by Sarah Mussi
I’m out in the street. I’m glad of it. Outside, away from the central heating, I feel much better. I’ll have to speak to Larry some other time. Perhaps he wouldn’t have heard me anyway. I wonder vaguely why he didn’t come with Marcus; why Marcus hasn’t greeted him, or arranged to meet him now, after making his statement.
Quickly I look up and down the street. Marcus and Jasmine are already walking away – he’s leaning on her. I glide after them. Soon I’ve caught up. I fall into step alongside. I hear everything.
‘That was amazing,’ says Jasmine. ‘You’re so brave.’ She ruffles his air. ‘I thought you’d never do that. Joey’d be so happy. I know it. He wouldn’t want his death to start a gang war.’
‘Yeah,’ Marcus says, ‘but you don’t know the Crow. If he finds out man’s snaked him up, none of us is safe.’
‘We know,’ she says, instantly serious. ‘We talked it over, Mum and Ray and me. You don’t realise, Marcus, how much we want you to get out of this gang thing. We really, really want it.’ Her voice drops, cracks a little. ‘You don’t know the hell we’ve been through with you getting shot.’
‘It’s not fair, though. And it’s man’s fault.’
‘But we love you,’ says Jasmine simply, ‘so we’re gonna stick together, and anyway, I’d like to see any gangsta try and get into Curlston Heights. Mum knows better than to buzz strangers through when she’s alone.’
Marcus lifts his head. ‘Oh, Jazz,’ he says. ‘It’s not an excuse, but I only ever started all this to try and help. You know when Mum . . . and the job.’
‘We know.’
‘And because man can’t stand seeing the Crow doing all that shit.’
‘Exactly,’ says Jazz, ‘so you did the right thing just now. You actually put the finger on the Crow, named him as Joey’s killer – nobody’s ever dared do that before. Look, I think that’s so amazing, I’ll buy you a drink – even if they won’t allow me in the bar.’
‘Nah,’ he says, ‘I don’t fancy a drink right now. But if you’re loaded, we could grab a couple of Cokes and a burger?’
They turn into a burger place. I stay outside. It’ll be too hot in there. But oh, how happy I am. Marcus is changing. I look fondly after him, his dark hair, his broad shoulders, then I hurry to a One Stop Shop. I collect a selection of cheeses and six bottles of wine. I put them in the bag Lily Rose gave me and am surprised how a fog quickly gathers around it and it’s tugged off at speed.
I smile. Lily Rose has got it all worked out. I bet she’s right about shifting things too. ‘You can blow the air around,’ she said. ‘Skilful ghosts can write messages in dust, direct Ouija boards, slam doors, howl down chimneys.’ Who knows, I might try howling down a chimney after all.
I start with trying to blow a paper napkin that someone’s dropped. Nothing happens. ‘Blow the air,’ she said. I focus all my energy on moving the air rather than my chest. I find I can get the edges of the paper to twitch a bit.
It suddenly occurs to me that if I direct the air under the tissue, rather than at it, I’ll have more success. So as I wait for Marcus and Jasmine, I practise. By the time they come out of the diner, I’ve shuffled the paper right down the street and back.
I try lifting the edge of Marcus’s jacket. ‘Bit windy out here,’ he comments. He hugs the jacket close. I smile. I’ve cracked it.
Learning how to blow objects around isn’t the only thing I’ve cracked. While I was practising on the tissue paper down the street, I hatched a wild plan. I saw a church and I checked it out: St Jude of the Lake. (Dear St Jude. I know him well – Patron Saint of Desperate Causes and Hopeless Cases.) I cross my fingers and pray my plan will work. I send up a plea. St Jude, please help us, no one more desperate than I, no cause more doomed. Then I catch myself. No prayers. No Prair Waves. If Jehudiel is after me, he mustn’t know I’m here.
I fall into place alongside Marcus and start to perfect my idea.
‘You can affect atmosphere,’ I remember Lily Rose saying. ‘If you want to bring about a change in the fortunes of others, just focus on an image.’ I need to get Marcus in the right mood. So I pour forth the most generous, peaceful thoughts I’ve ever had. I remember the glory of the sunrise in Heaven, with choirs of cherubim praising God on high as the sun breaks over the horizon in a fiery ball.
