Dragon Shield (4 page)

6

The Finsbury Angel

It wasn’t a hawk, or a dragon. Jo and Will squinted into the air at the dark shape winging towards them through the late afternoon gloom. True, the black thunderclouds massing behind it gave whatever it was a doomy end-of-the-world feeling, but whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t a dragon.

Dragons don’t – as a rule – wear long billowy dresses.

‘It’s an angel . . .’ said Will. ‘Well. I think it’s an angel, anyway . . .’

‘Should we run?’ said Jo, her eyes fixed on the incoming figure. Now it was closer they could hear the deliberate, unhurried sound of its wing beats like slow whip-cracks lashing in at them from above.

‘Angels are the good guys, right?’ said Will uneasily. ‘We shouldn’t be scared of angels.’

He didn’t sound too convincing, even to himself.

‘So why have you picked up the shield?’ said Jo. He looked down at this arm. He hadn’t realized he’d done so.

‘Dunno,’ he said. He squinted at the approaching figure. Something had shifted, making it look suddenly monstrous.

‘Angels don’t have two heads,’ Jo gasped. ‘Let’s run—’

As it got closer they saw, with horror, that it did appear to have a second head sticking up from its right shoulder.

‘Stay,’ said the angel. The voice sounded as though it was right next to each of them, whispering low and calm in their ears even though it was 500 metres away. It had a power that soothed and stopped – for the moment – the immediate urge to sprint away. ‘Stay for a moment. Have no fear of us . . .’

‘Yeah!’ piped a chirpy voice that came from the second head. ‘Hold up! We ain’t villains. We’re nice as pie, we are!’

‘She’s giving someone a piggyback,’ said Jo, relaxing a fraction.

Closer still they could see the second head was not attached to the angel but was indeed the grinning brown face of a bronze child who was holding onto the angel’s neck with one arm while waving enthusiastically with the other.

‘It’s a kid,’ said Jo.

‘Angels don’t give piggybacks,’ said Will, hefting the comfortable weight of the shield on his arm. ‘I mean that’s not exactly normal, is it?’

‘No,’ said the woman’s voice. ‘None of this is normal. There is much to fear. But none of it from me. I will not harm you. I do no harm to those who mean well. I only harm those who would do hurt to us.’

‘Yeah. Well I just broke a dragon,’ he whispered to Jo.

They watched her flap lazily in to land, wings folding neatly back the moment her bare feet touched the ground. As soon as that happened the bronze boy leaped to the ground and turned a somersault, bouncing to his feet throwing his arms wide with a loud smiling ‘Ta da!’ as if he was a circus acrobat performing a trick.

In one hand he held what looked like a mask. He was bare chested and bare legged and his uncombed hair stuck up in all directions, making him look like the most roguish street urchin imaginable.

‘Calm down, Tragedy,’ said the angel. ‘You will frighten them.’

He tutted and slumped his shoulders, lifting the mask to his face: it was a grotesque, sad expression, and was a complete contrast to his actual face which was all smiles and mischief.

The Angel was slightly larger than normal sized, but not enough to be freakish, and did not break step as she continued walking towards them. Though she was clearly made from heavy bronze and was darkened with time to a mottled grey-green colour, streaked with what can only have been pigeon droppings, she stepped lightly. The boy was also made of bronze, but his was shiny and deep brown, as if he lived indoors and was frequently polished. Her hair was held back in a band across her forehead, and her garment was, Will noted, about as wispy as Ariel’s had been.

The boy dropped the mask and stuck his right hand out.

‘Wotcher!’ he said. ‘I’m Little Tragedy, though my mates call me Tradge. Who are you?’

Will took his hand gingerly, and then flinched as the boy pumped it up and down enthusiastically.

‘I’m Will. This is Jo.’

‘Cor. She’s a pippin,’ winked Tradge. Jo didn’t take his hand, just sketched a slightly stunned wave at him, whilst exchanging a questioning look at her brother.

Little Tragedy took no offence because his attention was taken by the angel who had calmly walked past them and was examining the melted and broken golden figure behind them.

‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘What you done to my mate Ariel?’

‘The Dragon did it,’ said Will, and immediately felt guilty as the angel looked up and caught his eye with a steady look. That wasn’t the truth of it. ‘But it was my fault really. At least . . . she was hurt because of me.’

‘Because of us,’ said Jo.

