Angel Dust

by Sarah Mussi

  Nevertheless it was only right that I make amends. ‘Would you like to repent?’ I asked very gently.

  ‘Repent what?’ said the soul of Joey, checking himself out, patting his arms and chest. Souls like to do that. They find the Passing Over hard; the transition between corporeal reality and the nether world alarms them.

  ‘Just repent,’ I said. ‘Atone for wrongs done, apologise for pain caused?’

  ‘Repent?’ He raised an eyebrow and peered at me. ‘Repent all the good times? All the thrills, the spills, the guns, the game?’ He shook his head. ‘All those wild nights? Those hot babes! Why?’ He looked around as if he expected to see a procession of wild nights filled with hot babes yet to come.

  I clucked my tongue at him. How shameless he was.

  ‘So I can save your soul,’ I said. Although now he was already dead I doubted if I could. Technically you’re supposed to repent whilst you’re still alive. I’d never tried it the other way round. And actually you’re not supposed to enter into any debate about it either.

  ‘Nah,’ he said shakily. ‘I mean, OK.’ He seemed unsure. ‘I wanna go where the bad guys are.’

  ‘Just as well,’ hissed Larry from the bar. ‘Breaking the contract could be messy.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, not quite knowing how to handle this, ‘you have to be sure. Are you really sorry?’

  Joey eyed me suspiciously as if I were trying to trick him.

  ‘No comment,’ he said.

  I shot a desperate look at Larry. He jerked his head as if to say, Well, the chips are up for him, then.

  ‘Joey?’ I tried again. ‘This is your last chance.’

  ‘No comment,’ he repeated as if he were being cross-examined by the police.

  ‘Then you must come with me,’ I said. He was going to go to Hell anyway – no need to continue the charade. ‘I’ll show you the way.’

  With a heavy heart I took his hand. He’d been so nearly there. If the circumstances had been different – perhaps with some extras – a choir of cherubim?

  ‘You mean I’ve got to leave all this fun at the club, right now? I never even got going,’ he moaned.

  I smiled. I didn’t like to tell him there would be no ‘getting going’ where he was bound. Instead I said, ‘Well, looks like the fun here is done for tonight. We shouldn’t leave it too long. There’s a kind of schedule involved. There might be a queue by the time we get to the river.’

  ‘A queue?’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Hell sure is a banging hot place, eh? All da crews lining up to get in?’

  I nodded. Absolutely. It was a very banging hot place indeed.

  Joey looked around and seemed to remember something. ‘Where am I?’ he said.

  ‘Still at The Mass, the nightclub,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Where am I? I mean me.’ He tried to slap at his arms. ‘Me. You know – Joey Bigga.’

  ‘I think,’ I said slowly, ‘the paramedics took you away.’

  ‘Then I must get me back,’ said Joey. ‘I can’t die. You’ve got to save me. I don’t want to die . . .’ His eyes took on a haunted look.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re already dead.’ Then, more reassuringly: ‘The worst is over.’

  ‘No!’ All his bravado was gone. He grabbed at me. ‘I’m sorry, OK? You’ve got to help me. I can’t die. I can’t go to Hell!’

  I looked down at him. Poor Joey.

  Larry gave me an encouraging thumbs-up. He mouthed, ‘That’s my girl.’

  I tried to feel encouraged. ‘Come,’ I said, taking Joey under my wing. ‘I’ll keep you company. There aren’t many hotter babes than me. We’ll cruise on down the Highway and chat. You can have your pick of music – a few strains of the harp, perhaps? I’m good at the harp.’

  Joey gave me an odd look, so I let some Welsh harp music drift across the street and swirl up into the club.

  ‘That. Is. Total. Crap,’ said Joey.

  I didn’t try again. Instead I led him off the dance floor, out of the club, past Larry (who smiled at me again, said, ‘Good girl, Chiara, catch you later by the river’), and up the narrow stairs. We passed the bouncers’ bay, the cloakroom, the upstairs café and stepped out into the still night of the city.

  Serafina 8

  Between you and me, Joey wasn’t the easiest person to play Guiding Angel to. He clung desperately to his human form, and he couldn’t seem to quit weaving around and galloping forward.

