Angel Dust

by Sarah Mussi

‘Not now,’ he says. ‘Just let me lean on you.’

  I shut up. He leans on me. I take his weight.

  I send up a prayer: Give me strength to stand firm, to oppose the Devil – and should I lose my soul and Marcus’s to the fires of Hell, I pray for Your forgiveness.

  The streets are cold. The afternoon’s nearly spent. A jagged range of buildings stands dark against the sky. The sun is setting somewhere behind the city. Its last rays streak the Heavens with red. Shop lights are on. They shine and sparkle in neon colours. The wind gusts, peeling corners off posters, rattling the grilles on shops.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Marcus and then, so softly, so I barely hear him: ‘Oh Angel, where are you now?’

  I want to explain. I can’t stay silent. I won’t give up. ‘Things are not what they seem,’ I say, ‘and you should repent.’

  ‘You know something, Zara?’ says Marcus. ‘I kind of like you. You are so certain about your angels and your repentance. You’re completely cracked, but I like you.’ He falls quiet. We walk slowly down the street. A bus rumbles past. It hits a pool of rainwater, showers us, continues, is gone. I can see he wants to say something else.

  ‘You know,’ he says at last, his arm still around my shoulder. ‘I thought I saw an angel, I really did – you were right. I thought she held me in her arms and promised to be there for me. It’s funny. I really believed it.’

  ‘If you saw her, she was there,’ I say. It’s all I can say, because if I say, ‘Yes, I was that angel’ and all that, I might stop this thing he wants to say – this thing that’s trembling on his lips.

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘I was wrong. Must have been the bullets, must have been the wishing: she wasn’t there.’

  ‘But you saw her again? The hospital, the funeral?’

  Marcus sighs and then he says: ‘I remember the painkillers, the buzz. I remember walking across a lawn with her, sitting on a tree. For fuck’s sake, I was on a life-support machine. They found me on my hospital bed – you know, afterwards. I’d pulled out the drip – I was rambling –’

  I hold my breath.

  ‘I was so upset about Joey. I tried to believe in her. I tried to change.’ He stops. His face is so sad. ‘Then Melly died. I was confused . . . At the funeral I remember the stone angel, a flash of lightning. I was so angry with her.’

  He’s frowning. I bite my lip, remembering his anger.

  ‘She should have been there for me. She should have told me about Joey, shielded me, helped me. She should have saved Melly. It’s crazy how mad I was at her. She was supposed to love me – that’s what I thought – and I needed her so badly.’

  He stopped and took my hand in his.

  ‘I was convinced that it was only her love that was keeping me alive and that if she stopped loving me I’d be as dead as Joey. I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t saved him too. If she really cared about me, she’d have known how much he meant.’

  I don’t know what to say. I hold on to him.

  ‘If she could have stayed with me I knew everything would be OK – maybe I thought . . . I really believed – I must have been mistaken . . .’ He puts his arm around my shoulder again. I guide him. ‘Girls,’ he says, ‘just trouble.’

  I look at him sadly.

  ‘Not you though,’ he says. ‘You’re insane, and you’re trouble.’ He laughs, then coughs. ‘But I don’t hate you.’ He stops in the middle of the pavement. ‘Where are all the others?’ he says, and throws back his head and yells, ‘Hey GIRL-FRIENDS, where the hell are you?’

  His voice echoes down the street.

  He sighs. ‘Not there. They’re never there when you need them.’

  ‘Please?’ I try to calm him. A window from a flat over a shop yanks open. A head sticks itself out; someone trying to see what’s going on.

  ‘There’s only you left.’ He stops to catch his breath. ‘You know, Zara, when a guy’s down and broken – all those girls run away.’ He smiles again, a sad smile. ‘Yo, Candy, where are you now, babes? Man saved your fucking life and all he got was a get-well card.’

  ‘Just lean on me,’ I say.

  ‘She was the Crow’s girlfriend, you know, she started all this.’ He adds, ‘She was hot. And trouble, that’s why man didn’t jump straight in. Man can get the girls, you-know, but I want the true one. I don’t want all that: because man’s the G and Man’s got the dough and I’m some kind of badass trophy.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say. I steer him back along the pavement. ‘Can you make it home?’ I ask. I’ve got Jasmine’s money. I could get a cab.

  ‘I really thought there was an angel.’ He looks sadly at me. ‘I really did. I wanted it to be true.’

