Billy Angel (4 page)

I'd never seen my dad shocked by anything before. When it comes to plumbing, he's seen it all, done it all and even appeared in several extremely dull information films on the subject. (Seriously: there's a video available at B&Q entitled ‘Learning to Love Your Gas-fired Central Heating System', starring my dad.)

Grant and I leant forward.

‘Get me a bucket,' gasped Dad. ‘And make it a big one.'

As Grant scuttled off, I wondered whether Dad wanted to throw up, as the stench was now unbearable.

‘Fish eyes!' gasped Dad. ‘There's a ton of 'em down here.'

Fish eyes
?

‘There can't be,' said Grant, who'd returned carrying a huge metal bin. ‘We don't use much fish, and what we do comes pre-prepared – gutted and headless.'

‘See for yourself.'

I shivered as Dad slopped a handful of bloody gunge into the pail. I didn't really want to look. But somehow I couldn't help myself. And sure enough, there, staring up at me, were hundreds of tiny eyes. Small, startled and blood-covered. They were totally gross. I felt a barf coming and sensibly stepped back.

Chefs are obviously made of stronger stuff, because Grant was peering into the slop as though it was something extremely interesting.

‘This is weird stuff,' he said shaking his head. ‘I must talk to Thelma…'

‘Thelma?' I gasped. What had Thelma got to do with fish eyes?

‘Thelma's been borrowing the kitchen a lot recently to work out new recipes for the shop. But fish-eye pie… mmm, I'm not sure that would be a winner with the customers.'

I grimaced, imagining biting into a pie and finding myself chewing on a mouthful of chunky fish eyes. What on earth was Thelma thinking of?

‘There's loads of hair, too,' said Grant. ‘And aren't those feet?'

‘Feet?' Dad peered in.

‘Yeah – they look like frogs' feet, or something…'

It was all too much for me. Eyes! Hair! Feet!

‘I'll just go and get us some drinks from the café…'

And before Dad could argue, I'd legged it down the alleyway.

See, I told you. I'm not brave in the slightest. There's no way I could ever be a guardian angel. Nor a plumber. I mean, how can my dad spend his life sticking his hand down other people's pipes?

I shuddered again at the thought of the fish eyes. My head was reeling, my legs were shaking. My life was suddenly starting to look like some low-budget horror movie. Complete with supernatural ghostie (the hoodie-angel), blood and guts (fish eyes and feet, for goodness' sake), and a potential murderous pie slasher (Thelma Potts). And somehow right in the middle of it all was me, except no one had bothered to give me the script.

Fish-eye pie? I shook my head and trudged off to the cafe at the end of the street.

‘Three teas and a packet of smoky bacon crisps, please,' I said.

The cafe was full of people, which felt quite reassuring – as though normal life still existed away from the madness of my day.

‘Do you want milk in the tea, love?'

The lady behind the counter was smiling and I felt my spirits lift. But it didn't last, because all of a sudden I felt a giant poke in my back.

‘Hey, Lavender Rise! What do you think you're doing?'

I gulped. I instantly knew it was him. (Though actually, he didn't smell quite so bad this time, not compared to the pie shop.)

‘What do you want?' I squeaked, looking around to see if everyone was staring. (Though, strangely, no one seemed in the slightest bit concerned to have a six-foot angel in the shop.)

‘Why aren't you saving Thelma Potts?' the hoodie-angel barked.

I turned around. He still hadn't sorted out his brightness setting.

‘She doesn't need saving,' I snapped, shielding my eyes. ‘I was trying to tell you last night. She's ten times stronger than me…'

The hoodie-angel rolled his eyes and folded his arms.

‘…And she has four big brothers, and no end of kitchen weaponry. If she's got a problem, trust me, she can sort it out herself.'

The hoodie-angel scowled, but said nothing. So I tried again. ‘You see, I want to be a footballer not an angel. Honestly, I make a rubbish angel. I'm much better at kicking a ball than saving people.' The hoodie's scowl deepened. ‘But if you lot really want me to spend my time helping people,' I gabbled, ‘then maybe I can find someone more deserving. Like some little old lady who needs her grass cutting…'

The hoodie-angel's face turned red and he started counting. When he got to ten, he took a deep breath. ‘Look, pal, you'd better sharpen up your act or you'll be in big trouble! Thelma Potts is in serious danger. And time is running out. Tomorrow you must stay close to her, or something very bad will happen. And if it does, you'll be in serious trouble yourself. So stop supping tea and get out there and save her. Or else!'

When he said ‘or else', it echoed like we were in a big dark cave, and I was sure I felt the ground shake.

‘That'll be £2.50 please, love.'

‘What?'

The lady behind the counter was holding out a bag. ‘Three teas and a packet of smoky bacon crisps…'

When I turned back, the hoodie-angel had gone.

I dropped some coins on the counter, grabbed the bag and dashed out of the shop.

I wanted to run away, find somewhere without hoodie-angels, plumbing problems, fish-eye pies or Thelma Potts.

And then I spotted it.

Across the road from the café. A shop I'd never noticed before, which wasn't surprising, because it wasn't really my sort of a place. Or yours, either. Trust me.

It was a pink shop with ‘Heaven Sent' written in loopy writing. And a window display full of pink and silver nick-nacks. But, of course, that's not what made me cross the road and walk straight in. It was the big pink sign in the window: ‘Understand your inner angel. Free readings – help and advice given'.

