Bad Cow (Oræl Rides to War Book 1)

by Andrew Hindle

  “There’s more than this planet, the animals and plants on it. I don’t just mean other planets, I don’t know about that, but … there’s something outside. It’s just…” he made a frustrated gesture. “I can’t explain it. I don’t know.”

  Now that the floodgates had opened, however, Barry could say I don’t know as many times as he liked and it wouldn’t make a difference. There was a babble of questions, ranging from Genesis to crucifixes to Adam and Eve to Tommo’s dead grandmother and if she had a message for anybody back on Earth. Barry began to look beleaguered.

  “Shouldn’t we, uh, call the police or something?” Nutter asked in a wavery voice. He was one of the quieter and more sensible of the team – having been the one to think of getting a blanket for Barry – and had actually gone so far as to pull out a couple of coins from his pocket. The clubhouse had a phone, but the rules around using it were so convoluted and unjust that the team generally went to the payphone out in the carpark.

  “Sure,” Barry said with a shrug, “call the police and let them know there was a meteorite, and call the owners and let them know the pitch got fucked up. I don’t think there’s anything in the crater that’s going to give the game away,” he looked thoughtful. “Of course,” he added, “if they do come around with Geiger counters and shit, the whole thing might look like a hoax you guys have done.”

  “Fuck,” Little Phil said. “Like we rooted the cricket pitch, then made a fake meteorite crater to cover it up.”

  “I’m a little scared at how quickly you arrived at that conclusion, Cap,” Seam said.

  “Were we supposed to have faked that fire trail and the cloud formation and stuff?” Tommo asked. “I think paying for new turf would have been cheaper.”

  “That depends on whether anyone else saw the fire trail and cloud formation,” Nutter replied, “and whatever happens, we’re getting close to the cut-off for calling the cops – I mean, the point where they’ll start to say ‘why didn’t you call us sooner?’.”

  “What is that cut-off?” Tommo inquired. “For those of us who haven’t planned a murder before?”

  While half of the team unbelievably seemed to forget there was an Angel in the room and fell into a debate about what their response to the hole in the cricket pitch should be, the other half turned back to the Angel.

  “How often do people get kicked out?” Seam asked meekly. “Out of – of Heaven?”

  “I don’t know,” Barry said with a sigh, then blinked as though surprised by an unexpected thought. “I do know there are seven of us, though,” he continued with a smile.

  “Bloody – you mean all the people who got killed in the Duxworth…?” Seam exclaimed.

  Barry blinked again, and shook his head. “No, that – no,” he said. “That must be a coincidence, I don’t … seven people?” he frowned. “The elevator crashed with six other people in it?”

  “Oh,” Seam said.

  “Oh, right,” Tommo appended, turning his attention from the pitch debate. “Yeah, you weren’t the only one who died in the accident.”

  “You don’t remember the elevator?” Seam asked.

  “No,” Barry replied. “Like I said, I only remember driving out there. I thought I’d crashed the car, remember?”

  “Right. Yeah. Uh, there were actually only five other people in the elevator with you,” Seam said. “The seventh guy was a janitor in the basement who got creamed by a bunch of flying machinery.”

  “Ouch,” Barry said, then shook his head again. “Well, it must be a coincidence,” he went on. “I’m pretty sure the other six Angels have been around for a long time, but–” he waved a hand.

  “You only know it by instinct?” Seam asked.

  “Exactly.”

  The arguing-about-the-pitch delegation seemed to have reached a decision. “What do you do when the cops arrive?” Little Phil asked Barry.

  “I … guess I stay out of sight,” Barry replied. “Don’t need that sort of complication, do we?”

  “And what do you do for the rest of your … however long you’re down here for?” Tommo asked quietly. “What are you down here to do?”

  Barry grinned at Tommo. “As to that,” he said, “I have about as much idea as the rest of you.”

  HARK, THE ARCHANGEL GABRIEL ENTERS, STAGE LEFT

  Finally, Nutter went out to call the police. There were a few people gathered around the crater by this stage, he reported when he came back in, and he’d detoured to exchange notes with them a little.

