by Neil Gaiman
“Zephkiel rose from his chair. ‘Get up. It is not fitting for one angel to act in this way to another. It is not right. Get up!’
“I shook my head. ‘Father, You are no angel,’ I whispered.
“Zephkiel said nothing. For a moment my heart misgave within me. I was afraid. ‘Father, I was charged to discover who was responsible for Carasel’s death. And I do know.’
‘“You have taken your vengeance, Raguel.’
‘“Your vengeance, Lord.’
“And then He sighed, and sat down once more. ‘Ah, little Raguel. The problem with creating things is that they perform so much better than one had ever planned. Shall I ask how you recognised me?’
“I . . . I am not certain, Lord. You have no wings. You wait at the centre of the City, supervising the Creation directly. When I destroyed Saraquael, You did not look away. You know too many things. You . . .’ I paused, and thought. ‘No, I do not know how I know. As You say, You have created me well. But I only understood who You were and the meaning of the drama we had enacted here for You, when I saw Lucifer leave.’
“‘What did you understand, child?’
‘“Who killed Carasel. Or at least, who was pulling the strings. For example, who arranged for Carasel and Saraquael to work together on Love, knowing Carasel’s tendency to involve himself too deeply in his work?’
“He was speaking to me gently, almost teasingly, as an adult would pretend to make conversation with a tiny child. ‘Why should anyone have “pulled the strings”, Raguel?’
“‘Because nothing occurs without reason; and all the reasons are Yours. You set Saraquael up: yes, he killed Carasel. But he killed Carasel so that I could destroy him.’
“‘And were you wrong to destroy him?’
“I looked into His old, old eyes. ‘It was my function. But I do not think it was just. I think perhaps it was needed that I destroy Saraquael, in order to demonstrate to Lucifer the Injustice of the Lord.’
“He smiled, then. ‘And whatever reason would I have for doing that?’
‘“I . . . I do not know. I do not understand—no more than I understand why You created the Dark, or the voices in the Darkness. But You did. You caused all this to occur.’
“He nodded. ‘Yes. I did. Lucifer must brood on the unfairness of Saraquael’s destruction. And that—amongst other things—will precipitate him into certain actions. Poor sweet Lucifer. His way will be the hardest of all my children; for there is a part he must play in the drama that is to come, and it is a grand role.’
“I remained kneeling in front of the Creator of All Things.
‘“What will you do now, Raguel?’ He asked me.
“‘I must return to my cell. My function is now fulfilled. I have taken vengeance, and I have revealed the perpetrator. That is enough. But—Lord?’
“‘Yes, child.’
“‘I feel dirty. I feel tarnished. I feel befouled. Perhaps it is true that all that happens is in accordance with Your will, and thus it is good. But sometimes You leave blood on Your instruments.’
“He nodded, as if He agreed with me. ‘If you wish, Raguel, you may forget all this. All that has happened this day’ And then He said, ‘However, you will not be able to speak of this to any other angels, whether you choose to remember it or not.’
“‘I will remember it.’
“‘It is your choice. But sometimes you will find it is easier by far not to remember. Forgetfulness can sometimes bring freedom, of a sort. Now, if you do not mind,’ He reached down, took a file from a stack on the floor, opened it,’—there is work I should be getting on with.’
“I stood up and walked to the window. I hoped He would call me back, explain every detail of His plan to me, somehow make it all better. But He said nothing, and I left His Presence without ever looking back.”
The man was silent, then. And he remained silent—I couldn’t even hear him breathing—for so long that I began to get nervous, thinking that perhaps he had fallen asleep, or died.
Then he stood up.
“There you go, pal. That’s your story. Do you think it was worth a couple of cigarettes and a book of matches?” He asked the question as if it was important to him, without irony.
“Yes,” I told him. “Yes. It was. But what happened next? How did you . . . I mean, if . . .” I trailed off.
