The Guardian Angel

by Liam Livings

  Talking to people in nightclubs—how old-fashioned! Why would anyone want to do that?

  A few minutes later, I knew there were fifteen men of varying degrees of attractiveness within five hundred yards of me. I messaged a few of them, waiting for someone to bite. Soon I was in someone’s hallway as he took off my jacket and began to lift my jumper over my head. By this point he stood naked, apart from his brightly coloured and well-branded underpants.

  “I’m a top, but can be versatile. I like BDSM, some water sports, but no brown, and won’t do any barebacking. What about you?” He stared at me.

  “I’m a Virgo,” I replied, smiling weakly.

  “What’s that? I’ve never heard of that before. Is it, like, well kinky?”

  I stared at him, standing in his underwear. This situation could only get better—no way could it get any worse.

  He helped undress me and led me to his bedroom, then handed me some lube, took a condom out of the packet, and said, “Get yourself ready, on all fours is usually easiest for me. Unless you want to be on your back. I don’t mind that, actually. Whatever.” And he was gone, into the bathroom.

  I can’t remember whether I lay on my back or rested on all fours. I remember saying, just before he started, “You got a condom on?”

  To which he mumbled in the affirmative.

  It was pretty unmemorable and over reasonably quickly. Afterwards I lay on my back as he showered. I realised he’d not kissed me once, this whole time. It could have been any number of similar situations I’d been in when I felt horny and needed to scratch that itch.

  Is this the person I want to be for the rest of my life?

  I shouted at him, “Why no kissing?”

  “You what?” he asked, leaving the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “Kissing. You’ve not kissed me.”

  “It’s a bit gay. I don’t do gay things.” He dried himself. “I’m not gay. I have a girlfriend. She’s away at the moment.”

  “You’re not gay?” I sat up on the bed, needing to see his eyes when he spoke to me, for any hint of irony, jokiness.

  “Nope.”

  “You have a Shagman profile, and you’ve just had sex with me. You’ve just fucked me. And you don’t think that’s quite gay? Fucking another man?”

  “When I wank, I only think about women. This is different. Any hole’s a goal.” He laughed.

  “Thanks! No, seriously, you can’t think you’re not at least bisexual? You enjoyed it, didn’t you? You didn’t have to close your eyes and think of Debbie or whatever she’s called?”

  “Oh, no, of course not. I love it. I love watching myself going in and out of an arse.”

  “And you don’t think that’s even a teensy bit gay?”

  “I’ve already said no. I live with a woman. I’m in love with a woman.”

  I grabbed my clothes, threw them on, and left.

  Mister Heterosexual called after me, “Aren’t you gonna have a shower? I thought we could go again if you wanted.”

  I am not this person. This is not the person I want to be. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you just have a wank instead. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of gay porn you can knock one out to. Egyptian swimming, that’s what you’re doing—Egyptian swimming.”

  “How’d you know about the gay porn? Have you been snooping about in my house, you dirty poof?”

  “What did you call me?” I pulled myself up to my full five foot eight, my face right next to his, so I could smell his breath mixing with mine.

  “Nothing.”

  I left. I heard him shouting after me, asking what I meant by Egyptian swimming.

  “In denial, you fucking idiot. In denial,” I shouted back.

  After that, I’d not bothered to scratch the itch when it came. Somehow now, it wasn’t actually scratching the itch. Or I now had a different sort of itch, or something.

  In the first year at uni, girlfriends said I gave gay men a bad name. It was just a game to me: go out, get drunk, see who I went home with. It was like being in a sweet shop, with little jars of men arranged on the shelves. Black men, white men, Spanish men, Chinese men, Indian men. Big muscles, little skinny muscles, tall, short. And no matter how many times I went back to the sweet shop, I was never full; it always left me feeling like I could eat some more.

  Amy used to say all the time, “I hope you’re taking care of yourself! I’m not visiting you in some ward. I’ll fucking slap you if you’re being stupid.”

