“What the fuck!” He said dropping his pen to cover his mouth with disgust.
The pen rolled slowly across the table and settled between DiAngelo and the prisoner.
In less than three seconds, the prisoner picked up the pen, snatched Maydew’s hand from his mouth, slammed it palm down onto the table, and stabbed the pen violently three times into skin, crunching through flesh and bone, the final stab given with such force it pinned the quivering hand to the wood. Blood spurted across the file and exhibit images.
Maydew screamed like a banshee. He scratched at the prisoner’s face with his free hand, trying to make him stop. The prisoner’s yellow, jagged teeth snapped at two of the flaying fingers, gripped hard and crunched down with a grunt. Maydew howled with pain as blood seeped from the corner of his client’s sneering mouth and splattered the pristine white of his shirt cuff.
“For the benefit of the recording,” sighed DeAngelo. “For no apparent reason, the suspect has stabbed his Legal Advisor in the hand with a pen and is now chewing his fingers.”
DeAngelo hit the panic alarm.
All hell broke loose.
Chapter One
Eight years later, Kensington Apartments,
Knightsbridge, London, UK
He towered over the bed and watched with cold, narrow eyes, studying her face while she slept. In a few hours, she would be dead.
From the file he’d read, she was a healthy, hardworking, attractive young woman with a good soul and a clean record. They would determine no reason for her to move over. This one’ll be questioned, and they’ll complain.
Deep in thought, he brought a smouldering Cuban cigar to his lips, tilted his jaw to the ceiling, and drew long and hard on the Montecristo No. 2. They’ll fight for her. It’s bound to get dirty.
A burning sizzle cracked the silence as an orange orb hissed and glowed in the darkness, highlighting the lines of his battle-scarred face. Erthfolk will ask why. They always do. Why her…why now…why so young…why’s it always the good ones? Blah de blah...blah de bloody blah… whatever! When will they ever get it?
He bent over the bed and leaned in close to her face; stale breath cooled her cheek. His body rattled as he took a deep rasping breath, inhaling her sweet smell. They all had a smell and he liked to smell them. Erthfolk never understand death. It’s always a shock. You’d think they’d learned by now they’re only guests on this planet. I mean, it’s not like they don’t know it’s coming, for fuck’s sake. Death is the only certainty in life. Hmmm…you smell of lilies. I like lilies.
He heaved himself up and stood over her; legs apart, arms crossed. His job required him to guard her until the morning sun eased through silk curtains and welcomed her to her last day on earth.
He loved his job, particularly this time of night: the silence, the calm, the world stopping to catch its breath. It was a time when Erthfolk slept, and were at their most vulnerable, enabling him to sneak into their lives and move about his business with ease.
He stared down at her. It’s time, young lady. Not gonna lie, you’re not gonna like it. Nor will you feel ready. All those dreams you had, all the things you wanted to do, all those important possessions you coveted — your clock has run out, they’re all gone, they have no value. No goodbyes, no nothing. It’s gonna be a bit of a shock, and it will hurt…a lot…but it’s time.
He smoothed down his black tailored suit sleeves and glanced down to check out his gleaming patent shoes. To him, ever the dandy gentleman, looks were everything. Standards needed to be kept. The rancid smell of his body, he couldn’t help, but the shine of his shoes he could.
She turned in her sleep. He sighed. You see, dear, it doesn’t pay to be special; you tend to piss off too many people. I hope someone sends lilies to your funeral. They suit you.
Barely visible in the shadows, he stepped away from the bed and paced the room, getting itchy feet. Normally, he didn’t mind waiting. He enjoyed the calm before the storm, but this one was different. He sensed a troubling aura and shook his head.
He gently pulled at the curtain to check on the night sky. The moonlight exposed his crabby war-torn face. His eyes squinted with the glare. He abruptly released the curtain and peered over at her. Not long now, dear.
He admired her face. He’d seen more than his fair share of faces and had taken thousands of lives in his time, but she was special. She had the beauty and intelligent, stubborn air of her mother.
He brought the cigar to his mouth and pulled on its bitter tip. Rocking his head back, he leisurely blew a torrent of thick grey smoke into the darkness. Its ethereal shadow percolated the air and gently tumbled around him, highlighting his body with a cloudy haze.