  “They came from the flats across the way,” Nutter told them, “they heard the thunder and saw the weird cloud, one of them saw the … meteorite…” he belaboured carefully, “but only a couple of them saw any of us out there before they came down and came across the field. None of them saw Nails. I think they reckon we came in here to hide from more meteorites since the first one landed so close to where we were standing.”

  “Fuck that,” Little Phil said, all challenged masculinity. “What did the cops say?”

  “You know,” Nutter replied with a shrug. “Keep your distance this, for your own safety that, don’t handle any of the meteorite fragments, make sure there’s no smouldering coals about to start a fire, they’ll be here in ten minutes. I think they’re going to send a special team.”

  Little Phil grunted. “Did you call the owners?”

  “Called ‘em,” Nutter said. “Rang out.”

  “Oh well, we tried,” Little Phil dusted his enormous hands. “I guess we should go back out, hang around and rubberneck a bit, and then let the cops know what happened. At least then we can tell ‘em we talked to the cops, and our story checks out,” he looked at Barry. “Still dunno what we’re going to say to the cops if they come in here and find an extra from a bollocks-out nativity scene.”

  Barry laughed. “Alright,” he said, rising to his feet and juggling with the blanket for a while before he managed to get his wings raised and refolded out of the way and the blanket around his waist like a scruffy tartan beach towel. “I guess I’ll, uh,” he stood there, smiling vaguely, and Seam realised his poor recently-dead mate had absolutely no idea what he was going to do next.

  “Maybe I can give him a lift home,” he offered. “My car’s up at the dark end of the carpark, we can go out through the back and nobody’ll notice us.”

  “Home to your place or home to Nails’s place?” Nutter asked.

  Seam looked at Barry helplessly. Barry still looked lost. Then, as had happened when he’d remembered about the six other Angels, his expression cleared and he smiled as some new realisation dawned on him.

  “Neither,” he said. “It’s going to get complicated if we start coming and going from my place using the spare keys or whatever. There’s nothing I think I really need there. That part of my life is … well, over. Literally.”

  “So…?” Seam prompted.

  “Preston Point Anglican,” Barry said.

  “That little church opposite the Bad Cow?” Seam frowned.

  “I knew it,” Tommo said fervently. “A church.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Barry said, “I just got this feeling, this – this instinct about where I needed to be, and I know Preston Point Anglican, at least sort of. It doesn’t need to be a church, just consecrated ground to some religion or other. If you know a synagogue or mosque or a circle of Celtic standing stones that’s easier to drive to–”

  “Why?” Tommo asked. “How do you know? Is it like a homing pigeon? Is it like, like a whale’s migration instinct? Or is it like a message, some sort of signal you’re receiving–”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never been a pigeon or a whale, you daft cunt,” Barry said in amusement. “It’s not a message. It’s just … I just feel more comfortable thinking that’s where I’m headed. There are places I feel like I belong, and I can be outside them – sometimes, for a while – but I need to go back there. Maybe it’s just psychological,” he shrugged. “Like, I know I’m an Angel and I’ve been broug
ht up to think that means a certain religious thing, so religious places automatically seem like the right places for me to be. The closest thing available on Earth.”

  “Alright, get him out of here before he tries to explain anything else,” Little Phil growled. “You’re bloody shocking, Nails.”

  “Sorry.”

  “There are more people out there now,” Nutter reported, “and I think they can tell we’re all gathered in here. We should get out there and at least look a bit curious.”

  “Yeah,” Little Phil bristled as only Little Phil could, “and not fuckin’ hiding in here from meteorites.”

  “Bad Cow after work tomorrow,” Tommo said, snapping his fingers and forking them at Barry and Seam. “To be continued. If we have to cross the street and invade the church–”

  “Soon as I know anything, I’ll tell you guys,” Barry protested. The rest of the Sheepbreezers didn’t look like they necessarily believed a word of this, but they all filed out one by one. There was many a backward glance and muttered good to have you back, Nails … but there were almost as many fearful looks and damn-near-self-crossings.