  And I used to smile and say, “Of course I was.” And I was. Most of the time. Everyone slips up every now and then, don’t they? But every time I’d gone to the clinic, they’d said I was negative, all clear. Lucky, more like. So as I’d got older, I was careful to make sure I was looking after myself.

  Now I looked at the two angels at either side of the mausoleum and reminded myself what the old man had said. Maybe he was right… maybe cemeteries were a good place to reflect and think about your life. Because up to that point, I’d never really thought about the events which had led me to this point in my life. How things I had used to do regularly, now no longer gave me pleasure. How the endless rounds of anonymous sex felt more like a chore than an adventure. How I found myself doing things through a sense of having to—because that’s what Richard does, that’s the person I’ve always been. Only now I wasn’t really sure if I was that person any longer, or if I could be that person any longer.

  If I died, did I want the only thing I’d be remembered for to be that I’d had a good time out, drinking and shagging my way through life? Wasn’t there more to life than this? And if there was, what exactly was it, and where would I find it?

  Certainly not sitting here, on this cold bench in a cemetery.

  Chapter 6

  I repeated my CVs-and-letters approach over the next few days, each time working my way in different directions from my front door. No more white feathers turned up, so I knew for a fact it was just a coincidence. Although I did occasionally check my collection, which I’d started putting in a pint glass I’d nicked from the student union bar years ago, as a dare with Jenny.

  I stood in the bathroom, shaving in front of the mirror, and I noticed the reflection of something through the steamy glass, I turned round. And, of course, there was nothing there.

  I returned to shaving and wiped the mirror with a towel. There, once again, was the reflection of what I now knew was a man.

  Fuck it. I’ve overdosed on my tablets again.

  I splashed my face with water and continued shaving. The dark-haired man was still looking at me from the mirror.

  I’m dreaming; that’s it, I’m dreaming. I put my razor down and pinched my cheek hard. It hurt.

  The well-built, broad man was still smiling at me from the reflection of the mirror.

  “Right, that’s it, what’s going on? Is this some TV programme I’m part of? Some sort of a one-way mirror? You’re spying on me, come on. That’s enough, very funny.” I tapped the mirror.

  The man stepped away, farther back from the mirror.

  I wiped the mist away again with the towel.

  A voice filled the bathroom. “I’m Sky. Nice to meet you, Richard.”

  Fuck it, I am actually going mad. I’m having a psychotic episode. The doctor told me about this in hospital. She said if I started hearing voices, I was to call them and they’d take a look at me. I got the sense that what she really meant was she’d section me, but her smile at the time had reassured me.

  I left the bathroom to find the phone in the hallway. Where’s the hospital’s number?

  Never mind that, I’ll just call 999. They’ll work it out.

  I picked up the phone and dialled nine once—

  “No need to do that, Richard. Just put the phone down. Trust me, it’s all fine.” The voice filled the hallway now.

  Shit, I really am going mad. I’ve actually lost my mind. So this is what it feels like.

  I felt quite relieved, actually. I
t wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it might be. It certainly wasn’t as bad as I’d felt before I went to hospital last time. Not nearly as bad.

  I slumped on the floor next to the phone, with the dialling tone loudly filling the hallway.

  “Just sit down on the floor, Richard, and I’ll explain everything,” the voice said.

  This is it; I’m having another fucking bloody nervous breakdown. I won’t survive this one; I know I won’t. This is it for me. Curtains for Richard. Done, over and out. That’s your lot. Goodnight, Vienna—or North London, actually.

  Hang on a minute… I’m still making some sense here. I’m not having a nervous breakdown. So who is this voice I can hear?

  I opened my eyes, and in the middle of the hall stood a man: naked, hairless torso, obviously a complete gym bunny, nice big arms. A little white tunic thing to cover himself below the waist—a man skirt, I suppose—and leather sandals that came quite far up his legs. Gladiator sandals, I think they’re called. Very fashionable a few summers ago among gay men who were complete fashion victims. Behind him loomed two large white feathery wings, twice the height of his torso. Costume wings, obviously.