  ‘Hey, Joey,’ I said, ‘you’ll get the hang of being dead quicker if you try walking first, and accept that your “body” now belongs to a different realm.’

  As I said that, Joey launched forward and bumped into another soul and knocked it for six. He did it again. I found myself saying, ‘Sorry,’ and, ‘He’s so new to this,’ to the other Seraphim escorting their charges down to the river. (In our own realm, sadly, we can’t travel in the beat of a wing.)

  ‘Taking it badly, is he?’ asked a Seraph, someone I knew vaguely by sight (the Cloisters? Last year? Trumpet practice?).

  I nodded, but what if Joey’s erratic progress was less to do with him taking it badly, and much more to do with him taking it at all?

  I smiled at the other Seraph and shrugged my shoulders. But I didn’t feel as upbeat as I looked. The thought of St Peter’s disappointment, his slow ponderous questioning, his melancholic disapproval sent shivers into even my most fiery bits. I’d have to confess, of course – but I was beginning to wonder if . . . you know . . . if everything went OK, with Joey, whether I couldn’t put it off a bit? At least until Marcus had repented, and I could show some positive outcome?

  My fellow Seraph smiled back. I liked her immediately.

  I didn’t much like the Highway, though. It was broad, of course, and they’d newly resurfaced it with lovely dark slate. On either side fields stretched away, filled with ripe corn, red poppies, myriads of wild flowers. But the Highway – gorgeous as it was, always sloping downhill, winding beside streams, curving out on to wide plains – was not a nice place. Its breezes were not the gentle winds of Heaven; they were stifling blasts of dry, hot ventilation. And they smelt.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, catching Joey, as he stumbled into a weary trudge. ‘You’ve almost got the hang of it now. Brilliant!’

  He gave me a scathing look. ‘Don’t need to patronise me,’ he said. ‘I’m the One and Only Joey B.’

  How delightful he was! Calling himself Joey B. like that. Especially when he was just a puny little (dead) human. I wondered if the demons in the pits would like his charming arrogance.

  ‘Tell me about yourself, Joey,’ I said, trying to humour him.

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘You in league with the Feds?’

  ‘The Feds?’ I said. Did he mean cannibals? I shuddered. Maybe they were something like zombies.

  ‘I’m happy to tell you I’m not in league with the Feds,’ I said, smiling. ‘Or anything else related to the undead.’

  Joey gave me a funny look.

  Of course, I was just longing to talk about Marcus, but I couldn’t seem to find a way in. Every time I tried, Joey said something random that threw me off. I wasn’t going to be defeated, though. At last I just burst out with it. ‘Are you Marcus’s best friend?’

  Joey gave me another seriously weird look. ‘Best friend?’ he said. ‘Like college girls?’

  ‘Absolutely!’ I chirped. He’d understood me exactly. Just like college girls. I beamed up at him. ‘Yes, like do you share secrets and things?’

  ‘Joey B. share secrets?’ he squeaked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m not asking you to be indiscreet or anything, but did Marcus ever confide in you – as his best friend, sort of thing?’

  Joey started laughing. I couldn’t really see why. I‘d love to have a best friend. (Having close friendships was rather frowned upon at the Cloisters.) If I’d had a best friend I’d tell her everything: when I was sad, when I was worried, if I had a spot on my nose (I mean if I was human. Angels don’t get
spots, obviously).

  ‘Yes, secrets,’ I continued. ‘Like do you know his favourite pizza topping, the book he’s enjoying reading and um –’ here I tried to keep my voice steady – ‘what kind of girls he likes?’

  ‘The book he’s reading?’ said Joey, looking at me as if I’d put my halo on upside down.

  ‘And if he has a girlfriend,’ I said.

  At that Joey’s face creased up. ‘A girlfriend?’ He quite snorted with laughter. ‘No, Marcus doesn’t have a “girlfriend”, he has girlfriends. He has so many girlfriends, he could start up an All Girls School, just on his own.’

  ‘Oh!’ I said, a sudden pang spearing me.

  ‘Girls go crazy for that guy. He has to positively fight them off,’ Joey said. ‘Even then they come back, screaming for more.’

