Angel Dust (36 page)

He sips; he bites; he says, ‘Stay with me. Lie down with me while I rest – it's OK, I won't try anything.'

We lie on his bed. I put my arm round him. I let his head lie against my chest. I'm happy. He wraps an arm and a leg around me. He whispers, ‘You're so skinny.' He winces if I move. I don't move.

I wish I had my angelic powers back. I could ease his pain, soothe away his sadness. I wish I could lie with him for ever.

Outside a blackbird calls. The afternoon wears away. I lie awake. The evening comes. Marcus rests. Our limbs entwine. My heart beats when his beats. Hours seem minutes. His body in my arms. I breathe when he breathes. I look at his face. Its dark curls, its sculpted brow. I think of the night ahead. My heart starts to pound. I think only of now: the blackbird, the evening, his beating heart.

I hear his phone buzzing. The world won't wait. Messages are arriving. Larry is working his mischief. By midnight it will all be done. Larry will have won. The shores of Styx are waiting. We will go there together.

Slowly I bend my head and press my lips to Marcus's curls. I wonder who will come for us. I pray it will be Raquel. I'd like to see her one last time.

Marcus stirs.

The hour has come.

The entry buzzer goes. They slam the front door. Their voices fill the lounge. They laugh and sprawl on the sofa.

‘Stay in my room,' orders Marcus.

I stay in his room. I sit on his bed. I listen.

‘Got the stuff?' says Marcus.

I watch through the half-open door. Bags and bustle; guns and feathers spill on the floor.

Marcus picks up a costume. The Grim Reaper. He wraps the cloak around him, pulls the death's head mask over his face, straps a Mac 10 on to the angle of the scythe, binds it with black duct tape.

‘Reckon we'll get in?' he laughs.

One of the brothers examines the scythe, adjusts the taping, straps another death's head mask over the whole thing.

‘Yeah man,' he says. ‘Bugs is on the door anyway.'

Marcus puffs, sits down.

‘You cool?' asks Spider.

‘Never better,' wheezes Marcus.

More bags spill on the floor. ‘Anyone want to be the Angel of Death?' Spider shakes out a costume; black feathers flutter.

‘Nah, too small.' The angel costume is cast aside.

‘Nazi guards?' A mountain of greatcoats, boots, peaked caps with insignias.

‘Yo, da SS.'

The gang pull on boots, drag their arms into greatcoats, tape hand guns inside caps, jam caps on their heads. Insignias gleam.

I watch. I listen.

A mobile rings. Marcus throws bags and costumes behind the sofa.

‘What's the plan?' They look at Marcus.

‘Get in, says Marcus. ‘Get the guns in. Old Larry ain't gonna stop man dem – not the way he was chatting 'bout blood being good for business.'

Spider chuckles.

‘Get inside – ready to roll.'

‘I'll need a drink,' says one.

‘See who's there. The Crow'll have his peeps out, you know – so you all sort out which ones you gonna take down.'

The brothers nod. Spider is smiling.

‘Wait till the Crow is right on the spot Joey died and then I'll give you the sign.' Marcus raises the scythe and sweeps the air. ‘That's the sign. Watch for the scythe. I'll get him there.'

‘Yeah man!'

‘You get to the bar; you take the door; you clear the stairs. You cover me, Spider, the Crow'll be right in my face. Man's gonna look him in the eye when he wastes him.'

‘Then we go.'

‘We take all of them,' says Spider.

‘Every mother,' says Marcus.

‘Hold up,' says Spider. ‘We all want to do Crow, you-know, not just you, Marcus, the fam needs to see blood too.'

‘OK,' says Marcus. ‘I'll give the sign, then it's execution time.'

‘Yeah.' They all agree.

A cell phone rings. The driver's ready. They slug back brandy. They leave. As they go Marcus returns to the bedroom. ‘You stay out of this, Zara,' he says, ‘stay home. You don't tell nobody nothing.'

I nod.

He hesitates, he bends. He kisses me on the cheek. His lips linger. Soft pressure. ‘If it all goes ape, Zara,' he says. He bends again as if he wants to kiss me properly. His lips brush mine. A bolt of electricity flashes between us. A terrible longing dawns in his eyes. He stops. ‘You were all right. Man could've got to like you, whoever you were, you-get-me, Angel?'

