Angel Dust (27 page)

Only Jasmine and the police officer knew.

And Larry.

Yes, Larry knew. I'd heard him: ‘
There's a young man here called Marcus Montague . . . I can corroborate what he says.
'

A cold terror suddenly tightened around my heart.
What if Larry had told the Crow? What if Larry had betrayed Marcus?
But surely that was impossible. Larry was on our side.

A new horror struck me.

What if he wasn't?

‘
Wait!
' I cried.

The yellow column gave a revolting shudder. There was a terrible silence, as if never in his entire existence had the Devil been asked to wait.

‘Do you not wish to become human?' hissed the voice.

But I did. I did wish to become human.

And what was the use of wondering if Larry had betrayed me now?

It was all too late.

‘Yes,' I whispered, ‘I'm sorry.'

‘So you will pay the price?' said the voice.

‘Yes.'

‘You will sign the contract?'

‘Yes.'

‘Your soul will be forfeit.'

‘Yes.'

‘There is no going back.'

‘Yes.' There was no going back.

‘If you fail. If he does not repent. You will be mine, however long you live.'

‘Yes.'

‘Then drink this.'

A hand, thin, yellow, emerged from the sulphurous column; in it, a phial.

The liquid inside seemed to have a life of its own.

‘Drink!'

I opened my mouth. In one movement the hand uncorked it, dangled it above my lips and then violently tipped it down my throat. Oh, bitter potion. How it seared my tongue. How I felt it burn all the way down through my chest.

For a moment, nothing.

Then I jerked in a spasm of pain. Icy tendrils writhed inside. ‘This is it!' I cried.

‘It absolutely is,' said a voice.

I twisted in the air, suddenly shocked. I knew that voice.

There was, I thought, a chuckle from behind the gyrating fog.

‘Who is it?' I screamed.

This time I was sure there was laughter. The column of smoke definitely billowed out. And I almost recognised that laugh.

I did recognise it.

Not Larry.

Or Harry?

And suddenly, like a lock clicking open in my brain, all the pieces of the puzzle slid together and formed a picture.

Larry who was not Larry at all, but Harry.

Larry who didn't work for the Devil. But worked for
himself
. The Extension that Raquel had never heard of. Joey dying all by himself. The date that wasn't three weeks. The breach that had raised God's Army. God's Army after me, collecting my stuff, following me. The police station where he hadn't met Marcus. The D.I.Y. kit he just happened to be carrying.

What if Larry didn't work for the Devil?

What if Larry
was
the Devil?

The laugh. I recognised the laugh.

I knew it. I'd always known it.

Old Harry.

Old Nick.

Claim Souls Direct.

I was the one who'd signed the contract.

Arch Fiend.

God in Heaven preserve me.

Prince of Darkness.

Fallen angel.

Lucifer.

Satan.

The Devil.

‘
Voilà!
Disco! There you go,' said Larry, his voice echoing through the column of sulphur. ‘It was fun while it lasted, though, wasn't it?

Oh God.

Forgive me.

How I had fallen.

Larry was the Devil.

I screamed out at him through the writhing sulphur.
‘Why me?'

‘Just because,' he laughed. ‘You'll find out.'

‘Larry?' I whispered, as if I could somehow appeal to him.

‘My name's not Larry,' he said. ‘And don't you think my two dogs are completely delightful? Did you like the poetry? I knew you'd appreciate a bit of ceremony.'

‘But I thought –' I said.

‘No you didn't,' said Larry. ‘But never mind, I told you right at the start I just love girls who don't think.'

I opened my mouth to protest, to plead, to reproach, and found there was nothing left to say.

‘Now fly!' he commanded.

In one brutal movement something broke the wires that held me. The wheel shattered into a thousand fragments of stone and fire. The rope tying my pinions snapped. Instinctively I unfolded my wings, beat the air.

Instant pain.

I slashed at the emptiness. The pain drove everything out of my mind. I tried to stop myself plummeting downwards.
For God's sake stop the pain . . .

The ice inside me spread.

‘Fly!' came the voice again.