I know, I know. I wasn't battling with an inner angel. Mine was definitely an outer angel, and it was currently hounding me night and day.
But where else could I go? The local cop shop? Yeah, right! ‘Excuse me officer, there's a six-foot angel bothering me…' They'd lock me up in a nut house.

As I walked in, a dainty bell tinkled above my head and I was smothered in a cloud of sugary perfume, while my feet sank into a deep-pile, pink carpet. It felt a bit like visiting my auntie Ada's house. (She's the type of woman who puts fluffy-skirted dollies over her toilet rolls and has crocheted cushions on her sofa.)

I sighed. It felt strangely comforting.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular?'

The voice belonged to a small, black-haired head that appeared from behind a big counter at the back of the shop.

‘Er… well,' I stammered.

‘Looking for a present for your mum's birthday?' asked the head.

‘No!' She clearly didn't know my mum. For her last birthday she asked for new overalls: mud brown, with built-in tool belt and extra padding on the knees for especially hard plumbing jobs.

‘Your gran then?' the head was obviously keen to nail a sale. ‘We've got some lovely potpourri? Or how about an angelic ornament?'

I glanced at a wall covered in horrendous ceramic angels and shuddered.

‘No angels!' I said firmly.

The head looked a bit confused, as though I'd walked into a butcher's shop and said I didn't want to buy any meat.

‘Actually, I wanted to find out more about the, er… sign outside.'

The head peered at me. ‘You mean you want an angel reading?' It looked shocked.

I didn't know what an angel reading was, but it didn't sound very appealing. ‘I'm not sure,' I said.

Then the head disappeared below the counter, and a few seconds later reappeared under a hatch along with its body.

‘It's not me that does the readings.'

Thank God for that. She was about my age, and dressed head to pointy toes in black leather. She looked like she would be much better equipped to give a full and frank guide to hell, rather than heaven.

‘It's my aunt,' she smiled. ‘But she's in with someone right now.' She nodded to a pink door at the back, and I noticed her green nose stud glittered when she moved.

‘Take a seat on the sofa and she'll be right with you.'

I suddenly felt a bit silly, plus I still had the tea to deliver. I was about to turn tail and head back to the pie shop, when I suddenly got that weird feeling again, like someone nipping my ears. I looked around, in case the hoodie-angel had somehow snuck in from somewhere. But no…

Just then the pink door opened and two women appeared. I knew instantly which one was the aunt, because she actually looked like the angel that sat on our Christmas tree. Right down to the blonde, curly hair and gossamer skirt. She was shaking hands with the other woman, who seemed extremely delighted with her reading.

I turned to go, as quickly as I could without actually running, but she'd spotted me.

‘Hello, young man… yes… you.' And then she was on me. ‘Wait a minute, please, you look troubled.' Her voice was soft and welcoming.

And that's all it took. Two minutes later, I collapsed on her pink, velvet sofa and poured out everything that had happened in my life so far. Seriously, I went right back to the beginning. I rambled on and on and on…

At some stage the lady had nodded to Goth girl and two mugs of delicious hot chocolate had appeared. (I'd completely forgotten about the takeaway tea that was getting colder by the minute.) And still I went on, spilling out all the stuff about not wanting to Dream the Dream, or be a plumber, how my parents had bought me an enormous tool bag for my birthday when I'd much rather have got a new football kit, how I was being stalked by a thuggy angel, about Thelma Potts and her fish-eye pies, and how I was supposed to stay close to her because something awful was going to happen tomorrow. Then, finally, quite suddenly, I just ran out of words, stopped, and sort of crumpled into a heap.

The angel lady took my hand. I know that probably sounds wet, but it was lovely. She had really soft hands – pink, of course. She placed one on my forehead and I suddenly felt soothed, as though I'd off-loaded all my burdens on to someone else's pink, fluffy shoulders.

‘Have you got the feather?' she asked softly.

I had, though I'd no idea why. For some reason I'd tucked it down my right sock before we'd left the house.

She held it lightly in her palm.

‘Well, it's genuine,' she said firmly. ‘See the golden shimmer…'

I couldn't, to be honest. It looked just like a bog-standard bird feather to me.

But the angel lady was mesmerised. ‘I'm afraid this means you must do as your angel says. Though I must say, I'm appalled at his approach.'

‘What?' I said, sitting bolt upright, my calm evaporating. ‘But I can't really be an angel. And even if by some strange freakish thing I am, how am I supposed to save Thelma Potts, and from what? Honestly, if you knew her, you'd see what I mean. She doesn't need protecting.'

‘Sometimes the biggest giants need help from the smallest snails,' the angel lady said with a sigh.

I wasn't altogether sure I liked being called a snail! But I was too polite to say anything.

‘I know it's all a bit of a shock,' she said softly. ‘But there are angels all around us and not all of them are visitors from heaven. Some are people, just like you and me. Really, it's an honour to be chosen to become someone's guardian angel.'

That didn't make me feel better.

‘Maybe Thelma plans to murder her ex-boyfriend tomorrow?' said Goth girl. ‘And your mission is to stop her. Sort of save her soul.'

I sighed. That was what I didn't want to hear!

‘So you think she wants to poison him with fish-eye pies?'

‘I don't think so,' said the girl sternly. ‘It sounds more like black magic to me. If you take a closer look at all that stuff that was blocking the pie-shop drain, you'll probably find its newts' feet, fish eyes and pig hair. They're the basic ingredients you need for witchcraft. Personally, I think Thelma's been using the pie-shop kitchen to brew up a potion…'