He leaves.

I sit there. Staring at the floor. But not for long. I'm not staying. I must see this night to its end. I stand. I take in a deep breath. It'll be cold. I drag a jacket from Marcus's wardrobe. I go to the front room. I look at the mess. I look at the bags. I pull the Angel of Death costume out from behind the sofa. I hold it up: a long black shift and wings that strap on over the top.

It'll fit. I slip on the shift. I put the jacket over the top of it. It's thick and kind of lumpy. It's leather and padded. I strap the angel wings over everything.

I twirl in the hall mirror. The black feathers stand rigid on my back. The long raiment is itchy nylon, the jacket is warm. I pull up the hood of the jacket. I put the five-pound note in my pocket. I have to go. I'm going.

But before I leave the flat, there's one last thing I must do. I find the note Jasmine left. I find the house phone. I've never used a phone before. It takes a few tries, but at last I understand. I call Jasmine.

‘Hello,' she says.

‘It's me,' I say, ‘Zara.'

‘Hi honey,' she says.

‘Don't go to The Mass nightclub tonight,' I say.

‘Oh,' she says, ‘but it's a surprise . . . how did you know . . .'

‘Please,' I say, ‘I can't tell you more.'

‘It's Marcus, isn't it?'

I nod. I can't speak. Tears catch my throat.

‘That's why you were so upset? That's why you were waiting outside the flat?'

‘Your blind date was the Crow,' I whisper. ‘It's a set up . . .'

‘Oh my God,'
she cries. ‘Does Marcus know?
Of course he knows
. . . Are they going to hit the club . . .
they are, aren't they
?'

I can't say anything except, ‘I'm sorry.'

‘I won't go,' she says. ‘I'll call Marcus. I didn't know . . .'

‘I'm sorry,' I say again.

‘God bless you, Zara,' she says.

I put the phone down.

Outside the road is empty. I need to hurry. I must get there in time. I start to run. They went in a car. They'll be there already. A car?

A minicab.

There's one by the Halloween shop. I have money now. I race to the corner. Past the clothes store. Past the cleaners. Past the pharmacy; here it is: the minicab office.

‘The Mass nightclub,' I pant.

‘We're pretty busy,' says the girl.

‘How much?' I say.

‘It's Halloween,' she says as if this affects the fare.

‘I've only got five,' I say.

‘Do ya mind being dropped off before the park? I've got a driver going northside just now.'

‘No,' I say.

‘Then I can do it for cheap – it's the one-way system, you see.'

‘I'll take it,' I say.

I'm in the cab. And we're away. Streets flash past. Traffic lights flick from amber to red. The roar of the engine. The boxy thing starts talking. I look at it. Beside it on the driver's mirror something catches my eye. Something is hanging from it. Two furry dice and a glint of gold. A chain. And swinging from it a small golden crucifix. I recognise it immediately. It's mine.
It's my crucifix.

I reach forward. The driver sees me. ‘Pretty, isn't it?' He gives it a flick. ‘Got it off another cabby for a tenner. Chain's broken, but I bet it's worth a lot more.'

He doesn't know its worth. I just look at it.

It's a sign.

‘
Kamuel,
' I whisper,
‘are you there?
You said you wouldn't desert me.
Don't desert me.'

We slice round corners, spin down side streets and suddenly I feel a mad, crazy rush of hope.

I get down behind the park. I pay the driver. The streetlights are orange. I run along the empty street. My black feathered wings flap behind me. I pull the jacket tight. This is it.

I leap across the gutters.

I step through the city.

I'm coming.

For Marcus.

HALLOWEEN reads the neon sign: COSTUMES ONLY. LADIES' NIGHT. I walk straight in, past the chairs and tables, past the people, past the bar and bouncers' desk. Someone yells, ‘It's over-sixteens, but if you wanna drink you gotta show your I.D. and get a wristband.' He waves a handful of lime-green wrist tags. I don't want to drink. I jump down the stairs, dodging couples, past the big mirror, sidestepping revellers. I do not stop. I do not look at myself. I duck behind figures in costume: wizards, goblins and one huge green Frankenstein.

I'll find Marcus. One last try.

