No Rest for the Wicked

by Dane Cobain

  “Robert, you know I’m here for you. Just give me a call when you need me.”

  ***

  The hospital smelled of disinfectant and death, and Jones felt ill at ease as he sat beside Montgomery in the waiting room. He watched the priest read a newspaper, looking more like an old man than ever. Montgomery’s cassock and collar were gone, replaced by a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers.

  Jones twisted his neck to glance at the clock; visitors weren’t allowed in until six, and the door was electronically locked. The N.H.S. was efficient – Collins’ procedure had already been explained. Although no longer critical, Collins was in the burns unit and strongly sedated. Jones looked at the clock again – three minutes to go. CCTV cameras stared down like evil eyes. Montgomery excused himself and left Jones in morose silence. His ears were assaulted by the harsh buzz of an electronic intercom.

  “If you’d care to follow me?” An elderly doctor emerged from nowhere and led Jones to the hospital bed that his colleague now occupied. “If you need anything then give me a shout. I’ll be wandering around the ward. You need to be out by seven, so keep an eye on the time and say your goodbyes beforehand.”

  “Thanks,” said Jones.

  Collins was lying on his back, and most of his flesh was covered with bandages. Small patches of exposed flesh poked through like snowy volcanoes. He looked like a sunburned mummy, with eyes that stared vacantly around the room. Jones wondered how much morphine was pumping through his system.

  “Hi,” he said, taking a seat.

  The patient said nothing.

  Jones moved theatrically and placed a bouquet on the table. “I brought you some flowers.”

  Collins didn’t bat an eyelid – he just kept on staring at his colleague.

  “How are you?”

  “How am I?” Collins finally croaked, with a broken laugh. It wasn’t the bitter, twisted laugh of a man in pain, but the carefree, innocent laugh of a child. To Jones, it sounded sinister.

  “Are you all right?” Jones asked.

  “I feel amazing.” Collins sounded surprised. “But I can’t move. Jones, isn’t it? Robert?”

  “That’s me. I was there.” Jones lowered his voice and looked around suspiciously. “Do you remember what happened? The accident?”

  “I don’t.”

  Jones sighed, regretting a wasted journey.

  Then, Collins’ eyes lit up with fear. “Wait, I remember! Oh god, how I remember.”

  His voice was strained, and the pain began to show in his twisted features. His jaw dropped and his eyes flushed.

  “What happened?” demanded Jones, bunching his hands into tight fists inside the pockets of his jacket.

  “They’ll kill me,” Collins spluttered, rocking in the hospital bed. A buzzer sounded in the distance, but Jones ignored it. “You don’t understand, they’ll kill me!”

  “Who?” demanded Jones, seething with rising urgency. His determination to uncover the truth was the only thing holding him together. “Who did this to you?”

  “You were there,” Collins moaned. “You saw them.”

  The sound of running footsteps echoed through the ward, and Jones felt a doctor at his elbow.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said, drawing a curtain around the bed. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Who was it?” Jones demanded, fighting to stay at the bedside. “Who did this?”

  “Angels,” Collins sighed. Then he coughed violently and bawled in agony.

  Montgomery was there then, holding Jones’ arm and pulling him away. Collins noticed him and screamed like a peasant on the rack.

  “Priest!” he cried, writhing desperately on the narrow bed. “I see you, I see your collar and I spit on it!”

  A thin thread of saliva flew through the air and struck the priest on the shoulder as the injured man flew into a rage.

  “Let’s get out of here,” murmured Jones, and Montgomery nodded in agreement.

  The doctors were struggling to restrain their patient, and the two men made their escape unnoticed. An alarm rang out as they left the building, and all movement stopped. The priest and the businessman said nothing during the long drive home.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: A STATEMENT FROM CERN

  Sunday November 22nd, 2009

  IN A DUSTY BACKROOM in the old rectory, Father Montgomery settled into an age-worn armchair and sat in silence, illuminated by the light of the ten-inch television. His collar was too tight, and he pulled it off before he choked in the stifling air of the storage room. He should have been preparing his sermons, but the television held more interest. Montgomery smiled, grimly.

  The news was full of the usual – death, war, pestilence, and famine. Montgomery had learned enough to know that nothing ever changed. He sometimes wondered whether his career would drive him insane. He spent his days listening to the troubles of a thousand other people, and none of them could listen to his own. He put his feet up and started to watch a confession on a larger scale.

  “...and in other news, The European Organisation for Nuclear Research has issued a public statement to unveil the latest results of their experiments.”

  Montgomery sat up in his hard seat and adjusted the volume, muttering to himself as his old bones creaked in protest.

  “Since the official launch of the Large Hadron Collider, the multi-billion pound particle accelerator that’s buried under the Franco-Swiss border, CERN’s scientists have been busy probing the secrets of the universe.”

  “Sounds fun,” muttered the priest, sipping from his chipped mug.

  “Now, in the first public statement of their findings, Senior Co-ordinator Vincent Foster says they’ve made a major breakthrough.”

  The journalist disappeared from the screen, and flash photography pushed back the darkness of the rectory. Foster stood behind a podium with a dozen microphones under his tired-looking eyes.

