Angel Dust

by Sarah Mussi

  Before I have time to process all this, Marcus steps forward, ‘Sorry, Boss,’ he says, ‘there’s been a misunderstanding.’

  Larry turns his face slightly towards me, catches my eye. He’s enjoying my confusion. He smiles, all golden hair, blue eyes. ‘No worries!’ he says.

  ‘I’ll prove it.’ I won’t give up. Not after everything I’ve been through. I don’t care. I step forward – determined to yank at Larry’s jacket and reveal his wings.

  Larry looks at me. His eyelids narrow. He warns me with a slight shake of his head. But I don’t care. I have to show Marcus. But before I can touch him, Larry starts to intone something. ‘Bagabi laca bachabe . . .’ I reel back. ‘Lamc cahi achababe . . .’

  I freeze. His eyes burn. I can’t move. A band like steel tightens around my chest. ‘Karrelyos . . .’ An unseen hand catches my throat, throttles me. ‘Lamac lamec Bachalyas . . .’ I try to breathe. He’s strangling me. ‘Cabahagy sabalyos . . .’ Holding my tongue.

  Larry smiles. His eyes grow opaque. ‘Baryolas . . .?’

  I nod my head. I understand. He doesn’t need to finish the incantation. Larry smiles again. The grip on my throat lessons. I can breathe. The pain around my chest eases.

  ‘Voilà! Disco! There you go!’ says Larry, smiling at me, Now let’s go upstairs and have a coffee? Make a plan?’ He playfully punches Marcus’s chest. ‘I can sort all this out.’

  Marcus relaxes. He nods.

  ‘Yes,’ says Larry, ‘I can sort everything out. You’ve come to the exactly the right person.’

  Zara 11

  Larry leads the way up to the café. He selects a table beside a large picture window overlooking the main street. There are a few people there already. Two couples, a bunch of girls, a lonely man at a corner table. Larry orders espresso times three, ‘Strong and sweet’, and a large bottle of brandy: ‘Three glasses and three stars’. I can’t disagree. I can’t walk away. My legs don’t obey me. Every time I open my mouth in dissent my jaw freezes, my breath grows shallow. Larry smiles at me as I cough and splutter.

  ‘That’s it,’ he coaxes, ‘deep breaths, stay calm.’ His eyes are dancing.

  Mine are not.

  Something in the way he moves reminds me of a cat slinking along a hedgerow. I wonder why I never noticed that before. That stink of drains that was always here at the club. Such a give-away. I wonder what the large bottle of brandy is for. Surely it’s too early for drinking? Surely the Devil doesn’t have nerves?

  I do. Mine are raw.

  Larry laughs; his lips pull back, well over his gums, his row of white teeth glistening. I find myself fascinated by his gums, their edges pink against the whiteness of his teeth.

  Larry pours us each a generous measure of brandy. The liquid is clear, like honey, thick like manna dew. I’ve never drunk brandy before. I copy Marcus and warm it with my hands, cupping them round the bowl of the glass, gently swirling the drink within.

  How can I trick him?

  ‘So are we sitting comfortably?’ says Larry like he’s talking to small children. Even Marcus shoots me a conspiratorial wink. I don’t shoot one back. I see Larry’s game. He’s inviting us to underestimate him. Sheer folly. I’m not fooled by his clean-cut white suit, his baby-blue eyes. Not any more.

  How clever he is. I’d imagined horns and hooves and evil eyes. And how beautiful. Lucifer, Lucifer, Son of the Morning. Light bearer. Dawn Star. Why did I imagine the Devil would be ugly when I knew he was God’s brightest and best?

  ‘Let’s drink,’ laughs Larry. ‘Brandy before business.’ He lays a hand on Marcus’s arm.

  Marcus looks like he wants to shrug it off. But there’s some power in Larry’s hold that stops him. I know that hold. I know that power.

  ‘This is not going to be easy,’ says Larry.

  ‘What’s not going to be easy?’ says Marcus.

  ‘So we’ll need a drink.’

  We’re both powerless against him.

  ‘What are you on about?’ says Marcus. ‘It’s just a silly misunderstanding.’

  What’s his game?

  ‘Why don’t you go and have a little wash up first,’ says Larry.

  Marcus looks at his jeans, his hoodie. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘A splash of water works wonders,’ adds Larry.

  Marcus flinches a little. A spasm of pain crosses his face. He puts a hand suddenly to his chest.

