by Sarah Mussi
I push that thought away from me. That is an evil thought, beneath me, and born of the Devil. I won’t believe it. I won’t be tricked by him again.
When I find Marcus everything will be OK. He’ll sweep me up into his arms. He’ll strain me against his chest. I’ll feel him, his hard muscles, his arms like steel. I’ll mould myself against his body, like the girl in the nightclub did. If human love is like that taste I had at the cemetery . . . oh, I hope it is. He’ll be there pressed right up against me. I’ll breathe when he breathes. I’ll look up into his dark eyes. I’ll tell him everything.
The afternoon turns chill, evening approaches. I’m so cold. This bollard beneath me is frostier than the grave. How the cold hurts. It bites like iron at my fingers. I must walk or the blood in me will freeze.
Down this street. Already it’s dark. The shops are still open. Past a cleaner’s, a pharmacy, another minicab office, a bank. But don’t go far. This is a newsagent’s – a general store. What if he comes? I mustn’t miss him. There are grotesque costumes in the window, witches’ hats, spiders, bats, webs made of rubber and masks – so many masks – and fake fanged teeth so white even Larry would be impressed. Larry won’t win. I won’t let him. He may have tricked us both with Marcus’s statement – tricked me with so many things. But I’m awake now. He won’t trick me again.
I glance back towards Curlston Heights. By the law of some bad fate he’ll be sure to come, if I stray away from his threshold. Some fate – it seems – already begins to hang over me. One set of the fake fangs in the shop window suddenly flops open to form a ghostly mouth opened in a hideous laugh.
Hurriedly I move off, although I don’t remove my eyes for one second from those grey adamantine doors.
In the next shop they are roasting birds. The smell of them punishes me. It makes my mouth water in a sudden flood of longing. I can see them all squeezed on a spit and turning and dripping golden oil and smelling of spices, of garlic and of hot barbecued wood smoke.
The smell of them unhinges me. I stare at them as they go round and round, all yellow and crispy, turning and roasting. My mouth is a-flood. It’s a strange sensation, at once delightful and at the same time so urgent. I don’t know what it means. My stomach starts to churn, as if it wants to grind holes into my being, as if acid is slowly dripping down inside me.
Suddenly, I realise with a shock, I want to go into the shop and have one of those birds. I want to sink my teeth into it. I want to rip tender flesh from barbecued bones. I stop, aghast. Such a craving! But I can’t drag my eyes away from them as round they go, round and round.
HALF CHICKEN: £3.50
I have no money.
I’m faint with this feeling. Would they give me one? I’m too worried to ask. I remember the cabby’s face, his demand for his spondulicks. No, I won’t ask. Would they take my raiment? It’s the last thing I have left from Heaven – spun of pure silk, flecked with iridium. I will offer it. I will offer my raiment for one half chicken.
I enter the shop.
A young man is there and – I think – seeing a thin-faced, shivering girl before him, frowns. I hold the raiment in my hand, but I haven’t the courage to ask him for the chicken.
‘Yeah?’ he says.
I look at him. I can’t speak.
‘Yeah?’ he says again.
‘I was cold,’ I stammer.
He nods. Inside the shop it’s warm. The smell of roasting chicken fills every corner. Damp coldness clings to me. I shiver as heat chases the air around me. The smell is making my belly hurt. It feels as if demons have already started feasting on me. I look at the young man. He appears indifferent.
‘You can’t stay here all day,’ he says.
I look at the raiment. I look at him. I look at the chickens. I’m too ashamed to ask. ‘Sorry,’ I whisper. And leave.
Outside the street is dark. I walk back towards Curlston Heights. My stomach twists. A car speeds past. Arches carrying high-speed trains tower above me, huge graphic letters spray-painted on them making no sense.
A car sped past!
I start to run. I run fast. I race back, past vans loading, lights flashing, traffic roaring, people streaming, kerbs greasy with old rain and fresh oil. But I don’t stop to notice anything – because a car is drawing up outside Curlston Heights.
And I recognise it!
It seems to be driven straight out of another world. So long ago. Someone’s car, with music booming out of it. A proper gangsta sits in the driver’s seat. The car slows. A window winds down.
