Angel Dust (31 page)

He has ordered me to go.

Then I must leave.

I run.

My side stabs. My breath burns. I gulp in air. I must rest. There's nothing worse than this. Nothing worse than rejection. No pain like Marcus's arm pushing me off.

A world without Marcus.

There's an empty lot ahead. A patch of darkness. I creep through the tin wall around it. I find a lump of concrete. I sit down, shivering. I think I'll die. This human body is very weak. It won't last long. My teeth are chattering. My fingers are white and numb. Soon the numbness will reach my heart. And it will stop.

So this is what it is to be human. To suffer hunger, cold and rejection.

But something inside me won't allow me to die. What, give up so soon? On my first night on Earth? Even Robyn managed eighteen years. If she could bear it that long, I can do one more night.

I will not sit here pitying myself.

I will not lament my lost Serafina.

I have a new self.

I'm Zara now.

With new powers.

I must find those powers.

And use them.

Tomorrow night, I tell myself. You can die tomorrow night, Zara – but not until then.

I set out back along the high street. Someone hurries past me, head down, raincoat pulled tight. He looks at me. He frightens me, and I turn aside. I catch sight of myself in the darkened glass of a shop front: a thin pale face peeps back, its eyes huge, edged about with smudged make-up; thin shoulders, skinny legs. It doesn't look like me. But no matter. I am her and she is me. I will try my best for you, Zara, I tell that pale white face. Together we'll find a way.

Behind my reflection the Halloween masks hang, leering at me from the darkness of the window, their white teeth stretched wide. I look at the teeth, and think of Larry and his treachery.
You will not feast on Marcus's soul
, I vow.
I will warn him of his peril. And I will carry on warning him as long as my voice lasts.

Squaring my shoulders, I turn my back on the devils and the demons and I set out again for Curlston Heights.

Shivering, I retrace my steps. All around water drips. Underfoot pavements slip. My gym pumps are like envelopes of ice. And there are the adamantine doors, shut fast, their grey paint like an omen.

Dare I send up a prayer? Has news of my Fall raced through the streets of Heaven? Is my name whispered in horror? I send up my prayer anyway.
‘Heavenly Father who sits on high, and knowest all things, please forgive your humble servant, Serafina, and send her your grace and blessings. Amen.'
And I make the sign of the cross over myself.

Then I tap 56 into the keypad.

No one answers. Marcus is there. His mother is there. But nobody answers. Timidly my hand hovers over the pad again.

Once more I make the sign of the cross. I press harder: 56.

I wait. The sleet drives against my back. I shiver. I'm no longer steady. A noise? Has someone come?

‘What?' says a tinny voice. It's Marcus's mother.

‘Please,' I say, ‘for pity's sake.'

‘Do you have any idea what time it is?' she says.

‘No,' I say. I don't. In Heaven time is not important. Up until now time has only been a schedule to Collect souls by. But I hear from the tone in her voice it
is
important. And I know she's right. Time is a schedule and Marcus's soul is on it.

‘It's five past four,' she snaps. ‘It's the middle of the night.'

‘I'm sorry,' I say. There's a tiny note of kindness in her voice that wasn't there yesterday. As if she understands what drives me to stand here in the early-morning cold and ring her doorbell. I want to appeal to it, fall on my knees to it, beg her to let me see Marcus.

‘Listen,' she says, ‘just go home.'

The tinny rattle of her voice fades. I hear another voice, a lovely, sweet high-flowing voice. It trills over the scruff and echo. I hear them talking, low, urgent whispers. ‘
Her again
.' ‘
You go back to bed. Try and sleep
.' ‘
Let me talk to her.
' The sound of sighing, a door closing. I wait.

‘Hello?' says this new voice.

‘Hello,' I say.

‘Are you the girl who was waiting outside all yesterday?'

‘Yes,' I say.

‘You poor thing,' she says. ‘You can't just camp outside our block, you know.'

‘No,' I say. I know I can't. The sound of her sweet voice makes me realise how friendless I am. ‘Please,' I say, ‘it's so important.'

She knows from my voice how important it is.

‘You better come up.' She sighs. ‘We need to chat.'

The buzzer on the steel grille goes.

‘What do I do?' I say, my voice hardly daring to believe.

‘Just push on the door,' says the sweet one, ‘and take the lift to Level Five. We're number 56.'

‘Yes,' I whisper as the door opens. ‘Thank you.'

I press on the paintwork. I push open the grey adamantine doors and I'm in. I can't believe it. I can't even guess what it means.
I'm inside Curlston Heights.

Quickly I stumble to the back of the foyer. There are the lift shafts. I remember how I adored lifts, how they clang around you, how they make your skin flutter. I step inside. The doors slide and clash. I'm encased inside steel. A prison. I'm scared. I'm scared to see Marcus again, scared he'll reject me, scared of what I've done. I punch in Level Five.

The lift rises. I tremble.

At the fifth floor it shakes to a halt. The doors clang open. I step out into the dark corridor. A low light flickers on. I look up at the door numbers.

‘Here,' hisses a voice. Down the dim corridor I see a door has opened, a silhouette is outlined against it. I hasten towards it.

In the half light I slip into number 56 Curlston Heights. The figure, dark by the door, whispers, ‘Be really quiet, everyone's asleep.'

I'm really quiet. I'm so quiet I float over the scratched plastic flooring. I tiptoe into a hall. Inside it's dark. I feel carpet thick beneath my feet, a small hand in mine. I'm led into the front room.
I'm inside.
There is the three-piece suite, the shelving unit, the sofa and chairs angled in outline around the rug, round the TV. Through those doors – down that corridor, Marcus is there.