  I shook my head. This was not happening. This could not be happening.

  The man spoke again and reached out his hand to help me up. “Richard, there’s no need to be afraid. Just stand up, and I can explain everything.”

  I reached for his hand but mine slipped straight through his. “I doubt that very much,” I replied. “Have you drugged me or something? Is this date rape? Or did you get some of that GHB they’re all doing in the clubs at the moment? How did you get inside my flat? Did I leave the front door open?” I looked into the man’s eyes—a perfect, piercing deep blue. My gaze followed his square jaw line, not a scrap of stubble—shame, I thought, it would be better with a bit of stubble. Then I looked at his wings again as they unfurled, spreading more than six feet across behind his back and taller than he stood. The end of one wing disappeared through the wall.

  Then I knew for definite that I was having a nervous breakdown—and I passed out.

  I woke up, still slumped under the phone table in the hallway. The man sat on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. “All right there, Richard?”

  “Who the fuck are you, and why are you in my house? You can take anything you want. Just don’t hurt me, please.”

  “I’m Sky,” he replied, “and I’m your guardian angel.”

  “Oh yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba. Who do you do for an encore—Cleopatra? Pull the other one. Do I look like I just came down with the last shower?”

  “No, really, I’m Sky, your guardian angel, and I’ve got some explaining to do.”

  I took in what he was wearing. He looked like he’d just stepped off the set of a gay porn film, or one of those improbable American gay dramas that pretend to be all about the story, but really they’re just soft porn. And there was me, not feeling a thing down below. I really must be depressed, or mental, or both. I was a bad gay. I shut my eyes, counted to five, opened them… and he was still there, with his little man skirt, chiselled pecs, and white wings. “Right, fuck it, okay, I’ll bite. Come on, I’ll play. So, Mr Guardian Angel, why are you here, and what do you need to explain to me?”

  “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for months. Those white feathers—the ones you found when there was nothing around with feathers in them….” He raised his eyebrows—perfectly shaped, actually. I was impressed; this was an angel who knew how to look after himself. A good bit of manscaping there.

  “Yes, those, yes, yes, go on.”

  “They were my way of trying to get in touch with you. Only you didn’t seem to take much notice?”

  “I don’t believe in all that fairies, crystals, dreamcatchers crap. I know Amy does, but I didn’t want to upset her, so I just smiled when she explained, and thought ‘It’s bollocks, and it’ll just go away.’”

  “How’s that denial going for you, Richard?” Sky smiled. He had perfect teeth too—like completely show-stopping, perfectly, straight white teeth.

  “Where’d you get your teeth done?” I wanted to know some of his male grooming tips; this was a man I could make use of.

  “Done? What do you mean done?” He tapped his teeth with his finger.

  “They’re perfect. No one’s born with teeth that perfect. No one.”

  “I wasn’t born with them, because I wasn’t born. Angels aren’t born. You see, we just are.”

  “I see,” I replied, even though I didn’t, not even remotely.

  “All that other stuff: the fairies, dreamcatchers, crystals, all that? That is rubbish. Just so we’re clear. But the stuff Amy said about angels, she was pretty much spot on.”

  “Spot on,” eh? Bet he went to public school. “And what else? Assuming I believe that you are my guardian angel, what message, pray, were you trying to send me? Oh bollocks, does this mean you’re sent from God to tell me to repent for my sins? I don’t think I could cope with an eternity in hell. I mean, I sort of always did believe in God. I never said I didn’t; I just wasn’t sure—”

  Sky put his hands in front of my face as if he was trying to stop traffic. “Stop. Calm down. Just listen. I am nothing to do with any religion. Guardian angels are separate from all that. Whether you believe it or not is none of my concern. I’m not here to judge you either, although I must admit, there are a few things you’ve done lately that were a bit questionable.”