  Beside us the road dipped briefly into the shadow of a huge cliff. The Highway narrowed a little to curve through a mountain pass.

  ‘Oh,’ I said again, thinking: Well, if he’s going to repent, the whole area of ‘girlfriends’ might be a good place to start.

  ‘Zillions of girls,’ continued Joey, completely oblivious to the way my face was falling. ‘They actually pay him to see them. Can you beat that?’

  Once through the pass, the landscape opened up. Before us lay barren plains.

  ‘And he treats them like shit. And they still come back for more!’

  My fire dimmed and my splendour faded right out.

  But all I said was: ‘Oh.’ As if the subject was boring and I’d had enough of it.

  And then I nearly drove myself mad. Because I hadn’t had anything like enough of it. I wanted to quiz Joey. I wanted to shake him, force him to take it all back. I wanted details. Huge details. Intricate details. Blow-by-blow details. Sordid details. Secret details. Any-details-at-all details – of every girl Marcus had ever dated.

  And I wanted Joey to explain what it was that drove all those girls crazy, so that they paid to get near Marcus. What kept them coming back when he treated them so badly? What was his secret?

  But I didn’t need to. I knew. It was driving me crazy.

  Had driven me crazy.

  Would drive me crazy.

  In fact I was already crazy.

  So crazy I’d signed contracts, made promises, and here I was taking his best friend to Hell!

  I knew just what Marcus Montague had.

  And he clearly had huge amounts of it.

  Serafina 9

  Together Joey and I hurried down from the mountain pass. As we drew near to the river, the air hung more heavily. Over the fields you could see it rising and shimmering, and from time to time you could catch a whiff of it too, a salty, sulphurous smell that made you twitch uncomfortably.

  I started to feel ill.

  When we reached the river we saw the queue. It was predictable, really: Saturday night, only port for a number of big cities – you can imagine the rest. We were going to have to wait for the ferry for ages.

  Not that I minded. I was glad, even. Souls get impatient, the same way people do. So when the ferry came along, everybody was going to be in a rush to get across. That would make it much easier to get out of being cross-questioned. After all, I didn’t want Charon bothering me about the life and death of Joey Bigga, did I?

  But, God, was it hot! The river slid by – all smelly and greasy. Puffs of sulphurous smoke were constant and suffocating. The sky was streaked blood-red. The vegetation had all withered. The sound of clanging and wailing and (weirdly) of opera music drifted from the far bank. All the souls had lost their glitter. Each one looked as shabby as the next. It was quite horrible.

  For the next few hours we shifted slowly forward in the line, the Angels of Death and the dead. There’s no obligation on Seraphim to wait when there’s a queue. But what with the Extension, I felt nervous about leaving Joey to answer for himself. Plus I had to collect the paperwork from Larry.

  Soon my hair hung like a heavy curtain, and my raiment stuck to me. But I resigned myself. (Patience is a virtue and it’s always good to practise it.) And as we waited I thought of Marcus. The way he’d seemed so determined to stay true to himself, even as he lay dying. So honest. I admired him for it. I’m an angel. I can’t die, but standing there gazing out across that river towards the dull glow of the pits, I feared death. I think I’d have repented anything to avoid Hell.

  I was relieved when I saw Larry. There he was, all clean and crisp in his white outfit. (He’d changed and had on white jeans and the cutest white tee under a white jacket.) His golden hair gleamed and his blue eyes twinkled.

  All this time though, I have to tell you, Joey had not been waiting very patiently. He’d got quite excited ogling girls. And there were some pretty awesome females queuing up at that river to ogle at.

  ‘Hey, Joey,’ I said, ‘you can go over to every girl on the jetty in a minute, after I’ve signed you in.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Joey said, not taking the slightest notice. He headed straight for a honey blonde with amazing buttocks.

  I threw my wings up in despair. Larry didn’t seem to mind, though. He crossed over to me, briefcase in hand, looking not a jot the worse for all the heavy air.

  ‘Hello, my favourite cherub,’ he said. (Just for the record, I’m a Seraph, six wings, tall and nothing like a cherub; plus, in the hierarchy of celestial beings – well, much higher.) He flashed me a perfect smile from a perfect set of pearly teeth. ‘Are we ready to close our deal?’

