Angel Dust

by Sarah Mussi

  Zara 1

  Because you have done this, you are cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon your belly shall you go, and Dust shall you eat all the days of your life:

  Genesis 3:14

  Bright light. White light. The sun like I’ve never seen it, burning my eyes. There must be something wrong. I blink. I shut my eyes. Sun doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t burn. I try to open my eyes. My lids feel weirdly heavy, like they’re really too heavy. I touch them; skin, real flesh. What?

  They’re real.

  They’re flesh.

  I cover my eyes with one hand. I touch my face, my neck. I feel the small hard crucifix at my throat. My crucifix. Kamuel’s blessing. Larry didn’t hurt me. I’m OK. I try to stand. It hurts. I never imagined anything could hurt like this! I explore the ground. It’s hard and dark like solid stone, like it’s come up from inside a volcano. I rub my hand over it. My hand’s bleeding. Ow, how it hurts, like fire stinging. I watch as red spots erupt across my palm. I raise one palm to my mouth. I lick it. It tastes of salt and iron. I run the taste of blood around my mouth, amazed at its sharpness, its power. How it hurts.

  I have blood.

  I bleed.

  It’s a new sensation. I try to raise my face again. The sun burns. I blink. I shade my face. I’m on my belly. I roll to my back. I sit up. How strange. I wobble. The green of some field tilts away: now towards me: now from me. A field? A green lawn? Larry betrayed me. Not a lawn, the green grass of a park. I’m in a play area in a park. Slitting my eyes up against the sun, I peer out. There’s a girl. A teenage girl. She’s sitting on a swing. She bends her head low and peers back at me. She tilts her head to one side. She tilts her head to the other side. She’s looking at me.

  ‘You fall?’ she says.

  I look at her. I look at the swing. I shade my eyes again and look up into the blue yonder. I nod. I run my tongue around my mouth and try to form words. ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘fall.’ I just spoke. How strange. That was my voice.

  And suddenly it astonishes me. I did. I Fell from Heaven. I survived the Devil. I betrayed God. I’m here, sitting on the spongy, black tarmac of a play area in a park. Larry is the Devil. I fell. What time is it? What day is it?

  I try to get to my feet; my legs don’t work. I stumble up. Like I’m rising from the grave. I look at the girl. ‘Can you see me?’ I say.

  She wrinkles up her snubby little nose. She points at me. ‘You hurt yourself,’ she says.

  I look at my palms again. They’re grazed. They’re bleeding. I touch the blood and smear it around. I’m not sure how they feel. They’re prickling like they’ve been pierced by sharp needles. It’s actually not very nice. It burns.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say.

  ‘You run away from school?’ she says. I look at her. I don’t understand. School?

  ‘They gonna catch ya,’ she says, ‘if you run away from school.’

  I smile. She’s seen something in me. Obviously. I’m a runaway. But I haven’t run away from school. Heaven isn’t a school. It’s kind of a nice idea, though: Heaven, the school for good little angels run by the headmaster, God. Serafina the truant, who made a pact with the Devil.

  ‘Yeah,’ I manage to say, ‘I ran away.’

  ‘Me too,’ she says, rocking awkwardly on the swing.

  I wobble to my feet. I try to use my wings to balance me. No wings. I’m cold. What day is it? What’s the date? So strange I can remember my wings. I turn to check. I’m sure they must be there. No wings. I’m very cold. Please don’t let it be after the 31st. I realise I’ve only got on a twist of cloth.

  ‘You look funny in that,’ points out the girl. She tilts her head to the side again. ‘Well funny.’ She tilts her head the other way. She’s thinking.

  I clutch my raiment around me. It’s all twisted up and bunched around my waist. I want to ask her what the date is. But I’m not sure yet my voice will work properly.

  ‘Want to wear my gym kit?’ she adds. ‘You’ve got to wear something.’

  I do want. I’d love to have a gym kit (what is a gym kit?). She tosses me a bag. I catch it. Oh, I can catch a gym kit.

  ‘Quick,’ she says, ‘you gotta cover up.’

  I notice that above me the sky is bright; a bird is singing. So it’s morning. I pray it’s the morning of 30th October. I pray hard because I know Larry is treacherous. The bird’s notes are repeated, as if it’s alarmed at me holding a gym kit. How extraordinary. I open the drawstrings. Inside is a black T-shirt and a short black gym skirt, and a pair of black stretch leggings.