  “The Large Hadron Collider was designed to offer new insights into the creation of the universe,” Foster began, addressing the scientific community with the pride of a new father. “But we weren’t expecting this.

  “When we first started our experiments, we faced mistrust and doubt from the general public, and we tried to put a stop to it. The media pounced on unfounded rumours and told us that the world would end, but they couldn’t have been further from the truth. Our machine doesn’t create black holes, it destroys them.”

  The priest turned the volume up on the television.

  “We believe that dark matter accounts for the vast majority of mass in the observable universe. Inside the LHC, we’ve unravelled the first clues about its composition. Our studies suggest that DAEMONs are to blame – Dark Electric Matter Objects.” Foster leaned closer to the microphone to continue.

  “DAEMONs are theoretical, electrically charged, micro black holes. Here in Geneva, we believe that the Large Hadron Collider is capable of destroying them, releasing time, light, and matter back into the universe.”

  There was a stunned silence from the onlookers; even the photographers kept their fingers away from the shutters.

  “Our readings and measurements are completely different to the results that we expected. We’re still thinking on our feet, and our top scientists are experimenting and evaluating around the clock. The potential implications of this are limitless. This technology could revolutionise space travel and change the way we view the universe. It could even eliminate the possibility of our solar system’s eventual destruction were it to be threatened by a black hole. We expect to publish our amazing results within weeks. Ladies and gentlemen, today has been a wonderful day for science.”

  The press of the world launched into spontaneous applause, and the BBC reporter acknowledged the end of the article with a smile.

  In the rectory, Father Montgomery turned the television off and sat back in his seat, his eyes gleaming thoughtfully in the darkness.

  “DAEMONs,” he muttered, sounding old and alone. “The God particle. N
iall and his Angels…”

  As he’d aged, he’d realised that there are always more questions than answers. The Virgin Mary stared down at him from above the sooty fireplace, but he didn’t feel her comforting gaze. He fell asleep in his chair in the rectory and didn’t wake up until the first rays of the sun were already filtering in through the window.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE AFFAIR

  Friday February 2nd, 1962

  A COOL AIR blew down from the north, and Father Montgomery coughed and adjusted his tie. After barely two months at the seminary, he already felt uncomfortable without his cassock – he’d always been afraid of the outside world. He checked his pocket watch impulsively, and time moved slowly on. Somewhere in the distance, cars rolled along the main road, almost drowned out by the breeze and the birdsong.

  “I hope I’m not too late.” Montgomery whirled around, and the creases fell out of his jacket as though they’d never been there.

  An enthusiastic smile flickered across his face, to be replaced by a look of sincerity. Sarah looked beautiful – she looked like she’d spent hours on her hair, and the rouge that graced her cheeks removed the stress-lines that their work created. He’d never seen anything so divine.

  “You could never be late, I would’ve waited forever.” She giggled and took the arm that he offered with a delicate smile of appreciation. “I’m glad you made it. There were no problems? Nobody saw you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I hate all of this secrecy.”

  “So do I, my love.”

  They walked through the empty park together, silhouetted by the moon and the stars. They stopped and kissed under an oak tree as the wind whistled through the leaves. Their lips fused together with repressed fury, and their secret passion spread to the world around them. Arm-in-arm, they walked through the twilight, occasionally illuminated by the streetlamps.

  “We can’t go on like this,” she said, clutching him tightly. “It’ll kill us. We need to come clean.”

  Montgomery glanced at her, sadly. “It’s not as simple as that, we have the future to think about.”

  “Life doesn’t come with a rulebook, John. We’re not breaking any laws. Why can’t you think with your heart?”

  “Because my head is screaming at me,” he muttered, but his words were swallowed by the foliage. He pulled a battered pack of Marlboros from his pocket and lit one, shielding it from the breeze with a frosted palm. “Listen, Sarah...”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m sure you are. You don’t understand what we’re risking here. It doesn’t matter whether we’re breaking any rules, people see what they want to see, and they want to see a scandal. They’ll never allow us to stay, and nowhere else will take us.”

  “I know more than you think,” she whispered, blowing sweet, warm air on his neck. “But I’m prepared to risk everything to be with you.”

  Montgomery frowned and tried to escape the most difficult decision of his life. “It’s too much, Sarah. What if we had children? Can we bring them up in a society that hates them? And our families? Mother is already ill, this could destroy her.”

  “We’ll be careful, John. You’ll see. It’s different for us.”

  John Montgomery let his mind and his heart fight it out; his heart won. He grinned, sheepishly, and pulled her closer to him.

  “Be a sinner and sin boldly, but believe and rejoice in Christ even more boldly,” he quoted. “Martin Luther said that, a Protestant. But perhaps his heart was in the right place.”

  Tears clouded her eyes like a veil and she kissed his lips and hair, whispering, “Such a martyr.”

  They made love in the bushes, defying the elements with the fire of young passion. Dead leaves settled in their hair, and the wind whispered around their lustful bodies. Montgomery could see nothing but the distant glow of an electric lamp, and his ears were overwhelmed by the sounds of nature.

