by Lloyd Jones
And there’s a third meeting with the angel, different from the others. Again, I’m lying between my pink sheets and it’s three in the morning, when – pow! – I’m flying again, rushing through the night air, but this time I’m high above the sea, and the shhh noise I hear is the wind in my nightclothes, chilling my body. The moon is shining on a vast expanse of water, and the waves are a pattern of shadows, motionless and silent. After a while – not long – I fly along an estuary, into a wide canal, and I see a ship moored to the right bank. It’s a coaster with huge black lids over its hold and a machine squatting on its deck – a big metal crab with a long claw-arm. Instead of pincers it’s got a massive bucket, to remove stuff from the ship’s belly. The first thing I see is the ship’s name, painted white on its black stern – Clydenes. I land on the deck and immediately I smell coal; it’s a bulk carrier holding tons of smelly, dirty coal. There’s no sign of life anywhere, though there are red and green lights on the masts.
Slipping through a heavy metal door, which I only just manage to open, I walk along a corridor, looking through portholes as I go. There’s nothing much to see: the corridor is well lit, but the cabins are in darkness. Passing one room I smell queasy kitchen smells, then I clamber down a metal ladder and pass along another corridor. Engine smells now, and snores from a darkened cabin. At the end of the corridor I see a beam of hot light pulsing from a porthole, and I edge towards it. Without looking, I know what I’m likely to see. When I look through the thick glass I see a made-up bed, not slept in yet, and there he is – my angel, sitting with his back to the hull, hunched up with his hands clasped around his knees. There’s another sepia photograph on the wall – this time it shows something like an old shed, I think, with an angel standing on the roof, in the process of taking off (one foot’s already up in the air, climbing an invisible stairway). I peek again at my angel through the porthole, but as soon as I look at him he glances sideways at me, gives me a nice warm smile, as if he’s been waiting for me. But there’s a difference. In this scene, there’s no-one on the bed with him. No-one at all – I am not there, and nor is anyone else. The angel is alone and waiting for me.
This time I feel my heart quicken; a kick of adrenalin enters my system. My senses are heightened; I hear the slap of the water on the ship’s side, a strange bird-scream in the scrubland on the bank. There’s a loud snort from a sleeper, and a few mumbled words in a foreign language, Russian or Polish perhaps. The ship rolls and creaks. I feel slightly nauseous from the coal and engine oil. I begin to panic, so I edge away from the cabin door. Soon I am running along the deck and then flying through space, into the moon. Almost immediately I’m back in my bed, the smell of coal still heavy in the air around me. Then I sleep, but it’s bad sleep, fitful and jerky and sweaty. I cry out in my sleep and mum comes to my bed; she holds my hand and feels my brow. This is the angel dream I don’t like. It leaves me tired and exhausted for days afterwards. My angel can make me happy, but alone in the ship at night he is sad, he worries me. I feel the need to help him somehow. But how?
And then it all changes, in a single night. I don’t go to the angel – the angel comes to me. For months nothing happens, and I think maybe the angel thing is all over with. He begins to fade, and I have trouble remembering the exact shade of the blue of his skin, lighter than the shade of his wings. Then he comes to me. In my bedroom. I’m fast asleep, but when three o’clock arrives I wake up suddenly from the black emptiness of sleep, and he’s there besides me on the bed, looking at me. The way he sits on the duvet and the way he looks at me reminds me of a doctor who came to see me when I was small, when I was really ill. I remember it well, even the smell of the doctor’s hands. Now, on my bed, the angel’s wings pulse and glow like my fibre-optic lamp. But I don’t feel scared. I lie on the bed, still curled up and sleepy, looking at him. When he speaks to me I understand him but I can’t really remember the sound of his voice. He doesn’t touch me at any time, but he indicates somehow that I’m safe with him. This is what we say to each other, more or less:
I’m an angel.
What’s your name?
My name is jupin-3.
Where have you come from?
A special world inside your head.
You mean you’re not real?
Yes and no – I am real to you, but not to anybody else.
Why are you here?
Because you haven’t been to visit me for a while.
