by Dane Cobain
“That sounds suspicious,” Montgomery observed.
“It was. They found no sign of another vehicle. But was it really caused by Angels? I’m a man of science. I rarely take things on faith. But if these Angels do exist, and if they’re really made of light, your theory is plausible. It’s logical, but can science prove it? Perhaps only time will tell.”
“I’m a man of faith,” said Montgomery. “If you tell me that it’s possible, then I can do the rest.”
“It’s possible,” Atkins replied. “Though perhaps unlikely. But it’s the only theory we have, the only thing that explains everything that’s happened since the launch of the Collider. I’ll try to dedicate some time to it, but you have to understand that there’s not much I can do.”
“Of course,” the priest replied.
The scientist fiddled with his mobile phone and began to climb from his seat. “I really must be going. Thank you for agreeing to meet me. Need I remind you that this conversation never happened? That we’ve never corresponded?”
“Our lips are sealed,” replied Jones.
They bade a hasty farewell in the snowy garden, and priest and scientist met each other’s eyes as they exchanged a firm handshake. Then Atkins disappeared into the afternoon as Jones and Montgomery retired to their hotel room in silence. At last, they sat down to share a strong drink.
“Well,” said Jones. “I think that went pretty well.”
Montgomery looked over with the hint of a smile. “What did?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: VENGEANCE
Thursday December 17th, 2009
BLAISE ATKINS SIGHED and licked his lips, turning the pages of a dirty textbook. There was nothing, no record of any experiment in the history of scientific exploration that could prove or disprove the priest’s theory. It was like trying to catch a ghost or to vaccinate against bad luck. The task was made harder because he couldn’t leave a paper trail, and he didn’t even know what he was looking for.
The telephone at his desk began to ring, and in the cold stillness of the dark laboratory, he hesitated before answering. The receiver felt cold against his ear as he answered in broken French. There was no response, just angry static and silence.
“Damn kids,” he muttered.
The nuisance calls were getting worse; almost every evening, he went home to the same message – shrill wails and screams, the threatening buzz of static electricity and lost signals. He coughed and turned another page, then sat back in his chair and listened to the silence. He heard nothing but the subtle gleam of waiting machinery and the fans of a thousand computers.
His eyes flicked back to the scientific bible that lay open on the table in front of him, but there was nothing, no overlooked paragraph or new experiment that could help him. Nobody knew what was happening, and it terrified him. He sighed and closed the book, then turned around. He wasn’t alone.
“Mr. Atkins.” The dreadful voices echoed through the underground complex in a hellish choir, and adrenaline rushed through the scientist like a drunken matador. “We’re pleased to meet you, at last.”
His eyes widened as he took his adversaries in. “Who are you?” His voice was cold and afraid, but it had an excited edge to it.
“You already know what we are,” they said.
The harsh electric lighting seemed to bounce off their skin and into his head like a bullet, and he had to shade his eyes from the glare.
There were half a dozen of them, shimmering and blurring together so he couldn’t count their number. They were naked, but they were naked like statues; their faces wore terrible expressions of neutrality, like Mafia hitmen – never scared or intimidated, always ready to kill.
“You’re right,” he said, rising from his chair. “I know what you are, all right. But I don’t know why you’re here.”
The Angels watched him impassively – there was nowhere for him to go; they were blocking the only exit, and the lab was like a labyrinth. Hundreds of metres below them, the Large Hadron Collider throbbed and hummed like a caged lion.
“You are not meant to understand. It is enough that we understand, and we do.”
“You’re really real, then,” he muttered.
They ignored him. “All will be judged.”
The statement fell like light through a widow’s veil, and the scientist shrank back in awe. He was pressed against the desk now, and the Angels’ united voice was growing louder and more powerful by the second.
“Kneel before us if you dare to confess your sins.”
“I’m a scientist,” he said, trying to edge along the desk and away from them. “Why should I discuss religion with a possible delusion?”
They weren’t coming any closer, but the strange light that illuminated them was growing more defined. He could feel the heat from their skin, an intense glow that made sweat leak through him like morning dew.
“Because you have no choice. You will feed us or you will die.” The leading Angels took a step forward, and the uncomfortable heat grew hotter. It felt like he was trapped beneath the surface of a hot bath.
“And after I ‘feed you’?” Atkins said. “There’s nothing to stop you from killing me. If you’re going to kill me, kill me now and let me die with dignity.”
“And spoil our fun? Mr. Atkins, we are only just beginning. We will have you begging for mercy, screaming every evil deed and indecent act you’ve ever committed. Your eyes will bleed tears of resentment towards the world, and then you will die, when our hunger is satisfied.” They inched closer to the scientist, and the discomfort grew into pain.
“What can I tell you?” he moaned. “I’m no different to anyone else. What have I done that’s so terrible?”
“All will be judged. Feed us.”
