Andrew Taylor - Fallen Angel

She slipped through the gateway and into the churchyard. Almost immediately she realized that she had made a mistake. She would find no consolation here. Most of the gravestones had been removed, though a few remained propped up against the wall of the church. Tiles were missing from the roof. Two of the windows near the east end were broken, despite the grilles which covered them. A network of tarmac paths criss-crossed the muddy grass, with black litter bins standing like sentinels at the junctions. Under the drab sky the only signs of vitality and warmth came from the brightly coloured crisp packets and chocolate wrappings that drifted among the dog turds.

Sally followed one of the paths round the east end of the church. On this side of the churchyard there were benches, more trees, more railings, beyond which was the main road, heavily used by traffic even on Sunday. She slowly walked the length of the church, deciding to make a circuit of it before returning to Oliver’s.

The gates of the south porch had been boarded up and secured with two padlocks. In the angle between porch and nave she noticed a pile of what looked like human excrement. Adolescents had been active with their aerosol sprays, displaying their limited grasp of literacy with the usual obscenities and tribal slogans.

Were such people human like herself? And if they were, what about child molesters and child murderers? Or the nurse who killed the children in her charge, or the father who stubbed out cigarettes on his baby’s arm? Or, worst of all, the person who had stolen Lucy to practise unknown obscenities on her mind and body. ‘Christ knows,’ Sally muttered aloud, knowing that old certainties had grown misty and insubstantial.

The path narrowed as it turned into the dark, urine-smelling ravine between the tower and the blank gable wall of the terrace of shops on the western boundary of the churchyard. The shadow of death. Sally accelerated. Just as she was about to emerge into the wider spaces of the churchyard beyond, a man stepped round the corner of the tower and blocked her path. She stopped, her heart thudding.

He was almost six feet tall, with dark hair, a broken nose set in the middle of a pale, lined face, and a long, thin body. Despite the cold, he was wearing a T-shirt, a pair of thin trousers, and muddy trainers. The T-shirt had once been white, but was now stained and torn at the neck. He dug his hand in his pocket.

Sally took a step backwards, nearer the dangerously enclosed space between the tower and the wall. With a speed that caught her unawares, the man moved to her right and then drew closer to her, forcing her back against the wall of the tower. She put her hand in her jacket pocket and felt for the money which Oliver had given her in case she needed to phone: two or three pounds in change.

He was very close to her now. His mouth hung open, revealing the rotting teeth within. For an instant she smelled his breath and thought of open graves. He stretched out his arm towards her. Suddenly she realized that the lips were pulled back into a smile.

‘Do you believe in Jesus? Do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve got to really believe.’ He looked in his forties, but was probably younger than she was. He had a Midlands accent and spoke in a near whisper, breathless as if he had been running. ‘Listen, just saying you believe isn’t enough.’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure? Remember, Jesus can see into your innermost soul.’

‘Yes. Do you believe?’

‘He chose me. Look, he put his sign on me.’

The man pointed to the inner edge of his left forearm. Among the scars and goose pimples was a red cross in faded felt-tip, surrounded by a wavering wreath of letters which made up the words JESUS SAVES.

‘He pulled me up from the gutter. He sent an angel to wash away my sins in the water of life.’ The man stretched his arms wide. ‘Look – I’m clean. Like driven snow.’

‘I can see that.’

‘You must be clean, too. Otherwise you’ll never enter the Kingdom of Heaven.’

Sally took a step to her left, trying to outflank him.

‘You must pray with me. Now.’

‘I must go. My husband –’

He came even closer. ‘You haven’t much time. The Kingdom of God is at hand. We must kneel.’

He touched her shoulder, trying to force her to her knees. Revulsion welled inside her and she reacted instinctively: she slapped his face with all the strength she could muster. His skin was rough with stubble, like flabby sandpaper.

The man gasped, his face a parody of dismay, and stepped backwards. Sally flung herself through the gap between his arm and the wall of the tower. His hand gripped her wrist. She screamed, a long howl of fear and anger, and dragged her arm free.

‘Piss off, you shithead!’ Sally heard herself shrieking.

She broke into a run, crouching low, and escaped. The churchyard stretched before her. She glimpsed the railings through the branches of the trees. The panic affected her vision: nothing was fixed any more; the path, the trees, the grass – everything pulsed with a dull, menacing life, as if visible reality were nothing more than the skin of an enormous, dozing monster.

At the gateway she glanced back. The man was not pursuing her. The churchyard was empty. She clung to a railing and tried to get her breathing back to normal. The monster slipped away. Her body felt limp, as if each muscle had been individually drained of energy. Now the crisis was past, she could hardly walk, let alone run.

‘Sally – ?’

She turned. Oliver was jogging down Inkerman Street towards her. She stared blankly at him. Her legs could barely support her weight. A moment later he was beside her, his face dark and angry.

‘What happened?’

‘There was a man …’

‘Easy, now. It’s all right.’ He put his hand under her arm. ‘A mugger?’

She shook her head and began to laugh with the irony of it. Once she started laughing, it was hard to stop.

‘OK, Sally. Calm down. It’s OK.’

Oliver had his arm round her now. He half-carried, half-dragged her towards a bench a few yards away. They sat down. Trembling, she hugged him.

‘What happened?’

‘This man – he tried to convert me.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No. Oliver, I swore at him. I hit him.’ She started to cry.

His arm tightened around her. ‘Listen. Your reactions are out of kilter at present. It’s hardly surprising.’

For a moment she thought Oliver’s lips were nuzzling her hair. She said angrily, ‘He shouldn’t have been on the streets. If we had a halfway decent society someone would be looking after him properly.’

‘A mental patient? Pushed back into the community?’

‘It’s possible. There were knife scars on his arms. I should go and find him. He can’t have got far. I –’

‘No. You’re in no fit state to go after anyone. In any case, we don’t want to go too far from the house.’

‘I failed him.’ As she spoke the words, she realized that she did not believe what she was saying: what did that shambling apology for a human being matter beside the fact that Lucy was missing? But old habits took a long time to die. She heard herself mouthing words which were no longer true. ‘People like him are part of my job.’

‘If you like I’ll phone the local nick, see what they can do.’

She allowed this to satisfy her. A moment passed. She looked up at Oliver. His face was very close to hers.

‘What were you doing? Did you come after me?’

‘I was worried. I don’t know why.’

She tried to smile. ‘My guardian angel?’

He kissed her decorously on the forehead. ‘We should go home. You’re cold.’

For an instant Sally did not want to move. For an instant she wanted to stay on that bench for ever with Oliver’s arms, warm and strong, wrapped around her. For an instant she felt, faint but unmistakable, a stirring of desire.