  ‘You can wear the leggings,’ says the girl. ‘They ain’t too dirty.’

  I smile at the girl. What a lovely girl. She gives me her very special own gym kit. I’m quite delighted.

  I sit on the black spongy felt tarmac and pull on the leggings. They’re very thick black leggings. They are quite delightful leggings. And they fit me well. Tight. I’m very skinny. I notice the soft curves of my angelic shape are all gone. I really Fell. I’m not an angel any more. So the Devil played fair about that. I’m hopeful.

  ‘Look, leggings on.’ I make do with squeaking it out. The girl tilts her head to one side again. I balance on my feet and try a twirl. I can’t twirl. I can’t command the elements. I stagger and trip.

  ‘Put on the rest too,’ she says.

  I pull the T-shirt over my head and stick my skinny arms through the sleeves. It’s long-sleeved and the wrists of it drape down nearly over my hands.

  I smile at the girl. ‘What is the date?’ I say. It was too long a mouthful, I didn’t know when to breathe. The words feel thick. They roll around on my gums – but bless this girl, she understands.

  She looks at me kind of weird, and she says, ‘It’s the 30th.’

  I laugh. My laugh doesn’t tinkle any more. It’s rather flat and loud. I like it. I think I like it. I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter. I’m not too late. Larry didn’t cheat me.

  ‘And the skirt,’ says the girl.

  I fasten the short skirt around my waist.

  ‘You still look silly,’ says the girl, ‘but at least they won’t arrest you now.’

  I laugh again and so does she. Thank God, I’m not too late.

  ‘Do you know Marcus?’ I say.

  ‘Marcus?’ she says. ‘Marcus who?’

  Maybe she doesn’t know Marcus.

  ‘Is this Earth?’ I say, suddenly panicking at a new thought. Am I in the right place? This is the joke he’d play on me, isn’t it? I’m in the wrong place. I try to calm down. It didn’t take nine days. Everything else has worked. It’s 30th October. I must be in the right place. Where else could it be?

  ‘That is,’ she says, pointing at the green grassy area behind me.

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘You talk funny,’ she says.

  I stop. Do I talk funny? Suddenly I’m worried. I thought I was speaking more clearly. Will everybody be able to tell I’m not human? I pick up the cloth and tie it around my waist. I must learn how to talk human. I must practise. When I speak to Marcus I mustn’t sound funny.

  ‘You look all Gothy,’ she says. ‘Do you worship the Devil?’

  The Devil. I belong to the Devil.

  But before I can answer she jumps off the swing. ‘All you need is shedloads of piercings and you’d be one,’ she says. ‘Hey, hang on a minute, you need some make-up too.’ She reaches into her handbag, pulls out some tubes. She walks straight towards me. ‘Relax, Goth girl,’ she says. ‘I’m going to make you beautiful.’

  She pulls me after her and pushes me down on to a park seat. She pinches my face between her hands. ‘That’s it,’ she says, ‘chin up, head back. Hey, I love your hair dye. What colour is it? Stay still, I’m going to give you huge eyes with tear drops.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I say. How lucky I am, to fall right in front of this girl. She’s preparing me to be human. She’s making me beautiful for Marcus.

  ‘Do all human girls carry around make-up?’ I ask. Perh
aps I need some too?

  ‘Like, yeah,’ she says, as if that’s the dumbest question anyone ever asked.

  ‘And are they all Goth?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re a retard,’ she says. Her voice is deliciously grumpy. Then she tilts my chin right up and draws lines around my eyes. I can feel the point of the pencil. It’s not a pleasant feeling.

  ‘I’m Serafina, actually,’ I say.

  ‘Zara who?’ she says.

  ‘Serafina.’

  ‘Zara Finer?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Zara Finer. I’m Kookie.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say and smile.

  ‘Don’t smile,’ snaps Kookie, ‘you’ll mess it up.’

  ‘Kookie.’

  ‘Kookie by name and Kookie by nature,’ she says as if she’s said it a hundred times. ‘The curse of every classroom, the despair of every teacher.’ Like it’s a little rhyme she’s learned by heart.

  ‘Hi Kookie By Name,’ I say.

  ‘There,’ she says, unpinning me. ‘Wanna take a look?’

  I nod.

  Kookie pulls a phone out of her handbag. She holds it up. It’s a little mirror. I peer in. There reflected back at me is a small heart-shaped face, very pale with huge dark eyes. It doesn’t look like me. I didn’t know I would look so different. It’s not just the loss of the wings and fire. I’m totally not me.