  ‘There – your wound’s bleeding. Your dressing probably needs changing,’ remarks Larry.

  Puzzled, Marcus rises from the table, stumbles, clenches his teeth and makes for the restrooms.

  Larry turns to me. ‘So, Serafina, got your heart’s desire yet?’

  I’m not afraid of him. This surprises me, but I’m not. How can I trick him? I put the brandy to my lips. What do I know about the Devil? My first ever taste of brandy. How it burns, like fire against my lips. I can feel it, like an inferno in my throat. I taste the flame-hot, acid tang of alcohol. I let the heat race to my cheeks.

  ‘Easy,’ whispers Larry, ‘you’re not immortal any more.’

  My chest smoulders. What can I use against him? I look at Larry. His face seems to morph. Is it the brandy? I feel dizzy, strange. Maybe I should eat. Do humans need to eat before they drink? I don’t know. I look away to stop the strange swirling sensation.

  Salt.

  That’s what the tales at the Cloisters said. Throw salt at him. Salt in his eyes.

  ‘If you still wish to save him,’ Larry hisses, ‘you will do exactly as I say.’ He smiles, all his white teeth glistening. ‘Whenever I say. You understand?’

  I understand. He doesn’t scare me. But I understand everything. He wants me for himself. I’ve seen it in his eyes. He’ll never have me.

  There’s pepper and salt on the table. If I could just reach across and grab . . . when Marcus returns. If I could spray it over him . . .

  He might do something. Something that would make Marcus believe.

  What a sad useless hope.

  ‘And the first thing is – if you try to discredit me, or work against me from now on – I’ll reach right into Marcus’s heart and undo the all the amateur celestial healing you’ve put in place. You-get-me-babes?’ He sighs and blows me a little kiss.

  All hope dies.

  ‘You’re not an angel any more. You can’t stop me now.’

  I look at him. I nod. But in my heart I say, I will not do what you want. I will work against you.

  Marcus returns. He looks weary. The bounce is all gone. He starts straight in: ‘So?’ he says. He places a hand over his heart and presses down. His wound is hurting. His face is drawn.

  I stare at Larry. He did this. He’s showing me his power. And at that moment I hate him. It scorches through me like a naked flame. It shocks me with its heat. Evil malefactor. How I wish the terrible Archangel Jehudiel were here. If I had his whip now; how I would crack it down upon you: archfiend, enemy of Heaven.

  Marcus coughs. A spot of blood froths at his lip. How I long to shield him, wrap my arms around him, soak up his pain, enfold him in my wings. But Larry’s right, I’m not an angel any more.

  ‘Deal?’ Larry mouths at me.

  Marcus coughs again.

  I nod.

  Larry orders another round of coffees. ‘Here, caffeine helps,’ he says to Marcus.

  Marcus sips the espresso. Instantly he looks better. Oh, how you play with us, Lucifer, Son of the Morning.

  ‘So?’ Marcus says, looking at Larry. ‘What is it you’ve got to tell me?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ starts Larry. ‘Lots of people come to the club now.’ He rests his head slightly to one side and looks at Marcus out of the corner of his eye. ‘Since the shooting.’ He’s all sparkling white teeth.

  ‘Yeah?’ says Marcus. ‘So?’

  ‘Seems like “word” is out,’ says Larry. ‘Blood is obviously good for business.’

  ‘What word?’ says Marcus.

  ‘The Crow comes here too.’ Larry smiles mischi
evously.

  God forgive me for ever bringing Marcus here.

  Marcus’s head comes up. The weary look disappears like smoke in the dark.

  ‘The Crow?’ he says.

  ‘And his friends,’ adds Larry, fiddling with the espresso, swirling the brandy.

  ‘His crew?’ says Marcus.

  ‘And his girlfriends,’ says Larry.

  Marcus suddenly snaps his eyes wide open. ‘What “word” is out?’ he repeats, a dangerous new tone in his voice.

  ‘Well,’ says Larry, all white teeth, ‘I should say, girlfriend.’

  ‘What word?’

  ‘His new girlfriend,’ says Larry annoyingly, clinking the spoon against the cup.

  Marcus is half out of his chair. ‘I don’t give a damn about his girlfriend,’ he hisses.

  ‘Oooo, I think you’d give a damn about this one,’ giggles Larry.

  ‘What is everyone saying?’ says Marcus like he already knows. ‘Come on, man, don’t do that.’

