by Sarah Mussi
I press on the paintwork. I push open the grey adamantine doors and I’m in. I can’t believe it. I can’t even guess what it means. I’m inside Curlston Heights.
Quickly I stumble to the back of the foyer. There are the lift shafts. I remember how I adored lifts, how they clang around you, how they make your skin flutter. I step inside. The doors slide and clash. I’m encased inside steel. A prison. I’m scared. I’m scared to see Marcus again, scared he’ll reject me, scared of what I’ve done. I punch in Level Five.
The lift rises. I tremble.
At the fifth floor it shakes to a halt. The doors clang open. I step out into the dark corridor. A low light flickers on. I look up at the door numbers.
‘Here,’ hisses a voice. Down the dim corridor I see a door has opened, a silhouette is outlined against it. I hasten towards it.
In the half light I slip into number 56 Curlston Heights. The figure, dark by the door, whispers, ‘Be really quiet, everyone’s asleep.’
I’m really quiet. I’m so quiet I float over the scratched plastic flooring. I tiptoe into a hall. Inside it’s dark. I feel carpet thick beneath my feet, a small hand in mine. I’m led into the front room. I’m inside. There is the three-piece suite, the shelving unit, the sofa and chairs angled in outline around the rug, round the TV. Through those doors – down that corridor, Marcus is there.
The girl softly closes the door. I know who she is. I know her voice. I know her step. It’s Jasmine – Marcus’s youngest sister, not the tall, beautiful, haughty one but the elfin one who went with Marcus to St Jude’s, who was so helpful at the funeral. I’m so lucky. I know how good she is. She switches on a side light. She takes my hand again. She leads me to the sofa and still holding on to me, she pats the seat next to her.
‘Oh, look at you, you poor thing,’ she says. ‘You look half starved. Don’t say a word. I’m going to fix you a lovely cup of tea and a hot toasted sandwich and you are going to dry out and warm yourself by the fire.’
She flicks on the electric fire and a sudden rush of fake orange coals light up. False shadowy flames dance out from the look-alike marble fireplace. But best of all a sudden rush of air, thick and warming.
‘But please be very, very quiet,’ she whispers. ‘Mum is going through a rotten time. My brother got shot the week before last. He should have died; his best friend did. She’s nearly beside herself with worry, and she needs to rest.’
‘OK,’ I whisper.
And she tiptoes out of the front room. I hear her moving down the hall. I hear some clicking and the soft purr of an electric kettle. I look around the room. There are the photos of Marcus: Marcus as a baby, Marcus with his arms round his mum, Marcus in a football team, Marcus posing like the Original Badman, Marcus in dark glasses. Marcus looking manly.
Marcus.
I feel tears aching at the back of my throat, but they are very far away. I won’t let them fall now; to burden this troubled family with my sorrows more than I have already. I just look at the photos and admire the curve of his arm and the strength in his jaw. I long for the touch of those strong hands. I think: He is just a few doors away. I think how lucky I am to know him, to feel this thing that springs up in my heart, to feel this ache. In all my thousands of years in Heaven never have I felt more alive, more real, more important, more unhappy.
Beside the photos is a calendar. October 31st has a thick black circle drawn around it as if the family already know that date is going to change their lives for ever.
Oh Marcus, you must listen this time.
Jasmine comes back. She’s carrying a little tray and on it lies the toasted sandwich and the mug of tea and a paper napkin. The scent from the toast makes strange things happen in my stomach. I find my mouth watering, my throat swallowing in anticipation.
She smiles. ‘Eat,’ she says.
I eat. My eyes say, ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ but my hands shake, the sandwich trembles, I juggle it to my lips.
Oh, it’s so hot and crunchy and crusty and sweet and tangy and there’s cheese and butter and relish and ham and each mouthful scalds my tongue, but it’s tasty and I must take more. I can’t stop. I burn my mouth.
‘Slow down,’ she says, ‘I can make more toasties. You’ll be ill if you eat it so fast.’
So I try to slow down, but this is the first time I’ve ever eaten a toastie. The first time I’ve ever eaten. And I love it.
‘Now,’ says the girl. ‘I’m Jasmine.’
