by Sarah Mussi
‘She tried to tell you everything at the hospital.’
‘How do you know?’ he demands.
‘She said she’d come to save your soul.’
He turns aside, seems to be struggling with something. Turns back, says, ‘It was the side-effects of morphine, that’s all.’
‘She said she would heal your pain.’
Marcus shakes his head. ‘No no no,’ he says. ‘Disorientation; irregular heartbeat; hallucinations; mood changes – exaggerated sense of well-being – shortness of breath; shallow breathing; sudden chest pain – all hallucinations.’
‘She sent the Light of the Lord to heal you.’
‘I’d pulled out the tubes.’
‘She walked with you in the garden.’
‘It’s a normal reaction after life-threatening trauma.’
‘She appeared again at the funeral.’
‘She was bang out of order.’
‘She told you to repent.’
‘She should have told me about Joey.’ Marcus frowns and turns away.
‘She’s been trying to tell you about the contract.’
‘How the hell do you know all this?’ His voice is suddenly sharp and loud.
I lay my finger over my lips. ‘Shush,’ I say, ‘your mother . . . please listen . . . you said you would.’ I take a deep breath. ‘There was small print.’
‘Small print!’ He relaxes. As if the idea of angels and visions and small print don’t go together. The spell is broken. He breaks out in a fresh round of smiles. ‘Of course there’s always small print!’
So I wait. I wait until he can stop finding it so funny. For that is what he’s doing; silently laughing out loud at a funny, pale, skinny girl who knows more than she should, who is trying to tell him something he doesn’t want to hear. And maybe he’ll never understand. For a minute I wonder about humans, but I’m human now; I’m no longer sure of anything.
‘And . . .’ he says, all mock serious, pulling a long face at me, ‘what does the small print say? Will I be sent to the Devil after twenty years to fry for eternity? Come on, little Zara – who pretends to know everything – surely you know that too, don’t you?’
I breathe a huge sigh of relief – so he does know. I nod. Thank God he knows. He must have been more awake than I thought.
‘Only not after twenty years. Much sooner than that.’
The look on his face changes.
‘Oh, really?’ he says.
‘Yes. And you don’t have to go to Hell,’ I say, ‘not if you stick to the condition.’
‘And what condition would that be?’ says Marcus, all charming smiles, effortless grace.
‘To repent, to mend your ways.’
He frowns.
‘The condition is . . .’
‘OK, OK,’ he says. As if he is just testing me.
‘Completely, in word and deed,’ I emphasise.
‘So, the small print?’ says Marcus, leaning his gorgeous face upon his hands. His eyebrows knit together in a new quizzical way. ‘What did it actually say?’
‘It said . . .’ I continue, determined not to be put off. ‘It said that an Extension on your mortal body could only be given if the books balanced.’
‘And what exactly did that mean?’ asks Marcus, narrowing up his eyes.
‘That meant that another life was taken in your stead.’
‘I see-ee,’ says Marcus with a long-drawn-out nod.
My eyes fly wide. My jaw drops. I clamp it shut. This is it. I know what’s coming.
‘So let me get this right,’ says Marcus. ‘In order for my soul to remain in this gorgeous handsome body, somebody else had to take my place in Hell, is that it?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘So, dear, pretty little Zara – who did that for me? Who took my turn on Death Row?’
I look up at him and gulp. Surely he must have guessed?
But his eyes (so very dark now) look back at me. Guileless.
I take a deep breath. This is it.
‘Joey,’ I say very simply. ‘Joey took your place.’
‘Joey?’
His face goes ashen. His jaw trembles.
It’s not OK. He’s not OK.
His eyes bulge. ‘Joey took my place?’ He can’t believe it. He’s trying to believe it.
‘Yes,’ I whisper.
Marcus gets up, paces around the room. I watch, scared he will smash something. But it’s worse. He’s gone quiet like the hush after gunfire.
‘I don’t think that’s funny,’ he says.
‘Oh, it’s not,’ I say. I’m waiting for the screaming, waiting for the rejection. ‘You need to understand –’
‘What I understand,’ says Marcus with ice in his voice, ‘is that you’ve barged your way into my home . . .’ He shakes his head, looks up at the ceiling as if it will dissolve. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he says.