  Sheesh, Seam thought, one Angel shows up and suddenly we all regress fifteen hundred years.

  It was a whole new challenge to get Barry into the passenger seat of Seam’s Holden Premier, and after a few false starts the Angel opted to tumble into the rubbish-strewn back seat instead. The passenger seat was flatly impossible anyway, since one wing would inevitably get slammed in the door and the other would get in the way of the gearstick. He could, however, sit uncomfortably in the middle of the back seat, leaning forward with his wings folded awkwardly behind him.

  “You alright back there, chief?” Seam asked.

  “Check it out,” Barry replied as the Holden rumbled to life, “you’ve finally got an Angel in the back seat of your car.”

  “That was pretty bad.”

  “Had to be said though.”

  They cruised out along the winding road that led around the field and between the blocks of flats, and didn’t encounter any police or special meteorite-analysing teams coming the other way. Soon they were out on the highway.

  Barry was rustling in the back seat, feathers against fast food wrappers and fake leather. “Your middle seatbelt’s still busted,” he complained.

  “Yeah,” Seam chuckled. “What, did you think I was just waiting for you to die so … so I could go out and get it fixed?” saying the words, waiting for you to die, turned out to be unexpectedly difficult and Seam had to pause to control a wobble in his voice. “Anyway,” he went on, “what happens if we crash and you go flying through the windscreen? Would it be a case of ‘you again?’, or would the big rubber stamp in the sky realise there’d been a cock-up and keep you this time?”

  Barry subsided with a grumble.

  It was a fifteen-minute drive into the outskirts of Fremantle, and the haphazard collection of random gift shops, travel agencies, bars and clubs that surrounded Preston Point Anglican Church. The church and its tiny attendant graveyard had been there for decades, almost as long as Fremantle Prison although it wasn’t one of the classic settlement buildings. The other properties had divided and subdivided and developed around it in clusters, until it was like a little Nineteenth-Century oasis of in the middle of … well, there was a pub / restaurant / late-night cigar lounge called the Bad Cow directly opposite. That said it all, really.

  “Take us into the yard,” Barry instructed, leaning forward between the seats and pointing. He gave an odd little shiver as they drove across the boundary. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, this is … I don’t get it, but this feels like the right place to be.”

  “Okay, you feathery fortune cookie,” Seam said. There were only two parking places in the yard, one marked for service vehicles, and the other … “There’s someone home,” he said, pointing at the well-cared-for Volkswagen beetle.

  “Yeah,” Barry said again, “that’ll be the vicar, or whatever he’s called. You can park in the other one, if you want to come in,” he grinned, still leaning between the seats. “I’m not sure how easy it’s going to be, but I’m going to have to ask the holy man to let me live here, at least for the time being.”

  Seam didn’t ask why Barry needed to live in a church. He wasn’t sure he was currently prepared to hear the answer – and suspected, in any case, Barry would be unable to offer anything like a satisfactory explanation. “You’d think an Angel getting permission to live in a church would be one of those automatic things.”

  Barry chuckled. Seam parked, the Holden gurgled into silence, and they sat there for a moment in quiet reflection.

  “I’m glad I’m back, Seamster,” Barry said. He patted Seam’s shoulder. “I’m sure I’ve missed you for the past couple of weeks, even if I don’t remember it.”

  “We missed you too, Nails,” Seam said, once again finding himself struggling against tears he hadn’t managed to shed in the thirteen days between his friend’s death and the appearance of this dazzling new version of him. He couldn’t have said why he hadn’t been able to cry. Perhaps it was as simple as it not being the blokey thing to do, or perhaps – just perhaps – he’d been waiting. Waiting until it was real. “I’m glad you’re back, mate.”

  “Was it you who gave the eulogy?” Barry asked. “My eulogy, I mean, obviously. Or … it wasn’t Tommo, was it?”

  “No, it … it was the – the factory sort of took care of all the funeral arrangements and sorted out the fees and stuff with the insurance company,” Seam said, feeling suddenly and acutely embarrassed, and wishing he didn’t have to continue the explanation. “It … it didn’t seem like our place…” he concluded miserably.