I march through the doors. I'm in the club: the black leather sofas, the upholstered walls, the reeking smell. Where is he? The music's too loud. It's too distracting. How will he hear me? What if I shout? There's no point – nobody can hear anything. Everybody's drinking. Nobody minds me. Their elbows poke, their shoulders jostle. And there're girls everywhere. Girls in witchy costumes, girls as cherubs, girls as skeletons – just too many girls, they cloud my purpose. Which one of them will catch a stray bullet? How can I save them? I catch myself. There's nothing like that, is there? If their names are on the Manifest nobody can save them.

There are guys too: guys as demons, guys as ghouls, and guys in zombie outfits. I can't save anyone. Not even myself.

And there's Marcus.

I see him as soon as I get there. The Grim Reaper, looking like he's in Hell already.

And there's the Crow. I know it's him. Nobody could mistake that bulk, that massive frame, that hook-nose, those jetty brows – and on his head is a black crow's crown, ravens' feathers, skeletal wings.

I stand by the dance floor. Just a moment. All the things that might have been and never were flood back to me. Someone turns the music up. For a brief second I remember what it was to be an angel. The music pounds. I start to sweat.

I watch Marcus. I watch him drag Candy into his arms. He's trying to wind up the Crow. Start the show. I watch as she moulds herself against his chest. Something inside hurts. I see the muscles in his arms straining against her. My throat goes dry. I try to swallow. I catch my breath.

Marcus smiles, but he's not smiling at me.

It's nearly midnight. What shall I do? At any minute his death will arrive. I must try and speak. I look around. Demons are dancing with angels.

Someone puts on a record. Marcus crushes Candy to him. Crow steps forward. He's unsure. Everybody else steps back. Someone whistles.
The Crow has figured out who the Grim Reaper is.

. . . Go, go, go, go, go, go . . .

The Crow's eyes are wild.

Marcus reaches into his cloak.

‘God help me!'
I scream. ‘
Tell me how to stop it!
'

But it's not God who answers my prayer.

A figure detaches itself from the crowd. A tall, graceful figure. He slides smoothly forward and seems to push through the crowds effortlessly towards me. A rush of drains. The dancers fall back at his touch. He's dressed like the Devil. He is the Devil. I'd know Larry anywhere.

‘Well, hello, Kara,' he says. ‘Fancy meeting you here!'

I look at him. There's no point in saying anything.

‘Do let me help you out,' he says.

Strange how I can hear him perfectly above the music. ‘Help?' I say.

‘There is a way,' he says.

‘A way?' I repeat.

He laughs an enchanting, mischievous laugh. ‘Yes,' he says, raising his eyebrows, ‘a way out even for you, even at this late hour.' Larry smiles at me as if I'm being very slow. He cocks his head to one side. ‘You still like him, don't you?' he says.

I look at Marcus. I look at Larry.

‘And he hasn't repented, either, has he?' reminds Larry. The lights from the disco ball sparkle off his teeth.

‘No,' I whisper.

‘I see you've dressed for the part,' he says.

‘The part?' I'm confused. I let it pass.
Don't get hooked in
.

‘You can still be the Angel of Death, you know.' A smile plays cheekily around the corners of his white teeth. ‘It'd be like old times.'

The music seems to have stopped altogether.

‘And give him lots more time. That would be fun too, wouldn't it? It's really
very
simple,' smiles Larry.

I study him. The rubber horns on his head wobble. He flicks disappointedly at his limp tail. He pulls a ‘this-outfit-really-isn't-me' face. Yes, Larry can always make things very simple.

‘You can ask for an Extension,' he says.

All around us the club waits. It's held in a familiar time warp.

‘An Extension,' he repeats in a charming drawl. ‘Think about it. All you have to do is ask.'

‘Ask you?' I say. He must be mocking me. Hasn't he won already?

‘Go
on
,' he says. ‘Give it a whirl; live dangerously. What've you got to lose?'

‘More time is not enough any more,' I say slowly. Perhaps he is serious. ‘I want his soul released from Hell.'

‘Ooo, you little Devil!' cheers Larry. ‘But you're learning. What fun this is going to be!' He rubs his hands together in glee. ‘But – oh dear – oopsy-whoopsy – we have to keep the Rate of Exchange balanced!' he smiles.

‘Take me,' I say.

‘Excellent, I will,' says Larry. ‘But – oh deary-weary – that doesn't seem fair. I've already got you in the long run. I could take Spider as well, perhaps?'