I stretched out my wings. A force blasted them. I felt feathers ripping – being snatched out. Tears sprang to my eyes. Flight feathers broke. I let out a terrible cry.

‘Fly!'

I was so cold.

The hurricane plucked out every fibre of down at my wing base.
I screamed and screamed
. Frantically I beat the air. At every stroke feather after feather shed away.

‘Fly!'

Hysterically I turned, I looked over my shoulder. Behind me my wings were just a fan of bone,
all my feathers gone
, only the skeletal frame remaining.

Larry was the Devil.

I was freezing over.

And then I fell. I couldn't stop myself. I plummeted straight down. Inside me a voice confirmed:

Yes, down you must go. Down you will go. Down, down.

Down, down. Sheering down.

I gave a little cry. My body twisted in space. Everything exploded around me. I burst through the horizon, right over the rim of the world, into the skies below.

I rushed towards Earth.

I arched my back – the bony span of my wings ripped free. I screamed. The air tore my voice from me. My back hurt, a dizzying agony of blood darkened my eyes. I was squeezed on both sides. Air pressure.

Falling.

Gasping.

Blind.

Frozen.

Lungs bursting.

I have to breathe.

Can't breathe.

No air.

Darkness.

The Devil.

D

o

w

n

Bright light. White light. The sun like I've never seen it, burning my eyes. There must be something wrong. I blink. I shut my eyes. Sun doesn't hurt. It doesn't burn. I try to open my eyes. My lids feel weirdly heavy, like they're really too heavy. I touch them; skin, real flesh. What?

They're real.

They're flesh.

I cover my eyes with one hand. I touch my face, my neck. I feel the small hard crucifix at my throat. My crucifix. Kamuel's blessing. Larry didn't hurt me. I'm OK. I try to stand. It hurts. I never imagined anything could hurt like this! I explore the ground. It's hard and dark like solid stone, like it's come up from inside a volcano. I rub my hand over it. My hand's bleeding. Ow, how it hurts, like fire stinging. I watch as red spots erupt across my palm. I raise one palm to my mouth. I lick it. It tastes of salt and iron. I run the taste of blood around my mouth, amazed at its sharpness, its power. How it hurts.

I have blood.

I bleed.

It's a new sensation. I try to raise my face again. The sun burns. I blink. I shade my face. I'm on my belly. I roll to my back. I sit up. How strange. I wobble. The green of some field tilts away: now towards me: now from me. A field? A green lawn? Larry betrayed me. Not a lawn, the green grass of a park. I'm in a play area in a park. Slitting my eyes up against the sun, I peer out. There's a girl. A teenage girl. She's sitting on a swing. She bends her head low and peers back at me. She tilts her head to one side. She tilts her head to the other side. She's looking at me.

‘You fall?' she says.

I look at her. I look at the swing. I shade my eyes again and look up into the blue yonder. I nod. I run my tongue around my mouth and try to form words. ‘Oh,' I say, ‘fall.' I just spoke. How strange. That was my voice.

And suddenly it astonishes me. I did. I Fell from Heaven. I survived the Devil. I betrayed God. I'm here, sitting on the spongy, black tarmac of a play area in a park. Larry is the Devil. I fell. What time is it?
What day is it?

I try to get to my feet; my legs don't work. I stumble up. Like I'm rising from the grave. I look at the girl. ‘Can you see me?' I say.

She wrinkles up her snubby little nose. She points at me. ‘You hurt yourself,' she says.

I look at my palms again. They're grazed. They're bleeding. I touch the blood and smear it around. I'm not sure how they feel. They're prickling like they've been pierced by sharp needles. It's actually not very nice. It burns.

‘Yeah,' I say.

‘You run away from school?' she says. I look at her. I don't understand. School?

‘They gonna catch ya,' she says, ‘if you run away from school.'

I smile. She's seen something in me. Obviously. I'm a runaway. But I haven't run away from school. Heaven isn't a school. It's kind of a nice idea, though: Heaven, the school for good little angels run by the headmaster, God. Serafina the truant, who made a pact with the Devil.