That was his sister. Always trying to do what he was doing, even if it meant sharing the blame for stuff she hadn’t done. Even in the middle of all this craziness it annoyed him. Maybe
because
of all the craziness: being angry with Jo, and then feeling complicated and bad about that too was, at least, familiar and comforting. And nothing else about right now was
close
to familiar. Nothing was comforting, certainly not the over-friendly bronze urchin whose tousled hair, he had just noticed, disguised a couple of small nubby horns, like a faun he’d once seen in a book about mythology. Even this angel was unsettling.

She walked past them and looked at Ariel. Without saying anything she walked on and touched the unmoving dragon impaled on the railings.

‘Victory,’ she said, turning to look at them.

‘Sorry?’ said Will.

‘I’m not an angel,’ she said. ‘I am Victory. The Finsbury Victory, to be exact.’

‘Sorry?’ said Jo, looking at Will.

‘’Er plinth is up Finsbury way in Spa Green Gardens,’ said Little Tragedy.

‘But don’t apologise,’ said Victory, ‘people often mistake us Victories for angels.’

‘Us?’ said Will.

‘Lots of Winged Victory statues in London,’ she said.

‘You Regulars fight a lot of wars,’ said Little Tragedy. ‘Always on for a dust-up or a big bit of argey-bargey.’

‘Regulars?’ said Jo.

‘Regular people who ain’t statues,’ said Little Tragedy. ‘You know, you lot who think we don’t move too: Regulars. No offence.’

‘Little Tragedy is normally on the ceiling of a pub . . .’ Victory began.

‘The Black Friar,’ said Little Tragedy proudly. ‘Most magnificent pub in the whole bloomin’ city.’

‘So everyone he sees is a regular to him’ smiled Victory. ‘Only they’re all adults. That’s why he comes out to find the other statues of children to find someone to play with. I was giving him a lift.’

‘I was looking for Ariel,’ he explained, looking a the bent body with a pantomime grimace. ‘She’s good for a laugh, normally. Likes a jape. Never seen her look like that before though.’

‘Was she a Victory?’ asked Will, guiltily nodding at Ariel’s unmoving shape.

‘No,’ laughed Victory. Will was surprised at how lightly she was taking the destruction of the other statue. ‘She’s just Ariel. “A Spirit of the Air”. And a very vain and conceited one at that. She’s a bit of a brat . . . and sometimes so willful that I doubt she’s all Spit.’

‘She told us about Spits and Taints but I don’t get it,’ said Jo. ‘Mind you I wish I wasn’t getting any of this, to tell you the truth . . .’

‘Not much to get,’ said Tragedy. ‘If it looks human, it’s probably a good ’un, if it looks like a monster, a gargoyle or one of them scaly dragon bleeders – run like ’ell. Spits is good, Taints ain’t. End of.’

‘The dragon’s a Taint?’

‘Dragon’s a dead Taint. For now. And Taints hate Spits, always have, always will, because they don’t
have a spirit inside them like we do, they have a hole instead where it should be, so they’re always hungry, always angry and always in a bad bleedin’ temper.’

Will knew how they felt. But he didn’t say that.

‘And they normally fight like this?’ he said instead.

‘No.’ said Victory. ‘None of this is normal. Normally we just get along in a kind of truce. We give each other a wide berth. And you Regulars never see us, because you know statues that move are impossible, and your minds don’t let you see anything . . . irregular.’

‘So why can we see this?’ said Jo.

‘Perhaps you’re special?’ said Little Tragedy, winking at Jo.

‘I don’t think we’re very special,” said Will.

‘We’ve never seen any of this until today,’ said Jo.

She looked round. Will followed her gaze. The only thing more disconcerting than being attacked by dragons or calmly talking about it with moving statues was the fact they were doing this on a pavement surrounded by normal looking people who didn’t move at all. He found it easier to focus on the statues and try not to see the people, somehow. Trying to make sense of them both together involved an unpleasant kind of twist in his head that made him very queasy.

‘Well, today is a first,’ said Victory. ‘Because something has stopped time, and all the other Regulars with it.’

She too looked round at the normal people, still as a 3D snapshot all around them, the pedestrians, the children in the park, the drivers. The regular world. Frozen.

‘Except us,’ said Jo.

‘So you must be special,’ insisted Victory.

‘Or irregular,’ grinned Little Tragedy. ‘What larks, eh?’

‘We’re not special,’ said Will. ‘Or irregular.’

‘We’re just frightened,’ said Jo.

‘And confused,’ said Will. ‘We don’t know what to do.’

‘Can you help us?’ said Jo.