‘Zara,’ I say, still using the name Kookie gave me. I look at her. I look at the door. Marcus is very near.
‘So Zara,’ she says, ‘where’s home? Can I call your mum? Your friends? Will they come and get you?’
I look at her. I don’t know what to say. How can I tell her about the Elysian Fields, the water meadows where a thousand songbirds chorus? I can’t. But I can’t lie to her, either, or make up anything, so I just look at her and say nothing.
‘Difficult?’ she says kindly.
I nod.
‘Please don’t mind me asking, but are you pregnant?’
I shake my head. It’s a strange question. I’m not sure why she asks it, but I can see in her eyes that she means no harm.
‘Oh good,’ she says, sighing like that’s a big relief.
She smiles encouragingly at me. ‘But wherever home is, can you go back there?’
I shake my head. I can never go back to Heaven. The ache in my throat spreads. I blink rapidly, trying to swallow.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, all kindness. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She rises and comes towards me and puts her arm around my shoulder. And suddenly I feel so drained. Her touch reminds me of other touches: Kookie, Marcus.
‘I must speak to Marcus,’ I say.
‘Oh no,’ she says, ‘not now. He’s been so ill. Don’t get worried, he’s had a miracle recovery – everyone says so – but he’s weak. Let him sleep – please?’ She looks at me.
I want to tell her sleep doesn’t matter.
‘No more questions for now. You need a wash, some fresh clothes and a good sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow. OK, honey?’ She pats my arm.‘You can sleep in my room, but you must be very, very quiet, OK?’
I nod. My heart has gone out to her. I love her. That she could be so kind to someone she doesn’t know. She’ll find her way to Heaven so quickly. She’ll be fast tracked straight through to God. He’ll be so pleased with her. Not like me. I shudder. In the quietness while Jasmine has gone to sort me out a bed I hear a clock ticking. There is no time for baths or sleep. I must make a plan. I’m in the flat. I must use this time.
But as hard as I try to think of the right words and how I will say them, my mind is shutting down. Warmth is flowing through me. My stomach feels so happy. The clock is ticking. Its ticks lull me. My eyelids start closing.
I slap at myself to stay awake. How strange, this human body. First it must eat, then it must be warm. Now it must sleep. I can’t fight it. I must find Marcus.
Jasmine comes back and whispers, ‘You’ll be ill if you don’t sleep.’ She leads me to her room. The clock is ticking.
‘Marcus,’ I say.
‘Tomorrow,’ she says.
‘I must see him now.’
‘No,’ she says firmly. ‘You mustn’t.’
I awake in Jasmine’s room. The sun is shining in through her window. The pink curtains are still drawn, but the beauty of the sunlight and the sheer rosy pinkness of the cloth has flooded the room with a wonderful cheerfulness. I roll over. I’m alone. Jasmine’s not here. It’s 31st October. Halloween! What time is it? I’ve overslept. I sit up in bed. My bed is a long sofa with pretty silky sheets and a thick fluffy cover. I look around. On a chair placed near me lie a pile of clothes and a note:
Dear Zara,
I hope you’re feeling much better this morning and have slept well. Sorry about the sofa but we don’t have a spare room for guests. I’ve left you some of my clothes to wear. I noticed you like the Gothy look, so I’ve picked out
some black things. I hope you like them. I think we’re about the same size. I’ve told Mum you’re here. Please be very nice to her – she’s very stressed. I know you’ll want to talk to Marcus, but he’s very grumpy if he gets woken up too early, so give him time. He’s been very, very ill, he’s mending like magic, but please don’t upset him. There’s food in the fridge and I’ve left you a fiver. DON’T OPEN THE DOOR TO STRANGERS. The door code is C3458X so you can come and go. I’ll be back very late this evening, because I’ve been invited to a Halloween party – on a blind date (!), but you can stay until we work out a plan for you. I’ll ask my friends if they know of a room. You’ll probably be able to get welfare.
Love n kisses
Jasmine xoxoxo
My cell phone’s 07978650345, call me in case of anything.