  “Wasn’t your place? Bloody Hell, Seam,” Barry said, sounding sad. “So, what, I guess it was Julie from PR?”

  “Uh, she was in Bali…?” Seam said, not entirely sure why he was turning the statement into a question. “Her assistant–”

  “Bloody Hell.”

  “We did sort of collaborate on a bit of a … we just didn’t really get a chance to – we didn’t think it would, you know, hit the right tone,” he didn’t have the heart to add that Julie’s assistant had delivered a eulogy of such dramatically wrong tone, Tommo and The Gynae-seam-ocologist could hardly have done worse. “Sorry.”

  “Come on,” Barry said after a squirming moment of shame, and gave Seam another pat on the arm – more of a hearty clap this time. “Let’s go and give the good father an epiphany.”

  “Alright.”

  “Next time I die, though, you’re giving the bloody eulogy.”

  “Yeah,” Seam said, “right. Next time.”

  Seam had never been in a church after nightfall. In fact, before Barry’s simple fuzzy-denominational cremation thing on the weekend, the last time he’d been in a church at all had been Nutter’s wedding in ’88. He wasn’t sure if churches had opening hours, or if God was assumed to be there all the time and the vicar on duty had to be ready for confessions and Hail Marys and emergency exorcisms at any tick of the clock. He also wasn’t sure if Anglicans did any of that stuff.

  It was gloomy in the entryway to the church, but the front door didn’t seem to have been locked. Seam followed the huge glimmering shape of the Angel’s folded wings as Barry preceded him inside, still wearing nothing but Nutter’s blanket around his waist.

  Seam didn’t get a good look at what happened next, but as Barry opened the inner door and stepped into the main chamber with the pews in – the nave, Seam thought but wasn’t sure – there was a swift movement in the shadows. The vicar, or somebody else entirely, moved in and confronted Barry like he was a burglar. Not an entirely unjustified reaction, but like their opening hours Seam had never really stopped to think about church security measures. At the same time, Barry’s wings swept open as though to shield Seam from harm, further blocking his view.

  They blocked his view, in fact, of almost the entire church. Seam hadn’t appreciated, in the past hour or so, ju
st how enormous Barry’s wings were, but their overall span must have been well over five metres, perhaps as much as six, or even more. Whether or not that was enough to satisfy terrestrial laws of aerodynamics – while he was now able to confirm that Barry’s torso was less flabby and more muscular than it had been, Seam still rather doubted he had the power required to flap such giant limbs and achieve flight – it was a mass of feathers capable of effortlessly dominating a room. Seam was frankly shocked they’d managed to fold into the back of his car, spacious though the Holden was, with enough room to fit Barry in between them.

  “Gozu goa?” a rough voice spoke, evidently originating from whoever it was who’d confronted them. “Gozu goa, yala Pinian?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Barry said in the firm, clear voice of someone speaking to an obscurely threatening foreigner.

  “Gafanda goa, ja’Moskin Stormburgña? Ja’yala Pinian?”

  “Speak – English.”

  “Fine,” the voice expelled in a gravelly sigh. “I might have been over-optimistic about the Xidh … did you communicate with Moskin Stormburg? Do you have a message? Do you remember your past lives?”

  “Wait, slow down,” Barry said, “one thing at a time. What – who are you?” the Angel finally half-lowered his wings, allowing Seam to peer past him at the individual that had apparently been lying in wait for them in the church.

  Seam’s immediate impression was that Barry had been right the first time. What are you was a far more appropriate question.

  The creature standing in front of them was barely shoulder-tall to Seam, probably no more than one and a half metres in height even if it stood up straight – which it may have been physiologically incapable of doing. It was clothed in a heavy set of robes that looked black in the church’s shadows, but were slightly lighter than the hair that seemed to cover the majority of the figure’s exposed parts. Those parts that weren’t covered in dark robe or darker hair seemed to gleam slightly, like polished leather, slightly-wrinkled and black as tar.