by Amy Cross
“But angels aren't real,” Katie pointed out, as she watched Robinson examining the stone wall at the far end of the crypt. “I mean... they're just not!”
“Did I say they were?”
“No, but -”
“I said an angel was reported,” he continued, tapping one of the stones as if he expected to hear some kind of answer from the other side. “That doesn't mean an angel was actually responsible, it merely means that a bunch of excitable, impressionable, drunk, possibly slightly mad people saw something that their minds interpreted incorrectly. You'd be surprised how unreliable eye-witnesses can be, Katie. In some cases, they're a positive hassle.”
“Okay, but -”
“And besides, what they described wasn't technically an angel, from what I gather. Based on all the contemporary accounts, I'm convinced that the witnesses were actually talking about an archangel.”
“Is that different?”
“Entirely.”
Katie paused. “How?”
“Archangels are said to be a higher order of angels. The bosses, if you like.” He made his way to another stone and began to give it a gentle tap. “Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Metatron, Azrael... Archangels pop up in every major religion, in one form or another, but what they usually don't do is burn random church workers to death on a Monday morning.” He moved on to the next stone. “Hence my confusion and cynicism.”
“How do they -”
“Bigger,” he continued. “Brighter. More terrifying.”
“But if they're not real,” Katie continued, “then how... I mean, they can't be real, and even if they were, aren't they supposed to be... good?”
“You have so much to learn,” he muttered, checking one final stone before turning to her. “Fortunately, you've come to the right place. By the end of your apprenticeship with me, your head will be so full of knowledge, it might literally burst. If that happens, we'll have to get you a very tight hat. So... Are angels and archangels real or not, Katie? There's a right answer and a wrong answer, so think carefully.”
“Um...” She paused, trying to work out whether Robinson was trying to trick her. “No,” she said finally. “They're not real.”
“Because?”
“Because...”
“Because if angels were real,” he continued, “then that would imply that the rest of it's real too. All the stuff written in that book, the... What's it called again? Begins with B.”
“The Bible?”
“That's the one. And the equivalents in other religions too.” He paused. “No, angels are a gateway to all of that nonsense, and that's why they can't exist. Well, it's one of the more important reasons, anyway.”
“Unless...”
He waited for her to continue.
“Unless what?” he asked cautiously.
“Well, unless... some of it... maybe isn't nonsense?”
He frowned.
“Just some of it,” she added..
“Careful,” he replied. “If you start going down that path, you might end up with a bad case of believing in God. Trust me, it can years to recover from such a mistake.”
“So what are we looking for, then?” she asked. “What burned the man upstairs?”
“And the man who died in the same spot more than a hundred years ago,” Robinson replied with a frown. “Don't forget him. I don't know, but I can promise you, it most certainly wasn't any kind of angel. Then again, I'm struggling to understand what could possibly look even remotely like an angel, and also have the capacity to burn people to death.” Heading past her, he made his way back toward the stairs. “Come on. There's clearly nothing down here.”
Following him, Katie tried to work out which of her many questions to ask first. At the last moment, however, just as she was about to follow Robinson back up to the main part of the church, she spotted something over in one of the corners.
“Robinson!” she called out, stopping briefly before hurrying across the dark crypt.
“There's nothing down here,” he replied, leaning back through the doorway. “We have work to do upstairs.”
“Did you notice this?” she asked, kneeling down and peering into the shadows in the corner. “I can't believe we almost missed it.”
“Missed what?” he asked with a sigh, heading over to join her. “Really, there's no -”
Stopping suddenly, he shone his flashlight at the floor and saw what Katie had found: in one corner of the crypt, the floor had been broken and partially pulled up, leaving a hole in the stones. Crouching next to her, Robinson looked down into the hole and they both listened for a moment to the distant sound of machinery far beneath the church.
“What is it?” Katie whispered.
“An escape route,” Robinson replied, his voice filled with awe. “I was looking for one in the wall, but... I suppose the floor's a good idea too...”
“Where does it lead?” she asked, leaning down into the hole as she tried to make out the sound at the bottom.
“I'm not sure,” he continued, “but I think we've found the route our supposed angel took to get out of the church. The question is, where did it end up?”
Chapter Two
“Stand clear of the doors, please.”
Sitting in the driver's cab and staring straight ahead, Pudd held his breath as he watched the dark tunnel and waited for the red light to turn green. He always held his breath while he waited for signals to change, not because it was fun or necessary but because it gave him something to do, something to distract his mind from the deadly tedium of his job. He hated the Monday morning shift on the Circle line, since it was when all the wounded weekend warriors began to crawl back out into the city, and they always took too long getting on and off the trains. In truth, he was barely even awake, since he'd spent the previous night in bed, struggling to get to sleep and barely able to close his eyes. In fact, he felt as if he was barely anything these days: barely functioning, barely breathing, barely alive. Fortunately, he didn't need to think very much while he was working. All he had to do was press a few buttons and keep his eyes open.
So he waited.
Still holding his breath.
Finally, the red light blinked off and the green light blinked on.