Maybe he shouldn’t have taken this job. He still had time, he could let someone else handle her. But she was on his patch and they would ask why. He didn’t like questions, he lived by his own rules. They can fuck off.
Pursing his lips, he gave a soft blow across the tip of his smouldering Cuban, its embers blazing anew as soft white ash fluttered to the ground. Skipping up onto his toes, he took a few nifty steps backwards, managing to avoid the snowy residue landing on his precious clothes.
She groaned as she turned in her sleep. He watched quietly as her nightmares took hold. She was being warned. He sensed The Fallen were at work.
Used to it, he wasn’t too concerned. Interfering Fallens flitted everywhere, Guardian angels, always trying to help Erthfolk, especially on their return journey --- if only the Erthfolk would listen.
They didn’t realise they had choices, that fate could be altered or avoided. The power was in their own hands. The smallest tweak of circumstance or the gentlest ripple effect of the tiniest detail could realign it. Following gut instinct, a kind word, taking note of signs, delaying actions even by a nanosecond was enough to change life’s pattern.
But luckily for him, Erthfolk seldom paid attention to the Fallen, they rarely looked at the bigger picture. Caught up in their small lives, their greed for objects and desire to be liked overshadowed reality. They hardly ever took time to listen to their own powerful sixth sense. The greatest tool in the box, the subconscious, stored in the brain’s largest cortex remained unused. What a waste, bloody idiots.
The Fallen and their attempts to steer Erthfolk to safety were, in the main, fruitless. But every now and then, the Fallen managed to get through to a few, those who simply stood still and listened.
A Fallen tried to warn her now, visiting her dreams, but she wouldn’t understand it. She was too hazy with alcohol and too busy with her hectic bubble-of-a-life to pay attention. She would forget her dreams the minute she woke up.
He watched as her head rocked from side to side and her skin glistened with fear. Her arms reached out with pleading hands, her breath quickening. Her cheek muscles twitched and jerked. Her eyes scrunched tightly shut. Her mouth opened wide in a silent scream. Here we go. It’s starting. Get ready to rumble.
He waited patiently as her nightmares unfolded. He knew her fears, but would do nothing to help her— he was a Witness, it wasn’t in his job description. As a Witness, it was his business to watch, to tot up her life, to account her good and bad deeds, the balance of which allowed the boss to decide where she went next—up or downstairs, above the skies or below the earth.
In a few hours, her soul would sift through her mouth in a final rasping breath. She wouldn’t be alone during the ordeal; he’d be beside her, and possibly a few Fallens. He didn’t feel sorry for her; she’d waited 28 years for this moment. Careful what you wish for, dearie.
He dragged another leisurely puff off his cigar, holding smoke in his mouth, savouring its flavours. He readily admitted he wasn’t the best Witness to have in a soul’s corner. He wasn’t a very good boy; he didn’t play by the rules. But hey, today, she was unlucky. What can I say? Shit happens. Blah de blah…blah de bloody blah… bothered?
Lifting his head, he slowly opened his mouth, releasing lethargic swirling smoke. Relishing the
aroma, he allowed it to skulk about his tongue and amble through his nostrils. He stood still in the darkness, his majestic head smouldering as if on fire. Today’s the day. You made a deal and it’s being kept.
A distant police siren blared from the streets outside. He looked to the curtained window, then to the ceiling above him and winked. No peace for the wicked…eh? You guys are busy tonight.
Chapter Two
Kensington Apartments,
Knightsbridge, London, UK
Amy eased out of slumber and rolled onto her side, tucking her hand underneath the pillow and nuzzling her head into its cool, soft luxury. Her internal clock nudged her, reminding her it wasn’t the weekend. With an irritated moan, she snuggled deeper under the duvet. How she hated weekday mornings.
Feeling hot, she thrust her leg into the open from beneath the duvet, letting her foot dangle off the mattress, enjoying the rush of cool morning air. It took a few seconds to realise her toes had brushed against something. Something warm and hairy…a leg. What the hell was that? Shit.
