Angel Dust

by Sarah Mussi

  Madam Lily Rose ushered me into her home and, peering quickly up and down the street to make sure we’d not been seen, slammed the door to behind us and locked it. Five bolts.

  ‘Can’t be too careful,’ she whispered, ‘with bloody thugs out there like Jehudiel.’ She shook her head as if she expected far better from an Archangel. ‘I had a premonition you were going to be followed. Quick, in there and wait. I’ll spread a bit of mystic fog outside. Give me your identity bracelet.’ She beckoned me to follow and showed me into a darkened back room. Then she disappeared behind a curtain.

  In the centre of the room stood a table. It was covered by a dark red velvet cloth, and on it was a crystal ball. There was a low couch under the window, and the walls on every side were hung with maps. Framed above the fireplace was a huge certificate which read Psychic & Astral Travel Agents’ Guild award this certificate to Lillian Rosemary Higgins.

  Soon Lily Rose reappeared, rubbing her hands and looking satisfied. ‘That’ll bamboozle him,’ she exclaimed triumphantly.

  I looked at her, alarmed.

  ‘It’s all right. Sit down,’ she said and slid out a chair. ‘I saw you coming ages ago, and that great fat whip-bearer too. He doesn’t know where you are now, though!’ She chuckled in a high squeaky tone.

  I sat down, suddenly faint.

  ‘It’s all sorted,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a couple of disembods to go for a walk with your bracelet until further notice.’ She chuckled and chuckled. ‘He’ll have fun following them all afternoon.’

  I hoped that was a good idea. I hoped Jehudiel didn’t catch them and realise he’d been fooled.

  ‘You can’t catch disembods – that’s the whole joke of it.’ She chuckled as if she’d read my thoughts. She sat down, folded her arms over her ample bosom and looked at me. ‘Now, angel, what can I do for you?’ she croaked. ‘Charms or curses?’

  I stared back at her. ‘Oh, not curses,’ I said.

  ‘Charms, then?’ she queried.

  ‘My name is Sera—’ I started.

  ‘Oh, no names.’ She lit a candle. ‘It’s better that way.’

  ‘I want to get down to Earth,’ I said, ‘as soon as possible. Now – if you can arrange it?’

  She looked at me, shook her head. ‘You’re an angel,’ she said, ‘you don’t need me to get down to Earth. You can take the Staircase, the back stairs, the fire escape, plus you’ve got wings if you really want to do it the hard way. It’s only the Saved who use the Channel – for them there are no other routes.’

  ‘I want to use the Channel too,’ I said. ‘I have my reasons.’

  At this she nodded her head. Everybody has their reasons, don’t they?

  ‘It’ll be expensive,’ she said. ‘More – now that God’s Army have outlawed it.’

  ‘I’ll pay,’ I said, ‘whatever you ask.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Cheese,’ she said. ‘I need cheese.’

  I raised my eyebrows.

  She laughed. ‘Oh, there’s a good market up here for cheese. Since that blasted bloody whip-wielding freak banned imports, my customers will pay anything – even for a slice of rat trap.’ She shook her head. ‘The souls of the Saved like their food, you know. I could do good business with a bit of cheese.’

  ‘But –’ I said.

  ‘You just get it. Put it in this bag (she thrust a crumpled bag at me) and leave me and the Channel to do the rest. I’ll get it through in an eatable state.’

  I blinked. So I was to pay in contraband goods.

  ‘Ever done it before?’ she asked, as if she knew I hadn’t.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Here’re the rules then. You leave your body there.’ She pointed to a couch nearby. ‘You’ll fade in and out a bit at first. Head for the colder patches, stand in draughts – it helps stabilise the haunting. If you get too intense your feelings will boil up and you’ll overheat. Overheating must be avoided at all costs. You won’t be able to communicate. Even angels won’t see you. But you can blow the air around. Skilful ghosts can write messages in dust and on windows, direct Ouija boards, slam doors, howl down chimneys.’

  I nodded. I had no intention of howling down chimneys, but the tip about staying as cold as possible was useful.

  ‘Nobody will be able to hear you or see you.’

  My heart sank. How was I going to explain anything to Marcus if I couldn’t talk to him?