  “Can you see everything I do here?” I was terrified of the answer.

  “Everything.”

  “Everything everything?”

  He nodded. “But we are given guidance in the handbook when we’re expected to look the other way, give you your own time. And I’ve always stuck to that guidance. The handbook is very helpful with things like that—questions we new angels may have. The Higher Ones did a good job with the handbook.”

  “Handbook? Now you’re really taking the piss. You’re telling me there’s some handbook that tells you what you can and can’t do as a guardian angel? And I’m supposed to believe that, am I?”

  “Do what you want, but here’s mine.” From behind his back, he produced a large leather-bound book, two foot by one foot, with The Guardian Angel’s Handbook XP Professional printed in medieval swirly gold leaf writing.

  “XP Professional, what’s that about?”

  “The Higher Ones had a lot of trouble keeping up with the Internet and all it has brought. We were okay with the other things: the wheel, telecommunications, TV, radio, aeroplanes, all that. It was fine. The Higher Ones had written it so broadly, luckily we just took it all in our stride. But when the Internet came along, oh dear, that was a challenge. So they’ve done this new version with some additional sections. We’ve even got one about Bebo and Myspace,” he said proudly.

  “Now I know you’re making it up: no one uses those anymore.” I smirked and rolled my eyes. “Bebo and Myspace, is that as up-to-date as it gets?”

  “Are you going to listen to me or what?”

  “All right, keep your halo on! Look at me, getting into the swing. Actually, where is your halo? I can’t see one.”

  “You can’t see it indoors, only when I’m outside. When you’re ready?” He looked at me.

  I nodded back, motioning with my hand for him to continue.

  “You’ve been having a bit of a difficult time lately, with one thing and another, and I want to apologise for that.”

  “Why are you apologising? It’s my life.” I shrugged.

  “It’s my job to make sure your life goes in roughly the right direction, to help you with the little things, from finding a parking space to which university to choose. It’s all down to me. Only I’ve not been very good of late, since I was allocated to you. I said to them, I wasn’t ready. I said it would all end in tears. And it did, with you in hospital. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Water under the bridge,” I replied, not believing a single word this loon was saying
to me.

  “You’re too kind, but if I might explain? I’d only just finished my training when they allocated you to me. I said to them I wasn’t experienced enough to jump straight into looking after an adult. I wanted a little baby to start with, someone to get used to it all. It’s much easier with a baby ’cause they don’t really do an awful lot for themselves that we have to help them with. Their mum’s there for most of it. It’s just the odd little thing, like not falling into table corners when they start walking, that sort of thing. Especially if the parents have good guardian angels, it’s really rather easy, I’ve been told. But with you, it wasn’t quite like that. So that’s why you’ve had so much going wrong lately. I’ve had too much to handle. I escalated it to the Higher Ones, and one of them said it’d work itself out. And that’s when you went to hospital. I’m so sorry.”

  The Higher Ones? What next? “So what am I supposed to do now with this knowledge? Assuming I believe you and this isn’t all a dream.”

  “Well, for starters, you could start listening to my messages. Next time you see a white feather, perfect and large, with nowhere else it could have come from, maybe you need to realise it is a sign. It’s me trying to get in touch about something.”

  “So what happens then? Do I rub the feathers and you’ll appear or something?”

  “I’m not a genie of the lamp, and you’re not Aladdin. It will all become clear.”

  “You know all about me, and I know nothing about you. I want to know everything: what you like, where you grew up, everything.”

  “I didn’t grow up, I just was. Angels aren’t born, nor do they die. They just are, okay?”

  I shrugged. Who was I to argue with that, as I sat on the floor in my hallway, with an angel next to me?

  “I’m called Sky because blue is my favourite colour. Originally I asked for a blue uniform, but they said I could have any colour as long as it was white, so…. I do like the sky, though. I enjoy flying through the sky, as it surrounds me, while I exercise my wings.”