  ‘When a man’s been shot and lost his best friend, naturally he’s scared,’ says Larry. ‘It’s understandable. Probably has a name like traumatic funk disorder.’ He chuckles and pours himself a large slug of brandy. I look at him. His face swims in and out of focus. His teeth grow larger. He shoots a look at me. And he’s not chuckling. A pain like scorching fire sears across my eyes. I look away.

  ‘Are you saying man’s bothered by the Crow?’ laughs Marcus. ‘Because let me put you right . . .’

  And I want to applaud him. I want to kiss him, to hug him, because he’s strong, he’s not afraid of the Crow and he’s not afraid of the Devil. Cautiously I peer at Larry’s face, to see how he’s taking this.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ says Larry very pleasantly. ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s not me that’s saying it. I understand, I’m a big man now. I know you’ve got to grow up and settle down.’

  ‘Settle down?’ Marcus looks at him. He scratches his head. ‘That’s crap,’ he says.

  I reach out to put my hand on Marcus’s arm to warn him with a touch that he should be careful. But my arm freezes in midair. Larry throws me a cold smile.

  And suddenly I see the danger. Larry is going to use Marcus’s very fearlessness to trap him. I try to scream. Don’t follow his logic! But my voice dies in my throat.

  ‘Exactly,’ butts in Larry, ‘I’m only repeating the buzz from the club. That’s what people are saying . . .’

  ‘What exactly are they saying?’ asks Marcus, a note of menace creeping into his voice.

  ‘Well, don’t shoot the messenger,’ laughs Larry, ‘but it’s not nice . . .’ He pauses, takes a deep breath, gulps down a large slug of brandy as if to fortify himself. He’s playing with Marcus like a cat with a mouse. ‘I know it’s not true . . . but they’re saying you’ve lost your bottle.’

  ‘What!’ Marcus snorts with laughter.

  ‘They’re saying you’re scared like a pussy.’

  Marcus blinks at the sheer outrage of that.

  ‘They’re saying you’re even glad Joey’s dead, because if he wasn’t, he’d make you do something about the Crow busting up your birthday party.’

  Marcus stops laughing, goes grey. ‘They’re saying I’m glad Joey’s dead?’ he whispers.

  Larry nods. He picks up the brandy bottle. ‘I told you it wasn’t going to be easy.’ He pours Marcus a generous amount. ‘They’re saying you fixed up Melly’s job too.’

  Marcus rocks unsteadily.

  ‘They say you were shagging Melly all the time and you were afraid she’d blab it out to the brothers. That Little Joe isn’t even Joey’s kid.’

  ‘They’re saying I arranged Melly’s shooting?’ gasps Marcus.

  ‘Now, come on, man, get outside that,’ he says. ‘It’ll help calm you down.’

  ‘They’re saying I’m glad Joey’s dead?’

  ‘Don’t let it get to you. Stay calm. It’s not cowardice – he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day.’

  ‘Runs away?’

  ‘Better to live a coward than die a hero.’

  ‘Live a coward?’

  ‘Oh, do stop repeating everything,’ smiles Larry, ‘or I won’t tell you the rest.’

  I sigh. I want to say: Don’t listen to him. But I can’t. Every time I open my mouth some force presses down on my windpipe.

  ‘Drink up first, or I won’t say another word,’ says Larry.

  I look around for a cup to drop, a plate to smash, anything to break the charm. But I can’t move. Larry is freezing me out.

  Marcus drinks. Larry fills his glass. Each time a little more. He’s planned this all along. I remember how Kamuel said: ‘That’s how the Devil works. He starts small but before you know it, he’ll have Heaven under siege and angels falling like summer rain.’

  We are both just pawns in his game.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ says Marcus. His voice very quiet.

  Larry sighs, as if he’s really sorry to be the bearer of such vile news. ‘They’re saying that you’ve gone soft, that Joey’s brothers want to avenge his death, but you haven’t got the balls for it and . . .’

  ‘And?’ says Marcus, half standing, half ready to blow away the whole world.

  ‘And any little gangbanger could take you out: you don’t rank, all you can do is kill girls now.’

  Marcus slugs down the brandy. Larry refills it.

  ‘Word says if the Crow wants to he can take anything that’s yours.’

  Marcus laughs. Not a nice laugh.

  Larry smiles. ‘Like I said, the Crow comes here, this is his place now . . .’

  Marcus smacks his glass down so hard it cracks.