‘I feel good, Jazz . . .’ says Marcus suddenly. ‘You know, I reckon it isn’t so impossible to change. She was right, you know . . . she probably was.’
Jasmine smiles and looks quizzically up at him.
‘Don’t laugh,’ says Marcus, ‘but I think I’ve got a guardian angel.’ He leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, ‘I think she’s right here, watching over us, right now.’
‘Oh Marcus,’ says Jasmine, ‘I hope you have; you deserve one.’
‘She saved my life, Jazz. She visited me in the hospital, she told me to change; you-know-what-I’m-talking-about.’
‘Good for her,’ Jasmine laughs. ‘I suppose next you’ll be telling me she’s pretty too.’
‘Woo,’ says Marcus, ‘she’s more beautiful than –’ he looks up, throws his arms in the air, ‘than the morning stars.’ He pauses.
Suddenly his face falls.
I pause too.
‘But she’s tricky,’ he says. All happiness drains from his voice. ‘She doesn’t tell it like it is.’
I wince. The rising sun bobs down and drowns in water.
‘I hate that,’ he says moodily. ‘In my world you shoot it straight. Man hates a liar worse than anything.’
‘You’re crazy,’ says his sister affectionately.
I don’t tell it like it is.
‘Maybe,’ says Marcus. ‘But she saved man’s life and man promised her he’d give it a go – gangsta’s honour – so it’s back to college one of these days, and who knows, maybe not so much hanging with the crew, either.’
He flashes her a thoughtful smile.
‘And no more shootings. I’m definitely gonna do the family ting from now on.’ He puts his arm through hers. ‘What do you say, sis?’ His crooked smile stretches over his straight teeth.
I swallow my hurt. One day I’ll explain. Now for my plan. He’s ready to give it a go. I race ahead.
I stand outside the church and blow. Lily Rose said ghosts can ‘slam doors’. I heave my chest and blow as hard as I can. If you can slam a door, it means you can open it too. Doesn’t it?
At first nothing happens. I try again. The door is slightly ajar. It rattles a little. I remember the trick with the paper napkin. I blow hard at the crack under the door and I’m a lot more successful. The door rattles and shifts. The dark wood heaves, its blackened brass fixings shudder. It starts to swing on its frame. But there are heavy counter-lever chains on the inside that make the doors swing shut. Against the pull of these weighted chains I set my breath.
And I blow.
Marcus and Jasmine stroll nearer. Jasmine crosses to the railings, on the street, by the church, to put her Coke container in a rubbish bin. I blow at the door with all my breath, all my hope, my entire being.
The door creaks. Slowly it opens. I hold it so with a gale straight from my heart. Then with a sudden puff, I blow the paper Coke cup out of Jasmine’s hand and send it bowling towards the church.
Marcus brings his head up, his beautiful eyes flick wide. ‘It’s a sign,’ he whispers. ‘I walk beside a church . . . the door opens . . . it’s like she’s showing me the way. Man, this is freaky.’
Jasmine stops and stares. She points at the cup rolling in through the old oak doors. She walks into the vestibule of the church, picks it up and gazes at the chain that strains open against gravity.
‘Angel,’ calls Marcus softly. ‘Ang-el?’
‘This is weird,’ says Jasmine.
Marcus follows her, steps forward, stands on the threshold of the church, raises his head. ‘Hey, Ang-el,’ he calls, ‘. . . are you there . . . can you hear me? Is this what you want?’
With my last oun
ce of energy I conjure up an image of the Pearly Gates opening for him. Heaven waiting behind. Blue skies. Happy days.
Marcus steps forward. ‘OK,’ he whispers, ‘this is totally unreal, but I’ve got a good feeling about it. And if you’re listening, Angel – this is for Joey. Nobody in my crew needs to die because of me. Man’s done with all that. You-get-me?’
‘Silly,’ says Jasmine. ‘You’re talking to yourself.’
‘Maybe I am,’ says Marcus, and puts his arm over her shoulder. ‘Here, let me lean on you, sis, while we pay God a visit, eh?’
‘Yes,’ breathes Jasmine. She hurries back to help him. ‘But Marcus, it’s a church – you need to be a bit serious, you know.’
‘This is way beyond serious,’ he says, ‘this is in the realm of the bizarre. Imagine. Me In A Church.’
