Angel of Ruin

by Kim Wilkins

  “Over there. ’Tis a searcher.”

  Anne looked, then caught sight of a man in a hood and a bird’s beak. “I wish they would not wear those masks. They look like creatures from a nightmare.”

  “They have cleansing herbs in the beaks. If they did not use them, they too would die. I dream of one day wearing such a mask, of tending to the sick.”

  “What is he doing on our street?” Anne asked.

  Once again, lightning fluttered, and the girls saw clearly that he was painting a plague cross on the door, only four houses up from them. Anne’s stomach hollowed.

  “’Tis so close,” Anne said.

  “Yes,” Deborah breathed.

  “What if we are already sick?” Would Lazodeus protect them? Or was he out of reach, now that he had taken a burden of punishment to let her speak again?

  “Oh, stop it you two,” Mary said as she tied her trunk. She picked Max up under one arm and marched to the window, pulled it shut. “We are leaving immediately. This time tomorrow we shall be in the country air and nobody is going to get sick, and nobody is going to die.”

  “Though we may get drenched,” Deborah said, as more thunder rumbled, closer by.

  “A small price to pay,” Mary said. “Are you both ready?”

  Deborah went to her trunk and bent down to check the laces. Anne turned once more back to the window, but now could only see her reflection in the tiny panes.

  “Anne?”

  All of them heard his voice at once. Anne turned to see him standing very close, casting no reflection in the glass. Beyond his shoulder she could see her sisters: Deborah angry, Mary plainly jealous.

  “What are you doing here?” Deborah asked caustically.

  He put his back to the window so he could see them all. “I have come to ask you to set me free.”

  “Set you free? But we no longer command you,” Mary said.

  “That is correct. However, remember when you first pulled me through into your world, I asked you to have me stay nearby?”

  They all nodded.

  “I want you to let me go, so that I may deal with others. A great sickness sweeps the city: thousands upon thousands will die. There is much work for ethereal beings at such a time, and I cannot serve unless you set me free.”

  Anne’s heart seemed to liquefy in her breast. The idea of losing him forever was unbearable, but his desire to be free to serve other poor souls was moving, thrilling.

  “What kind of work do you do when thousands die?” Deborah asked.

  “Ever suspicious, Deborah,” Lazodeus said. “I will only say once more that I am an angel, no matter what you believe me to be.”

  “I think it mightily noble,” Anne said. “And of course we’ll set you free, if that is what you wish.”

  “Will we ever see you again?” Mary asked mournfully.

  “Yes, of course. When you return to London, I will find you again. I have grown attached to you, all of you.”

  Anne knew the comment was directed to her. For once, she felt a wave of triumph: Mary clearly adored Lazodeus, but he showed her no special attention at all.

  “Will we be long away from London?” Anne asked.

  “I know not. The decision is with your father.”

  “And will any of us die of the plague?” Mary asked.

  “No. In fact, I shall ensure that your journey out is safe. Not a drop of rain will touch you, not a breath of wind will chill you. But you must let me go.”

  “Go,” Deborah said with a shrug. “I care not.”

  “I care, but I will let you go,” Anne said softly. Lazodeus smiled at her, and the sweet, churning discomfort of love swelled inside her.

  “Yes, go,” Mary said. “But do not be too far from us.”

  “I am your guardian. Fear not. We will all meet again.” With that, he disappeared.

  “Good riddance,” Deborah said, hefting her case with two hands.

  Mary looked as though she might make a cruel comment, but restrained herself. Anne wearily picked up her trunk. “They are waiting for us,” she said.

  Anne thought there was a certain melancholy excitement in their flight from the city. Father, Betty, Liza, Deborah, Mary and Max, and herself all crowded into the back of a dirty cart, with trunks uncomfortably stacked around them in the light of the plague fires. The smell of the horse, the grimy face of the driver, the unsteady rocking as they rumbled down the Walk past the plague crosses, the bonfires burning against the foul air, and the cries of the dead collectors. The sky flashed and rumbled, but no rain fell as they travelled out of the city. Just as Lazodeus had promised.

  “It will rain,” Father said, and Anne noticed that he clutched Betty’s hand very tightly. “We shall be soaked.”

  “It will not rain.” This was Deborah, leaning over and touching Father’s free hand firmly. “I promise you, Father, it will not rain.”

  Anne turned her head, watched the road disappear behind them, occasionally lit by faint lightning. The illness may drag on for months; how long would it keep them away? She imagined herself, sitting in the house at Chalfont waiting interminably for the plague to run its course, yearning and yearning for the company of a being she should never have fallen in love with. The long summer stretched out in front of her like an endless, empty road. Empty of love. Empty of angels.

  An Interlude

  Not for the first time, the old woman began to cough violently. During the telling of her story she had coughed in such a way half a dozen times, then recovered and continued. I waited, but when she finally drew breath again she fell silent.

  “Is there more?” I asked. I wanted very much to hear more.

  She shook her head. “Not now. Not now, Sophie. I am tired. You will have to come back.”

  I snapped off my tape recorder. “This evening? Tomorrow?”

  “No, not that soon.” The old woman cast her gaze towards the bookshelf. “Sometimes I am so weary.”

  “When?” I asked, and noted with curiosity that I sounded desperate.

  “A week and a day,” the old woman said. “Not before.”

  “So next Thursday? Next Thursday is okay? Can I come in the morning?”

  “The same time as today. Mornings are hard for me. Go now. Can’t you see I’m tired?”

  Of course I could see she was tired — slumped in her chair with her eyes cast down — but I held on to the hope that she would continue. She didn’t. She turned towards the window, and said nothing more.

  “I’ll see you next week, then,” I said.

  She didn’t answer. I went down the squeaky stairs, and out into the street. An afternoon breeze had picked up, and it cleared my head of the stuffy heat in her room.

  As I walked back to Old Street, I began to feel empty and despondent. It was unusual for me to feel this way: in my opinion, melancholy was reserved for those who haven’t enough to occupy themselves. But melancholy was how I felt. A vague yearning had started deep in my stomach. I didn’t feel like going home, I wanted to ramble a little while. I changed trains a few times, watching the ebb and flow of business people and tourists as they came and went, and I finally came above ground at Covent Garden. I wandered down to the market and eyed the goods on display, but saw only cheap rubbish. The warm sun kissed my shoulder, and it only reminded me of how long winter can be sometimes. A beautiful, slender soprano sang ‘Danny Boy’, but her sweet voice hadn’t the power to move me. I thought, I am in London — flower of all cities — and it all means nothing. I reasoned it must be the lack of Martin in my life, but then even the thought of Martin, even imagining having him back again, did not seem enough, could not soothe my melancholy. Say we reunited — time would still march on, age me, kill me, and what had I really done? What had I done with my life that meant anything or changed anything or could make any difference to the way I felt now? My existence struck me as a hollow illusion. But somewhere, somewhere deep in the past, glimmered a memory of lost happiness, some perfect satisfaction which ha
d slipped through my fingers. I didn’t know what it was, but I ached for it like a teenager aches for first love.

  I walked home through hot, crowded streets. Mrs Henderson called out to me as I was about to let myself into my room.

  “Sophie, a man dropped this off for you.” She held out with both hands a black, zipped bag. I took it from her. Neal’s spare laptop.

  “Thank you, Mrs Henderson.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Because I charge extra if two people sleep in your room, so if he stays over you have to —”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. I said he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  Mrs Henderson took a step back, and it was only then I realised how angry and impatient I must have sounded.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve had a bad day.”

  “I haven’t sorted the mail yet. I’ll leave it on the hall table.”

  “Thank you.”

  I let myself into my room, placed Neal’s laptop on the bed, and grabbed a towel and some fresh clothes. I stood under the shower a long time, letting the water run over my head as though it could wash out this unwelcome depression. It couldn’t. I returned to my room, picked up the laptop, and sat on the bed. I unzipped the case, and a folded letter looked back at me. I groaned. Please, no declarations of love. Not today.

