Gabriel's Angel

by Mark A Radcliffe

  Peter turned and walked slowly toward the door.

  ‘Peter,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you?’

  Christopher turned and looked at the old man waiting to leave. He had set off a chain of events by straying from the path—the last thing any angel should do. But there was no need to lie as well. He shook his head. ‘Not really, no.’

  Christopher looked back at the screen and thought of Gabriel, Gabriel as he had been in his hospital bed, with Ellie at the door and Kevin dressed as a nurse.

  ‘How do we know,’ he asked tentatively, staring at Gabriel on the screen in front of him and willing Peter not to open the door, ‘that we are still doing good?’

  52

  Kevin hadn’t needed an incentive, but Clemitius had given him one anyway.

  ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways’ mantra’d Clemitius. ‘There are times when only someone with special skills can serve him.’

  Gabriel was not engaging with the group in an appropriate way, Clemitius had reasoned, and whilst he seemed to have persuaded Christopher that the best way to help him with that was to show him the life he was no longer living, Clemitius knew better.

  ‘I would like you to help him to die,’ Clemitius said matter-of-factly, when Kevin was left alone at the dinner table. ‘Could you do that? If you were back on Earth?’

  ‘Of course,’ Kevin had said, biting his lip and not saying ‘It would be my pleasure.’ But it was his pleasure.

  ‘Just go to bed this evening and you will wake up in the hospital. The rest is up to you,’ Clemitius had said.

  Returning to life did not feel strange; Kevin had never had a firm enough grip on whatever reality he inhabited for a radical change to feel strange. He walked the corridors of the hospital and wondered if this killing might be more than a simple task, if it might prove to be his redemption. Perhaps some time tidying up bits of life that the angels were unhappy with would not just keep him out of hell, but would eventually lead him to heaven?

  He didn’t think about it too much of course, in case an all-knowing God noticed. And anyway, he didn’t think too much generally.

  He knew that if the regular staff found him on the ward they would ask him what he was doing, and so he waited. In the middle of the day—the time he had suggested to Clemitius when he had been asked when would be the appropriate time for him to ‘do his thing’—all of the staff ending their shift met with the staff starting theirs for a handover. The ward was all but empty apart from a support worker and a student nurse. Kevin waited for them both to take someone to the toilet and slipped into Gabriel’s room.

  He felt nothing, looking at the man in the bed. The sallow, empty face. Gabriel’s skin gleamed as if, unable to do anything else with him, the nurses had polished him like an apple. Kevin thought about smothering him with a pillow. He liked the idea because he wanted to feel whatever life was left in Gabriel leave through his hands. But he was, he reminded himself—despite being dead—still a professional.

  There were two transparent tubes leading into Gabriel. One from a bag on a stand into his arm, the other from a machine into his chest. The one leading to his arm had a steady drip from the bag with a purple wheel at the point where the tube met the bag. Kevin turned the wheel and the drip accelerated. He turned it some more and it became a stream. He squeezed the bag hard and the stream became a steady flow.

  He looked hard at Gabriel. He saw yellow skin wrapped around a man he had come to dislike. A man who kept reminding him not only why he did what he did for a living, but why he had spent his life on the outside of almost everything, even what people called human. Well, maybe now he was in the right place. Maybe now he was seeing what people meant when they talked about a ‘grand plan’. He was part of something he had never imagined. And it even played to his strengths.

  As he stared, he played with the purple wheel on the drip bag absentmindedly, turning it on and off and then full on again. He looked up and stared out of the window. London was grey; it looked like a painting and he hated paintings, and he might even have said something to the city if he had not heard Ellie come in.

  She was pretty, he thought. Puffy round the face, especially the cheekbones, and she could use some make up, but quite pretty. ‘I’ll be back to check that in a while,’ he said and turned away as he made for the door. It occurred to him that that was a clever thing to say. Authentic. And he wondered if he only ever said the right thing when he was killing people or if this was something that had happened to him since he had joined the angels.