  ‘The Crow comes here with his girlfriend. . .’

  No! I want to cry.

  ‘A very pretty little thing she is too,’ smiles Larry.

  Stop! Stop!

  Marcus drains his glass, grabs the brandy bottle, refills it himself.

  ‘And there’s no denying the facts,’ says Larry sadly.

  ‘What facts?’ says Marcus. His voice is low and husky.

  The ice around my chest has spread now to every cell of my body, ever capillary, every vein; it courses through my being like liquid nitrogen.

  ‘The fact,’ says Larry, very slowly, as if it’s nothing to do with him, ‘that every night your pretty little sister is down in the club making out with the Crow in front of the entire neighbourhood.’

  Zara 12

  Marcus splutters, sinks into his chair, goes ashen. ‘Jasmine?’ he whispers.

  I stand up but my legs can’t hold me. I look at Larry. He looks at me. He gently, very gently moves his hand and motions me to sit back down again. I do. I’ve no power to resist.

  ‘And sadly,’ says Larry, ‘that’s not hearsay. That’s the truth.’

  I look at him. I know it’s a lie. Somehow he’s engineered this. I remember Jasmine’s note: ‘I’ll be back very late this evening, because I’ve been invited to a Halloween party – on a blind date!’ Somehow poor sweet Jasmine has become part of his war.

  ‘And it gets worse,’ says Larry, swirling the brandy thoughtfully round his glass. ‘You see, every night the Crow puts his arm around pretty little Jasmine and says “Here’s to Joey Bigga,” and Jasmine smiles and the Crow continues, “Better off dead,” and everyone else replies, “Than with Marcus”.’

  Marcus stands up, pushes the table away. Glasses crash, the brandy bottle topples, honey liquid pours to the ground. I want to rise too. I want to hold on to Marcus, tell him, You’re being played! It’s a trick! I look at Larry. I’m held in my seat. ‘No!’ I whisper.

  Suddenly Marcus coughs, clutches at his chest. His lips grow pallid. There’s blood coming through his shirt!

  ‘Yes!’ hisses Larry back.

  ‘Please,’ I manage. ‘I’ll do as you say.’

  ‘Good,’ says Larry. He turns to me, full-frontal, eyeballs protruding. ‘Make. Sure. You. Do. I’ll. Be. Watching.’

  A beat pass
es. Marcus straightens up. Colour returns to his lips. He pulls out his phone, unsteady. He taps in a link.

  ‘Spider?’ he says. His voice is harsh. ‘You ready? The job?’

  ‘Yo,’ says Spider. His voice is faint but we can all hear him.

  ‘The Crow.’

  ‘Yess!’ comes the reply.

  ‘Right,’ says Marcus, his voice still unsteady. ‘Get the crew strapped, we’ll hit the old club.’

  ‘Yeah man,’ says Spider.

  ‘There’s a celebration here tonight,’ whispers Larry. ‘A Halloween party.’

  ‘Tonight. Friday. 31st October. Halloween. Fancy dress.’

  So neat. So perfect. I look at Larry.

  ‘Seen,’ says Spider.

  Marcus puts his phone down. He laughs, as if he’s free now, free from some curse laid on him. He turns to Larry. ‘Thanks, bruv,’ he says. ‘Must’ve been hard for you to tell me all that.’

  ‘You know I’m your man,’ says Larry. ‘Was just waiting till you came.’

  ‘I know,’ says Marcus. ‘Nuff respect, we won’t damage your club tonight.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Larry. ‘Like I said, blood’s good for business.’

  And Larry smiles at me and nods his head a fraction. The icy chains fall off my limbs. My tongue is free at last. And I look at him. I don’t know what to say. Except to repeat back his own question asked of me so long since.

  ‘Happy?’ I say.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he says, turning conspiratorially to me and adding in a low voice, ‘I’m happy, and I’ll be happier still when both of you are safely delivered to the shores of Styx.’

  Zara 13

  Marcus stumbles from the club. I follow. I take his arm. I hold him steady. What shall I do? How can I explain?

  ‘Thanks,’ he mutters, and leans on me.

  ‘Marcus,’ I say. ‘Don’t believe everything.’ I want to tell him about Larry, but what if Larry is watching, listening? I daren’t take the risk.

  Marcus says nothing. He moves slowly. Thou shalt not kill. I’ll talk to him.

  ‘Marcus,’ I start.