  “‘Dear Sophie,’” I read aloud. “‘Here is the computer I promised you. Please don’t feel uncomfortable about accepting it as a gift.’” I didn’t. “‘I know you don’t have much money, and I’d like to help out, because I sense something very special about you. Love, Neal.’”

  I wondered how long he had agonised before writing “Love, Neal.” Had there been other drafts of this letter; ones which ended “Regards, Neal”, or “Sincerely, Neal”, or even just “Neal”? If I wasn’t feeling so sorry for myself, I might have felt sorry for Neal, unwittingly helping me out with the tools I needed to expose his and his colleagues’ foolishness. I fiddled for a few hours copying old files onto a disk and loading them up on the new machine, testing the keyboard, changing the settings, anything to distract me from the empty feeling. It was early evening when my stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  I pinned up my hair — greasy — pulled on a light jacket, and headed out. I collected my mail from the table in the hallway and stuffed it in my bag to read later.

  The Bishop’s Gate had become my local. It was a nice pub, in the old-fashioned way; it was small, they knew my name, and they let me run up a tab. On that evening, it was particularly crowded. I ordered a pork pie, a plate of chips and gravy, and a pint. As I turned around to scan for a spare space, an elderly couple vacated a corner table. Perfect. I sat down with my beer and pulled out my mail.

  The first sip of beer didn’t numb the melancholy, and I wondered just how many sips it would take. I knew I’d drink as much as necessary to anaesthetise myself, to drive away the despondency, to forget the sound of the old woman’s voice. A week and a day. It seemed an eternity away.

  I opened the letter from my mother. I scanned it quickly, decided to save it until later. The second and third envelopes were bills, one of them overdue. I took a couple more gulps of my beer, and signalled to Laura behind the bar to bring me another with my dinner. The fourth and fifth letters were addressed in my own handwriting: responses from literary agents to the queries I had sent out about the book.

  My dinner arrived. I lingered over breaking the seals.

  Dear Ms Black, thank you for your letter. I regret to inform you that … Dear Sophie, We appreciate you considering our agency in submitting your query, but unfortunately …

  I crumpled them up, one then the other, and stuffed them into the ashtray. I played disconsolately with my chips. Once again, this was unlike me. I usually handle rejections brilliantly: stepping stones across the river to success.

  The first taste of food made me ravenous. I devoured the pie and chips in minutes, washing them down with more beer.

  More beer. That’s what I needed. Laura was already on to it: another pint arrived at my table as the plates were cleared.

  “You look like you could use it,” Laura said.

  “Thanks.”

  She weaved off between tables, clearing glasses and plates. I reopened Mum’s letter and began to read.

  “’Scuse me?”

  I looked up. A short man with slicked-back hair stood in front of me, pointing hopefully at the spare seat. “Is this seat taken?” he asked.

  I noticed the square bulge in his pocket. “Can I have a cigarette?”

  He drew out the packet and offered me one, lit it for me as he sat down.

  “I’m Dave,” he said.

  “Sophie,” I replied, dragging. Gorgeous, perfect headspin.

  “What do you do?”

  For a moment the question made no sense. Nobody had made small talk with me in a long time. Then I caught his meaning. “I’m a journalist. You?”

  “I clean windows.” He pointed at my near-empty glass. “I’m going up to the bar. Can I buy you another beer?”

  I picked up the glass and drained it, handed it to him. “Make it a vodka.”

  Drunk, drunk, drunk. I stank of smoke and I was bumping into things like a toddler. I couldn’t remember if I’d let Dave feel my arse, or if he’d just asked if he could. Either way, I’d laughed at him, and he’d withdrawn all cigarette and vodka privileges immediately after. Even Laura looked disapproving as I stumbled from the Gate at closing time, promising to pay my tab the next day when I was sober enough to sign a cheque. I found my way home, peed for what seemed like half an hour, then blissfully, blissfully peeled off my clothes and dropped into bed.