It was dark on the street, now, at the edge of daybreak. One by one the streetlights had begun to flicker out, and he was silhouetted against the glow of the dawn sky. He thrust his hands into his pockets. “What happened? I left home, and I lost my way, and these days home’s a long way back. Sometimes you do things you regret, but there’s nothing you can do about them. Times change. Doors close behind you. You move on. You know?
“Eventually I wound up here. They used to say no-one’s ever originally from LA. True as Hell in my case.”
And then, before I could understand what he was doing, he leaned down and kissed me, gently, on the cheek. His stubble was rough and prickly, but his breath was surprisingly sweet. He whispered into my ear: ‘I never fell. I don’t care what they say. I’m still doing my job, as I see it.’
My cheek burned where his lips had touched it.
He straightened up. “But I still want to go home.”
The man walked away down the darkened street, and I sat on the bench and watched him go. I felt like he had taken something from me, although I could no longer remember what. And I felt like something had been left in its place—absolution, perhaps, or innocence, although of what, or from what, I could no longer say.
An image from somewhere: a scribbled drawing, of two angels in flight above a perfect city; and over the image a child’s perfect handprint, which stains the white paper blood-red. It came into my head unbidden, and I no longer know what it meant.
I stood up.
It was too dark to see the face of my watch, but I knew I would get no sleep that day. I walked back to the place I was staying, to the house by the stunted palm tree, to wash myself, and to wait. I thought about angels, and about Tink; and I wondered whether love and death went hand in hand.
The next day the planes to England were flying again.
I felt strange—lack of sleep had forced me into that miserable state in which everything seems flat and of equal importance; when nothing matters, and in which reality seems scraped thin and threadbare. The taxi journey to the airport was a nightmare. I was hot, and tired, and testy. I wore a T-shirt in the LA heat; my coat was packed at the bottom of my luggage, where it had been for the entire stay.
The aeroplane was crowded, but I didn’t care.
The stewardess walked down the aisle with a rack of newspapers: the Herald Tribune, USA Today, and the LA Times. I took a copy of the Times, but the words left my head as my eyes scanned over them. Nothing that I read remained with me. No, I lie: somewhere in the back of the paper was a report of a triple murder: two women, and a small child. No names were given, and I do not know why the report should have registered as it did.
Soon I fell asleep. I dreamed about fucking Tink, while blood ran sluggishly from her closed eyes and lips. The blood was cold and viscous and clammy, and I awoke chilled by the plane’s air-conditioning, with an unpleasant taste in my mouth. My tongue and lips were dry. I looked out of the scratched oval window, stared down at the clouds, and it occurred to me then (not for the first time) that the clouds were in actuality another land, where everyone knew just what they were looking for and how to get back where they started from.
Staring down at the clouds is one of the things I have always liked best about flying. That, and the proximity one feels to one’s death.
I wrapped myself in the thin aircraft blanket, and slept some more, but if further dreams came then they made no impression upon me.
A blizzard blew up shortly after the plane landed in England, knocking out the airport’s power supply. I was alone in an airport elevator at the time, and it went dark and jammed between floors. A dim emerge
ncy light flickered on. I pressed the crimson alarm button until the batteries ran down and it ceased to sound; then I shivered in my LA T-shirt, in the corner of my little silver room. I watched my breath steam in the air, and I hugged myself for warmth.
There wasn’t anything in there except me; but even so, I felt safe, and secure. Soon someone would come and force open the doors. Eventually somebody would let me out; and I knew that I would soon be home.
Born in Portchester, England, in 1960, Neil Gaiman is the author of a number of things including the graphic novels Violent Cases, Signal to Noise, The Sandman (collections include Preludes and Nocturnes, The Doll’s House, Dream Country, Season of Mists, A Game of You, and Fables and Reflections), Books of Magic, Miracleman: The Golden Age and Death: The High Cost of Living. With Terry Pratchett, he wrote Good Omens, a funny book about the end of the world. He’s currently living in America, but has not yet figured out why.
Current projects include a television series for the BBC, and Mr Punch, a graphic novel with Dave McKean. He wishes he wrote more than he does and very probably owes you a letter.