  Suddenly I panic. Will Marcus still know me? If he looks into my eyes he’ll know me, won’t he? I can’t get used to this new face. It’s very odd. It’s kind of thin and the lips have been drawn on in bright red lipstick. Across the forehead is a thick fringe. And all around the small face is a curtain of straight black hair.

  I never had black hair.

  I look at it. It’s not me. I was beautiful.

  I touch my hair and run my hand around my mouth. The lipstick smudges.

  ‘Stop it, silly,’ says Kookie and smacks my hand away from my face.

  I used to have flaming hair; the setting sun used to hide in my curls; the morning star streaked liquid fire through my tresses. When I tossed my head, every shade of autumnal blaze burned and flashed, like gold and amber . . .

  It’s thick and black and very, very straight.

  ‘You’d look good in bunches,’ says Kookie. ‘Like goofy spaniel ears.’ She ties great loops of my hair up until it cascades down around my face.

  ‘You got a lot of hair,’ she says. ‘I could cut it.’ She searches through her bag. I sit on the bench, knees all scrunched up. My legs are very thin and very long.

  ‘Can’t find them.’ Kookie shrugs. ‘And I gotta go,’ she says. ‘You can keep the gym kit. I hate sports.’

  She snaps her handbag shut. She shakes herself down in a very pretty kind of way and gives me a little finger wave. ‘Bye-ee,’ she says.

  ‘Kookie,’ I say. ‘Don’t go. Is this Earth?’ I really do need to know.

  ‘It’s Earth, of course, worse luck,’ says Kookie. ‘Woohoo, Earth to Zara, come in, you’re orbiting planet Earth.’

  I smile, I laugh even. I Am On Earth!

  ‘Got. To. Go,’ says Kookie. ‘If they find me here they’re going to take me straight back to Planet School.’

  ‘D’you know where Curlston Heights is?’ I say. ‘Fifty-six, Curlston Heights.’

  ‘No,’ says Kookie.

  I catch my breath. How will I find Marcus? My heart starts to pound.

  ‘Don’t smudge your eyes,’ says Kookie. ‘Just walk into any newsagent and look in an A–Z. I’d get it up on my mobile, but I ain’t got no credit.’

  ‘Your mobile,’ I say. ‘How did you get it? Can I get a mobile?’

  ‘You’re kookier than me,’ says Kookie. She tilts her head to the other side. ‘Look, if you fancy bunking school again, I’m usually here until the kids all go in, especially on Wednesdays. So we could hook up, but today I got a plan, so ta-ra.’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  And I sit there looking at Kookie, and I don’t care where I am, except that I’m on Earth! And I’m smiling and smiling. I did it. I Fell. I’m a girl. I check my breasts. I am a girl. They’re not very big. I check my hands. They’re really human hands. I reach out and I feel the seat of the bench: they are real human hands and they are feeling the bench.

  ‘Kookie,’ I say, ‘before you go, will you hug me?’

  Kookie puts her head on one side.

  ‘You’re weird,’ she says.

  ‘Will you?’ I ask. I look at her. I want to know if Marcus can hold me, if I will be able to feel his hands on my waist. If I will be able to be strained against him. I remembered how Marcus dragged the prettiest girl into his arms, how she moulded herself against his chest. How the muscles in his arms were taut against his shirt . . .

  Kookie shrugs and says, ‘Whatever, Zara, you’re a perv, but I like you.’

  ‘I only love Marcus,’ I say.

  Kookie puts her arms around me and squeezes. My God, but it’s good. It’s all squidgy and soft and firm and warm and immediately I fall in love with hugging, so I fling my arms around her and hug her back.

  ‘Hey,’ she says.

  I put my head on one side like her, and I say, ‘Hey,’ back.

  ‘And don’t forget to put on the plimsolls,’ she says.

  Zara 2

  Kookie is gone. I sit on the park bench and look at the sky. I see clouds. I think of how Raquel will miss me, how Kamuel will be sad. I was sorry to hurt Kamuel, but I couldn’t go to Purgatorium with him. ‘I’m sorry, Kamuel,’ I whisper. You tried to stop me leaving, but without Marcus there’s no need to be immortal.

