Voices in the head

“Next,” said the Seraph, “Take out Worthington.”
“Our esteemed Head of English?”
“The same.”
“The Levisite?”
“Him.”
“Then, will you be my lamp?” asked Garrett and, stepping out into the snow he followed the glow of the angel’s smiling face, through the ink-black quad and up the stone stairs to the library where, for the next hour or two, he’d consult the canon for the most imaginative as well as the most appropriate murder weapon.
“Ah, the great resource of literature,” Garrett whispered gleefully to himself, lips turned from the angel’s hovering ear. “Maybe the greatest of all!” he popped, pausing for a moment his diligent book marking. “Poor Worthington. He should have chosen Eliot. Not Waugh. Nuances, nuances. But, still…”
A far less heinous crime than Matron’s who lay – at that very moment – on a slab in the old city morgue, her eyes star-searching in the fixative of poison.
Reasons could be as thin as early-season ice; as miniscule as a grain of rice.

- Well? And what have you to report?

- He wasn’t the right one. Absolutely not our sort. Didn’t understand.

- He refused? Are you quite sure?

- Er, well, not exactly refused, as such, but I can assure you he was absolutely NOT the right choice for the task. Not one of us, you know.

- And how, may I ask, did you determine that? Considering he was selected from a great number of potential candidates, after intense scrutiny by your superiors?

- Absolutely, I mean, exactly, I mean, yes that’s precisely why I was so shocked by his response. I mean, by his attitude. Surely one so carefully chosen for such a delicate task would have the proper respect for the seraphic hierarchy. In fact, I think perhaps I was mistaken – perhaps it was the wrong man? That must be it. That was it. Of course! The wrong man. He didn’t know who I was.

- And you didn’t presume to tell him?

- Well, yes, naturally I told him. On arrival, as instructed, I announced myself. In the proper form for one newly appointed to the highest of the nine orders of angels. I presented myself using the full seraphic greeting.

- Oh you did, did you? To a mortal in a, shall we say, somewhat less than salubrious bar in Peckham? The full seraphic greeting? Hmmm. But what was his response to the proposal, if he didn’t “exactly refuse”?

- Well, erm, he didn’t really quite give me the chance to put it across entirely clearly, I mean with all the full details…

- He did not give you the chance? A mere mortal against a seraph? I feel I should warn you that your position is looking increasingly precarious. Your instructions could not have been clearer: to announce yourself and recruit this creature into the service – and be in no doubt that this was the chosen one. From what you have told me, you have not done so; an explanation is required, and I would advise you to consider your words very carefully. As you well know, failure is not tolerated in this order.

- It wasn’t my fault – he couldn’t possibly have been the chosen one! He sullied the name of our order! I have spent years – millennia in fact – four millennia to be precise, four! – in dedicated and loyal service. I have given my afterlife to the seraphic cause! I am not some jobbing messenger-boy like Gabriel and Michael with no standards, no proper respect, no ambition for seraphic status! I’ve earned my place, earned it! And this creature, this human, this, this mortal to speak in such tones to me, me! Appointed by the Highest One to achieve great things, to conquer the dark lands – no, it was really quite intolerable. Impossible! No self-respecting seraph could be expected to negotiate in such circumstances.

- Oh dear. He called you “cherub”, didn’t he?