The strain of keeping the door open is telling on me. A thin mist is beginning to hover around the edges of things. A fog swirls up.
At last Marcus steps right in. Only just in time. With a huge convulsion I stop blowing the wind and sink on to the pavement. The church door slams to behind them.
Lord be praised. Marcus is in a church.
And I’ve helped to bring him there.
Serafina 26
Thank God churches are cool places. The effort of holding the door open is too much. The sucking feeling on my stomach returns. The fog swirls up to meet me. In a last effort to stay near Marcus, I hurry through stone walls. I press myself against the cold marble of the font. I splash Holy water over my face.
I can tell you one thing, Holy water is miraculously refreshing. Instantly my vision clears. The inside of the church is as sharp and crisp and in focus as a spring day in Heaven.
Quickly I glide down the nave. Marcus and Jasmine are standing before the chancel, looking up at the altar.
I want to let him know I’m here. That I’m happy. That I know he can repent. That I’ve seen that he’s keeping his word.
I blow at the huge white candles on the altar. They gutter and waver. I whirl around the church. I blow on all the little candles that burn by statues, by shrines, by the door. The church quivers in flickering light. I blow on the flowers in their stately vases and petals swirl in the air. I race up the tower over the north transept and blow on the big bell. It rocks. I blow harder. A solemn peal resounds. I whirl back to Marcus.
Jasmine is looking at him, clutching his arm.
‘It’s her,’ he whispers. ‘She’s here. She likes flashy stuff like that.’ He squeezes her hand.
I smile. I laugh even. Already Marcus knows me so well. He’ll forgive me everything when he knows the truth. I conjure up an image of Marcus nodding his head, understanding why I lied.
Jasmine walks over to a stand where the candles are still guttering and stares at them in wonder.
I can’t resist it. I glide up the nave. I stand beside Marcus. I stand in front of the altar. I blow on all the petals again. They swirl above me. I imagine the air filled with confetti. I lift the white lacy veil that covers my face. I whisper, ‘I do.’ I turn to Marcus. I lift up my chin.
He turns. He bends towards me. I raise my lips.
The sun pours in through the stained glass. It lights us up and pools at our feet.
Our lips touch.
I gasp.
The fog swirls up.
I race to the font. Am I insane? I splash my face like crazy. I nearly spoiled it. Whatever possessed me? He’s here to repent.
Instantly I run down the front of a pew beside him, exhaling in one long breath. I flip open all the prayer books. As the pages flutter, Jasmine lets out a startled: ‘Oh.’
Marcus, smiling with angel dust in his eyes, forgiveness in his heart, picks up the prayer book beside him and murmurs out in a whisper, ‘Jazz, see where the pages have opened to.’
He starts reading. ‘Forgive me my trespass, for I have sinned . . .’ He stops, looks up at the stained-glass window overshadowing the chancel. There in the glass is an angel. She is as beautiful as me. Golden light flashes through her. She raises an arm in blessing.
Marcus falters, stops reading, seems mesmerised by the glittering angel.
‘It’s for confession,’ whispers Jasmine.
‘It’s so surreal,’ he says.
From across the other side of the nave, a man emerges. From the expression on his face, so full of peace and goodness, I can tell he’s a holy man. He walks evenly towards us and, smiling down at Marcus and Jasmine, he stops and greets them. Then he lifts up his head and beams straight at me, as if he can see me as clearly as the glass angel.
‘So calm in here, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Such a refuge from the world outside.’
Marcus nods. ‘It’s a different world,’ he says.
Jasmine moves closer, smiling.
‘How do I repent?’ says Marcus suddenly. ‘Can you help me? I’ve never tried.’
‘You can pray for forgiveness directly to God,’ says the man, ‘or if you prefer you can confess to a spiritual guide who will, in the name of Christ, forgive you and advise you how you might make amends.’
‘I’ve been in a shooting . . . there’s things I’ve done that might have caused that. My friend died. I didn’t kill him – but I’m to blame.’ Marcus hesitates. ‘I don’t know if . . .’
Instantly I jump to his shoulder and I lay a ghostly hand on his arm. I think of tired creatures laying down their heavy loads – of plunging themselves into the clear waters of the River Jordan and arising born again, free from sin.
‘Yes,’ says Marcus, ‘I want to unburden myself. I want to – can I confess to you?’
