A Madness of Angels

see his smile, even brighter than the sense of his magic that we had tasted in the past.

He noticed me the moment I saw him. He kept on talking, eyes darting to my face, and then away, smile still in place, chatting to a lady in gold earrings and a shimmering dress to match, about the tragic trend towards revivals rather than original art in the West End, and whether the dumplings in Chinatown were to be trusted. To our surprise, we found ourself getting interested, curious to hear his opinions as he talked on about theatre and music and food – things that I’d always meant to learn about, but had never had the time.

It was only at a natural pause in the conversation – and it was quite clearly a full stop imposed politely at the end of a theme – that he looked us straight in the eye and said, “Hello, Matthew. I’m glad you could make it.”

“Hello, Mr Bakker.”

“I don’t think you know anyone here, yes?” The smile, still bright, a little laugh as he looked round at the people gathered around his chair and, God help us, they laughed too, feeding off his presence and character as if he was weaving an enchantment even then – and perhaps he was. There was a gentle tracery of power about him, subtle and hard to distinguish – but they laughed when he laughed, even though they did not know who I was or why I looked afraid.

“No. I don’t think we’ve met.” We sounded empty. We didn’t know what we were meant to put into the words.

“I may be rude, then, and skip the introductions; good manners are important but when there’s this many people the names tend to just blend into one unless you know who you’re talking to. Everyone, this is Matthew – my nephew, in a way.”

“‘In a way’?” said one lady in a voice that could have resonated glass, and now I noticed the little tape recorders in odd pockets, hints and clues that this night was about more than the drinks and that everyone was on display. Another reason, perhaps, to feel safe in the crowd? I couldn’t imagine Bakker doing anything in front of the press – however, I still didn’t feel inclined to sample the champagne.

“A sort of godson, nephew, surrogate cousin relationship,” explained Bakker airily. “I knew Matthew when he was just a spotty kid, didn’t I?”

“Yes. You did.”

“Do you like the theatre?” asked the same woman, favouring me with a glance like two hot needles in the eye.

“What we’ve seen, very much, although it is a little frightening. I never really got into it in the old days.”

“Frightening?”

“You let yourself fall into a spell, willingly,” we explained. “You know that it is there and you allow yourself to be deceived. It is a powerful magic that can enchant someone who is knowingly aware of the illusion.”

“The magic of theatre!” chuckled a man through a monstrous fly-trap of a moustache.

“Even bad plays?” asked the woman.

“We don’t really know how to judge.”

“Matthew,” said Bakker quickly, “would you like something to drink?”

We met his eyes squarely. “No. Thank you.”

“To eat? I think there’re vol-au-vents of some kind.”

“No.”

“Well, please yourself,” he said with a shrug. “Forgive me, all – Matthew, could you wheel me in the direction of the bathroom, please?”

I did wheel him in the direction of a bathroom, but took him no further than the foyer outside. We were still in comfortable proximity to the buzzing noise of sociability, but far enough away so that the conversation was merely a pitch and yaw of polite sound, rather than distracting words and sentiments to be understood. He put on the brakes of his chair and smiled at me, gesturing at a staircase with an inviting hand. I sat down on one of the steps so that my face was level with his, leaning my elbows on my knees and bending in towards them to create a small target, huddling like a child, like I’d sat in front of him all those years before.

He didn’t speak, just sat in the chair and studied me head to foot, the smile not fading as he raised and lowered his head, quite clearly observing my clothes, my face, my eyes, my expression, reading everything about me and taking it all in, without a glimpse of feeling either way. We let him look and waited, patiently.

Finally he said, “You look well.”

I grunted, unimpressed.

“You probably need a haircut,” he added.

I resisted the temptation to run my fingers through my hair at his glance, but only just.

“Your coat – it’s not quite the old one, is it?”

I shook my head.

“But still enchanted. A delicate, subtle whiff, yes? Anonymity, the beige jacket of anyone in the crowd. Not quite invisibility – but close enough.”

“It’s been to the cleaners a bit.”

“It’s a good coat. A sorcerer should always have a good coat, with deep pockets and proper waterproofing. Only an idiot wastes their time trying magically to ward against the rain – getting soggy socks is important.”

“Why?” I said, knowing the answer from the olden days but still wanting to ask.

“So that when you get home you can take them off and put them up in front of the fire and let your clothes steam, while drinking a hot cup of tea and feeling your skin dry out of all its wrinkles.”

“That’s important?”

“Of course it is,” he said with a tight smile. “It is a reminder that we are part of our own flesh, not a blazing magical fire in the sky. Or a signal in a wire.”

We smiled and looked down, studying our hands, stretching them to feel the tension in our skin. We said, “How long have you known?”

“Known what?”

“About us.”

“I don’t know that I do know, yet. I hear rumours, of course. From the seers who I have in the basement listening all the time for the voices of the powers whose blood is formed of surplus strands of life, I hear it reported that at such a time, on such a night, the voices of the blue electric angels buzzing in the telephones winked out, vanished like they’d never been there. I hear that San Khay’s body was found among the corpses of rats, and that on a none-too-special evening at McGrangham’s pit, a stranger with bright blue eyes, whom no one recognised, fought against Guy Lee and won, and that when he did, his skin burnt with blue fire. This, I think, is what computer nerds call data, rather than information. Trickles of digital fact, just waiting to be interpreted into the bigger picture.”

“What do you want to know?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes,” we said, surprised to find how calm we sounded.

“I want to know… if there’s anything of my apprentice left alive.”

“What?”

“I would like to know if you’ve hurt Matthew.”

“You want what?” I squeaked. “To know if I’m hurt?”

“He was my apprentice,” replied Bakker calmly. “I wish to be assured of his well-being.”

“It’s me! It’s bloody me! Short of having been fucking murdered two years back, do I look like I’ve been hurt?”

A hesitation on Bakker’s face, a twitch of doubt; then a polite smile. “For all I know you are nothing but a demonic parasite infecting his skin, using his memories to pretend to be human. Since what I know of the angels is an entity hungry for life, experience and sense, blazing its presence across the world with a bright fury, such an occurrence is not impossible. Matthew could be dead, and you could be nothing but a replica of him, a crude imitation that doesn’t know what it means to be alive, really alive.”

“You patronising, hypocritical, miserable bastard.”

For a moment, the smile widened. “That sounds, at least, like the apprentice I knew.”

“Whatever I say, you’re going to see nothing but the angels, aren’t you?”