The girl softly closes the door. I know who she is. I know her voice. I know her step. It's Jasmine – Marcus's youngest sister, not the tall, beautiful, haughty one but the elfin one who went with Marcus to St Jude's, who was so helpful at the funeral. I'm so lucky. I know how good she is. She switches on a side light. She takes my hand again. She leads me to the sofa and still holding on to me, she pats the seat next to her.

‘Oh, look at you, you poor thing,' she says. ‘You look half starved. Don't say a word. I'm going to fix you a lovely cup of tea and a hot toasted sandwich and you are going to dry out and warm yourself by the fire.'

She flicks on the electric fire and a sudden rush of fake orange coals light up. False shadowy flames dance out from the look-alike marble fireplace. But best of all a sudden rush of air, thick and warming.

‘But please be very, very quiet,' she whispers. ‘Mum is going through a rotten time. My brother got shot the week before last. He should have died; his best friend did. She's nearly beside herself with worry, and she needs to rest.'

‘OK,' I whisper.

And she tiptoes out of the front room. I hear her moving down the hall. I hear some clicking and the soft purr of an electric kettle. I look around the room. There are the photos of Marcus: Marcus as a baby, Marcus with his arms round his mum, Marcus in a football team, Marcus posing like the Original Badman, Marcus in dark glasses. Marcus looking manly.

Marcus.

I feel tears aching at the back of my throat, but they are very far away. I won't let them fall now; to burden this troubled family with my sorrows more than I have already. I just look at the photos and admire the curve of his arm and the strength in his jaw. I long for the touch of those strong hands. I think:
He is just a few doors away
. I think how lucky I am to know him, to feel this thing that springs up in my heart, to feel this ache. In all my thousands of years in Heaven never have I felt more alive, more real, more important, more unhappy.

Beside the photos is a calendar. October 31st has a thick black circle drawn around it as if the family already know that date is going to change their lives for ever.

Oh Marcus, you must listen this time.

Jasmine comes back. She's carrying a little tray and on it lies the toasted sandwich and the mug of tea and a paper napkin. The scent from the toast makes strange things happen in my stomach. I find my mouth watering, my throat swallowing in anticipation.

She smiles. ‘Eat,' she says.

I eat. My eyes say, ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,' but my hands shake, the sandwich trembles, I juggle it to my lips.

Oh, it's so hot and crunchy and crusty and sweet and tangy and there's cheese and butter and relish and ham and each mouthful scalds my tongue, but it's tasty and I must take more. I can't stop. I burn my mouth.

‘Slow down,' she says, ‘I can make more toasties. You'll be ill if you eat it so fast.'

So I try to slow down, but this is the first time I've ever eaten a toastie. The first time I've ever eaten. And I love it.

‘Now,' says the girl. ‘I'm Jasmine.'

‘Zara,' I say, still using the name Kookie gave me. I look at her. I look at the door. Marcus is very near.

‘So Zara,' she says, ‘where's home? Can I call your mum? Your friends? Will they come and get you?'

I look at her. I don't know what to say. How can I tell her about the Elysian Fields, the water meadows where a thousand songbirds chorus? I can't. But I can't lie to her, either, or make up anything, so I just look at her and say nothing.

‘Difficult?' she says kindly.

I nod.

‘Please don't mind me asking, but are you pregnant?'

I shake my head. It's a strange question. I'm not sure why she asks it, but I can see in her eyes that she means no harm.

‘Oh good,' she says, sighing like that's a big relief.

She smiles encouragingly at me. ‘But wherever home is, can you go back there?'

I shake my head. I can never go back to Heaven. The ache in my throat spreads. I blink rapidly, trying to swallow.

‘I'm sorry,' she says, all kindness. ‘I didn't mean to upset you.' She rises and comes towards me and puts her arm around my shoulder. And suddenly I feel so drained. Her touch reminds me of other touches: Kookie, Marcus.

‘I must speak to Marcus,' I say.

‘Oh no,' she says, ‘not now. He's been so ill. Don't get worried, he's had a miracle recovery – everyone says so – but he's weak. Let him sleep – please?' She looks at me.

I want to tell her sleep doesn't matter.

‘No more questions for now. You need a wash, some fresh clothes and a good sleep. We'll talk tomorrow. OK, honey?' She pats my arm.‘You can sleep in my room, but you must be very, very quiet, OK?'

I nod. My heart has gone out to her. I love her. That she could be so kind to someone she doesn't know. She'll find her way to Heaven so quickly. She'll be fast tracked straight through to God. He'll be so pleased with her. Not like me. I shudder. In the quietness while Jasmine has gone to sort me out a bed I hear a clock ticking. There is no time for baths or sleep. I must make a plan. I'm in the flat. I must use this time.

But as hard as I try to think of the right words and how I will say them, my mind is shutting down. Warmth is flowing through me. My stomach feels so happy. The clock is ticking. Its ticks lull me. My eyelids start closing.

I slap at myself to stay awake. How strange, this human body. First it must eat, then it must be warm. Now it must sleep. I can't fight it. I
must
find Marcus.

Jasmine comes back and whispers, ‘You'll be ill if you don't sleep.' She leads me to her room. The clock is ticking.

‘Marcus,' I say.

‘Tomorrow,' she says.

‘I must see him now.'

‘No,' she says firmly. ‘You mustn't.'

I awake in Jasmine's room. The sun is shining in through her window. The pink curtains are still drawn, but the beauty of the sunlight and the sheer rosy pinkness of the cloth has flooded the room with a wonderful cheerfulness. I roll over. I'm alone. Jasmine's not here.
It's
31st October.
Halloween!
What time is it?
I've overslept. I sit up in bed. My bed is a long sofa with pretty silky sheets and a thick fluffy cover. I look around. On a chair placed near me lie a pile of clothes and a note: