The Guardian Angel

by Liam Livings

“Yeah.” I tried to take it all in. “How’d you get so buff? Is there a gym up there or something? Some weights you can rest on the nearest cloud?” I laughed.

  “I take pride in my appearance and try to fly everywhere rather than just appearing, which I always think is cheating, really. Using the wings gives my chest muscles a workout, and my arms too, as I use my arms to stabilise myself through the air.” He held out his arms in front of him, like Superman, and flapped his wings. Disappointingly, they didn’t make any wind.

  “No wind. How do they work?”

  “I can’t touch anything of yours down here.” He leant against the wall and fell through it.

  Right, moving on. “Must be quite a bit of upkeep with those feathery wings and all that buff body?” I asked, enjoying hearing him tell me about his routine. His chest did not have a single hair on it, not even any stubble from when he’d shaved it off.

  “It is, but it’s worth it. It’s very frowned upon to not look after your wings. They’re like a badge of honour for a guardian angel, and our calling card, as I said.”

  “Do you have no body hair at all? No beard, nothing on your chest—is it just your head and that’s it? Just out of interest, you know. I was just wondering….” I looked at the ceiling.

  “I’m not a human, you know,” he replied innocently.

  “Well, apart from the wings, you look pretty much like a human to me. Do you have all the body parts a human has?”

  He nodded, blushing slightly.

  “Go on, show me. Just a little flash under your man skirt. I’m sure it’s allowed in the rule book, isn’t it?”

  He rifled through the rule book, which had appeared in his hand. “Doesn’t say anything about looking. It does say no fraternising with clients. That’s strictly prohibited, it says.” He tapped the page with one long forefinger.

  “How would that work when we can’t touch each other?” I asked, bemused.

  “We’re not even meant to be friends or to talk like this. I’m going to get in so much trouble when I go back.” He bit his lip.

  “But looking is okay?”

  “Doesn’t say anything about it.”

  “You must have seen me, getting in and out the bath, the shower, sleeping in the altogether. I’ve shown you mine, so you’ve got to show me yours. That’s fair.”

  “I never anticipated this. And you’ve not so much shown me yours as I’ve seen yours due to the position I’m in. I think that’s somewhat different, actually.”

  “Oh, actually, is it. It’s actually somewhat different. Look, you’ve got your point across; I’ll look out for the feathers. Come on: give me a break, just a little flash. Not even the whole turkey and giblets, just a bit. Pull down your man skirt so I can see the treasure trail—if you had any body hair, that is.”

  He unbuckled his belt and pushed the waistband of his man skirt down to show the base of himself. Just as I suspected, not a single hair there at all. Still, at least he didn’t have that hair-growing-out look that is so unattractive for people who do use a razor down there.

  I felt a tingle where I’d not felt one in a long time. Thank goodness, it’s back. I’m not a useless, bad gay. Relief poured into me.

  “Oh, one last thing, Richard.” He did his belt up and tidied up his waistband.

  “Yes?”

  “You know I said your bad luck was because I was still learning?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, that might have been a teeny-tiny bit of a lie. ’Cause at first it was. The first few times, but after that it’s because I went on holiday and left someone else in charge. A temp guardian angel. The Higher Ones allocate them when the permanent ones go on sabbaticals, things like that. They’re there just to cover and make sure you don’t get run over by a bus or accidentally put your hand in a blender. But really, they do only the bare minimum. So I’m sorry for that.”

  “A temp guardian angel?”

  He nodded.

  I realised that within this weird universe I now found myself in, he must have been serious. “So, when I ended up in hospital, which of these two was that? Were you sunning yourself on holiday or still with your L-plates and stabiliser wheels on?”

  “Does it make much of a difference in the end? I mean, now you’re all fine, aren’t you? It’s just water under the bridge, isn’t it?” He smiled weakly and shrugged.

  “I nearly died. I could have died. Doctor Lacey said if I’d have taken one more of those tablets, I would have died. Or if the water had been a bit higher in the bath, I’d have drowned. So yes, it does make a difference to me, actually, while we’re being so honest and sharing.” I fake-smiled at him and cocked my head to one side.

  “I’d better be going. I’ve been here far too long already. The handbook says any interaction should be less than ten minutes at a time, and I’m way over that now. Bye, must go!”

  And he was gone, disappeared in front of my eyes, with a puff of green smoke and a smell of sandalwood. Despite what he’d said about me not being able to summon him like a genie, there were some similarities between the two imaginary things.

  What was I doing? What had I been in the middle of doing before that hallucination? I rubbed my eyes and noticed I still had shaving foam on half my face.

  That’s it, shaving.

  And why was I shaving? I closed my eyes to try and piece together my morning, prehallucination.

  CVs, that’s it, my final day of handing out CVs.

  I finished shaving, peering in the mirror in case the hallucination reappeared. Nothing. I must tell the doctor about it, though, in case he needed to adjust my tablets.

  Shall I tell Amy? No, she’ll just make it worse. Encourage me—and the last thing I needed was encouraging.

  Chapter 7

  I stepped out the front door of my building and started walking down the one road I’d not yet explored with my CVs, when my mobile rang. It was someone from one of the shops where I’d dropped off my CV: would I like to come in for a chat with the manager of the shoe shop?