  ‘I only do person-haunting,’ she said. ‘If you want to haunt a building or go on holiday you’ve come to the wrong travel agency.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I want to haunt a person.’

  ‘Right, you’ll have to go where they go. If you try to stay behind or go elsewhere, you’ll feel the Channel tugging you along and it’ll be uncomfortable. Bit like diarrhoea,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll have a window of about a quarter of an hour – if you’re away from your hauntee longer, you’ll ricochet right back to them like a boomerang.’

  I blinked. Diarrhoea. How ghastly. Not that I’d ever had it. Angels don’t get those kinds of problems.

  ‘You can slip out and get the cheese within fifteen minutes, can’t you? Any cold section of a supermarket will have it. The chill will help you stabilise as well.’

  I nodded. I supposed I could.

  ‘And you can affect atmosphere. If you want to bring about a change in the fortunes of others, just focus on an image.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. Instantly I thought about cheering Marcus up. If I could only make him feel better about Joey.

  ‘Now, have you got an object that belonged to the person you want to haunt? You need that, otherwise I can’t direct the Channel.’

  My eyes flew wide. She needed something belonging to Marcus? I didn’t have anything. Not even a picture.

  I wouldn’t be able to go.

  ‘That’ll do,’ she said, pointing at my throat.

  I looked at her, confused.

  ‘The key.’

  Of course, his key! Thank God I had his key. How had she known it was his key?

  ‘I am a clairvoyant,’ she said reproachfully.

  I looped the lanyard off my neck and handed her Marcus’s key.

  ‘Very good,’ she said warmly and, picking up the key, held it firmly between her two hands.

  ‘Yes, yes, excellent,’ she commented and directed me to the couch. ‘I’ve got a few other things to do this afternoon, so you’ll have to be back by four.’

  I nodded and, wondering if she’d prefer Cheddar or Camembert, let her push me gently on to the couch.

  Lily Rose sat down at the table and, still holding on to the key, she spun the crystal ball. ‘Relax,’ she said.

  The crystal ball turned. The edges of the velvet tablecloth began to blow. The maps from the walls swirled towards me. Like pages of a book they flicked before my eyes. One map hovered, drew nearer. It was a map of city streets. As it whirled closer I caught sight of the name Curlston Heights. I caught my breath. I tilted forward. I was really doing this. The little square on the map widened. I felt myself leave the couch. What if something went wrong? Or Jehudiel found out? Or Marcus didn’t want to see me ever again?

  I tipped head first through the square, into a long dark tunnel.

  Then suddenly, without warning, I seemed to be stuck. I froze, not knowing whether to try and struggle back, or shove myself further in.

  Then – whoosh.

  I pitched forward again. Air dashed against me. I was sucked downwards. There was a stretching, a tugging, a guttering and sinking. A tornado bruised my face. I gulped.

  I gasped.

  Down I fell.

  Down into the Channel.

  Serafina 25

  I feel my feet hit ground. I sway and stand. All around me blurred shapes come into focus.

  Immediately I know where I am: the CD covers are scattered on the floor, expensive trainers showcased on their shoeboxes, everywhere pictures of girls.

  Marcus’s bedroom.

  ‘What about Film a
nd Media?’ says a voice I don’t recognise.

  I squint, slitting up my eyes and peering out into the small room through a dim greenish fog.

  ‘Or Music Technology. You like music.’ The voice is sweet and musical and female.

  ‘Nah,’ says a voice that sets my heart pounding. ‘Don’t see myself as a technician.’

  The fog clears. In front of me – so near I could almost touch him – sits Marcus. He’s bending over a keyboard. His eyes are fixed on a computer screen. Thank God he’s well. Thank God he’s calm. I pray he’s forgiven me too.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say shakily, moving straight to his side. ‘You mustn’t ever think I’d lie to you –’ But the two of them don’t look up. I go nearer to the desk. ‘Marcus?’ I try a burst of sunlight. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t move. I remember. I’m completely invisible, without powers – just a voyeur.

  ‘What about Sports and Leisure?’ says the girl. ‘Or personal trainer?’ I step round her and look. She’s petite, pretty, about sixteen. She has such a smile. She adores Marcus, I can tell. I recognise her from the photos. She’s Jasmine, Marcus’s younger sister.