  Because in his mind, at that moment, that was what he had done: joined the angels.

  53

  It was nearly eight pm. when Michael finally got into central London. He had decided to go home rather than to see Julie, but when the time came to steer away from the hospital, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Instead he drove into the West End, parked up in Bloomsbury and found himself sitting in the car, listening to the end of a Nick Cave CD. He ejected it, put it in its case, and slipped it into the bag with the other stuff he had decided would constitute the first wave of nostalgia. As he did so the radio came on, and he distractedly listened to something on the news about an explosion in Norfolk: several people dead and the surrounding area being evacuated because of an ugly green toxic cloud that was making the sheep cough. Fire officers said the explosion could be seen as far away as Cambridge.

  It didn’t really register as significant; Michael’s mind was elsewhere. Later he might shiver at the thought of what might have been, more likely still he might get drunk with Matthew and listen to his old friend curse fate, James Buchan and Adam Aldanack. But Michael would never be so dishonest as to imagine that any grief felt would belong to him. And these things, if they came, would come later.

  He grabbed his bag and walked quickly toward the hospital. Of course, visiting hours were over, but the staff had been flexible and he was pretty sure that Lynne would be there. Anyway, he wanted to see Julie again, maybe play her some songs, tell her about Brenda. Probably just look at her for a while.

  He was right: Lynne was there; she smiled when he came in. He raised his eyebrows, which was enough to ask if there had been any change. She shrugged and shook her head. He looked at Julie—the bruising around her face was healing and, without the expressions of life or the trauma that had shrouded her immediately after the accident, she looked younger. And thinner. In fact her body seemed to be retreating into the mattress. And she looked peaceful, which made Michael look away. He didn’t want to think of her as being at peace.

  ‘I didn’t get anything from James’s place in the end. I thought about what you said, and I spent more time at Brenda’s than I expected.’

  Lynne was looking through the CDs, nodding. She took the green cardigan out of the bag. ‘I bought her this years ago,’ she whispered.

  ‘Really smells of her,’ said Michael.

  Lynne put the cardigan beside Julie and smiled. ‘Now, what music shall we play first?’

  54

  Christopher did as he had done before. He called on the group members and asked them to come with him. He imagined that Julie, Gabriel, and Yvonne sensed his sadness, his fear. He walked between the bruised and embittered Kevin and Gabriel to ensure no further violence could occur. Not that Kevin was in any sort of position to do anything. His head and hands were heavily bandaged and he was limping slowly. People left the physical pain of life—and in Kevin’s case, death—behind them when they came there, but they got to keep whatever they experienced with the angels.

  As Clemitius said, ‘We don’t want to encourage any of that dissociation nonsense.’ So Kevin was going to be aching for quite a while.

  The rest of the group couldn’t have cared less. They didn’t say very much. Julie caught Christopher’s arm as they walked down the corridor, heading for the same door that he had led them to on their first day.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she whispered.

  His mouth was
too dry to say anything so he smiled, touched by her concern.

  Outside the light was beautiful. Full of freshness and the promise of new beginnings. Christopher took a deep breath. He never tired of light, even when it was incongruous. As before, other groups and other angels were gathered in a semi-circle, and it struck Christopher that he would feel embarrassed when Peter called him. He smiled to himself, and thought, It’s funny, you can live for a thousand years or more, you can be taught to look for meaning in the lives of others and to develop insight into yourself and your own feelings about the world, but it can still come as a surprise to remember that you are at heart, quite shy.

  Peter emerged from the quiet but attentive crowd. Dead strangers watching with a dulled curiosity. They were all now in therapy and aware of the limitations that faced them. They were less capable of surprise. Peter looked around him. Everything went quiet. Clemitius came and stood beside Christopher and Kevin, staring straight at Peter. He looked the way he looked in the group, smug and unsympathetic. As Peter began to speak, Christopher took a small step forward.