  Would I? Of course I would. I agreed a time that afternoon.

  I put my phone back in my pocket and continued walking. I hadn’t stopped at a single shop before my phone beeped again. I leant against a wall and took the call. It was a bank, asking me about my application for their graduate training scheme. Their HR manager had been off sick for a while and many of the applications had stayed stuck in the system. They’d looked at mine, and could I come in for “a little chat” was how she described it. She apologised again for the long delay since I’d sent it in—a few months, I think it was. She asked if I could do tomorrow. Not wanting to appear too keen and aimless, I made a big show of checking my diary before saying, “Oh yes, I have some time tomorrow to come down for the ‘little chat.’”

  What a productive morning’s work already, and it was only just half nine. This deserved a celebration. I looked behind me and realised I stood in front of a café. A café, which, although I’d lived here or hereabouts for years, I’d never once noticed. I walked in and a friendly, floppy-brown-haired public school boy asked me what I wanted. His accent made me smile for some reason. “I’ll be jolly quick, righto,” he said and told me to take a seat.

  He soon arrived with my mug of tea and a round of buttered toast. “There you go, tuck in and enjoy.” He smiled.

  I smiled back. “Do I know you?”

  “I knew you didn’t remember me.”

  “I don’t, sorry.” Shit, I wondered if I’d got to know him in that way, and just couldn’t remember it, during one of my particularly slaggy periods. He did undoubtedly have blowjob lips.

  “You gave me orientation in my first year at uni. You were a third year, and I was a fresher. You said to make sure I didn’t waste my summer holidays bumming and relying on Mummy and Daddy’s money. Which I thought was a bit rich, until I realised that was exactly what I’d planned to do. So I got a job here at weekends and summer too.”

  “Your parents, do they let y
ou work while you’re studying? Surely you don’t need to financially.”

  “Not at all. I told them it would help make me a more rounded individual, and said what you’d said about people of all backgrounds.”

  “I said that, did I?”

  He nodded.

  “And they bought it, did they?”

  “I told them off for how they talk to our cleaner and gardener. I said to Father, ‘It’s not the sixties, old chap. It’s not okay to speak like that anymore.’”

  “Fuck me!”

  “No thanks. I told you that last time. Said I was as straight as a die. You tried it on, you see.”

  I nodded, remembering the whole conversation. So I was going through a slaggy period, but he, fortunately, wasn’t gay or slaggy. Result!

  “Anyway, pay when you’re finished, okay.” He left.

  I took my time, enjoying the chatter and clatter of the café, then went to the counter to pay, smiling at the fresher I’d failed to fuck during fuck-a-fresher week, then returned to pick up my jacket from over the chair. As I put the jacket on, I felt something next to my cheek, trying to push itself in my mouth. I spat it out and removed it from the jacket collar.

  A perfect white feather. Large, and not damaged.

  Fuck it, you know that that means, don’t you? It wasn’t a hallucination. Or it was a hallucination and I’m having another one now.

  Exhausted from all this action, I returned to my flat. I slept for a few hours that afternoon, debating whether or not to tell Amy. I knew how much she’d love it, how much she’d relish being right with at least part of her theory about the feathers. But I also knew how much of a meal she’d make of it. She’d want the full blow-by-blow account of what had happened, and every time I saw her it would be “Any more feathers?” and I just couldn’t bear that at the moment. I wasn’t completely sure if it was true, or if I was still a bit tired, drugged, or hallucinating.

  I breezed through the interview at the shoe shop. They lapped up the fact I’d worked at a music video shop while at uni. I told them I didn’t really wear shoes, only trainers, and they loved that too. It ended with a “When can you start?”

  “I’ll have to check how my schedule is and let you know,” I replied, shaking the manager’s hand.

  Shirley the manager was lovely. She’d made me feel really at home. She’d laughed at my answers and nodded when I said I had some other people to call me back and that I didn’t want to say yes and then let her down.

  Two possible job offers in one week? In this economy? What the hell was going on here?

  One thing at a time. The “little chat” with the bank wasn’t until tomorrow. And anything could happen by then.

  As I walked back to my flat, I called Amy and told her about the two interviews. She screamed down the phone, “I told you things would look up. I knew your luck would improve. Maybe it’s your guardian angel looking after you.”

  “Maybe.” I didn’t want to say any more because I knew if I did, it would all come spilling out. And I still wasn’t ready for that.

  “What else you been up to?” she asked, now talking instead of shouting.

  “I talked to a random old man in a cemetery, met a straight student I’d almost shagged in freshers’ week, and got talking to a guy whose body is like a Greek statue and just as shiny and hairless.”

  “Getting back on that horse, are you, Richard?”

  “I’ve not quite got back on it, but I’ve certainly had a look around the stable and know which one I’d like to take for a canter around the field.”

  “That’s good. The old Richard I know and love is coming back.” She paused. “Totally hairless? I didn’t think you liked that in your men. So how come the change of heart?”

  “Things change. People change. Just because that’s what I’ve always thought, what I’ve always done, doesn’t mean I can’t do anything different.”

