

  ‘But you’d like an Earthly name too, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, surprised. I hadn’t been going to say that, but: ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘So you get to be called Sara then.’ As if that was perfectly logical.

  ‘Harry,’ I said, touching his arm briefly.

  ‘Sara?’ he said, eyes widening in earnestness as he pointed again towards the champagne.

  ‘Harry, I don’t think –’

  ‘Love you!’ said Harry. ‘I just love girls who don’t think!’

  I’d meant the alcohol. I didn’t mean I was brainless.

  Harry swivelled round on his bar stool and leaned up closer, widened his eyes and said, ‘Hey, Klara, let’s have a toast to true love, eh?’

  ‘Sara,’ I said.

  ‘Oops,’ he said.

  He picked up the bottle of champagne, tapped the bottom of it a couple of times in a very professional way and loosened the wire. He took the white napkin that was draped over the bucket and, wrapping it in one smooth movement around the bottle, twisting at the same time, popped the cork – with a sound horribly reminiscent of gunfire. He picked up the first of the champagne flutes and poured the pink frothy bubbling liquid into it. How the liquid glowed and swirled, as if stardust was caught in its tiny tides.