Angel Dust (5 page)

‘Hey,' he said, ‘you look great.'

I smiled nicely, thanked him for the compliment and told myself to be composed. Angels of Death should look dignified. I was being inspected. I must impress.

‘What a night,' he said. ‘You've been to a disco; you've fallen in love; you've saved your boyfriend's life and you still look dazzling! Let's drink to it!'

Laid out on the bar were two frosted glasses and an ice bucket with a bottle already chilling inside. But instead of reaching for a glass I turned to him, confused. I must tell him Marcus wasn't my boyfriend. Surely he knew love between a mortal and an angel was expressly forbidden. Perhaps he was testing me.

So I did. I told him that I'd only been doing my duty, that Marcus deserved another chance and angels love everyone (as he knew), that Earthly love was something very different: a savage thing, so I'd been told. A thing that drove men to murder and women to despair. That I couldn't possibly be in love, and that I'd been warned about it in the Cloisters.

He wasn't listening, though. He was pointing at the bottle in the bucket. ‘Champagne,' he said, ‘
pink
champagne!' He winked at me. ‘I'm Harry, by the way.'

‘I'm Sera,' I said. ‘Well, Serafina, but –'

‘But you'd like an Earthly name too, eh?'

‘Yes,' I said, surprised. I hadn't been going to say that, but: ‘Yes, I would.'

‘So you get to be called Sara then.' As if that was perfectly logical.

‘Harry,' I said, touching his arm briefly.

‘Sara?' he said, eyes widening in earnestness as he pointed again towards the champagne.

‘Harry, I don't think –'

‘Love you!' said Harry. ‘I just love girls who don't think!'

I'd meant the alcohol. I didn't mean I was brainless.

Harry swivelled round on his bar stool and leaned up closer, widened his eyes and said, ‘Hey, Klara, let's have a toast to true love, eh?'

‘Sara,' I said.

‘Oops,' he said.

He picked up the bottle of champagne, tapped the bottom of it a couple of times in a very professional way and loosened the wire. He took the white napkin that was draped over the bucket and, wrapping it in one smooth movement around the bottle, twisting at the same time, popped the cork – with a sound horribly reminiscent of gunfire. He picked up the first of the champagne flutes and poured the pink frothy bubbling liquid into it. How the liquid glowed and swirled, as if stardust was caught in its tiny tides.

Harry winked. ‘Don't be shy,' he said, ‘I won't tell. And he's one of us.' He gestured at a barman who was busy closing up.

‘One of us?' I peered at the barman. He completely ignored me.

‘Works for me,' smiled Harry. ‘Very discreet. Now drink up.'

How strange it all was. An angel working behind a bar? Then I caught my breath. Perhaps he was working undercover! Part of the inspection team. Lord. I turned to look at Harry, eyes wide. He handed me my flute.

‘But,' I hesitated, ‘I've never drunk alcohol before.'

‘It's quite easy,' he said, ‘you lift the glass to your lips, tip it and swallow.'

‘That wasn't what I meant.'

‘No?' he said, all playful. ‘Well, I think the evening you fall in love might be a good time to start, don't you, Lara?'

‘But, Harry,' I started again. He seemed so sure I'd fallen in love.
Had I? Surely not?
I shuddered. That would be a terrible thing.

‘Larry,' he corrected.

But what about the sign? What if Marcus was the one?

‘Sorry,' I said. ‘I thought you said Harry.'

‘You're as bad as me,' he laughed.

He
had
said Harry. I was sure of it.

‘No “buts” allowed tonight,' Larry said with a mischievous look, holding up his glass. I felt confused. I felt embarrassed. Had I really misheard his name? It would be rude now to refuse a simple drink. And if he was an Inspector, it must be OK.

Mustn't it?

I thought of Heaven and all the rules. I was sure (although I'd never had the opportunity to check – believe me, in the Cloisters even mentioning manna-dew raises eyebrows) that alcohol on any kind of occasion was prohibited. I felt pretty certain of it, but as Larry filled his glass and peered at me: first through the bubbling nectar, with such teasing looks, such charming smiles; and then peeking his head around the edge of the glass as if he was hiding from the Big Bad Rule Book of Heaven, I burst out laughing.