“When I was ten, I stole my sister’s bike and rode all of the way to the city,” Atkins began. “I sold it and spent the money on chocolate. I ate so much that I couldn’t walk home, and my parents had to come and collect me.”
“Is that the best that you can do?” The Angels took another step closer and the air grew polluted with burnt hair and singed flesh. “A childish misdemeanour, nothing more. We want something deeper, more sinful.”
The scientist whimpered in near-convulsive pain.
“I’ve been cheating on my wife with one of the apprentices.”
“Tell us more. Why did you do it? How did it feel?”
“Terrible,” he wailed. “And yet, so right. You can’t know how frustrating it is to be trapped in a loveless marriage. Even my children hate me. They say I spend too much time at work. No-one understands me. Claudia is different, she knows how I feel.”
The Angels seemed appeased, but it was temporary. Atkins felt as though he’d thrown a child to a pack of hungry wolves, giving them a taste for soft flesh and brittle bones.
“It’s not enough,” they said. “We need more.”
The scientist whimpered again and played his last, desperate card.
“I killed someone!” he shouted. “When I was nineteen, in a fight over a girl. I hit him, and he went down like a bag of bricks. He never got back up. I didn’t even hit him that hard, he just…” Atkins trailed off as the Angels’ faces grew lined with anger and disgust.
“We hate the taste of lies, Mr. Atkins,” they said, edging closer as he cowered behind his blistered hands, moaning in white hot agony. “Prepare to pay for your sins.”
The Angels laughed with the timbre of a dozen harps, then rushed towards him in a river of light that washed over him. The last thing that the defeated scientist saw was their impassive faces, still hungry under the harsh electric glare. Then a calm breeze took his mind away, and the Angels glided through the ceiling and left the scalded body to fester and decay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: MONTGOMERY’S VOICEMAIL MESSAGE
Friday December 18th, 2009
“HELLO, you’re through to Father John Montgomery. Unfortunately, I’m not available to take your call at the moment, but if you’d like to leave yo
ur name, telephone number, and a brief message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Please speak clearly after the tone.”
BEEP.
“It’s Jones. Father, it’s all over the newspapers – have you seen it? ‘CERN scientist found dead inside laboratory.’ They’re saying he was burned to death – check this out, they released a statement.
“‘We are sad to confirm the death of Professor Blaise Atkins inside the CERN laboratory on Friday night. Although, as a key member of our scientific team, he had access to his workstation at all hours, he wasn’t on active duty at the time of his death. We’re urging anyone with relevant information to come forward. We intend to co-operate fully with any police investigation.’
“What do you make of that, then? We need to meet up again as soon as possible, something’s definitely going on here. Call me, okay? I’m worried. More worried than ever.”
CHAPTER THIRTY: THE MEETING
Friday December 18th, 2009
FATHER MONTGOMERY didn’t look up from the book he was reading.
“Don’t bother knocking,” he said, turning the discoloured pages of his Bible and running his finger across the verses. “Are you familiar with Psalm 23?”
The Angels nodded cautiously; the priest still had his back to them. He found his place and began to read to the spectral audience.
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Slowly, the priest turned around in his chair.
“Very good,” chorused the Angels. “But how much of that do you really believe? We’ve seen inside you, we’ve seen the wound that your faith left behind. Tell us, how long have you lived in hypocrisy?”
The priest frowned for a moment, then smiled, sadly. “For far too long. But God is benevolent, and he’ll forgive me.”
“Is he, now?” Their aquiline faces flickered, and the priest saw anger and laughter. “You believe that God created all life. Does that include us? On the eighth day, he said ‘let there be ruin,’ and we were born of light and released into the universe.”
“May I ask a question?” Montgomery said. “From one theist to another?”
“If we can refuse to answer.”
The priest smiled again; in the old leather armchair, he looked beaten and worn.
“Why me?” he asked. “Why quiz a tired old man about his faith? There must be other priests that can offer more information.”
“We like the taste of your sins.”
He made no attempt to plead purity – instead, he looked them one-by-one in their cold, heartless eyes.
“I see,” he said. “And are you what you say you are? Are you made of light or flesh? Do you have skin like I do?”
“Both,” they answered. “And more.”
“But how?” Montgomery asked. “Your existence is impossible.”
“Perhaps to you. We don’t concern ourselves with such mundane matters. We think, therefore we are. What else is there? We are not weak like you. We do not need love, we do not need religion. We do not feel hatred, we do not need rest or comfort.”
“Then what do you need?”
For a moment, there was silence – not even the whispering of the traffic penetrated the invisible curtain. Then, with the mounting awareness of an un-scratchable itch, reality came back, and the Angels spoke again.
“We need secrets,” they explained. “Dark secrets to keep us nourished through the aeons. And that is why we need you.” The lines on their faces seemed to soften, and the priest’s concentration failed. For a split second, they looked almost human. “You could tell us everything; you have heard it all before.”