‘But you must,’ I say quietly.
‘And you’re telling me that I’ll go to the Devil because of it?’
‘Oh no,’ I say again. ‘Not go to the Devil at all if you repent.’
‘So,’ says Marcus, ‘if I don’t?’
‘Then you’ll die,’ I say.
‘We all die,’ he says back.
‘But you’ll die soon,’ I whisper.
He shakes his head.
‘And your soul will be damned.’
‘How long have I got, then?’
‘The contract fixed the time – as midnight on Halloween,’ I squeak.
‘Halloween.’ He says it so quietly, as if it might disturb a butterfly perched on some flower in Heaven. ‘Tonight.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
Marcus pauses. Then he laughs as if the world has played its last joke on him. He laughs and laughs. He stands up and paces around the small bedroom again. He picks his guitar up, strums furiously, puts it down. He nudges a pile of discarded clothes with his foot. He picks up papers, CDs, books, games. He leans against the wall. He’s very disturbed.
My heart quakes. I tremble. To have caused such pain, to have turned my smiling Marcus into such a whirlwind of confusion.
At length he turns on me. ‘How do I know whether to believe you or not?’ he says. I can see his doubt. I can see his confusion.
I’ve thought of this. I’ve thought of everything since yesterday. ‘You can test me,’ I say. ‘Ask me to repeat anything that you said to the angel. If I don’t know the answer then disbelieve me – but if I can tell you, then I beg you . . .’
‘All right,’ he says, ‘I’ll test you. But if you are lying, God help me, I’ll make you suffer.’
Zara 9
‘Ask me,’ I say.
Marcus squares his shoulders and turns around. Away he paces again, over the carpeted floor, away to the window, back to the bed.
‘Tell me then,’ he says. ‘What were my first words to her?’
Marcus, cushioned by my flame and my brilliance, opened his eyes, looked into mine and smiled, his eyes so full of trust. ‘So, angels are watching over me, after all.’
‘Angels are watching over me,’ I tell him.
‘What were hers to me?’
‘Only one,’ I whispered back.
‘Only one,’ I say.
A troubled look darkens his eyes. ‘Where did we first sit together then?’ he said.
We reached the first huge spreading tree. One of its long limbs had grown so close to the ground it formed a horizontal seat . . .
I tell him where we sat: on the cedar branch in the hospital garden.
Marcus sits down heavily on the bed. ‘How can you know all that?’ he says. He shakes his head. ‘Who told you? Where? How?’
‘Marcus,’ I say quite steadily, for I’m no longer afraid, the worst is past. I’ve renounced immortality. I’ve suffered rejection. I’ve braved disclosure. I can tell him now. Now that I’ve confessed about Joey. So I do tell him, not to seek his affection nor convince him of my truth. Simply because it is the truth.
‘I am that angel. I am she. I Fell from Heaven for your sake. I made my own contract with others. (I don’t tell him of that terrible meeting in the Abyss.) I traded my fire and my wings and my beauty for this human shape.’
‘Were you at the club? Did you overhear us?’
He doesn’t believe me. But it is said. Finished. Done with.
‘Are you a nurse? Did you work at the hospital?’
‘I did these things for love, and it’s for love’s sake now I implore you to repent.’
‘Do I talk in my sleep?’
‘Let us seek out any holy person who can hear your confession and absolve you of sin.’
‘How long have you been spying on me?’
‘If you can’t find anyone before whom you can repent, then fall on your knees and beg for mercy. At least it will save you from Hell.’
Marcus sits very still. He looks at me.
‘Try to believe,’ I whisper.
Marcus sighs. ‘When I was ill and dying I thought I saw someone . . . I thought I had a guardian angel.’ His face gentles a little as he seems to remember. ‘Maybe it did happen . . . she made me value things I’d never valued before – you realise how good life is . . . how precious, how important.’ His voice trails off.
I look at him. He does not believe in Serafina any more. Not fully. He’s pushing her away – remembering her like a dream.