Her eyes flashed open and she stared into the dark room. When her eyes adjusted, she caught a glimpse of crisp blue and white striped bed linen. But she didn’t have blue and white bed linen. She always dressed her bed in white—a thing she had. This meant she had been sleeping in someone else’s bed. Oh, no, I didn’t!
She held her breath, keeping very still as panic set in, her gaze searching unfamiliar surroundings. In the quiet room, she glanced at closed curtains and an ivory-upholstered chaise stretching across the opposite corner, a handbag perched on it. She peered into the dark, blinking rapidly to erase whatever dream fooled her. Was that her handbag? Her eyes scanned the floor. Were those her clothes strewn across the carpet? Oh, fuck…I did.
A black-faced digital alarm clock sat on the bedside table flashing large yellow numbers at her. Scrunching her nose and squinting her eyes, she pulled the shapes into focus: 08.19 hours. She was late for work. Shit, shit, shit!
She lay back, stared at the ceiling and concentrated on sounds surrounding her. She heard impatient traffic outside the window, possibly from morning rush hour. Which was a good thing; it meant she’d stayed in the city, and wasn’t in the countryside somewhere, in the middle of nowhere.
Beyond the traffic, she detected the soft rise and fall of breathing, presuming it belonged to the leg. This was not a good thing. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Who the hell? Think…think!
She couldn’t concentrate. Her heart pounded so loudly she feared the leg would hear it. Panic built in her chest. Now was not the time to have an anxiety attack. Oh, no you don’t, not now. Breathe…breathe.
From experience, she knew if she didn’t take control quickly, the attack would overwhelm her. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, and then another, closing her mind to everything else, concentrating on the air filling her lungs and slowly releasing. She followed the techniques and mantras of self-help books and cognitive therapists who’d taught her over the years. It took all her might to silence and calm her body.
She hated the exhausting attacks descending upon her without warning but had learned to live with them. She’d become a master magician, hiding them from the rest of the world to keep up her Academy Award performance and to pretend everything was okay whilst she suffered in silence and clawed her way back from hell as life carried on around her. At least now she could control the dreaded curse and not freeze with fear as she once did. At least now she no longer begged for the only thing she believed would stop it…death
Many know-it-alls who professed to be experts on the subject were ignorant. Their naïve, insensitive commands of ‘pull your socks up’ or ‘just get on with it’ made her cringe. They didn’t have a clue what a panic attack entailed. She’d read somewhere that geniuses were prone to depression, so fuck them.
Anxiety was a lonely place. She blamed him for her illness, the bastard who took her at the age of four. She believed that one day karma would make him pay…if she didn’t get there first. Meanwhile, humour and planning her revenge, helped get her through.
The attack subsided bit by bit as her breathing slowed to normal. Thankfully, the leg’s owner hadn’t noticed and still snored away. Time to get out of here, the boss is going to kill me.
She lifted her head off the pillow; a blistering headache hit home and pierced the back of her eyes. She dropped her head back down. She shouldn’t drink on antidepressants. Urrgh! How much did I drink?
The office parties were renowned for their mayhem. She didn’t remember hooking up with anyone. So, where the hell am I, and who the hell is the leg? Gawd, I’m too old for this.
Peering over the duvet to the end of the bed, she saw daylight seeping through a door frame, outlining her exit point. Her head continued to thump with pain, forcing her to lean back into the pillow.
She lay very still, trying not to wake whoever was attached to the leg, and sorted through the jumbled images of the previous night’s proceedings.
The party had started with shots. Always dangerous.
Blotchy flashes of memory teased her brain. She’d been drinking, pub crawling, table-dancing, singing. Urrgh! ‘Mama Mia’ again.
A flash of being manhandled in the back of a black taxi flitted through her mind, a nice manhandle, not frightening manhandle. But who?
At least it was a man, the leg was hairy…unless it was Velma from Reception, who didn’t shave. Oh gawd, please don’t let it be Velma and her obsessive crush issues.
Velma, was their overenthusiastic office receptionist. Amy once ran across the reception area, rushing from one meeting to another. Velma caught her eye as she sat hawk-like behind her imposing desk. Being polite, Amy casually asked her how she was.