Dirty Martini

Luc is sitting at the bar, fiddling with his cufflink. ‘Heaven’ it says in serif letters on a white-gold disc. The one on his other wrist says ‘Hell’.
His suit jacket hugs his broad shoulders, hiding the scars beneath. It’s made-to-measure Armani, a startling white two-piece with a silver pinstripe and a matching lining. Giorgio has been making his suits since 1974. It was part of the deal.
When a cocktail appears on the bar, Luc eyes it disapprovingly and pushes it back towards the barman.
‘You call that dirty?’ he says.
Ignoring the barman’s apology, Luc reaches inside his jacket and produces a fat cigar. It’s a Cohiba Behike, the first from his last box. He must remind Fidel that he’s running low. The old man can’t really afford to be forgetful; not after what happened last time.
Another martini appears, this one murky as pond scum.
‘Is that dirty enough, sir?’ asks the barman.
Luc picks the cocktail stick from the glass and slips the olive off it with his tongue.
‘It’ll do,’ he says.
‘You’ll have to go outside if you want to smoke that, sir,’ says the barman, pointing a tea towel towards the Cohiba.
Luc resists the urge to stab the barman in the eye with the cocktail stick.
This place isn’t what it used to be.

Cloud Nine

Contrary to the assertion of his name, Gabe Leblanc, proprietor of Cloud Nine, was as emphatically, elegantly black as a man could be; and tonight he was in the mood for mischief. He stepped away from the bar and made his way to the stage where he spoke to the singer, who nodded deferentially. Gabe climbed up and stood for a moment, surveying his customers with a dispassionate eye, then snapped his fingers and as the band kicked into a driving twelve-bar riff, pulled from the breast pocket of his midnight cashmere jacket a blues harmonica inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He put it slowly to his lips and blew a long wailing note. The singer smiled. Gabe winked and gave a little shuffle. The band was starting to crank it up. He coaxed another rising wail from the harp and shuffled some more, the deliciously familiar feeling of weightlessness starting to take hold. He saw the singer glance down, eyes widening in disbelief as he took in the pool of stage lighting now clearly visible beneath the soles of Gabe’s three hundred-dollar sneakers and the stage. Gabe smiled seraphically, flexed his shoulders and prepared to blow some more …

Time to go, he thought. Gotta get the fuck outa here. Danced too many messy dances, cape flying, feeling like a dick (fuckin blue tights, for chrissake!) but then not caring, grabbing Angela – more Little Ho Peep than Little Bo Peep, tits spilling out, make-up smeared – throwing her into the middle of the room and grinding against her while Terry gazed on, blinking slowly under his gangster hat, from the sofa.

People had been drifting in and out of the kitchen all night long, and he suddenly realised the room was empty. Just some dick wearing Mickey Mouse ears slumped against the wall by the telly and Terry, still sat there with a fuckin stone face, and Jean sprawled beside him trying to talk but too pissed to make any sense. They both ignored her and watched the footie on the silent TV while the music pumped on. He perched, unsteady, on the arm of the sofa, wondering where Angela was. Fuck it, I’m outa here.

As he stood swaying, peering round for his coat, the front door swung open and a tall blonde stepped through. ‘Ello ‘ello, who’s this then? She must have been 6’2’’ in her heels. Rain glinted on her coat, and turning towards the door she slowly and deliberately pulled off each sleeve, before fuck me! shaking her back and it looked like she was spreading them… these fuckin amazing angel wings quivered in the air, then folded tight against her back. She turned to face the room, a smile lighting up her face.

Fuck me. I’m stayin.

Scum. I put down the paper. One week back from Iraq. All I read is rapists, paedos, knifings. Someone should take them out. Not lock them up. A let-off. I knocked back some more Stella and closed my eyes. Smiled as I thought of one of them in my sights. Righteous kill. “You hearing the moral fabric of society crumbling, Jon?” I turned quickly. God knows where she came from. She had golden hair lit by the light of the bar, pure skin and baby blues that pierced me through the heart. She looked like what she was. An angel. But a dark angel. “I know what you’re thinking, Jon”. I mumbled “How the fuck do you..?” But her hand was already on my knee “Thing is. Someone needs to move them on, Jon. Those ‘scum’. They need to get to purgatory fast if we’re going to save their souls – and save a lot of lives up here too, eh?”. She leaned close, lips so red only blues could follow. ‘God moves in a mysterious way..’ she murmur-hummed. The Devil may have the best tunes but God has the sweetest singers.