  I looked around me. All those poor souls bound for Hell. How blessed I was to have saved Marcus from this. I thought of Heaven, its glistening valleys, its sweet pastures; how lucky we angels were. It didn’t seem fair. Somebody should do something about it all. The banks of Styx were surely where God’s work should begin?

  I nodded at Larry. Of course I was ready to close the deal. I tried to tug Joey my way without success.

  ‘Hey, Angel-face,’ said Larry, ‘don’t stress. You’ve had a rotten night. There’s no hurry.’

  ‘It’s just Joey,’ I said. ‘I don’t know, maybe it’s because he’s been brought here too early, but he’s not getting used to it at all.’

  ‘Don’t worry, there are counsellors on the other side. They’ll take him through step by step. He’s making friends already.’ Larry nodded towards Joey, who had slid completely from my grasp, and already had one muscly arm around the girl with the ginormous bum.

  I smiled. I threw my wings up. Let him enjoy himself, then! The pursuit of Earthly pleasures wouldn’t be his for long.

  ‘So,’ said Larry, ‘just need your autograph here.’ Larry held up the contract he’d shown me in the club. The writing was terribly small. I had to squint to see it. But even as I squinted it seemed to grow weirdly smaller. Must be the light, I thought. I didn’t want to be rude and demand to see it, as if I was going to nitpick. I’d already committed myself anyway. This was just some kind of delivery note, wasn’t it?

  I have to tell you at this point something quite bizarre happened. I was glancing over at Joey by the queue and I swear – on my Holy Oath – I saw that shadowy figure from the corner seat of the nightclub again.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ said Larry, ‘but tonight’s Extension was such a rush job, I’ve only got this one copy. Can I get yours to you later?’

  I peered across at the figure just to be sure, but he’d slipped behind a knot of football fans in stripy scarves. I remembered there’d been an incident scheduled after a match. It’d been on the Manifest. (Quite a few fans had died, and one was only a kid. Thank goodness I hadn’t been on Brawl Duty.) The shadowy figure was quite gone.

  ‘Can I?’ asked Larry again.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ he said.

  I took the pen he offered and signed by the cross. It read:

  Successful Delivery to Styx

  Soul: One

  Description: Grey, stained, not suitable for reuse

  Name: Joseph Biggs

&
nbsp; Deal # 19086600897

  Broker: Harry Laurence Schratz

  Guarantor: Serafina Seraph

  Signed: Serafina Seraph & Harry Laurence Schratz

  This delivery note relates to the contract of 20th October sealed at The Mass Night Club between and betwixt the above parties whereby an Extension was taken out on the life of Marcus Montague provided a suitable exchange could be made on the same night. This contract expires on Halloween. If Marcus Montague has not repented by that date, his soul is forfeit with the rest of his Earthly life at that hour without prejudice. Collection time 12.00 Midnight, 31st October.

  Mr Harry Schratz. So I had heard right. That was strange. But I shrugged. Maybe he preferred his middle name. ‘There!’ I signed with a flourish and added a tiny drawing of butterfly wings. In the distance I thought I heard thunder rumble.

  ‘Fabbo, fabbo,’ said Larry. ‘All’s done!’ and as he spoke two tall dark shapes moved in on Joey.

  I glanced over to see what they’d do. But as I turned my head, I noticed out of the corner of my eye the word ‘Marcus’ in the small print at the bottom of the sheet. Larry was busy whisking it away, ready to file it in his briefcase, but I read it all the same. This is what it said:

  . . . This contract expires on Halloween. If Marcus Montague has not already repented by that date, his soul is forfeit with the rest of his Earthly life at that hour without prejudice. Collection time 12.00 Midnight, 31st October.

  ‘Oh!’ I said.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ asked Larry.

  ‘Oh no,’ I said. It would have been churlish, after everything Larry had done, to moan about the date on the Extension. But he had said three weeks, hadn’t he?

  Or had I misheard?

  I smiled, but some of my gorgeous radiance drained from my face.

  ‘. . . This contract expires on Halloween.’

  And Halloween was only ten days away.

  Serafina 10