The car screeches to a halt and I know it with a melting of my bones, beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Marcus has come – at last.
Zara 5
I run. I run, from the golden chicken shop. Run down by the nonsense-sprayed arches, dodging gutters, shoppers – run back towards the screeching car, bones melting, run and run, and I find that this new frail body can’t move like an angel’s. It’s weak and tired before it begins.
‘Marcus!’ I cry. ‘Marcus, Marcus.’
Four men and a girl get out of the car. The girl is beautiful and the men are handsome. How gorgeous they are, dark glittering eyes and jeans fitting them in undreamt-of ways, leather jackets and hoods, gleaming gold and dazzling eyes, sultry looks and sombre stares, and there’s Marcus.
My Marcus, more beautiful than all the rest.
I’m so glad. I run to him. I throw myself in his arms.
But his arms don’t catch me.
I stumble.
I fall.
And land headlong on the concrete. His three friends, his blessed friends, laugh. I try to read kindness in their laughter. I smile, but it’s not funny. What have they done to Marcus? Why is he so cold to me? Why didn’t he catch me in his arms and call me his angel?
‘Marcus,’ I say, but something has caught hold of my voice and broken it. I don’t recognise this strange weak sound it’s making.
‘Marcus,’ I try again, but he’s stepping around me, stepping away from me.
I reach out to him.
‘I’ve come for you,’ I cry.
He stops. He peers at me as if he’s trying to make me out.
‘I Fell,’ I say.
‘You sure did, doll,’ says one of his friends.
‘Falling for Marcus is a well-known phenomenon,’ says another.
‘Enjoy the trip?’ laughs a third.
‘No,’ I say quite truthfully, remembering the terrifying rushing, and the Devil. I look up at Marcus. ‘I Fell from Heaven to find you,’ I try to explain.
They start laughing.
Marcus holds up his hands as if to shush them. His face is perplexed. A thought is worrying him. For a fleeting moment his face lights up. He draws in his breath. He looks at me. But what he’s looking for isn’t there. There’s a sudden smell, a blast of drains. I disappoint him. He shakes his head.
I know that smell, just like I knew that laugh. Larry is here. I can’t see him, but I know he’s here.
‘I Fell, like I promised,’ I say. I look at him. He must see.
He steps forward and takes my hand in his. My heart beats wildly at his touch. His touch, his dear, blessed touch. So firm, so real, so strange, so how everything should be. I’m holding his hand – well, he’s holding my hand – for he turns it now in his.
‘Babes,’ he says gently, ‘you must have made some kind of mistake.’
‘Mistake?’ I squeak. ‘No! Marcus, it’s no mistake. I’m here for you.’
He smiles gently, sadly, even. ‘No, babes,’ he says. ‘I don’t know you. We’ve never met.’
‘It’s me,’ I say, ‘Serafina.’
The smile stays. ‘I don’t know any Serafina,’ he says. Then he pauses. ‘Although you do remind me of someone.’ A flicker of recognition tries to break through; the trace of drains again. It dies. ‘No,’ he says, ‘that didn’t happen.’
‘It is me,’ I say.
He pulls me to my feet. ‘I’m trying to help you out h
ere.’ He nods at the others. ‘They’ll rip you to shreds,’ he whispers, ‘just with their jokes.’
‘I’m Serafina,’ I whisper back. I try again. I remember how Kookie said it: ‘Zara Finer?’
One of his friends bustles forward. The girl; tall, long legs, short skirt, beautiful, scary.
‘Is she giving you a problem?’ she says, all possessive, all protective. She lays a hand on Marcus.
I blink.
The friends laugh.
I don’t know what to say.
One of them pulls out his phone. He snaps a picture.
Another says, ‘If you don’t want her, Marcus, chuck her my way. Any skirt is skirt to me.’
Marcus turns and holds up his hand, stop-signs them away. There’s a note of anger in his voice. ‘Shut up,’ he says. ‘Leave the poor kid alone.’
‘Sorr-ee,’ says one of them. ‘Didn’t know she was so special!’
They hoot with laughter.