Seraphs

Blood always made him puke. But this was worse. Blood, vomit, shit, piss. The all-too-corporeal emanations of a Seraph.

Angelo looked at his work, stretched out on the floor before him. The blood was spreading. He didn’t enjoy this sort of thing but it was why he’d been made Capo of the Seraphs. It had to be done, he did it. And cleared up the mess afterwards.

The Family business had done well. He kept people in line. Other waste management companies couldn’t compete and he’d cleaned up in the Scottish Borders. Cherubbish Waste – “Back to the soil” – was almost a legit business. It just stretched notions of recycling a little further than some would expect.

He looked down at his brother’s body. Blood, vomit, shit, piss. He’d never liked the punk. Brotherly love – fuck it. But how was he going to explain this one to Mama?

Now in the sixth month, the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a district of London, named Neasden, to a nondescript petty criminal pledged to share a bedsitter with a woman whose name was Josie, of the house of Smith. The criminal’s name was Kevin.

Having come in, the angel said to him, “Rejoice, you highly favoured one! The Lord is with you. Blessed are you among the low-level criminal fraternity!” But when Kevin saw him, he was greatly troubled at the saying, and considered what kind of salutation this might be.

The angel said to him, “Don’t be afraid, Kevin, for you have found favour with God. Behold, you will obtain a small firearm, and set aside your cigarette smuggling and soft-drug dealing and track down and ‘sort out’ a man, his name is ‘Phil Kelly’ and he has sorely tested the Lord.’

‘You will be great, and will be called the Geezer of Neasden.’

Kevin said to the angel, “How can this be, seeing as I am fairly useless?” The angel answered him, “The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. For everything spoken by God is possible.” Kevin said, “Behold, the handgun of the Lord; be it to me according to your word.” The angel departed from him.

Waiting in the wings

Christ, left them at home. Shit. And home’s a long way off. Six months, haven’t missed a day. Matter of time he supposed. The realisation almost as thrilling as unnerving. Just have to brazen it out, though he knew the phrase had no meaning in this context.

Get a grip, fag out back. Jacket. Clear the old…

Frost flame smoke, something else. Wingbreath, no other word. No, No, Hooooooooooooo

And back inside, the kitchen hot as hell. White. Light. Sweat. Then Chef’s Aussie twang to admiring groupies gathered in a ring.

“Then you sear it with a dash of truffle oil. It’ll taste amazing, but they won’t know why!”

“And that’s important somehow, is it?”

“You what?”

“That they won’t know why.”

For just a moment he wondered who the heckler was, but there was little doubt the voice was his own.

“Stone me, the vegetables are talking now.”

(Laughter at this acerbic gem)

He’d be first.

Great brief Jamie. I seem to have had a found moment, and managed to complete this one almost obscenely early in the month. Embarrassed about the ghastly joke – some of us are influenced by Goethe and Shakespeare, others by Carry On films. Guess I know which one’s me… However, someone had to come out with it, so now no-one else has that burden.

The devil you don’t know…yet

- To hell with it, he thinks, it’s too cold. Though he can’t afford the indulgence, he steps into Starbucks.

He sits, staring deep into the Americano, as black as his work prospects. Thawing, stirring sugar into his coffee, thoughts shape shift in his mind, influenced by his surroundings.

- It wasn’t like this for Starbuck, he thinks. He had the demonic Ahab to provide constant purpose, not to mention food and drink.

He senses another bite of winter wind, and looks to his left to see if the door has been left open. It’s shut fast. Then he gasps. The chill is sitting opposite him, in the form of an individual who has appeared from nowhere.

- I did mean to startle you, so I won’t apologise, says the individual, in a voice that does nothing to identify whether it’s a man or woman sitting there. I’ll get to the point. I know what’s on your mind. There’s a project for you.

- Oh?

- Yes. Something – and now I will apologise – to get your teeth into.

There is no sound, except the sharp metallic clang of his spoon bouncing on the floor.