If there were such rules as No Alcohol in Heaven, or No Alcohol on Heavenly Assignments, they were very silly rules! There, that's what I thought! And they'd probably been made up by old St Peter, who was the stickliest stick-in-the-mud ever, and had no authority to put them there in the first place.

I raised my glass.

‘To our success,' toasted Larry.

‘Absolutely,' I said.

‘To your young man's next eighteen years,' he added. ‘And to our little bargain.'

‘Yes! Yes!' I said.

‘Go on, then,' said Larry. ‘Be a devil.'

I looked at him over the rim of my glass. We ought not to joke about the Devil.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘OK, Barbara,' he said. ‘Be an angel, then! Whatever!'

He drank long and deep, only stopping to say, ‘Ah, the nectar of the gods.' Whereupon he refilled his glass again. Right up to the very top.

I felt a bit giddy. I felt a bit naughty. Larry was a very strange Inspector – so young and modern. But he was right – I should live a little (and I
had
saved a life
and
potentially a soul –
all in one go
). I sipped at the edge of my glass.

Oh my!

My first ever taste of champagne! It bubbled! It burned in fizzy strength against my lips. I could feel it. I could taste the ice-cold, tart flavour of grape and vinegar, of fruit and of something . . . something so intoxicating and thirst-making. It was wonderful.

‘Good, huh?' said Larry.

‘Umm,' I agreed.

Larry reached over, grabbed the bottle, picked up my glass and filled it up again.

‘I know a much more exciting way of drinking it,' he whispered, his eyes alive with amusement. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear. ‘A champagne kiss.'

I looked at him. I think I was shocked, despite the heady rush of wine.

‘Naughty but very nice,' he winked.

‘What's a champagne kiss?' I whispered, half guessing.

He waggled a finger in front of my face. ‘Not for angels, Tamara,' he said. ‘Only for bad girls!'

He made bad girls sound so exciting.

‘Come on,' he said, ‘hang out with me and everything's fun.' He finished off the champagne. ‘But we can't be naughty all evening, and however many more bottles are chilling for us, we've business to attend to.'

He pulled a small case out of his pocket, flicked it open and withdrew a pair of thick horn-rimmed spectacles from inside. Sliding them on to his nose, he peered over them with an expression of the utmost mock gravity.

‘Yes,' he said, ‘to business and to small print.'

I looked up, confused.

‘Of the contract, my dear.'

‘OK,' I said.

‘Thing is,' he said, smiling, half-apologetically, ‘Marcus's name actually
was
on
the Manifest of those due to go off to the roaster tonight.'

‘I know,' I said. Was he still jesting, or was he serious now? I replaced my glass carefully on the counter, the bubbles inside it bursting.

‘So the thing is,' he repeated, ‘we've got to sort of keep the Rate of Exchange balanced.'

The Rate of Exchange?

‘How do we do that?' I asked.

‘Simple as a pimple,' he said.

I looked at him, waiting.

‘Send someone else in his place.'

Send somebody in his place?
A sinking feeling plummeted straight through me. I looked at Larry, alarmed.

He grinned sheepishly. ‘It's not as bad as it sounds,' he said, laying a reassuring hand on my arm. He shook his golden locks in a hit-me-I-am-so-guilty way. ‘
Really
, it's not.' He pulled a grimace.

Send somebody in his place?

‘I know! I should have told you before you signed and stuff, but you and Marcus looked so perfect together, and I'm such a sucker for true love.' Larry looked at me with big blue eyes.

I couldn't seem to take in what he was saying.

‘And he looks like the kind of young man who so
desperately
needs
a Guardian Angel,' offered Larry, looking at me over the rim of his glasses and opening his eyes even wider.

Cold fingers plucked at my chest.

‘And I could tell it would just break your heart to send him to the pits.' Larry twisted his champagne glass anxiously in his hand.

What was he talking about?

Behind him the police unrolled blue and white tape, cordoned off the dance floor, spoke into walkie-talkies. From outside a siren wailed.

‘I just didn't want you to have to make that choice, not at that time, not in that way.'

But to kill another to save Marcus?

‘Please, Tiara, don't look at me like that.'