Marcus turns back to me. ‘See?’ he says. ‘You need to go home.’
I grab hold of his arm. ‘It is me, Marcus,’ I say, ‘you’ve got to believe me. I am Serafina.’ But I realise with a sinking heart that I never told him my name, and suddenly I know the time has come to tell him everything, all the other things I never said as well. There may not be another chance. Larry may be here waiting to betray us again. Marcus may walk away. Halloween is tomorrow. I don’t want to shock, but if a shock will awaken? I don’t know what to do. But I do it anyway.
The street lies cold; the shop fronts glitter, a thin blowing of sleet slicks the pavements. I stand up straight. I unfurl imaginary wings. ‘I am the Angel of Death,’ I say, even though I don’t sound like one any more. ‘The Seraph who held back Heaven and Hell for you. I took another in your place. I gave you extra time so that you could change your ways. The hour draweth near, Marcus. Take heed. You must repent by All Hallows’ Eve or perish.’
His friends are laughing so hard they’re jumping about. The girl starts screaming in my face. Their cameras click. A passer-by puts his head down and hurries on.
I see a look of horror blossom on Marcus’s face. I want to rush to him, to prove these things to him, to breathe the dust of angels over him, to make a soft breeze blow in from the south, blow all the confusion from his eyes.
‘What do you mean?’ says Marcus. But his eyes are hard now, cold and angry.
I swallow. I don’t know what to say.
‘What’s going on?’ says the long-legged girl, grabbing at Marcus. She turns to me, her pretty face ugly with ignorance. ‘Just eff off,’ she says.
I chew my cheek. My legs are dissolving. I’ve said the wrong thing. I’ve said the right thing – in the wrong way. Why did I just spit it out like that?
Marcus grabs hold of my arm. He shakes off the girl’s grip. He steers me away from his friends. His hand is quivering, his face twisting into something quite violent. ‘I don’t know who you are, who sent you,’ he says, ‘but I’m holding my temper down, and you need to leave. Now.’ He pushes me away. I stand there. His eyes command me. GO.
I can feel the danger. I can see from the lines on his cheek, the twist of his mouth. My heart is pounding, my throat dry. ‘Marcus,’ I say, hanging on to his sleeve, ‘I am Serafina, the angel, please remember. I Fell for you. I lost God’s grace – my wings – my fire. I made a deal with . . . I look different now . . . I’m not an angel any more. You said if it were always just us, you could be OK . . . If I were always here . . . I came . . . I promised. . . I didn’t disappoint you . . .’
Marcus shakes off my arm; a look of longing flickers across his face. Then he clenches his teeth. ‘No,’ he says. ‘You’re not.’
‘But . . .’ I start to say. What can I say?
Marcus balls his fists. ‘I’m not going there again,’ he says. I can see the effort it costs him; veins knotted and purple stand out on his neck.
With one powerful twist of his arm he casts me off. He strides back to his friends. He throws his arm over the shoulder of the closest one, rolls back his head as someone cracks a joke. He laughs. There they are all laughing and pointing at me.
And they think that’s so funny.
Zara 6
I don’t know what to do. Tears well up in my eyes. I stand there in the driving sleet. I’ve never been in sleet before. I thought I’d like it. Rain and snow, all fresh from Heaven, cascading down on me, like bathing in some great outdoor shower. I don’t. It hurts. Each splash of freezing water hits me in the face.
Soon it’s not just sleet but an icy deluge drenching me, pooling at my feet. My little black gym flats are soaked. My make-up runs. My curtain of wild black hair falls from its spaniel ears. It hangs from my head, limp.
Where can I go? The pain in my stomach is back. He doesn’t know me. I thought one look into my eyes would be enough. Larry has won. He’s changed me beyond recognition. I’m not Serafina any more. He’s tricked me. I should have said: ‘And I wish to live on Earth and look just like myself’ as well as all the rest. How can I matter to Marcus now? He doesn’t know me.
He has ordered me to go.
Then I must leave.
I run.
My side stabs. My breath burns. I gulp in air. I must rest. There’s nothing worse than this. Nothing worse than rejection. No pain like Marcus’s arm pushing me off.