Breathing out slowly, Pudd reached across the dashboard and pushed the lever forward, causing the train's wheels to slowly start turning as the carriages began to ease along the tracks, creaking as they got faster and propelled the train into the tunnel with a faint whooshing-sucking sound.
“Unit 413,” a familiar voice crackled over the radio, “this is home. Copy.”
Frowning, he reached over and grabbed the radio.
“Home, this is unit 413,” he replied. “I'm just pulling out of High Street Kensington. Is there any -”
“How you doing, Ken?” the female voice asked. “It's me. Miriam.”
“Fine,” he said, a little surprised by the interruption. “Why? What's up?”
“Nothing. I'm just bored.”
Pudd watched the tunnel ahead for a moment, as the train barreled along the tracks. He knew the journey so well, he felt he had an internal clock running all the time, and in this instance it told him that he'd reach the next station in precisely two and a half minutes. He really didn't have the energy to engage Miriam in a conversation, but at the same time he didn't have the energy to get rid of her either, which left him in an unfortunate situation.
“What you doing, anyway?” she asked.
“What do you think I'm doing? I'm driving the bloody train, aren't I?”
“Having fun?”
“You don't half ask some stupid questions,” he replied, rolling his eyes as he watched the tunnel. “I don't see how anyone can have fun doing something like this. Go on, get back to -”
Spotting something up ahead, he froze for a moment. He told himself he was wrong, but a split second later his emergency reflexes sprang to life and he pushed the emergency lever forward, activating the brakes. The train's wheels
screeched, grinding against the steel rails as the carriages came to a halt with enough force to jolt Pudd forward in his seat and knock his sandwich onto the floor.
“What's up?” Miriam asked over the radio. “Ken? According to the screen, you just stopped halfway between High Street Kensington and Notting Hill Gate. What's going on?”
“There's someone down here,” he replied, peering through the window. Ahead, the dark tunnel ran straight for a few more hundred meters before starting to snake to the left, while a series of electric lights lined the wall but offered precious little illumination. Keeping his eyes on the rails, Pudd watched for some sign of the figure he was certain he'd just spotted, but as the seconds ticked past he began to wonder if he'd imagined the whole thing. Still, although it had been brief, the image had also been clear: a figure, stumbling along the dark tracks.
“Ken?” Miriam continued over the radio. “Are you mucking about?”
“No, I swear...” Another pause, as he spotted something on the tracks just in front of the train. Leaning further forward, he saw that a small amount of rubble had landed below the rails, and when he looked up he saw to his surprise that there was a decent-sized hole in the roof of the tunnel, as if something had broken through. He stared up, trying to work out what exactly was happening.
“Ken? Talk to me, Ken. Is something wrong?”
“Has anyone else noticed anything weird down here?”
“Like what?”
“Like damage.”
“No! Ken, I've got trains stacking up behind you now. Why aren't you moving?”
“There's been a collapse,” he explained, “or... I dunno, it's like a bit of the roof has come down, something like that. The junk's gone under the rails, so I guess no-one's run into any problems, but -” Spotting movement up ahead, he saw a dark shape briefly moving between the shadows, as if it was passing across the track. “You need to get onto security,” he said finally, sitting up straight for the first time in years. “Something fishy's going on down here.”
“Is someone on the line?” Miriam asked. “Bloody hell, I'll have to get the electricity shut off. Stay right where you are.”
“Where else am I gonna go?” he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the line ahead as he waited for another hint of movement. He shifted his weight on the seat, which creaked slightly.
“Unit 413?” another voice asked over the radio suddenly. “This is Dan Foster in the control room, can you confirm that you've seen a person on the tracks?”
“I... I think so...”
“Have you hit that person?”
“No, but -”
Stopping suddenly, he saw movement again: something was definitely up ahead, making its way along the tracks and passing in and out of the shadows.
Getting closer.
“Okay, Ken,” Foster said after a moment. “The power is off, repeat the power is off, so the electric rail is now safe to touch. A security team is on the way and they should reach your location within about five minutes, but I need you to do me a favor in the meantime. Can you open the door in the front of your cab and use your phone to take a photo of the damage you reported to the tunnel roof?”
“I'm not trained for things like that,” he replied.
“Just open the door and take a photo,” Foster continued.
“What if it's terrorists? There's someone out there, I can see him.”
“What does he look like?”
Pudd squinted as he stared into the darkness, but after a few seconds he realized that he could no longer see a figure on the tracks.
“He's not there now,” he muttered.
“This is very important,” Foster replied. “I need to see a photo of the damage so I know what kind of crew to send. Tunnel walls don't just collapse, something must've caused it.”
“The union rep said -”
“Please, Mr. Pudd. Let's keep the union out of this, shall we? We don't want a load of complications. Are you going to send me a photo or not?”
Sighing, Pudd grabbed his phone and brought up the camera app, before easing himself off his seat and shuffling stiffly to the door at the front of the cab. He peered out at the tracks again, to make absolutely sure that there was no sign of anyone, and then he turned the handle and pulled the squeaking door open. Looking down at the tracks, he saw that there was plenty of rubble, so he activated the flash on his phone and took a photo, before aiming up and focusing on the hole in the roof. As he took a couple more shots, the phone's flash briefly lit up the tunnel, and then Pudd paused for a moment to send the images as an attachment to a message.