  ‘I could get a minicab?’

  ‘She was the one . . .’

  ‘There was an angel,’ I say. ‘And don’t believe anything bad about Jasmine; she wouldn’t do any of that.’

  He stops again; he clutches at me. ‘Do you think so?’ he says earnestly. ‘You’re Jasmine’s friend – aren’t you?’ In his face I see hope: a spark, a desperate wanting to believe. Perhaps after all there’s still a chance?

  ‘Yes,’ I say, suddenly encouraged.

  But then his phone rings. He snaps it open. The person at the other end is shouting. There’s loud music even I can hear.

  ‘Yeah, man, I’ve organised muscle. We gonna be so packing, we gonna blow every mother to Hell,’ someone shouts down the phone.

  Marcus laughs grimly, glances at me. ‘Organise some outfits. It’s a Halloween party. We’ll hide the burners under the costumes, get in and dance with them first,’ he orders.

  I think there’s laughter on the other end.

  ‘Make mine the Grim Reaper. Pick me up before midnight.’ He slaps the phone shut. The moment is past. The look of hope has died in his eyes. He grabs me and says, ‘There aren’t any angels. Only badass gangstas.’

  ‘There are,’ I say.

  ‘Girls!’ he laughs.

  ‘We’re not all the same,’ I say in a calculated tone.

  ‘No?’ he says.

  ‘Some of us are very Old Testament.’ I say it slowly and clearly. I want him to know. I may not be able to stop him, but he should know.

  He stops. Spins me round. The look on his face! ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  He’s confused. He pretends he doesn’t understand. He changes the subject. ‘I like you, Zara,’ he says. ‘You’re nuts . . . I like you . . .’

  I will not be put off. ‘Don’t do it,’ I say. ‘Turn your back on sin. Pray for forgiveness. Leave God to dispense justice – for the Lord says: “Vengeance is mine; I will repay.”’

  ‘You sound just like her,’ he whispers. ‘Maybe . . .’ He changes what he’s going to say. ‘I wish you were her. If you were her, I’d kiss her right now, like . . .’

  Suddenly he moves in, driven by something explosive inside him. He clutches me. He presses his mouth against mine. He strains me to him. The pain in me dissolves. I feel only his warmth, the violent pressure of his lips. I melt against him. His body melts against mine. He pushes his tongue against my lips, forces them open, slides deep into my mouth, probing, fierce. My knees melt like snowflakes in the sun. He slides his arms around me, his hungry tongue searches out my soft and yielding places . . . his body grows hard against me . . . I am in Heaven . . .

  I pull away.

  ‘No,’ I say. Every cell in my body is crying out: ‘Yes.’

  But it’s no good. He isn’t kissing me. Not this Zara. Not yet. He’s kissing his angel. I’m just a girl, any girl, to stand in for her.

  This is not what I gave up Heaven for. This is something animal and raw, heady, powerful, but not love. Not for Zara. It won’t do.

  ‘No?’ he says, looking at me, drawing back. ‘But – it is you, isn’t it?’ he says as if the words are being drawn out of him. As if in that one moment of contact the truth has dawned on him.

  But it doesn’t matter any more. He wouldn’t repent
for Serafina – he won’t for Zara. And I’m not her. I’m Zara now. ‘No,’ I say, gently. ‘And no more kissing.’ But because he’s wounded and to reject him would be cruel I add: ‘Just no – not on the street – not while you’re upset. You might wake up tomorrow and regret it.’ I try to laugh. There will be no tomorrow for either of us. I grab hold of his hand. He sways a little. ‘Because you’re too important,’ I say. But I don’t say to whom or why, for already he’s throwing his hands in the air.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ I say.

  ‘Oh Angel,’ he murmurs. ‘And I know it’s you.’

  I hear him. I say nothing. I’ve already spoken. He’s chosen. Larry is waiting. The play will be played out.

  ‘OK,’ he says, ‘OK, you’re right.’ His voice cracks a little. ‘Why the Crow though, Zara? Why him? How could Jasmine do that?’

  ‘It’s a lie,’ I say. I tell him about her note. Her blind date.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says, sadly.

  ‘Trust yourself then,’ I say. ‘Trust her; you know her – do you think she’d do that?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘Take me home, Zara, I’ll lean on you.’

  Together we walk back down the street. Past the flower shop, past the chicken shop, past the graffiti, past the white vampire fangs, back to Curlston Heights, past the strange door entry, the number pad, up in the lift, into the flat. His mum’s out. I take him to his room. I fetch him coffee. I bring him toast.