I read the note. I look at the neat little pile of clothes. I’m overcome with some kind of emotion that makes my heart catch. ‘Oh, Jasmine,’ I whisper.
I determine at once that I won’t burden her with any of the sad things I know. I won’t burden Marcus’s mother either. They have too much to worry about.
I rise and wash. Quickly I put on the clothes that Jasmine left: a tight lacy black top, a flared Victorian witchy skirt and high-heeled, laced-up boots. I stand in front of Jasmine’s mirror. I look at my new human self.
I’m quite pretty. Not in the way I used to be, not in the curvy way of the girls at the club. I comb out my hair. It’s truly jet black. I look at my fringe. I try pinning it to one side. I settle for a dark wing over one eye. It frames my face and makes it tinier than ever.
Jasmine has left her make-up bag out for me as well. I think of Kookie as I look through it. God bless Kookie. In honour of Kookie, who first baptised me with mascara and black kohl pencil, I make my eyes up as dramatically as possible. I put on the make-up she’d like me to wear. Red lips, darker and huger eyes than ever, with teardrops drawn on my cheeks, pale foundation and shimmery stardust highlights. I’m not very good at it. I get make-up in my eye and it stings horribly.
When I’m finished I stand back and take a last quick glance at myself – small, pretty (make-up a bit weird). He doesn’t love her, that scary pointed-little-chin girl in the mirror. There is no hope of that. He won’t love you, I tell her. His arms will never enfold you. I don’t cry. I didn’t throw away Heaven to sit and watch myself weep in a mirror edged in fluffy pink. I just want her to get the message. She needs to stay strong and if she longs for his touch too much, she may weaken. You love him. I tell her. That’s all that matters. And you’ll save him because you do.
I catch my throat. I abandon hope. I don’t let any thought of being loved back stay. It’ll weigh me down with its sad longings. I wanted to become human. I wanted to be one with Marcus. But I left Heaven to save a soul. A soul which will surely burn in Hell if I fail.
Zara 8
Mrs Montague is resting. Rayanne has left for work. Marcus is awake (please don’t let him be grumpy). This is it. I steal to his room. He’s taped on the door a picture of a skull made out of shining stars. Under the picture is a caption which reads: Abandon hope all ye who enter here. Only he would display such a message. I tap softly on his door. My heart is beating. My throat is dry. I hear a noise from within. I listen. I stand there as quiet as a mouse, quieter than a feather falling. I tap the door again. I hear the squeak of a mattress. The rush of covers thrown back.
‘What?’
‘Can I come in?’ I whisper.
‘Well come in, if you’re going to,’ says the voice I know so well.
Tentatively I turn the door handle. I push it gently in.
‘And?’ says Marcus.
So I step into the room.
Marcus is sitting up in bed. His dark hair is tousled, his voice gruff with sleep. But the room smells good, clean and warm and somehow scented. Marcus looks at me like he’s never seen me before in his entire life.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he says.
He doesn’t remember me. It must be the changed clothes, the new hairstyle, my clumsy attempts at make-up. Something inside me sinks, but it’s not important. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t need to, so all I say is: ‘Please, don’t invoke that fearsome place.’
He looks confused.
‘Who are you?’ he says, ‘and what’re you doing here?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I don’t know if I’m sorry or not. I’ve a mission to accomplish. I must do it.
Marcus waits. He looks at me and simply waits. I stare. Something thrills inside me. It feels all excited and shivery. But I must not be sidetracked. I fix my eyes on the floor. I must not look at his clean strong chest, the way his arm muscles flex. His wounds have healed well. There is only a patch of clean gauze over his heart.
I sigh. I don’t even bother with ‘I’m Serafina’ any more; instead I say: ‘For now you can call me Zara.’
‘So,’ he says, eyeing me, ‘you think there’s going to be a later – when I’ll call you something else?’
I breathe in and tighten my resolve. ‘There’s something I have to talk to you about.’
He looks at me. Maybe there’s something in my voice that reminds him of who I once was, for a certain curious, hopeful, puzzled look lights up his eyes. It’s almost as if he recognises me – almost but not quite – as if my voice, or the light glancing across my face reminds him of something.