‘I am only a lowly servant of the Lord,’ says the man. ‘My name is Christopher. But I will hear your sorrows, and bless you, and can absolve you of your sins, if you so wish.’
‘Go on,’ urges Jasmine. ‘You’ve been so sad and down since Joey died. It may help. It wasn’t your fault – if you confess and do what this man says, you’ll feel so much better.’
Marcus stands up and smiles at his sister. He turns towards the stained-glass window with the picture of the bright angel. He murmurs, ‘You know I’m doing this for you, Angel.’
I smile and blow on the pages of the book in his hand until it opens on Luke 15:10.
‘And likewise I say unto you there is joy in the presence of the angels over one sinner that repenteth.’
Marcus smiles. His mind seems made up. I dare to smile too.
We are so nearly there.
Christopher leads Marcus aside. They sit apart by a statue of Our Lord Jesus with a little screen protecting them from any stray eyes. I hear Marcus start: ‘Listen, Christopher, I confess . . .’
I hold my breath. I imagine the light of the Lord streaming in through the stained glass. The angel is alive in colour, with burnished fiery wings, radiant as a thousand suns.
A mobile phone buzzes.
Marcus’s mobile phone. I want to jump forward, knock it from his hand, scream in a voice that would make the mountains tremble: ‘LEAVE IT!’ But even though I jump, I cannot touch the phone. I blow. I breathe. I wish. But Marcus stops murmuring his confession. He looks at Christopher. He raises his head.
Christopher nods. ‘Answer your phone,’ he says. ‘Be composed in your mind.’
Marcus raises the phone to his ear.
Nothing can be important enough to stop for, I want to scream at him. I do scream at him. He doesn’t hear.
‘Hello?’
Let it be a wrong number, a simple request. I tune in my hearing. I listen. ‘Marcus?’ Someone is sobbing at the end of the phone.
‘Marcus?’ They can’t get their words out.
Marcus waits patiently. He whispers, ‘Sorry,’ to Christopher.
‘When you’re ready,’ Christopher murmurs back.
‘They’ve shot Melly,’ sobs the voice. It catches. It whispers. It breaks.
‘Sharissa?’
‘They’re here,’ sobs the voice. ‘They’ve got me and Lil Joe.’ H
er voice is bleeding like a knife wound.
Jasmine jumps forward, hurries to Marcus’s side. ‘What is it?’ she says.
Marcus holds the phone against his chest. ‘It’s Sharissa.’
‘Sharissa?’
‘Joey’s girlfriend’s little sister.’
Jasmine’s eyes widen. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘She says someone’s shot Melly, Joey’s girlfriend . . .’
Marcus returns the phone to his ear. ‘Shariss,’ he says, ‘Calm down, take a deep breath. I’m gonna help you. I need to know everything.’
There’s a spluttering and sobbing. ‘The Crow’s crew are here. They shot Melly.’ The voice rises to a scream. ‘They’ve got Lil Joe and me. It was my fault. I opened the door –’
The scream ends abruptly. A new voice on the phone shouts: ‘Listen, wasteman, we’ve got the kids. We’ve popped the bitch. You withdraw your statement or I swear down we’ll waste them too. We’re not fucking about. You’ve got twenty minutes. Your sister’s next.’
Marcus looks up at Jasmine. She looks down at him.
His face changes, grows grey, hardens.
‘Please, Uncle Marcus,’ screams Sharissa’s voice again. ‘Please . . .’ Her voice is so shrill I think even Christopher can hear it.
Marcus takes one look at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I can’t confess anything no more.’ He turns back. ‘Stay calm, Shariss,’ he says. ‘I’ll withdraw my statement. Do what they say.’
‘OK,’ she sobs.
Marcus raises himself up out of the confessional box. I see a mask of control slip across his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘I wanted to make a clean breast of everything. I wanted to give myself a fresh start.’
‘May God go with you, my son; return here when you’re ready. The confessional is sacred. I will not reveal anything you tell me or break confidence with you.’
‘Yeah,’ mutters Marcus. ‘Yeah, cool.’
‘But do not perjure yourself before the police,’ advises the priest. ‘Speak your truth plainly and leave everything in the hands of God. He will take care of it.’
‘Yes.’ I want to add my voice to his, scream out. ‘I have heard. I will help. I will move Heaven and Earth to help.’