  ‘Hello again,’ Peter said softly. ‘I seem to recall saying recently that this kind of gathering was not normal, and yet here we are once more.’ He looked around. ‘This … experiment … in helping has not always run smoothly. Like many projects, it has brought out the best and the worst in many of us.’ His eyes rested for a moment on Gabriel and Christopher.

  ‘Sometimes when we look at the world we see …’ he paused. ‘No, let’s not blame the world. People and angels have more in common than perhaps we realise. All of us, after all, are looking for meaning. People look for it on earth; we look for it in the tasks we are given by God. But I think that maybe the best of us are the ones who can live well without answers. Living with not knowing what is true, or what is going to happen to us, is the test we all face. Inventing answers, resolving conflict …’

  And then his voice grew quieter. ‘It is a type of retreat, a retreat from the glorious uncertainty that is life. And when we do it badly, poor therapists who want to write people’s lives like children’s stories, or false gods who send stupid rules to earth for people to do bad things with … then it is a wrong … nearly wicked. Life is precious, beautiful and precious and chaotic. It should never be crushed.’

  ‘I think Peter has been drinking,’ whispered Clemitius. ‘This is embarrassing.’

  It’s true that it wasn’t like Peter: he looked uncomfortable. Christopher didn’t want that to be the last thing he saw. He took a step toward Peter, hoping to remind him why they were there. Trying to help him. Peter turned and faced Christopher, raising his hand to stop him. He stared into his eyes and smiled. Christopher stood still.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to burden you all with my rambling and no doubt unhelpful thoughts, although … I believe we should ask ourselves more questions than we are accustomed to, about whether what we do is good or bad.’ He sighed. ‘Let us return to the task at hand. We are here again for a banishment.’

  He turned to Christopher and the group. ‘You really should know who you are.’

  Christopher took a step forward. Behind him Gabriel and Julie both stepped forward, too. ‘Hang on,’ said Julie.

  ‘No Christopher, not you,’ said Peter. ‘Clemitius, step forward. And bring that murderer with you, please.’ Clemitius didn’t move. He just stood there staring. Then he slowly turned to Christopher and Gabriel, his fat lips dry and trembling.

  Gabriel said, ‘That nice man up there just called your name.’

  Clemitius edged forward. Kevin stood still.

  The silence was broken by Yvonne half-shouting, ‘Excuse me, when you said, “Bring that murderer with you please,” did you mean this murderer here? The one who in fact murdered me, or are there others present? Because if there are others, you need to be more specific; if not, well this one’s name is Kevin. We call him Kevin the Killer.’ And she shoved him hard in the back.

  Clemitius and Kevin walked slowly forward. Kevin limped even more heavily; Clemitius, head bowed, looking for some confidence, some understanding. They made their way to Peter, who looked past them toward the rest of the group.

  ‘Surely there has been a mistake,’ said Clemitius.

  ‘There have been thousands, I suspect,’ said Peter. ‘But yours is the one I’m interested in today. You sent this, this—man—back to earth to kill another man out of spite. I don’t know what you think you are, but whatever it is, you are wrong.’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ whispered Clemitius.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It was them …’

  ‘You are an arrogant fool.’ Peter turned to Kevin. ‘And you, you don’t belong here. You belong elsewhere.’ And Kevin vanished into nothingness, leaving nothing, nothing at all. ‘Do you have anything to say?’ Peter asked tightly.

  ‘I think … I think you seem angry, Peter, and I am wondering if maybe you are putting that anger somewhere it doesn’t belong. Christopher … . It was Christopher who took the group away from what they should have been doing, and it was me who tried to bring them back to the project. I did what I did—and let’s face it, I only moved us a step nearer the inevitable—in order to focus the group’s attention on the important matters. That is what we are doing here, that is our project, a project to cleanse and help them. I think this process throws up a lot of feelings, but we need to be clear about where they belong before we act upon them … .’

