The Wrath of Angels

likelihood of a lifetime in prison, nobody cared very much what he thought.

‘Very unfortunate for Perry,’ I said to Angel later that night, as he and Louis sat in a booth at the back of the Great Lost Bear, the same booth in which I had spoken to Marielle and Ernie the night before. Both men were drinking Mack Point IPA from the Belfast Brewing Company, and making Dave Evans feel uneasy for reasons that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Angel and Louis were from New York, although that wasn’t why they made Dave nervous; neither was it their homosexuality, Dave welcoming anybody to the Bear who didn’t spill beer, insult the staff, or try to steal the bar’s bear head mascot.

But Louis killed people, and Angel sometimes helped him, and, if they didn’t openly advertise this particular service, then the air of potential lethality that hung around them both was usually enough to convince the more sensible of citizens to keep their distance. I sometimes wondered how like them I was becoming: they had set up Reed and his associates, but I had formulated the plan. A moral philosopher might have said that I was becoming like those whom I fought, but he would have been wrong. I was my own unique form of monster.

‘It was almost like the man wanted to go to jail,’ said Louis, as he mused upon the fate of Perry Reed.

‘He did seem to be trying very hard,’ I agreed. ‘I wonder where all of those drugs came from?’

‘We borrowed them from some bikers,’ said Angel.

‘“Borrowed”?’

‘Well, it was more of a permanent loan.’

‘Drugs, and a gun, and child pornography,’ I said. ‘Some people might call that overkill.’

‘Other people might call it making sure,’ said Louis.

‘Well, that’s what I paid for.’

‘Remind me how much we’re getting again?’ asked Angel.

‘You want another beer?’

‘Yeah, I want another beer.’

‘Then you can consider it a one hundred percent bonus,’ I said. ‘I don’t quibble. It’s not my style.’

I called for another round. When it arrived, I drank their good health and passed them a bulging brown envelope. Beatrice Lozano’s husband had delivered it to my door earlier that afternoon. He didn’t speak, didn’t say thank you, didn’t give any sign that what had occurred in Harden might be linked in any way to what had happened to his wife. He just handed me the envelope and walked away.

‘I know you don’t need the money, but it’s nice to be appreciated,’ I said.

‘Better to have it and not need it.’ Angel slipped the money into his pocket.

‘Aimee Price say anything to you?’

‘About what happened to Reed? Nope.’

‘Smart woman. Eventually she’ll cut you loose, you know that?’

‘Possibly. Possibly not.’

‘No possibly about it. She strikes me as one of those strange lawyers who seem concerned about the law.’

‘Not as concerned as you might think when it suits her needs.’

‘Maybe she’s not so strange after all.’

‘Maybe not. You want to hear something really strange?’

‘From you? If you think it’s strange we should call the National Enquirer, get them to sit in.’

I took a sip of my beer. ‘It’s about an airplane . . .’

And as we spoke, Andrea Foster lay dying. There was blood in her mouth, blood on her hands, blood in her hair. Only some of it was her own.

She lay still, reliving the events of the last days and hours of her life. She hovered above herself and her husband, saw them ascending the incline, making their way toward whatever it was that the stranger had been pointing at. She watched them pause, heard Chris’s exclamation of surprise, then shock. She saw fallen idols – a shattered image of the Buddha, Ganesh covered with blood and filth, a pieta from which the sculpted heads had been removed and replaced with those of dolls. She saw a wall of wood. She saw shadows intersecting: two crosses, the remains of the men who had died upon them now reduced to bones, with more bones piled at the foot of each cross. She saw dead birds hanging by their feet from branches. She saw Chris’s mouth open to say something, his panic clear, and a long tongue erupted from his jaws, a tongue with a point and barbs, and as Chris fell forward she saw the arrow that had pierced him, its shaft a bright yellow, its fletching red and white. He spasmed at her feet, and she held him as the light left his eyes. She had not even had a chance to cry before she heard footsteps behind her, approaching fast, and two blows to the head took away all of her pain for a time.

Now she lay against timber, the sky above her lit by a pale yellow moon: no roof here, and only the barest shapes of trees. The wall opposite her was pasted with pages torn from books of worship: Bibles and Korans, texts in English and Hindi and Arabic, in symbols and letters both familiar and unfamiliar. All of the pages had been defaced with pornographic pictures. The pages were further smeared with dark stains, some recent, some old, and she knew it to be blood.

There was an immense pressure on her head, as though her brain was swelling inside her skull. Perhaps it was. Was that what happened if you were hit hard enough on the head? She couldn’t move her legs. She couldn’t speak. She was a trapped soul, but soon she would be freed.

A shape appeared at the door. He was still only a dark silhouette, a being of blackness. She had not yet seen his face, but his skull was curiously misshapen: warped, like his spirit. If she could have spoken to him, what would she have said? Spare me? Sorry?

No, not sorry. It was not their fault. They had done nothing wrong. They had simply become lost, and in doing so they had become prey. He had lured them deeper into the forest with the unspoken promise of safety and rescue, and then had turned upon them, his arrow bringing her husband down, and his fists and his blade doing the same for her.

Chris. Oh, Chris.

She tried to reach for the silver cross around her neck, a present from her mother on the occasion of her Confirmation, but it was gone. He had taken it from her, and in the moonlight she saw it shining among the pages on the wall close by her head, and she picked out the droplets of fresh blood upon it.

Now she could hear the stranger breathing, and interspersed with his exhalations were her own failing breaths, until the final one caught in her throat, and she began to shudder. Death advanced on her, and the stranger followed, racing to keep up.

13

There were no falls at Falls End, and the principal endings there were those of civilization, ambition and, ultimately, lives. Sensibly, the founding fathers of the town had decided that, even in its earliest incarnation, a name like Civilization’s End, or Ambition’s End, or Dead End, might have hobbled the community’s chances of progress, and so an alternative identity was sought. A stream was found to feed into Prater Lake, and that stream began its life on a patch of rocky high ground known as The Rises, cascading down in a manner that might loosely be said to resemble a waterfall, as long as nobody had seen an actual waterfall against which to measure it. Hence Falls End, with no possessive apostrophe to trouble it on the grounds that such additions smacked of pretension, and pretension was for the French across the border.

That particular stream no longer flowed into Prater Lake. It had simply ceased burbling past the outskirts of the town some time at the start of the last century, and an expedition of the curious and the concerned, aided by a couple of local drunks who fancied some air, discovered that water no longer tumbled from the top of The Rises. Speculation as to what might have caused the blockage included seismic activity, a redirection of water flow due to logging, and, courtesy of one of the drunks, the actions of the devil himself. This latter suggestion was quickly discounted, although it later gave its name to a local phenomenon known as the ‘Devil of the Rises’ after it was pointed out that, seen from a certain angle, some of the rocks appeared to form the profile of a demonic figure if one was prepared to squint some, and discount the fact that, seen from a slightly different angle, it resembled a