Are you going to hurt me?
No, never.
Are you going to stay with me for ever now?
Only if you make me.
Why would I do that?
Because there’s nowhere else for me to go.
Haven’t you got a home?
You haven’t made one for me yet.
But I thought angels lived in heaven?
Maybe they do, but you haven’t made a heaven inside your
head yet.
Yes I have.
You’ve made a space ready for a heaven maybe, but you
haven’t filled it – nobody finishes the heaven inside their heads.
How do you mean?
The heaven inside your head is a place with nothing really in it
– no houses, or animals, or cars, or seas. Do people eat, cry and
go to the toilet? Do they have pets in heaven? Do they get to
see the people they loved when they were living? Do they play
games, do they laugh at silly jokes?
I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it. Anyway, I don’t really
believe in heaven, or hell for that matter.
You don’t have to. But if you could imagine another place I
could live in, I’d be grateful. A place where an angel could be
happy. The cabin on the moors and the coal ship are OK for a
bit, but I need to spread my wings.
I laugh at his joke, but he doesn’t know why. Maybe angels don’t have a sense of humour, or maybe he’s preoccupied. He doesn’t seem to be a happy angel, so I have to do something about it. But when I think of his future I get a feeling inside my chest which makes me cry. How do I make a heaven for my angel, a place where he can feel at home? Only jupin-3 himself can do that. What can I do?
I’m lucky, my angel is patient. Thank God, I’ve made a kind, forgiving angel. He’s not going to bring me strange or worrying news, like the angels in stories, I’m not going to get pregnant or anything like that. All he wants is a place where he can relax and feel OK with life.
He’s been coming to see me every day before dawn and I’ve woken up with him sitting on my bed, looking at me, waiting for some news. In the end, we agreed on a plan. We had a good chat about it, and I’m feeling a bit more relaxed about things. He’s going to live in my dad’s garden shed for a while, until all this is sorted. There’s room for him in there, and a bed where my dad goes to sleep when he comes home drunk or when he’s had a row with mum. I’m going to tell dad a bit of a fib, a little white lie. I’ll tell him I want to paint a big picture of an angel in heaven. He’ll go overboard, he’ll try his best to help, I know that. He’ll buy me a big canvas or a piece of board from the DIY, and he’ll prop it up ready for me in his shed. I’ll say I want to do it all alone, I’ll make him promise never to go inside the shed until it’s finished. Every day after school I’ll go in there and help jupin-3 to plan a perfect place to live in. It’s going to take some time, working out the sort of country he wants to live in. He’s strange; his expectations are different from a human’s. He doesn’t want many people but he wants lots of animals. He wants total harmony and a place to meet jupin-1 and jupin-2 whenever he needs to. Poor old jupin-3 wants to be off as soon as he can. Who can blame him. He’s painting a picture of heaven in my Dad’s shed. He’s painting it in sepia – because nothing in life is completely black and white, he says, and the only colours he wants to see are the ones in heaven.
I never thought you could imprison angels. But you can. That’s
the curse of humanity, he says. We can dream angels into existence – but we all forget to create a place for them to live happily in peace.
Maybe I can be the first. I hope so, jupin-3.
blue
I BOUGHT her on the internet one Monday night round about midnight, got in a right tangle about spending money I didn’t have, and then worried myself silly about internet fraud – what if some bugger got hold of my bank number? Couldn’t sleep a wink all night, tossing and turning. Worst days of my life, everything out of kilter. Big space in the bed too after Wendy went. Couldn’t cope with it, needed someone to cwtch up to. No mucky business mind, don’t go in for that sort of thing. Never had the chance to do anything exciting anyway, not with Wendy – we had it once a month, on payday, lights out at ten sharp.
Pull my nightie down when you’ve finished, that’s what she said before we started and I always did, never forgot. But we hadn’t touched for years, no wonder I was lonely. Bugger off she did, just like that, no note or nothing. The Plod never believed me, round every week saying they were going to dig up the patio, but I says please don’t do that, it was the first patio in Glynneath, people came from miles around to see it and I paid a fortune for the fancy bricks with holes in them. Can’t think why they cost more than real bricks if there’s half of them missing.