A world without Marcus.
There’s an empty lot ahead. A patch of darkness. I creep through the tin wall around it. I find a lump of concrete. I sit down, shivering. I think I’ll die. This human body is very weak. It won’t last long. My teeth are chattering. My fingers are white and numb. Soon the numbness will reach my heart. And it will stop.
So this is what it is to be human. To suffer hunger, cold and rejection.
But something inside me won’t allow me to die. What, give up so soon? On my first night on Earth? Even Robyn managed eighteen years. If she could bear it that long, I can do one more night.
I will not sit here pitying myself.
I will not lament my lost Serafina.
I have a new self.
I’m Zara now.
With new powers.
I must find those powers.
And use them.
Tomorrow night, I tell myself. You can die tomorrow night, Zara – but not until then.
I set out back along the high street. Someone hurries past me, head down, raincoat pulled tight. He looks at me. He frightens me, and I turn aside. I catch sight of myself in the darkened glass of a shop front: a thin pale face peeps back, its eyes huge, edged about with smudged make-up; thin shoulders, skinny legs. It doesn’t look like me. But no matter. I am her and she is me. I will try my best for you, Zara, I tell that pale white face. Together we’ll find a way.
Behind my reflection the Halloween masks hang, leering at me from the darkness of the window, their white teeth stretched wide. I look at the teeth, and think of Larry and his treachery. You will not feast on Marcus’s soul, I vow. I will warn him of his peril. And I will carry on warning him as long as my voice lasts.
Squaring my shoulders, I turn my back on the devils and the demons and I set out again for Curlston Heights.
Shivering, I retrace my steps. All around water drips. Underfoot pavements slip. My gym pumps are like envelopes of ice. And there are the adamantine doors, shut fast, their grey paint like an omen.
Dare I send up a prayer? Has news of my Fall raced through the streets of Heaven? Is my name whispered in horror? I send up my prayer anyway. ‘Heavenly Father who sits on high, and knowest all things, please forgive your humble servant, Serafina, and send her your grace and blessings. Amen.’ And I make the sign of the cross over myself.
Then I tap 56 into the keypad.
No one answers. Marcus is there. His mother is there. But nobody answers. Timidly my hand hovers over the pad again.
Once more I make the sign of the cross. I press harder: 56.
I wait. The sleet drives against my back. I shiver. I’m no l
onger steady. A noise? Has someone come?
‘What?’ says a tinny voice. It’s Marcus’s mother.
‘Please,’ I say, ‘for pity’s sake.’
‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’ she says.
‘No,’ I say. I don’t. In Heaven time is not important. Up until now time has only been a schedule to Collect souls by. But I hear from the tone in her voice it is important. And I know she’s right. Time is a schedule and Marcus’s soul is on it.
‘It’s five past four,’ she snaps. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. There’s a tiny note of kindness in her voice that wasn’t there yesterday. As if she understands what drives me to stand here in the early-morning cold and ring her doorbell. I want to appeal to it, fall on my knees to it, beg her to let me see Marcus.
‘Listen,’ she says, ‘just go home.’
The tinny rattle of her voice fades. I hear another voice, a lovely, sweet high-flowing voice. It trills over the scruff and echo. I hear them talking, low, urgent whispers. ‘Her again.’ ‘You go back to bed. Try and sleep.’ ‘Let me talk to her.’ The sound of sighing, a door closing. I wait.
‘Hello?’ says this new voice.
‘Hello,’ I say.
‘Are you the girl who was waiting outside all yesterday?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘You poor thing,’ she says. ‘You can’t just camp outside our block, you know.’
‘No,’ I say. I know I can’t. The sound of her sweet voice makes me realise how friendless I am. ‘Please,’ I say, ‘it’s so important.’
She knows from my voice how important it is.
‘You better come up.’ She sighs. ‘We need to chat.’
The buzzer on the steel grille goes.
‘What do I do?’ I say, my voice hardly daring to believe.
‘Just push on the door,’ says the sweet one, ‘and take the lift to Level Five. We’re number 56.’
‘Yes,’ I whisper as the door opens. ‘Thank you.’
Zara 7