  ‘I’m not sure about that.’ Marcus peers at the screen. ‘Criminology, that looks cool . . .’

  Jasmine frowns. ‘Are you sure?’ she says.

  ‘Why not?’ he says. ‘Man knows a lot about it, and I told you, man’s just looking, so don’t get too excited. I promised someone I’d think about making a change.’

  ‘But . . .’ she says, ‘. . . it’s really great you’re looking at colleges, but –’

  ‘You think I’m too old, too stupid?’

  ‘Oh no, not that.’ She strokes his head. ‘You’re the cleverest, nicest person ever. It’s just that in lots of the jobs these courses qualify you for . . .’ She hesitates, then says in a low voice, ‘. . . Marcus, you need a clean police record.’

  Marcus throws up his hands. ‘So you’re saying there’s no point in even thinking about fixing up?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jasmine thoughtfully, ‘I just think you need to go for something where that won’t matter.’

  ‘Like?’ says Marcus. He types something into the search engine. I try to look over his shoulder, get as close to him as possible. He’s very angry about something. I can feel his energy, the way he punches the keys. I hope he’s not still angry at me.

  ‘Well,’ he says. ‘At least I can ask about it, can’t I?’ He looks over his shoulder and mutters, ‘If you’re watching, Angel, know that even though you don’t deal straight with me, man’s dealing straight with you. I may be a gangsta, but I don’t lie.’ And he types in 56 Curlston Heights and then his postcode, clicks on Request A College Prospectus.

  I want to cry out, protest, defend myself – what else could I have done? You were so ill. I was so weak.

  But I don’t, because he’s telling the truth.

  I was a liar.

  I step forward and put my hand on his. I want to make him know I’m sorry.

  ‘You know, Jazz, I think I’d look good with a backpack and glasses and a stripy scarf,’ he says suddenly and flashes her a wicked smile.

  The fog suddenly swirls back, right at me. I sway. Lose my balance. There is a terrible emptying-out feeling. A tugging at my intestines. I panic. Find a cold spot! I’m slipping away. I’m losing the Channel.

  Instantly I step through the window, land on the street, press myself against iron railings. The cold metal refreshes. The nausea passes, the swaying steadies a little, but before I can step back into the room another fog rolls over me. I fall headlong into a thick dark cloud. The tug on my stomach is too much.

  ‘You’ll have to try a lot harder than that,’ said Lily Rose and she pinched me. ‘We got a perfectly good frequency and the Channel coverage was strong. You stood far too near the humans. I told you find a cold spot immediately you got down there and stay in it.’

  I groaned and clutched my stomach. ‘Please let me try again,’ I begged.

  Lily Rose snorted. ‘If you want me to send you again, it’ll cost more,’ she said. ‘I want wine and cheese – and I notice you haven’t even got the cheese.’ She pinched me again in a cross sort of way.

  ‘Alcohol?’ I breathed.

  ‘Yes, 12.5%, and none of your grape juice. A nice Pinot Grigio suitable for a summer’s evening in a wine bar. Get me that, six bottles, and I’ll even give you an extra hour.’

  ‘OK,’ I said and, clasping my hands tight over my stomach, prepared myself again for the stretching feeling.

  The room is changed, but the fog is just as thick. I hear a voice I don’t recognise.

  ‘If you can just relate incidents as they happened, and answer the questions clearly.’

  ‘But officer,’ says a voice I know: Jasmine’s.

  I peer through the mist. It swirls a little. I look around for a cold spot. There by the window.

  The room clears. I can see immediately I’m in a police charge office. I recognise it from my course: Crime & Punishment – Should Earthly Justice Systems Replace the Day of Judgement?

  In front of a wide desk sit Jasmine and Marcus. Behind it sits an officer. I seem to remember him. Yes, the scene at the nightclub.

  ‘But,’ carries on Jasmine, ‘I’d like to speak on behalf of my brother – unless . . .’ She nudges Marcus. ‘Go on,’ she says.

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Well then,’ she says, ‘I’ll say it anyway. You see, officer, last week my brother was shot.’ She lays an envelope on the desk. ‘In there are the hospital details. We know you interviewed him at the hospital, but there were reasons why he told you he didn’t see anything . . . But now Marcus wants to say that he –’

  Marcus looked at her and frowns. She carries on. I make sure I’m standing right in the blast of the open window.