On Saturday morning a white van arrived with a box and I took her out careful like in the back bedroom. Blew her up and I thought she looked lovely, bit small but nice in bed by my side and I talked to her for hours. Caerphilly outfit made her, same lot who make Dolly the Inflatable Sheep. I was worried in case someone in the factory knew me, or somebody told Doris Doom down the road, everyone would know before daybreak, before the bloody milkman came round.
Perfect for any stag night or novelty event, it said on the box, an inflatable wife, the only woman a man needs. True, our product doesn’t cook, can’t read a map and won’t satisfy you in bed, so what will you be missing? Comes complete with user manual which covers Romance, Dining, Biology, Exercise and Finance.
As I told you, no dirty business – I put a pair of Wendy’s elasticated knickers on her, I never looked down there. Strictly for company. Spilled my heart out to her I did, her plastic breasts got quite sticky with all the sobbing I did on them, had to clean them with a J-cloth. When one of the boys in blue found her he laughed, said she’d be easier to get rid of than Wendy.
One problem though, she didn’t have a name I could use when we was snuggling up. Couldn’t call her Wendy, could I? Then I saw the white light of divine intervention again, that’s what they call it down the evangelical church. Me and Wendy had started going to pray for a kiddie, I went with her because she said I’d never touch her again if I didn’t. But no matter how much we prayed, no kiddie came along.
This white light of divine intervention happened again when I was standing in Oxfam’s, looking for some trousers – I came across a book called The Penguin Book of Chinese Verse and it said With all my love, Sigrid xxx on the flyleaf and that was it, I took it home and read it to my new plastic wife every night in bed. I called her Sigrid from that day on. Lovely name, Sigrid. Romantic, makes me think of snow and fir trees and rally cars and saunas. Them Scandinavians treat sex different from us, don’t they? No big deal, they just gets on with it or they go on a suicidal bender and watch depressing films – if you’re lucky you get an eyeful of tit now and then. Life was pretty good with just Sigrid and me, I used to call out to her when I got home from work every night, I’d shout Hia Siggy love, I’m home! at the bottom of the stairs and I’d run up and have a few words with her before tea, tell her about my day and all that, what me and the boys had got up to.
Then, messing around on the computer one night, trying to stay off the porn sites, I came across an old story about this Sigrid from way back in the past. She was tall and blonde and beautiful and she used to live in a cave by a fjord – every night she’d prowl along the edge of the water in the moonlight, waiting for her bloke to come home, some hero who’d gone off to war and never come back, same old stuff in every country isn’t it? This Sigrid had a long red mantle and a crow on her shoulder, and then another crow when that one died, she taught them all to say her lover’s name, Haraldsson or something like that. One day when she was in her cave her boyfriend comes back from the wars covered in scars, and he finds her by following the crow saying his name. You can imagine, they had a bit of catching up to do that night inside the cave and they got so fired up and emotional the mountain shook, there was a landslide, and all three of them got trapped inside for ever. You can still hear them laughing and talking to each other behind the rocks, that’s what it said on the computer. Or sometimes they sing like they’re in a Wagner opera. Bullshit, usual tourist guff. Got me thinking though, that crow did. Used to keep pigeons, runs in the family, but I got bored and gave them away. One of them kept coming back for years, I got so pissed off with it I caught it and pulled its head off. But if the Sigrid in the story had a crow, it only made sense for my Sigrid to have a bird as well. Budgie, I thought straight away, that’s what she needs for company, I could teach it to say my name instead of Haraldsson. Went round to the pet shop and bought one, last one there, bog standard blue and green, put it in the bedroom with Sigrid so we could listen to it. Taught it to say my name, Iestyn, over and over again, all day long. Lovely like, much nicer than a crow. Every night me and Siggy would have a chat, I’d read some poetry and we’d have a laugh listening to the budgie, then we’d go to sleep after a bit of a cwtch. By now Siggy was wearing one of Wendy’s winceyette nighties, the one with pink flowers all over it. She looked lovely my Siggy, with her blonde hair spread all over the pillow, much nicer than