‘It was the morphine . . .’ he says, but I can tell he doesn’t completely think that. ‘I did believe for a while. I tried to do as she asked. I tried to go straight, dog my crew, turn Queen’s evidence; I even went into a church. It didn’t work out.’
Marcus jumps up. He seems disappointed, as if he has been struggling with himself and lost. ‘So I don’t believe you,’ he says firmly. ‘If there’d been an angel, she’d have made it happen.’ But his face is shining, as if he has suddenly thought of something new. He grabs hold of me. ‘But it is very strange – so I’ll give you one chance. I’ll make a deal with you! You show me my angel, I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll even repent.’
I feel the pressure of his hands on my arms. It sends spirals of electricity into my shoulders. I don’t point out that if I am his angel – how can I show him myself? I just stand there.
He holds on, suddenly exhilarated. ‘Show me my angel,’ he says. And he’s holding on so tight, as if I can make a miracle happen. ‘Come on then, I swear, I’ll do it!’
He’s said he’ll repent.
He stands up. ‘Hey, Angel!’ he shouts. ‘If you’re there – show yourself!’
‘Shush,’ I say.
‘An-gel,’ he says again, as if he expects me to pop up in the centre of the room and appear before him in all my lost fire and glory. ‘OK,’ he says, ‘she’s not here. But you’re going to show me her.’ He shakes my arms. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this and God help you if you’re winding me up.’
‘Yes,’ I whisper. He’s agreed to repent. ‘Deal,’ I say.
He sticks out his balled fist, touches my hand, knuckle to knuckle, touches his chest. A gangsta salute. ‘Deal,’ he says.
My brain is racing. I can’t show him Serafina. Will he accept other proof? One step at a time. The testimony of another? But who? Who might be on Earth? Could I call on Raquel? Would she be on Collection Duty? Will she come? Would she apparition? I doubt it.
So who?
There’s one person. My heart nearly stops in terror. Not exactly an angel. But proof. And I know where to find him. He once was an angel. I remember his exact words: ‘If you make it to Earth and feel like partying . . .
I’ll be in da club, with a glass full of . . .’
I can show him the Devil.
Zara 10
Marcus orders me to make us coffee, toast. He orders me to write a note and leave it on the fridge telling his mum he’s fine, has just popped out, that’ll he’ll be OK, and he has a friend taking care of him and she doesn’t need to wait in. Then he orders me to wipe off the make-up, that he’s not going to be seen dead with a girl who looks like that. He orders me to leave with him.
He’s very bossy. (If I was to stay with him for a longer time, and he was fully recovered, I think we’d have to do something about that.)
Then he says, ‘Thank you,’ with such a soft sweet smile. And my heart melts.
Outside Curlston Heights we stop. He stands in front of me. It’s as if he’s filled with a new happiness he wasn’t expecting. He’s bursting with life. He leaves me breathless. ‘So, pretty little Zara, what now? You seem to know everything about my angel. So where do we go? Find her. Summon her, do whatever it takes. Come on, this is your chance.’
I can see his eyes racing, darting. I can feel his energy, his need.
‘We go to the club,’ I say.
‘Good,’ he says, as if that makes perfect sense. ‘That’s where it all started, so we’ll start there too.’
A strange fever burns in his face. He grabs my arm again. Together we march down the street. As we go, he chants to himself: ‘OK, OK, OK, Angel, I’ll find you; I will.’
I can see the clench of his jaw, as he tries to hold something inside.
‘We’ll see if you’re morphine.’
We stride down one street, through another. We don’t talk. Marcus walks fast, as if he wishes every stone underfoot long gone. I try to keep up, but this new frail body I own is panting, struggling to trot alongside his mighty steps. I worry about his heart. I beg him to slow down. He laughs in a new reckless way.
At length we reach the club. It’s open. It’s a café bar during daylight hours. Larry will be here somewhere. I know it, like I know demons are everywhere, lurking out of sight. Waiting. Marcus rushes in, past the chairs and tables, past the bar and bouncers’ desk, down the stairs, past the big mirror. I follow. Larry’s not in the café. I don’t stop. I don’t look at myself. I don’t twirl.
How am I going to convince Marcus?