  Then I stand up. I need to find him. I don’t know which park I’m in. I don’t know where I am. But I’ve two days left. I’m so happy about that. I’ve never really wondered how humans get around. I try to blink my eyes – just to test. I whisper, ‘Curlston Heights,’ but I don’t move. So I just follow the way Kookie went. I put on the plimsolls. I feel the pavement. I look in wonder at the world. God’s shining creation. I hug myself. I’ve no wings, no fire; I’m cold; I’ve been betrayed; I’ve abandoned Heaven; I’ve sold myself to Satan and I’m totally on my own, but I don’t care. I’m human. Marcus can have me now. Together we can be and live and die. Together go to Heaven or Hell. My heart swells up.

  I walk out of the park gates. I smile at a mum with a buggy and two toddlers. She gives me a weird look back, as if I was about to pinch candy off the little boys. I smile again anyway. I’m so happy – even if I’m cold and haven’t got a clue where I am. I’m in love. I’m in love with thick black leggings, gym skirts, black T-shirts, plimsolls, pavements, weird looks, make-up and spaniel ears. I love Kookie for welcoming me so kindly to Earth. I think she’s so free and happy making her own choices. I love the trees and the cars and the wild city tumbling all around me.

  And I love the perfume of the streets. It really is beguiling. I’ve never been anywhere like here before. Not in this way. Never. I walk down by the park. I run my fingers along the railings. My fingers are going bump, bump, bump. I’m going to try skipping. I’m going to try hopping. It makes my breath go all fluttery. I stand still and drink in the morning air. I want to make it all last forever.

  Hello Earth. How I love you. I want to stare into shop windows and listen to the roar of traffic until all the seas run dry.

  Traffic!

  Cars!

  Suddenly I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to take a minicab! I’ve always longed to ride in a minicab. Today I’m going to do it!

  Here is a minicab office. I peek in. It’s just like the first minicab office I ever saw. On the wall above the counter is a clock. It says 09:15 – 30th October. There are drivers sprawled on seats. They’re smoking cigarettes. Real genuine nicotine. I look around. It’s like déjà vu.

  Then suddenly I realise it is the first minicab office!

  I am in the right place!

  It worked. Everything worked. Larry played fair. There may still be a chance
. I’m in the right place, on the right day! I can hardly believe it.

  The drivers still look bored. They are bored! There’s the girl with the greasy hair plastered down her cheek. She’s sitting behind the incredible steel grille. I’m so happy. This is my minicab office! This is just like it should be. Just like it was on the day I met Marcus. She’s reading a magazine again. I say, ‘Can I see your magazine?’

  She points at a pile on a small square coffee table. I pick one up. They don’t have enticing images. I’m just a tiny bit disappointed.

  ‘D’you just wanna look at magazines or are you taking a car?’ says the girl. Her voice is deliciously crispy.

  ‘I’m taking a car,’ I say.

  I’m taking a car!

  I follow a long-faced man out into the street. He yanks open the door of the minicab. He gets in. I stand there a bit unsure. I’m unsure how to actually open the door.

  I don’t get it quite right. I pull on it. It doesn’t open. The cab driver leans out through his window and yells, ‘Hey kid, press the goddamn handle.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, and I try pressing the handle.

  The door opens, and I get in. There’s a newspaper on the seat. I push it aside. I slide along the smooth material and feel it squidge beneath me.

  ‘So where to, kid?’ yells the cab driver (I love the way he calls me kid – like I’m a real teenager). There is a strange weary note in his voice. Perhaps he works too hard, maybe he’s tired.

  ‘Are you tired?’

  ‘Just tell me where to?’ he says.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘Curlston Heights. Fifty-six.’

  ‘The street, lady,’ he says, ‘gimme the street.’

  ‘I don’t know the street,’ I say, ‘is that a problem?’

  He shakes his head like he really is very, very tired. ‘Whatever,’ he says. He types ‘Curlston Heights’ into a strange boxy thing on the dashboard, and sighs again as a map comes up.

  ‘That’s southside,’ he says. ‘It’ll be more.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say, a bit puzzled by the ‘more’ comment. More what? More miles, more time?

  He starts the car up. It coughs into life. A voice from the boxy thing says: ‘You are approaching a roundabout. Take the second exit.’ It’s a funny voice. I look around to see who’s speaking. I clutch at the seat as we slide forward. My stomach feels very strange. The cabby looks in the mirror and catching sight of my face says, ‘If you’re going to be sick, kid, you can get out right now.’