Wendy’s hair, like a Brillo pad it was, permed so tight it nearly took my eye out when I tried to kiss her. I was much happier with Siggy, we held hands under the duvet. Sweet it was. Tidy. But one thing was missing, I needn’t tell you what. Just now and again the urge got too strong – but I wasn’t going to touch Siggy, no way Jose. Siggy was pure, she was untouchable. I went down to the evangelicals one Sunday to ask for divine intervention because I was shaking every time I went on the computer, tempted by the Devil. The pastor seemed to know all about the porn sites. He said he’d pray for the white light of divine intervention – and sure enough I was alright within a week. It was thanks to Wendy, in a way, because she hadn’t come home and the police were still nosing around. Every Wednesday night they sent a lady copper round when I got home from work to hold my hand and coo-chi-coo with me, just in case they’d got it all wrong. They’d had a look under the floorboards and found nothing. Bloody fools, as if I’d put her there anyway. This copper who came to visit me was a real peach, about five years younger than me and smallish with blonde hair in a bun and nice blue eyes, bit like Sigrid’s, sort of innocent and pure. After a few weeks of talking about Wendy she was really sorry for me and she’d cry, she’d let me put my head on her shoulder and she’d stroke it like my mam used to, all gentle, and she smelt nice too, warm and womanly with some perfume on her skin, all soft and white. She told me to get rid of Sigrid, it was unnatural and anyway I was still a young man and decent looking, plenty of fish in the sea. I got very upset at the thought of Sigrid going the same way as Wendy so I had a good weep. Tell you what, says the lady copper, put her in the wardrobe for a bit, then the spare room, then take her downstairs and after a bit she can go in the garden shed – put a bit of distance between you gradual like, till you can do without her. Seemed sensible to me. Could I keep the winceyette nightie in the bed with me? I asked, just to ease the pain, even though there was nobody in it. To cut a long story short I put Siggy in the wardrobe and the policewoman put the nightie on for a while to ease my pain. It was outside the line of duty but she lay in bed with me every time she came, until I was ready for the big break. One thing led to another and soon we were living as man and wife, me and the policewoman, and the budgie of course, with Siggy in the shed by now. What with moaning Sigrid in the policewo
man’s ear more than once when we were having sex (what would Wendy say!) the name sort of stuck and soon I was calling her Sigrid, even when we were in public, or when she was in uniform and I had to pretend we hardly knew each other. This went on for some time, me and Siggy Copper stopped pretending I was still being counselled and she moved in, lock stock and barrel. I took Wendy’s clothes down to Oxfam after checking there was nothing in the pockets, though why I bothered I don’t know because they’d already been to forensic. The budgie got to be a bit of a nuisance saying Iestyn all the time when we were making love so I moved him to the garden shed with the plastic Sigrid. I could still hear him though, even with the windows shut. Once or twice he came close to going the same way as the pigeon. Siggy also called out my name when we were in the throes of passion and sometimes I could hear a strange echo as my lovely new girl and the budgie called out at the same time. This state of affairs might have gone on for ever if Sigrid’s brother hadn’t turned up in a right old state one Saturday night after a big rugby international. Pissed as a fart he was and swaying all over the place, sick in the garden too. Turned out he was a copper like his sister, he’d been turfed out by his missus because he’d gone home drunk, massive lovebite on his neck. He was innocent as it happens, or so he said, he’d got it doing a scrum-down with his mates in the pub at half-time. He slept in the spare room that night and the night after that too, his missus wouldn’t have him back and I couldn’t put him out on the street in case Siggy my lovely copper got upset, so he stayed. It was like having Wendy back again, we couldn’t have sex in case her brother heard us through the wall. We lay there in bed every night and I could hear the budgie chirping away in the shed and Siggy’s brother snoring in the spare room – it was back to square one, hell on earth again. Bugger me if Sigrid didn’t play a prank on her brother one day and put the plastic Sigrid in his bed stark naked, they laughed themselves silly but plastic Sigrid never made it back to the shed, I noticed that when I went to feed the budgie.