We march through the empty club rooms, past black leather sofas, past upholstered walls. The place still reeks. In the centre of the empty dance floor he stops – there on the very spot where first I held him – where I watched him lay the wreath. ‘Angel,’ he calls. His words hang on the air.
‘An-gel?’
A hot stuffy draught belches through the room. A door opens. A whiff of drains. The air catches the side of my face. A light flicks on. It refracts in the mirror in an orange glow.
‘She’s not here,’ says a voice, a voice I know.
He’s here.
In through the door strolls Larry.
That crisp white suit. How smoothly he apparitions. I didn’t even call him. It must take millions of years to do it so effortlessly. If I didn’t know he was the Devil, didn’t know he had wings folded up under that clean tailored tuxedo, I’d think he was completely mortal. I must find a way to make him betray himself. All Marcus needs is to be convinced about angels. Then he’ll repent. I know he will. If I could somehow show Marcus his wings.
I wonder if Larry will recognise me. I hope not. But it’s a detail. Maybe I can trick him into doing something angelly – freeze time, conjure thunderbolts, something, anything, just show Marcus.
‘So who do we have here then?’ asks Larry. I don’t smile. He doesn’t flick an eyelid. Does he recognise me?
‘Hello,’ I say. He must know me.
Larry looks at me. ‘Clara?’ he says.
He never got my name right.
‘Zara?’ he says.
‘Hello,’ I say. How am I going to do this?
‘So many names,’ he says. ‘So many girls.’
He knows exactly who I am.
Marcus looks at me, puzzled. He even flaps his hand at me, as if to say ‘Why are we here? What’s going on?’
I turn to him. ‘This is Larry,’ I say. ‘He’s the one I’ve brought you to see. He can tell you who I am. He can tell you all about your angel.’ I wheel about and face Larry. ‘Isn’t that right?’ I challenge. I don’t know what make
s me so bold. ‘He’s a Celestial Advisor, actually. He knows everything. He’ll tell you.’ My sarcasm is showing – even Marcus notices it.
Larry smiles in a very affable way. ‘Cute, isn’t she?’ he says.
Marcus looks at me, shakes his head, then does something quite strange. He wraps an arm around me in a protective way. He wraps an arm around me? It’s nice, but I can’t make it out.
‘Larry,’ I demand, ‘tell Marcus who I am!’
‘She’s a lovely girl,’ says Larry, turning to Marcus. Larry crosses his eyes, makes a screwy gesture with his hand, and adds: ‘A little bit mental, but her heart’s in the right place.’
‘Larry, tell him you’re the Devil.’ I don’t care if I sound mad or anything. It’s Halloween. We’ve only got today.
All Larry has to do is give himself away.
Larry shrugs in a pleasant way, as if being called the Devil is a kind of compliment.
‘Larry!’ I insist. ‘Tell him I signed the contract with you.’
Tell him what it said! If I could scream any louder I would.
He smiles. ‘Got a copy of this contract, baby-girl?’ he asks in an exaggerated way and ruffles my hair.
My throat dries up. My voice fails. He knows I don’t have a copy.
Marcus sees I’m upset. He squeezes my shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Zara,’ he says. ‘Let’s leave it, shall we?’
I look up at him. His face is tired. The strain shows in his eyes. ‘Larry isn’t a Celestial Advisor, or the Devil,’ he says. ‘He’s the owner of The Mass nightclub. I’ve known him for ages.’
I look at Larry. Oh, I get it.
Larry the nightclub owner.
‘So you’re not the Devil?’ I jeer. ‘You couldn’t even strike a match, get a little fire going or produce a demon or two. You’re just a grimy old punter.’
I’m hoping to goad him into something – anything – just one careless flash of demonic power.
‘Leave it, Zara,’ says Marcus. ‘For a minute there I almost believed you.’ There’s disappointment in his voice.
I look at Larry. There’s something triumphant in his eyes. It seems to say, ‘I know who you are. I made you what you are.’ But it’s just a flicker, then it’s gone. He says nothing, except: ‘Take that man’s advice, Tara.’ All the time his eyes stay on my face. He inclines his head very slightly, like I’m a trophy or an award he’s been angling to win.