“I’ll tell you nothing,” he growled. “My secrets are my own and that’s how they’ll stay.”
“Do you take confessional?”
“Everything I hear is God’s secret,” Montgomery said. “I’m just the arbiter of his message.”
There was a sudden noise from the road outside the church’s gates, and the Angels pressed together. Montgomery noticed and smiled – whatever they were, whatever they wanted, they were on enemy territory. The grounds of the church were intimidating even to the priest, but he knew that as long as he stood there, they couldn’t touch him. One by one, they faded into the night. There was only the leader left, glowing like a terrible nightlight.
“We will meet again,” he screeched. “I will ensure it.”
Without his brothers beside him, he sounded like a piano falling from a window. The priest shrank back into his seat as the demonic vocal chords unfolded to bellow their infernal sentence.
The Angel disappeared, and the priest closed his eyes, confused and exhausted. Dark thoughts clouded his mind, and he sank into an uneasy sleep. He woke to a friendly face and a soft pair of hands; Jones wafted the scent of slow-roasted coffee under his nostrils.
“I heard voices,” he said, as the befuddled priest drank and warmed his hands on the cup. “Are you all right?”
Montgomery grinned like a teenager with a plan.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I have an answer to a question that’s been bothering me for months.”
“You do?” asked Jones. “And what’s that?”
“The Angels. They really do exist. We need to decide on our next move, before they decide on theirs.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THE WORLD STANDS STILL
Saturday December 19th, 2009
“OUR TOP STORY tonight… the underground crime wave continues to spread, with reports of Angels in Peru, Madagascar, North Korea, and Jamaica.
“Police forces across the world are baffled, adding their consternation to the confusion of top criminologists, theists, and scientists alike. Disappearances are on the rise, the rate of violent deaths is at an all-time high, and government officials have nothing new to say.
“The British public can rest assured that we’re doing everything we can to crack down on the perpetrators of these crimes. We’ve made over a thousand arrests in the London area alone, and we ask for your continued co-operation in this time of need. If you see anything suspicious, we urge you to call our information hotline – 08081 570211. We’re also working closely with foreign governments to put an end to this international crime wave.
“But will that be enough? Experts warn of a worldwide pandemic of revenge crimes and vigilantism. Police have stressed the importance of leaving peace-keeping to the professionals and of calling the emergency services only in the case of a genuine emergency.
“One thing is certain… this can’t go on forever. Perhaps the Christmas spirit will convince the Angels, whoever they may be, to rethink their strategy of fear and terror. Let’s hope that the season of goodwill wins them over. Back to you, Clive.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: RESEARCH
Monday December 21st, 2009
THE FLOOR WAS COLD and unloving; Jones had had a rough night’s sleep, waking every time a distant gust of wind howled in the eaves like the ghost of a long-dead child in the rafters. The winter chill bit him as he tossed and turned, but from the camp-bed beside him, Father Montgomery breathed deeply and serenely. Only a couple of days earlier, they’d been in Geneva. It had been a productive trip, until Jones heard about the death of Vincent Foster. They’d hopped on the first plane home.
Jones sighed and rolled over as the mist began to fade and the morning sun crept over the horizon, bringing warmth and the promise of a new day. Outside the church, a dog barked twice and was cut suddenly short, and Jones’ tired eyes were watering. He rubbed them unconsciously and fell asleep.
He woke up to
the shrill sound of a Nokia ringtone reverberating through the eaves. Jones fumbled through his pockets, looking for the handset, and pulled it reluctantly to his ear.
“What?” he grumbled.
The words that came out of the tiny speakers were angry and urgent. “Jones, where the hell are you? You haven’t been at the office for a week, and we need you. We’re pitching tomorrow, have you forgotten?”
“No,” he replied. “I haven’t.”
“Get in here right now,” his manager demanded. “Or you’re fired.”
Jones could almost feel the spittle travelling across the airwaves.
“You can’t fire me, I quit. Some things are more important than your money.” For a second, the line was silent except for the faint crackle of interference.
“Are you sure about this?”
“You heard me,” Jones said, dropping the call and switching his phone to silent.
Beside him, the old priest stirred and mumbled something about brimstone and betrayal. Jones leant over him and stroked his sweaty cheeks.
“Rest,” he whispered, soothingly. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”
***
Jones’ day had been wasted with fruitless Googling while Montgomery went about his duties. The web was just that, strings of relevant but useless articles pointing to a central evil, the Angels. Every time his brain started to tire, he stepped outside for a breath of fresh air.
Jones smoked his seventh cigarette of the day as he watched the sun go down on the estate behind the church. A cough behind him signalled the entrance of the priest, but Jones finished his cigarette in silence before turning round to address Montgomery.
“I lost my job,” said Jones.
“I thought as much. You don’t need it anymore.”