  “All right, all right, keep your wig on.” She made some swirling noises down the phone.

  “Is that your end or mine, and is the reception going?”

  “No, I’m reikiing it back to you. I don’t want your negative energy. I don’t need your negative energy.”

  “All right, all right.” I paused as I waited for her to finish her reiki. “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t shag him! This gorgeous bloke, this gorgeous Greek god, statue-like bloke, and I didn’t shag him. I let him leave the flat intact, all clothes on.”

  “Didn’t you cop a feel?”

  “Nah.”

  “Just a little peek?”

  “Nothing. Except his chest, and he arrived with nothing on his chest, so that wasn’t me, really.”

  “In this weather? It’s bitter out. He must be mad, this bloke.”

  “Or I’m mad. One of the two.”

  “You seeing him again?”

  “Who?”

  “This Greek god, hairless-statue bloke.”

  “I really don’t know. Honestly, I do not know.”

  “If you do, don’t let him away next time, or I’ll start worrying about you. And if it’s anything serious—like it would be with you—but anyway, if it’s anything serous, I’d like to meet him. Okay?”

  “You never know. I might just see him again.”

  Chapter 8

  The bank’s “little chat” was exactly that. I dressed up in a suit, even bought some new shoes—from the shoe shop round the corner, of course. The woman there wished me luck, bless her. I’d found fifty quid down the back of the sofa, so I bought a briefcase. Not because I needed one—I’d never used one in my life—but because I thought if I dressed like a successful graduate at a bank, I’d be taken on as a successful graduate at a bank.

  I did some research on them, a bit of googling the night before. I printed out the pages from their website and put them in the new briefcase, for want of anything else to put in it.

  As I researched, it occurred to me, my laptop and the Internet were back in the land of the living. Had I called to sort out the Internet? I must have done. It doesn’t just come back on its own. I must have reset the password or something.

  And the laptop was fine. No funny blue screens of death. Nothing.

  The morning of the bank interview, I woke to sunlight streaming through my window. I stepped onto the pavement and the sound of “Walking on Sunshine,” by Katrina and the Waves, blared from a car. The sun blinded me as I crossed the road to the Tube station.

  I remembered the last time I’d heard this song and thanked someone—something—that I was still alive. I thanked myself, too, that as well as being crap at all manner of other things, I was crap at trying to kill myself. That had been a bonus of sorts.

  All the trains connected perfectly, and I arrived at the bank near Liverpool Street station in twenty minutes. Very early. I looked at my reflection in one of the glass buildings.

  He looks like a City banker. He looks like someone who works here.

  Before I shook the hand of the woman who’d called me, nervous that mine was sweaty, I wiped it on my trousers. She showed me to a room with a computer and instructions for an exercise. Aha, so it’s not just a “little chat” after all.

  The inbox exercise was to write a report on the four or five data sources saved on the desktop. In half an hour. And then to prepare a risk assessment of the main risks the bank would be exposing itself to if it were to take on the project that the data sources were about.

  So not much, then. In an hour in total?

  I started to panic, and then focussed on the task in hand, carefully reading the data on the desktop, making notes all the time. I looked up, and I had spent forty-five minutes already and just finished the first part, the report. There was no way I could do the next bit in fifteen minutes.

  I looked at my notes from earlier and realised I’d already written down three or four points about the risks. I didn’t remember doing that. I glanced back at the reports these four points referred to and
wrote a few more points to support each of the four bullet points. As I clicked Spell Check, the kindly HR lady said, “That’s it, time’s up. Please step away from the computer.”

  My page was full of red underlined words that weren’t spelled right.

  Bollocks.

  “It’s just the spell check. If I could just—”

  “That’s it, I’m afraid.” She leant over the computer, printed off my two documents, then took them from the printer, which I hadn’t noticed in the corner of the room.

  She asked me to talk through my two documents in front of a panel of three people: Friendly HR Lady and two men, whose names I forgot as soon as they said them. I smiled and shook their hands, each time conscious of the sweat on mine.

  Every time they asked a question about why I’d put what I’d written on my answers, I swallowed, conscious of my dry throat, but managed to respond every time. I felt like I was astrally projecting Melanie Griffith in Working Girl—her shoulder pads and enormous hair carried me to the finish line until I stood up to shake their hands once again, and Friendly HR Lady showed me to reception.

  And that was it. That was my first graduate-training-scheme interview.

  I left the building and stepped into the sunshine, very bright for winter in London. I turned my phone on and found a voicemail from Amy: could I call her when I finished, as she wanted to hear all about it?

  I knew it was awful. I knew they were going to penalise me for the spelling. I knew I’d missed some huge risks of the project. I knew all of this.

  But while I knew all of this, I also knew I was looking for a white feather, for something to give me a sign that it would be okay. I felt the collar of my jacket—nothing. I looked on the pavement—nothing.

  I stopped at a coffee shop and ordered a caffeine-free coffee—normally I thought that was as pointless as alcohol-free lager, or a come-free shag, but today? Today I was flying with energy and didn’t need any more help. I looked in the cup. No feathers.

  After warming my hands around the mug, I called Amy.