  ‘I am deeply disappointed in you, and angry, and sickened. I believe those to be appropriate and healthy responses in the face of what you have done. And it seems to me that you are failing to reflect on your actions, your responsibilities, and your moral obligations. Now, one of the benefits of banishment, for you, will be an eternity to reflect. And for us? We just won’t have to listen to this overly refined, bloodless, and soulless twaddle ever again. You are banished.’

  Peter looked at the lake. After a moment’s pause, Clemitius started to walk slowly toward the black flat water. As he got the edge he hesitated.

  ‘What will happen to him?’ whispered Julie.

  ‘Nobody knows for sure,’ Christopher said. ‘He will live on earth, although not as he is now.’

  ‘Might he go back as a cow?’ asked Yvonne. They looked at her.

  ‘I was just wondering,’ she said. ‘To me there was always something cow-like about him.’

  Clemitius put his foot in the water and the skies grew cloudy. He waded in until he disappeared. He didn’t look back—hardly caused a ripple. After a few moments the crowd began to disperse. Gabriel and the remnants of the group stood quietly until they were the last ones left outdoors.

  Peter walked over.

  ‘I thought it would be me,’ Christopher said.

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Yvonne.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Peter. ‘You are, I’m afraid, dead.’ Gabriel stared at the lake, Yvonne at the ground.

  ‘Julie isn’t,’ Christopher said.

  Julie blushed. ‘I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.’

  ‘Why? Why is it?’ said Gabriel. ‘You just said life is precious and shouldn’t be crushed.’

  Michael and Lynne had tried three CDs and a compilation tape with David Bowie, The Clash, and some very old soul on it. Lynne had told Michael that Julie made tapes for people she liked, but didn’t always give them to them. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she liked listening to them, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What is this Paul Quinn CD?’

  ‘Ahh she loved that, bought it for everybody she knew.’

  ‘Didn’t bloody buy it for me,’ muttered Michael.

  ‘She would have.’

  Michael put it on. A deep, rich voice sang ‘Will I ever be inside of you?’ and Michael listened. The song went on forever: six, seven, eight minutes. It sounded clean and dark; a chopping guitar, some kind of weird opera bridge. Some harmonies. More guitar. What a beautiful vo
ice. ‘Meanwhile, back on earth,’ the singer crooned.

  Michael had listened to it in the car; it had suited the night skyline over the city more than it suited this little dusky room. He imagined being outdoors again, cool air on his face. He imagined a park, lying on his back, looking at the stars, listening to this music with Julie, and her telling him how she came across it, and why it was important that everyone she knew should own it. It was a good song. Michael was tapping his foot.

  And then he heard what sounded like a child coughing, and he looked at Julie, who was looking back.

  The ever-diminishing group stood staring at the black lake in silence, watching the clouds slip away and the bright early autumnal light return. There was no breeze. It was neither warm nor cold. It was as it had been the first time, but without that thin, deluding hope.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Peter said softly. ‘There is nothing we can do. In the scheme of things, a death is merely a death. They happen every day. It is hard for us to experience it as...well, as you do. As something bad.’

  Gabriel stared at him. Tears were running down his cheeks.

  ‘I am truly sorry.’ And he was. It was just a death, and it wasn’t the death of a happy man, which somehow matters to the angels in a way that might not make sense down there. They have a sense of life as being temporary, a sense that too many people appear to have lost. The angels expect it to shine and they expect people to enjoy it if they can. Of course, they are aware that many can’t: the hungry or the pained for example. But mostly it can be done, and if you don’t—well, the view from where the angels stand is that it’s your own damn fault.

  But Christopher had journeyed with Gabriel and had watched Ellie. It was hard not to feel for what they were, and what they wanted to be.

  ‘It was too brutal,’ whispered Gabriel. ‘Too sudden—not complete.’

  ‘Nothing is complete,’ said Peter.

  ‘I mean I didn’t just die. I lingered, I saw. And I was powerless … always powerless.’ Peter didn’t say anything. Christopher did. ‘The flowers.’