I blinked. Of course I shouldn't look at him like that. He'd only been trying to help. It wasn't his fault.

‘I got it wrong, didn't I?' he said.

He'd seen how I looked at Marcus. He'd wanted the world for us. And I could tell from the way he smiled so hopefully up at me, so remorsefully through his golden eyelashes, that he was a complete romantic. He'd just been trying to help. It was churlish of me to be so abashed.
But to send someone else in Marcus's place?
Yes, he'd got it wrong. Very. Very wrong. I couldn't. I wouldn't.

‘But you've already signed,' Larry reminded me nervously.

And I
had
already signed. I'd thoughtlessly, carelessly, criminally committed myself to a contract without taking time to understand it. I'd messed up for real. And this time it was major. And now I was going to have to illegally Collect someone to put it right. It was as good as murder. I felt my cheeks rush hot, then cold. How could I have done that?

‘You were flustered,' reminded Larry. ‘I even had to catch Marcus for you.'

Yes, I was flustered and besotted and stupid and trying to pretend I was human, I was longing to be a teenage girl and imagining I was one, when I wasn't and never could be. I was vain and proud and envious. And I should've known better! I should. I was a Seraph (albeit only a teenage Seraph in Heaven's years – but that was no excuse); I was beloved of Heaven, a being that sat on the right hand of God. I should've known much MUCH better. I hung my head.

‘I'll have to go and confess to St Peter straight away,' I whispered.

‘Hey, hang on,' smiled Larry, ‘it
really
isn't
that
bad, I hope. Honestly, it's not as bad as you think.'

Not as bad as I think?
I couldn't think of anything worse!

Guiltily I jumped up, turned to go, to accept my fate, confess all and be banished to Soul Recycling Duty in Purgatorium forever. I'd failed in my responsibility. I didn't deserve anything better. It was that simple.

‘Please,' said Larry, ‘just hear me out.'

He put his hand again on mine; the bar lights swirled, the champagne sent a few tiny bubbles up my flute. I watched them peak and pop. The giant disco ball started to turn. Light sparkled off it, sparkled off the bucket, sparkled off the bottle, off the ice cubes and the glasses, but I wasn't sparkling any more.

‘Please?' begged Larry again.

‘Why?' I said reluctantly, knowing I should get up immediately and go and confess.

‘Thing is,' he said, ‘it's not such a big deal, you see . . . but I'm not sure I can say this . . .' He mumbled, seeing my blanched, worried look.

‘Just say it,' I sighed.

‘Well,' Larry took a huge breath, ‘I know this may sound a bit heartless, but Marcus wasn't the only one who got shot this evening.' I looked up at him, trying to fathom what he meant.

‘You see, his best pal, Joey Bigga, got shot too and . . .'

What was he suggesting?
That I send Joey Bigga in his place? I couldn't believe it! This was too much. Condemn Marcus's
best
friend
to the fiery pits? How awful. How heartless. How two-faced.

It was outrageous.

‘
Please
hang on,' pleaded Larry.

I looked at him in complete shock. A new terror was forming. Why was he pleading with me to listen? If he was an Inspector, he'd order me to. I was confused
. Maybe he wasn't an Inspector at all.
No Inspector would ever even recommend swapping souls like that, would they?

‘Who
are
you?' I said.

‘Imagine . . . you really must let me explain. Let me do a little reconstruction – repeat the scenario. Please?'

‘You're not an Inspector at all,
are you
?'

‘Pleeeease.'

But before I could demand to know exactly who he was, Larry launched into a full explanation.

‘Joey and Marcus are shot, both are bleeding to death; both are sinful creatures, both partners in crime, equal in guilt.' Larry nodded at me, keen to get me to concur.

‘I suppose,' I agreed.

‘The paramedics arrive. Joey happens to be closer to the exit. They attend to him first. Then they call up a reserve team for the other victim.
Voilà!
Disco! Joey lives. Marcus dies. Is that fair?'

‘But that's was what was scheduled to happen,' I said dully.

‘Chance, luck, fate, ill fortune! If Joey had crossed the room a few minutes before the Crow and his crew entered, Marcus would have been closer to the exit, and
he
would have got the emergency first-aid treatment before Joey.'