  He sips; he bites; he says, ‘Stay with me. Lie down with me while I rest – it’s OK, I won’t try anything.’

  We lie on his bed. I put my arm round him. I let his head lie against my chest. I’m happy. He wraps an arm and a leg around me. He whispers, ‘You’re so skinny.’ He winces if I move. I don’t move.

  I wish I had my angelic powers back. I could ease his pain, soothe away his sadness. I wish I could lie with him for ever.

  Outside a blackbird calls. The afternoon wears away. I lie awake. The evening comes. Marcus rests. Our limbs entwine. My heart beats when his beats. Hours seem minutes. His body in my arms. I breathe when he breathes. I look at his face. Its dark curls, its sculpted brow. I think of the night ahead. My heart starts to pound. I think only of now: the blackbird, the evening, his beating heart.

  I hear his phone buzzing. The world won’t wait. Messages are arriving. Larry is working his mischief. By midnight it will all be done. Larry will have won. The shores of Styx are waiting. We will go there together.

  Slowly I bend my head and press my lips to Marcus’s curls. I wonder who will come for us. I pray it will be Raquel. I’d like to see her one last time.

  Marcus stirs.

  The hour has come.

  Zara 14

  The entry buzzer goes. They slam the front door. Their voices fill the lounge. They laugh and sprawl on the sofa.

  ‘Stay in my room,’ orders Marcus.

  I stay in his room. I sit on his bed. I listen.

  ‘Got the stuff?’ says Marcus.

  I watch through the half-open door. Bags and bustle; guns and feathers spill on the floor.

  Marcus picks up a costume. The Grim Reaper. He wraps the cloak around him, pulls the death’s head mask over his face, straps a Mac 10 on to the angle of the scythe, binds it with black duct tape.

  ‘Reckon we’ll get in?’ he laughs.

  One of the brothers examines the scythe, adjusts the taping, straps another death’s head mask over the whole thing.

  ‘Yeah man,’ he says. ‘Bugs is on the door anyway.’

  Marcus puffs, sits down.

  ‘You cool?’ asks Spider.

  ‘Never better,’ wheezes Marcus.

  More bags spill on the floor. ‘Anyone want to be the Angel of Death?’ Spider shakes out a costume; black feathers flutter.

  ‘Nah, too small.’ The angel costume is cast aside.

  ‘Nazi guards?’ A mountain of greatcoats, boots, peaked caps with insignias.

  ‘Yo, da SS.’

  The gang pull on boots, drag their arms into greatcoats, tape hand guns inside caps, jam caps on their heads. Insignias gleam.

  I watch. I listen.

  A mobile rings. Marcus throws bags and costumes behind the sofa.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ They look at Marcus.

  ‘Get in, says Marcus. ‘Get the guns in. Old Larry ain’t gonna stop man dem – not the way he was chatting ’bout blood being good for business.’

  Spider chuckles.

  ‘Get inside – ready to roll.’

  ‘I’ll need a drink,’ says one.

  ‘See who’s there. The Crow’ll have his peeps out, you know – so you all sort out which ones you gonna take down.’

  The brothers nod. Spider is smiling.

  ‘Wait till the Crow is right on the spot Joey died and then I’ll give you the sign.’ Marcus raises the scythe and sweeps the air. ‘That’s the sign. Watch for the scythe. I’ll get him there.’

  ‘Yeah man!’

  ‘You get to the bar; you take the door; you clear the stairs. You cover me, Spider, the Crow’ll be right in my face. Man’s gonna look him in the eye when he wastes him.’

  ‘Then we go.’

  ‘We take all of them,’ says Spider.

  ‘Every mother,’ says Marcus.

  ‘Hold up,’ says Spider. ‘We all want to do Crow, you-know, not just you, Marcus, the fam needs to see blood too.’

  ‘OK,’ says Marcus. ‘I’ll give the sign, then it’s execution time.’

  ‘Yeah.’ They all agree.

  A cell phone rings. The driver’s ready. They slug back brandy. They leave. As they go Marcus returns to the bedroom. ‘You stay out of this, Zara,’ he says, ‘stay home. You don’t tell nobody nothing.’

  I nod.

  He hesitates, he bends. He kisses me on the cheek. His lips linger. Soft pressure. ‘If it all goes ape, Zara,’ he says. He bends again as if he wants to kiss me properly. His lips brush mine. A bolt of electricity flashes between us. A terrible longing dawns in his eyes. He stops. ‘You were all right. Man could’ve got to like you, whoever you were, you-get-me, Angel?’

  He leaves.

  I sit there. Staring at the floor. But not for long. I’m not staying. I must see this night to its end. I stand. I take in a deep breath. It’ll be cold. I drag a jacket from Marcus’s wardrobe. I go to the front room. I look at the mess. I look at the bags. I pull the Angel of Death costume out from behind the sofa. I hold it up: a long black shift and wings that strap on over the top.

  It’ll fit. I slip on the shift. I put the jacket over the top of it. It’s thick and kind of lumpy. It’s leather and padded. I strap the angel wings over everything.

  I twirl in the hall mirror. The black feathers stand rigid on my back. The long raiment is itchy nylon, the jacket is warm. I pull up the hood of the jacket. I put the five-pound note in my pocket. I have to go. I’m going.

  But before I leave the flat, there’s one last thing I must do. I find the note Jasmine left. I find the house phone. I’ve never used a phone before. It takes a few tries, but at last I understand. I call Jasmine.

  ‘Hello,’ she says.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say, ‘Zara.’

  ‘Hi honey,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t go to The Mass nightclub tonight,’ I say.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘but it’s a surprise . . . how did you know . . .’

  ‘Please,’ I say, ‘I can’t tell you more.’

  ‘It’s Marcus, isn’t it?’

  I nod. I can’t speak. Tears catch my throat.

  ‘That’s why you were so upset? That’s why you were waiting outside the flat?’

  ‘Your blind date was the Crow,’ I whisper. ‘It’s a set up . . .’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she cries. ‘Does Marcus know? Of course he knows . . . Are they going to hit the club . . . they are, aren’t they?’

  I can’t say anything except, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I won’t go,’ she says. ‘I’ll call Marcus. I didn’t know .
. .’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.

  ‘God bless you, Zara,’ she says.

  I put the phone down.

  Outside the road is empty. I need to hurry. I must get there in time. I start to run. They went in a car. They’ll be there already. A car?

  A minicab.

  There’s one by the Halloween shop. I have money now. I race to the corner. Past the clothes store. Past the cleaners. Past the pharmacy; here it is: the minicab office.

  ‘The Mass nightclub,’ I pant.

  ‘We’re pretty busy,’ says the girl.

  ‘How much?’ I say.

  ‘It’s Halloween,’ she says as if this affects the fare.

  ‘I’ve only got five,’ I say.

  ‘Do ya mind being dropped off before the park? I’ve got a driver going northside just now.’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Then I can do it for cheap – it’s the one-way system, you see.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ I say.

  I’m in the cab. And we’re away. Streets flash past. Traffic lights flick from amber to red. The roar of the engine. The boxy thing starts talking. I look at it. Beside it on the driver’s mirror something catches my eye. Something is hanging from it. Two furry dice and a glint of gold. A chain. And swinging from it a small golden crucifix. I recognise it immediately. It’s mine. It’s my crucifix.

  I reach forward. The driver sees me. ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ He gives it a flick. ‘Got it off another cabby for a tenner. Chain’s broken, but I bet it’s worth a lot more.’

  He doesn’t know its worth. I just look at it.

  It’s a sign.

  ‘Kamuel,’ I whisper, ‘are you there? You said you wouldn’t desert me. Don’t desert me.’

  We slice round corners, spin down side streets and suddenly I feel a mad, crazy rush of hope.

  I get down behind the park. I pay the driver. The streetlights are orange. I run along the empty street. My black feathered wings flap behind me. I pull the jacket tight. This is it.

  I leap across the gutters.

  I step through the city.

  I’m coming.

  For Marcus.

  Zara 15

  HALLOWEEN reads the neon sign: COSTUMES ONLY. LADIES’ NIGHT. I walk straight in, past the chairs and tables, past the people, past the bar and bouncers’ desk. Someone yells, ‘It’s over-sixteens, but if you wanna drink you gotta show your I.D. and get a wristband.’ He waves a handful of lime-green wrist tags. I don’t want to drink. I jump down the stairs, dodging couples, past the big mirror, sidestepping revellers. I do not stop. I do not look at myself. I duck behind figures in costume: wizards, goblins and one huge green Frankenstein.