‘Yeah,' I manage to say, ‘I ran away.'

‘Me too,' she says, rocking awkwardly on the swing.

I wobble to my feet. I try to use my wings to balance me. No wings. I'm cold. What day is it?
What's
the
date
? So strange I can remember my wings. I turn to check. I'm sure they must be there. No wings. I'm very cold.
Please don't let it be after the 31st
. I realise I've only got on a twist of cloth.

‘You look funny in that,' points out the girl. She tilts her head to the side again. ‘Well funny.' She tilts her head the other way. She's thinking.

I clutch my raiment around me. It's all twisted up and bunched around my waist. I want to ask her what the date is. But I'm not sure yet my voice will work properly.

‘Want to wear my gym kit?' she adds. ‘You've got to wear something.'

I do want. I'd love to have a gym kit (what
is
a gym kit?). She tosses me a bag. I catch it. Oh, I can catch a gym kit.

‘Quick,' she says, ‘you gotta cover up.'

I notice that above me the sky is bright; a bird is singing. So it's morning. I pray it's the morning of 30th October. I pray hard because I know Larry is treacherous. The bird's notes are repeated, as if it's alarmed at me holding a gym kit. How extraordinary. I open the drawstrings. Inside is a black T-shirt and a short black gym skirt, and a pair of black stretch leggings.

‘You can wear the leggings,' says the girl. ‘They ain't too dirty.'

I smile at the girl. What a lovely girl. She gives me her very special own gym kit. I'm quite delighted.

I sit on the black spongy felt tarmac and pull on the leggings. They're very thick black leggings. They are quite delightful leggings. And they fit me well. Tight. I'm very skinny. I notice the soft curves of my angelic shape are all gone. I really Fell. I'm not an angel any more. So the Devil played fair about that. I'm hopeful.

‘Look, leggings on.' I make do with squeaking it out. The girl tilts her head to one side again. I balance on my feet and try a twirl. I can't twirl. I can't command the elements. I stagger and trip.

‘Put on the rest too,' she says.

I pull the T-shirt over my head and stick my skinny arms through the sleeves. It's long-sleeved and the wrists of it drape down nearly over my hands.

I smile at the girl. ‘What is the date?' I say. It was too long a mouthful, I didn't know when to breathe. The words feel thick. They roll around on my gums – but bless this girl, she understands.

She looks at me kind of weird, and she says, ‘It's the 30th.'

I laugh. My laugh doesn't tinkle any more. It's rather flat and loud. I like it. I think I like it. I'm not sure. It doesn't matter.
I'm not too late. Larry didn't cheat me.

‘And the skirt,' says the girl.

I fasten the short skirt around my waist.

‘You still look silly,' says the girl, ‘but at least they won't arrest you now.'

I laugh again and so does she.
Thank God, I'm not too late.

‘Do you know Marcus?' I say.

‘Marcus?' she says. ‘Marcus who?'

Maybe she doesn't know Marcus.

‘Is this Earth?' I say, suddenly panicking at a new thought. Am I in the right place? This is the joke he'd play on me, isn't it?
I'm in the wrong place.
I try to calm down. It didn't take nine days. Everything else has worked. It's 30th October. I must be in the right place. Where else could it be?

‘That is,' she says, pointing at the green grassy area behind me.

‘Oh,' I say.

‘You talk funny,' she says.

I stop. Do I talk funny? Suddenly I'm worried. I thought I was speaking more clearly. Will everybody be able to tell I'm not human? I pick up the cloth and tie it around my waist. I must learn how to talk human. I must practise. When I speak to Marcus I mustn't sound funny.

‘You look all Gothy,' she says. ‘Do you worship the Devil?'

The Devil. I belong to the Devil.

But before I can answer she jumps off the swing. ‘All you need is shedloads of piercings and you'd be one,' she says. ‘Hey, hang on a minute, you need some make-up too.' She reaches into her handbag, pulls out some tubes. She walks straight towards me. ‘Relax, Goth girl,' she says. ‘I'm going to make you beautiful.'