“Help me,” a voice whispered suddenly.
Pudd froze, looking ahead at the dark tunnel but seeing no-one.
“Help me,” the voice said again, sounding weaker than before but also a little closer.
“Who...” Pausing, Pudd realized he could just about make out a dark silhouette. “What are you doing down there?” he asked. “Are you nuts? You could've got yourself killed! The electric rail's only just been turned off!”
“Help me,” the voice continued, as the figure stumbled forward. “I... I don't know where...”
Holding his phone up, Pudd took another photo, although this time he forgot to activate the flash. Sending the image as another attachment, he watched as the figure edged closer.
“You have to help me,” the voice whispered. “I don't think I can... Subject B...”
“Hang on,” Pudd replied, reaching back across to grab the radio. “I'm just gonna -”
***
“Why are we still not moving?” the boy asked, looking out the window and seeing nothing but the dark tunnel wall. “It's been, like, forever!”
“It's been five minutes, if that,” his mother replied. “Just hang tight and -”
Suddenly hearing a loud boom from the far end of the carriage, she turned to look, just as a huge fireball burst through from the driver's cab.
***
“Get out of here!” the guy shouted, kicking her in the ribs with a steel-capped boot. “This is my spot!”
Letting out a gasp of pain, Meg stumbled back and bumped into the wall, before turning and starting to hurry away before any more punishment was doled out. With every breath, she felt a sharp pain in her ribs, as if the broken ends of bones were grinding together and cutting the inside of her chest. She began to cough and immediately tasted blood, but she knew she couldn't afford to stop, not yet. Reaching the end of the alley, she glanced over her shoulder and saw that the guy was still watching her with a threatening stare.
“Are you deaf or something?” he shouted. “Fuck off!”
She turned and hurried on, barely even noticing the people all around her. When she reached the park, she almost fell over before righting herself against a bin. She paused, looking down and spotting a half-eaten burger nestled among the garbage, and she didn't even hesitate: reaching down, she took the burger and then hurried away, keen to save a little dignity. Making her way to a nearby bench, she sat and immediately began to eat, barely even tasting the food as it went down her throat. All too soon, the burger was gone, and she sniffed the paper wrapping, taunting herself with the smell.
“This isn't a life for a young lady,” said a voice suddenly.
Looking up, she found that a smartly-dressed man, in his twenties so only a few years older than her, was watching from a few meters away. She looked over her shoulder, to make sure that there was no mistake, before turning back to him. Every fiber of her body was screaming at her to run, but she could see two other men nearby, dressed similarly to the first and giving every indication with their stony-eyed stares that they'd stop her before she could get too far. Besides, her feet were covered in blisters and she figured there wasn't too much harm that could come to her on a park bench in broad daylight.
Reaching down, she gripped the edge of the bench, waiting to see what kind of trouble she was in this time.
“I don't want any,” she whispered. “I don't wan
t drugs.”
“What's your name?” the first man asked with a faint smile. “Can you tell me that?”
She stared at him, thinking: What's your game? What are you after?
“I understand the need to be cautious,” the man continued. “Do you mind if I take a seat next to you for a few minutes and tell you why I approached you?”
She glanced at the other end of the bench, and this was apparently enough of a signal for the man. He stepped closer and wiped the bench with a handkerchief, before sitting down and taking a deep breath. Removing his hat, he set it down carefully between them before looking out across the park for a moment, as if he was taking in its beauty. In the distance, children were playing on the grass, while a train rattled past the park as it made its way into Charing Cross station.
“You're not a junkie,” the man said finally. “You don't fill your body with drugs. That's good, it marks you out. So many of the other homeless people in this city are covered in needle marks, but I can tell you're different. Your purity shines. For anyone who knows what they're looking for, at least.”
She gripped the bench harder, still wondering whether it would be better to run.
“My name is Hanson,” he told her. “Gregory Hanson, you can call me Greg or you can call me... friend, if you like. Anything.”
He waited, glancing at her hands and seeing that she was gripping the bench with such force, her fingers were starting to turn white.
Reaching into his pocket, he took out a syringe and removed the plastic cap, before rolling up his sleeve and injecting himself.
“It's okay,” he explained, with a slight grimace. “Just something to keep me ticking over. I'm a little ill, that's all.” Pulling the syringe out, he replaced the cap and then handed it to one of his associates, who dropped it into the bin.
“I'm going to be honest with you,” the man continued, taking a deep breath as if he was starting to feel the effects of his injection. “I want something from you, and I'm willing to pay to get it. See? No pretense, no hiding anything. I simply want your cooperation with a small experiment, and in return I'll see to it that you're well looked after, and I'll give you enough money for you to start turning your life around. Not just enough to get a sandwich in a convenience store or a burger that doesn't come from a bin, I'm talking about giving you enough money to set you up properly. Something life-changing. Does that sound good?”