‘I can’t help,’ said Victory. ‘I know nothing more than you for now. But here will be a meeting of all the statues. When there’s a crisis, there’s always a meeting to see what can be done.’

‘Where?’ began Jo.

‘Will you take us there,’ said Will, cutting in.

Victory looked at Ariel and shook her head.

‘I cannot,’ she said. ‘I must take Ariel home to her plinth.’

‘But we’re in danger!’ said Jo. ‘An angel would help us.’

‘I’m not an angel,’ said Victory. ‘And Ariel is in danger.’

‘She’s dead,’ said Jo. ‘Sorry. But we’re not.’

‘She’s only dead today,’ said Little Tragedy. Victory looked at the darkening sky with the beginnings of impatience.

‘If any of us are hurt but put back on our plinths by midnight then we revive and all our wounds are healed,’ she said. ‘I must take her. You can help yourselves. Tragedy will guide you. And take that shield.’

She gave Little Tragedy a severe look.

‘You know where to take them if they want angels.’

‘’Course I do,’ he said, ‘I’ll take ’em to the Prudentials. Couple of useful Georges there too, and all. But . . .’

‘No buts. They’ll be safe enough there until the Tithing tonight,’ said Victory. ‘And no jokes, no fibs and no detours. I’m counting on you to be your good self.’

The look that passed between them was precisely the one a parent would give a habitually naughty child.

‘He’ll take good care of you,’ said Victory walking back to Will and Jo. ‘No malice in him, but he is easily distracted, so watch him.’

She leant in and spoke very quietly, so that Tragedy couldn’t hear.

‘He’s lonely. Always looking for playmates. The real tragedy of Little Tragedy is he wants a gang, but no one will play with him for long. He’s very young under his cocky exterior. His bravado’s about as thin as that mask he carries around. He gets upset if he thinks he’s being left out or left on his own, but be nice to him and he’s loyal as a puppy.’

Will thought she looked like she was hiding a smile, but then she looked back up into the sky as if smelling a change in the wind.

‘The dragons will know that one is hurt. They will come for him too to get him to his plinth. You should go now. They will not forgive you for hurting one of their own. And there are more dangerous things than dragons abroad.’

Jo and Will looked in the direction she was staring.

A bird was circling in the air a long way off.

‘It’s a hawk,’ said Will. ‘Just a bird.’

‘But no other birds are flying,’ said Victory pointedly. ‘The pigeons, the sparrows, all frozen in time too . . .’

And then she grasped the twisted torso of Ariel around the waist as her wings unfolded and flapped her into the sky.

‘Wait!’ said Will. ‘Please!’

Victory kept rising into the air.

‘Go now,’ she said. ‘I will likely see you at The Tithing.’

Jo and Will exchanged a look of controlled panic.

‘What about Mum,’ said Jo, looking across at where their mum was still running motionlessly in the frozen traffic.

‘Can’t leave her like that,’ said Will. He looked over his shoulder.

The hawk was still circling a long way off, but there was something he didn’t like about it.

‘We can’t move her,’ he said. ‘Jo. She’ll be safe there for now.’

Then he picked up the wheelchair and put their mother back on her feet, on the pavement.

‘That your mum?’ said Little Tragedy.

Jo nodded.

‘Luck-y!’ said Little Tragedy. ‘I never had a mum. What’s it like then?

Jo swallowed.

‘It’s good,’ said Will.

‘It’s nice,’ said Jo.

‘Bet it is,’ said Tragedy wistfully. ‘I didn’t get a father neither . . .’

For a moment they all looked at Will and Jo’s mother. Will wished more than anything that their dad was there too. Then the moment was broken by Little Tragedy snorting up a chuckle.

‘Tell you what though, it ain’t half a laugh seeing you lot all still as statues for a change, eh? Whole world’s gone vicey-versa, and for all we know up’ll be down before we know it. Come on slowcoaches,’ he said. ‘Keep up. It won’t help your old mum if we get flamed by a dragon, will it? Let’s do what Victory said.’

Jo looked at Will, and then she got in the wheelchair.

‘We’re going to be OK,’ she said. ‘Right, Will?’

‘Right,’ he said.

‘Promise?’

He nodded.

‘Promise.’

‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep,’ said Little Tragedy. ‘You killed a dragon, and now you’re nicking its shield. We’re in big trouble if they catch us.’

Will shrugged and slung the shield over his back.

‘You could leave it,’ said Jo.

‘Don’t think that’d make up for killing the dragon,’ said Will, pushing forward. ‘And the truth is, the shield makes me feel stronger. Don’t know why.’