Quickly he grabs his T-shirt and pulls it on. He swings his legs out of bed. His bare legs are so taut and strong and smooth. I gasp as I see them. He stands up. I see he’s wearing only shorts. I turn my eyes away. I do so out of politeness, and because looking at him makes me ache in a strange new way.
He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls on his jeans.
‘OK,’ he says, ‘whatever your name is. Let’s start with what you’re doing in my bedroom.’ He raises one eyebrow.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘Well, if you’d walked in a couple of weeks ago, you might have been sorry – or maybe not.’ He arches both eyebrows. ‘But I’m a changed man now. I’ve had a heart attack.’
I look at him a bit blank. He points to where the gauze is taped on his chest. ‘Heart,’ he says. ‘Attacked?’
I get it. It’s one of his jokes. He’s joking with me. I smile. Should I laugh?
‘Marcus,’ I say, taking a deep breath. ‘This may seem like a strange request, but . . .’
Marcus looks at me. I nearly lose my nerve.
‘Would you just listen to everything I have to say?’ My heart is thumping so loudly I’m sure he must hear it.
‘Are you one of Jasmine’s friends?’
‘Will you promise you’ll just listen, whatever you think?’
‘Hey, kid,’ he says, ‘I’ll listen; don’t look so nervous.’
I bite my lip. ‘Do you remember Serafina?’ His reaction is too fast and harsh for me to get another word out.
He’s half off the bed. ‘I see who you are,’ he says suddenly. ‘I didn’t recognise you at first. You’re that weirdo girl from yesterday.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. I stammer. Nothing matters. Only listening matters now. I mustn’t mess this up. His face looks so serious. His lips so soft . . . so sweet . . . A mad idea – should I kiss him – will he recognise me then? He must. I would know his kiss anywhere. I want to kiss him. I let it pass. Instead I say: ‘I’ve news from the angel.’
Marcus looks at me. He screws up his face. ‘News from the angel?’ he says.
I nod.
‘Who the hell are you?’
He’s seen the hesitation in my face. My throat goes dry. I know I must speak. I take a very big breath and I say, ‘On the night you were shot a number of things happened that you may not have been aware of . . .’
He gives me a look, as if to say: And why would you know them? But he doesn’t. There’s something that stops him. ‘I’m still listening,’ he says.
‘You were shot,’ I say gently. ‘Nobody could expect you to kn
ow them.’
He’s standing there poised, looking at me, trying to figure something out.
‘And you were dying,’ I add.
He lowers his eyebrows. Maybe he’s already considered that.
‘And . . .’
‘What?’ he says.
There’s no easy way to tell him.
‘I was sent –’ I correct myself. ‘Serafina was sent to Collect your soul. Serafina was an Angel of Death.’
He shakes his head. He looks like he’s going to react. Like yesterday.
‘You . . .’ He opens his mouth.
‘Please listen,’ I implore.
He shuts up his mouth, and twists it into a disbelieving line.
‘You were shot through the heart,’ I say.
He looks at me.
‘But you didn’t die.’
He seems to be thinking about this, as if it has been puzzling him as well.
‘I’m not dead,’ he says, trying to turn it into a joke. ‘Go on, pinch me. Here, have a squeeze.’ He offers me his forearm.
‘But you should be.’
He knows that’s true.
‘You’re not dead, because the angel . . .’ (I want to say: fell in love, couldn’t bear to let you die, wanted to help you) ‘. . . the angel took out a contract on your death,’ I say.
He leans back on his pillows.
‘Well I’ve heard of a contract killer taking out a contract on a life, but never an angel contract killer who takes out a contract on a death!’ he says flippantly.
‘She signed a document,’ I say, going pale, for it’s not funny; it’s not even the remotest bit funny.
But Marcus is suddenly smiling, as if taking out a contract on his death is the funniest thing ever.
‘You must have wondered how you survived? Your recovery?’
‘Not really,’ he says, as if natural good health is his divine right.
‘You must have wondered about the visions of the angel?’
He stops short. The blood drains from his face. ‘How did you know about them?’ he says.
‘She told you there was a condition,’ I say.
‘How did you know I had visions?’