  ‘He wants to be a witness, but we need to be sure that we get protection.’

  ‘Well,’ says Marcus, pushed into speech. ‘It’s not for me. My family . . .’ He puts his hand on Jasmine. ‘My sisters, my mother . . . they shouldn’t be put in danger because of me.’

  The officer looks up. He says, ‘As it’s a murder charge, we can arrange to have an officer outside your block.’

  ‘That may not be enough,’ says Marcus.

  ‘If we have to rely on your testimony to bring about a successful conviction, we can think about putting you in a witness protection scheme.’ He reaches for the phone.

  ‘I can take care of myself,’ says Marcus. ‘You don’t understand these guys; it’s my family who need safeguarding.’

  ‘You were shot too,’ says the officer, changing the subject, reaching for the envelope, pulling out a hand-held tape recorder. ‘Let’s go into an interview room.’

  They stand up and open the door. A rush of hot air from the corridor blasts in. Immediately the fog thickens, swirls up in front of me. I stagger sideways. Marcus, Jasmine and the officer hurry off into the corridor.

  I hang my head out of the window and let the fresh air revive me. By the time I feel strong enough to move, I’ve lost them.

  I try to catch up. By sticking to draughty corners and even gliding up a blocked-in chimney – in an effort to stay cold – I manage to work my way through three offices and two interview rooms.

  I don’t find Marcus in any of them.

  I remember Lily Rose saying: ‘If you stray too far from your hauntee, you’ll be ricocheted straight back into their company, like a boomerang.’ I start thinking I could go for the wine and cheese and keep on going until the pulling starts and snaps me back to Marcus. I decide I’ll do that.

  On my way out through the front foyer, I see a figure leaning over the reception counter. Immaculate white suit. Gleaming white teeth.

  It must be.

  It is.

  I’m pleased and a bit scared. My heart starts to race. I want to talk to him. I’m resolved to talk to him. I’m going to say: ‘Larry, do you work for the Devil?’ Well, maybe not exactly that. Maybe more like: ‘La
rry, you do work for God, don’t you?’ I bite the corner of my lip. It’s not going to be so easy. I can’t just walk right up to him and say that, can I?

  I glide nearer. I’m worried he won’t be able to see me. This is when writing in dust might be extremely useful.

  I call out anyway. ‘Larry?’

  He turns. His face lights up. ‘Hiya there!’ he says. ‘You lovely thing!’

  I’m relieved and puzzled both at the same time, and still pretty nervous. Lily Rose said, ‘Even angels won’t see you.’ I’m glad he can, though. I must know if my Extension was the cause of the breach. My heart thumps. I’m terrified he’ll say, Yes.

  Larry nods at me to wait. Then he turns to the policeman on duty. ‘There’s a young man here called Marcus Montague. I’m with him,’ he explains. ‘We came together to make a statement; he witnessed a murder. Yes, yes, I’m his sort of social worker – I got him to come. I can corroborate what he says. If you need me to – I can do that now.’

  His suit is wrinkle-free. His golden hair flawless. I’m so impressed with his apparition mastery. I’m almost jealous. He does it so well you’d think he was actually human.

  Suddenly a woman behind me steps completely through me. Clothes, boots, blood and bones. Everything. Straight through my chest and I’ve no time to get out of the way.

  ‘Ugh,’ she says, ‘this station’s chill-ee. I’ve gone all shivery. It’s like someone’s stepped right over my grave.’

  Believe me, I want to say, that’s nothing to the way I feel.

  But as I’m trying to get over the shock, she moves straight up to Larry and says: ‘So what brings you here? More trouble at the club?’

  I’m puzzled. I thought Larry had seen me. Maybe it was this woman he saw. It’s very confusing. I’m a little disappointed. I’m pleased he’s helping Marcus, like I asked him to. But I desperately want to know if I’ve signed a contract with the Devil or not.

  Before I can try and talk to him again, I feel the pulling on my stomach. Marcus has left the building.

  I have to go. Lily Rose was right. It’s not a nice feeling. My intestines feel like they’re dissolving.