“Hello there. How are you?”
A quick, courteous, throwaway line. The kind of line everyone used but rarely meant.
Before she knew it, Velma had shared her life story, and because Amy had practiced good manners and listened, it somehow meant Velma had permission to report her every move to Amy, that they had formed a bond, a one-sided bond. Velma rarely asked how Amy was.
Ever since that fateful ‘How are you?’ Velma had latched on to Amy. Taking every opportunity to phone, text, email and search Amy out, to detail the smallest day-to-day detritus of her existence. Regularly, she followed Amy to the loo, and would be waiting outside as Amy took her lunch hour or left to go home at the end of the day.
Amy didn’t have the heart to stop her. She felt sorry for the lonely girl and simply accepted the missives and made ‘ahhh,’ ‘ok,’ ‘how lovely,’ ‘sorry, I have to go’ comments, hoping the zealous oversharing would eventually fizzle out. Possibly, when Velma acquired a boy or girlfriend—she wasn’t sure which—and she’d have someone else to focus on. Setting Velma up on a date topped Amy’s bucket list.
Amy tried again to lift her head off the pillow, but it pounded from dehydration. She needed water.
Slinking snakelike from under the duvet, she slid silently to the floor. Naked, on all fours, arse in the air, she crawled around the king-size bed, her knees burning on lush, thick-piled carpet. Praying the leg wouldn’t wake and peer over the bed. This is SO not a good look.
Creeping towards the door, she gathered her belongings: underwear, dress, bag, and shoes.
Strangely, she could see only her clothes strewn across the floor with no sign of the leg owner’s clothing. Weird, unless they were very tidy, but who puts away clothes in the heat of passion? Has there been any passion?
She couldn’t feel any discomfort in her body, any sign of a passionate workout. She put her hand between her legs to check for tell-tale wetness. She was dry. No sex…unless they wore a condom and I didn’t come. How bloody selfish...effing typical.
Sitting on her knees, she peered over the bed, trying to make out the leg owner’s identity, but whoever the stranger was, they lay on their stomach, covered in the duvet’s blue and white striped sea, their head tucked under pillows as if blocking out sound. Was I s
noring? Shit, I was snoring, wasn’t I? Urrgh…embarrassing and I haven’t waxed, cut my toenails, or worn matching underwear…bloody typical.
Nervously, she braved getting to her feet and tiptoed the last few steps to her exit. Painstakingly, she quietly eased the door handle and heaved it ajar just enough to creep out. As she pulled the door shut behind her, she heard a loud fart blast unceremoniously from the bed. She giggled. That must be a man…although…vegan Velma does have a penchant for beans.
As she turned away from the door, the apartment’s bright light slapped her in the face, stinging her eyes. She recoiled behind her hand. Urrgh…shit.
The cheery morning sun shone through a wall of balcony windows. Squinting, toppling, and struggling to keep her balance, she held onto furniture and stepped into last night’s clothing, which stank of stale perfume, acrid cigar smoke, and alcohol. Why do I smell of smoke? Does the leg smoke? Yuck, ashtray-breath kisses…I must’ve been drunk.
Her head throbbing, she braved the sun’s glare and looked around the sumptuous open plan room, decked in creams and gold. They were up high, overlooking a glistening London skyline. She ran to the window, peered down, and gratefully recognised the bustling Knightsbridge street below. The sign for Brompton Court Train Station twinkled back at her. Checking her watch, she deduced she had 25 minutes to be sitting at her desk; no time to return home for freshening up or a wardrobe change.
Stilettos in hand and bag over her shoulder, she crept through the room in search of an exit, scanning the sideboard and coffee table, trying to work out who owned the apartment. But nothing, no pictures, no ornaments, no sign of life. The expensive, glamourous, tasteful, and very tidy pad was possibly a rental.
Her coat lay strewn across the floor, obviously dumped in a hurry. She snatched it up to pull it on, jamming her arms into the sleeves. As she tiptoed past a sideboard, she peered down and noticed a piece of paper sticking out from beneath it. She checked the bedroom door and found it still snuggly closed.
The Deal (The Fallen Angel Series Book 1) Page 2