  They parted in tears and resolved not to meet again, but the damage was already done. The seed of life was buried in Sarah’s fertile womb, and their child was on the way. She cried herself to sleep in a state of ambivalence as the moon glided towards the horizon, and Montgomery drained a bottle of whiskey from the comfort of his bed. It stung his eyes and burned his soul, but the pain cleansed the sin and helped him sink into a dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: ANNIHILATION

  Wednesday December 2nd, 2009

  WITH HIS HEART beating faster than ever before, Niall stumbled through the streets. The snow was falling like volcanic ash, melting in his hair and clouding his glasses with mist. He stumbled and they fell from his nose, but he was far too terrified to notice. He had no desire to see his adversaries.

  The cars whipped past and splashed his legs with muddy water, drenching them to the feeble bone. As his wrinkled feet pounded against the pavement, he felt the shock of the impact through his body – his teeth rattled and ached.

  Niall’s alcoholic breath cut through the air like a sea mist, and he wobbled unsteadily along the pavement. It was closing time, but he was barred from the local pub for lewd behaviour and a relaxed approach to hygiene. Not that it mattered – he had no money and owned nothing but a ragged coat and the dregs of a bottle of whiskey. The stars stared down disapprovingly, reminding him of childhood dreams that had floated down the drain.

  The winter breeze bit his bearded face as he stumbled through the suburbs towards the church. The priest left a storage shed unlocked, and Niall used it as a shelter in the winter months when Montgomery wasn’t around to let him into the rectory. He quickened his pace as the rain began to fall, and he froze as a black tomcat dashed in front of him. Its evil eye stared knowingly; Niall chased it in a fury and sent it hissing through an alleyway. He glanced after it.

  The only streetlamp flickered and failed, but the alley was flooded with light. The Angels stood beside a cluster of rubbish bins, feasting on the half-light and glowing menacingly from the shadows. Niall dropped his bottle and winced as it smashed on the asphalt; the hypnotic figures turned to face him.

  “Man alive,” he murmured.

  The soles of his heavy shoes thudded against the asphalt as the Angels drifted after him through the side streets. His breaths came in sharp bursts, but he kept a steady pace, and the Angels followed at a distance. From behind a dip in the road, the church crept into view, and he paused for breath before running for the graveyard.

  “Why me?” he screamed, with tears pouring from his glassy eyes.

  His feet felt the familiar cobblestones of the churchyard, and his hobo-blisters turned the colour of poisoned apples. He made for the relative safety of the shed, slamming the rotten door behind him.

  The holy air smelled of mothballs and rusted machinery, and he stared through the dirty window and into the suburban night. The Angels glided down the path towards him, and he felt the cold hands of fear around his collarbone. He searched blindly in the dark for a weapon or a hiding place. He’d seen his pursuers before – he knew what they did and what they wanted.

  His wandering hand grasped the cold, metal handle of an old chest freezer, and he resigned himself to his fate. Reluctantly, he struggled to haul himself inside. The light of the Angels shone in the window, and he closed the lid and muttered a hasty prayer. The darkness grew around him.

  ***

  He was found by the council when the gardening crew scoured the graveyard. The smell of burnt flesh spread through the winter air and into their streaming nostrils. Niall’s corpse was charred and crispy, and the dust was disturbed by the dead man’s movements. The police were quick to respond, and the chief inspector cast a sour eye over the body.

  “Burned to death inside a freezer,” he muttered. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

  “It won’t be long until the press find out.” The inspector glanced at his partner, who was stroking his chin in earnest.

  “It never is. Fetch the priest.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: MIXED REPORTS ON CHANNEL FIVE NEWS

&nb
sp; Monday December 7th, 2009

  NATASHA BLAKE

  You never know what to believe, do you? My son told me all about them – he’s a theorist, you see. Said they’re the latest thing. He watches videos about them online. They’re called ‘Angels,’ and nobody knows how to stop them.

  He’s always telling me these things and I never pay attention, but then I saw them. They’re like moving statues made of light, and they’ve been following me around for weeks. They stand outside our house at night. You can see them through the curtains like streetlights. All night long they stood there, but I wasn’t afraid.

  We were getting used to having them around, but that was before they invaded the house. I was just sitting there with my feet up, and they drifted through the walls like ghosts. Of course, I was terrified. There were four of them, standing around the table. And when they talk, it sounds like they’re standing in a church, singing a song that only they know the words to.

  HELEN JENNINGS

  “We are Angels,” they said, and I believed them. My husband was on his knees; I was watching through a crack in the doorway. I thought they were a gang, but I couldn’t see any sign of a struggle. I heard the scream, and I knew it was Richard, but what could I do? The police were on their way, and I had no other choice. I had to watch, even if it destroyed me.

  They talked to him, about vengeance and retribution. One of them stared at Richard’s shirt, and the buttons popped open. With a terrible smile, the tallest stepped forward and pressed his evil hand against my husband’s breast. The smell of burnt hair and flesh ripped the world in two, and the screams of the man I loved brought tears to my eyes.

  I closed my eyes and listened to Richard’s heavy breathing. Then he screamed, a scream that was cut short by the Angels. I ran out the front door and never looked back.