  Quick emotional check-up: no, not depressed. Not wishing till it hurt to return to the old woman’s place and hear more. Just tired — weary to the bone — and drifting on a wave of drunkenness into a sleep which seemed like catatonia.

  Maybe half an hour later — not long, I know that much — I began to drift upwards into consciousness again. I could hear her voice echoing in my ears, and I yearned for her. I yearned for her company, the strange stuffy smell of the room, the story, all of it. I yearned and yearned and it hurt me so much that it woke me up. For the first time, I wondered if Neal and Deirdre and the others could be right: if it was possible to put a spell on someone through telling a story. Then I sat up, fully awake, and knew that drunkenness was leading me to stupid conclusions. I got out of bed to start transcribing the tapes.

  The second day was worse than the first, and the third was worse than both. I would have done anything to fill the emptiness growing inside me. I began to spend money recklessly. I went out for breakfast, lunch and dinner, drank whole pots of coffee, bought donuts to take home with me, bought cigarettes which I smoked quickly and desperately. I consumed so many toxins I made myself sick. I spent those two afternoons lying flat on my bed, nursing nausea and dizziness, hopelessly trying to name the thing that would make me feel better. But I could not even begin to imagine what it was that I was so keenly missing. I felt moderately better when I sat down to transcribe the tapes, but it was a shadow of satisfaction, really, like imagining sex rather than engaging in the real thing.

  By the fourth day, I was motivated to act. I was certain I’d go crazy if I didn’t at least try to do something constructive. I did what I do best: research. I read all about Milton. I even read parts of Paradise Lost, though it was hard going for a reader accustomed to the rhythms of Ruth Rendell. I discerned this much from my day’s research: Milton did indeed have three daughters, one of whom was lame and simple. They were reportedly at odds with him often. He was blind, and he did dictate his writings to them; not much information was available about his daughters, and certainly no suggestion of a guardian angel, fallen or otherwise, had made its way into the mythology. I walked home from the library in a light summer rain, letting my hair get soaked, almost enjoying the smugly sympathet
ic glances of the umbrella-ed class. Yes, they could tell I was miserable, maybe the most miserable to walk along Euston Road in its entire history. Perhaps naively, I started to explain my depression as a delayed effect of splitting with Martin. I had spent all these weeks feeling numb, trying to feel nothing, and now it had overwhelmed me. It was that simple. Somehow, spending time with the old woman, hearing a story about love and loyalty, had cracked open my heart and let the hurt into the rest of my body.

  My reaction to Chloe’s phone call that evening surprised me. She asked me over for a special dinner party with the Lodge members the following night. When I got off the phone, I was practically elated. Perhaps, because the Lodge was the first place I’d heard about the old woman, Neal and the others had grown more attractive in my estimation. Certainly, I felt none of the usual bored resignation about attending a Lodge meeting. The twenty-four hours until dinner couldn’t go quickly enough for me.

  But a low point first. The following day, the day of the dinner party, I spent my last thirty pounds — which I’d been saving to buy a new printer cartridge — on a bottle of wine and more cigarettes. When I came home to change for dinner, I sat on my bed for a long time considering what I’d done in the last few days, realising I now had no way of earning more money because I couldn’t print out the half dozen articles I had on the computer. I sobbed, but only once, then collected my breath. I promised myself not to think about it, not until after Thursday, not until after I’d been back to see the old woman. Until then, nothing mattered. I would live like nothing mattered.

  Consequently, I was already drunk when I turned up at Neal and Chloe’s, half an hour early. The pain in my heart had become unbearable, and being in company promised to help me decompress a little. Chloe answered the door. She wore an apron over a peach twinset.

  “Sophie, you’re early,” she said, but there was no impatience in her voice.

  “I’m sorry, I was bored,” I said, trying to appear sober.

  “Come in, come in. You can always drop by if you’re bored.”

  I followed her into the kitchen. “Can I help with