John Pritchard - Angels of Mourning

A minute’s a long time in rape. A very long time.

I took a quiet, cautious step back towards the door – the one I’d closed so noisily behind me. All my attention was on the motionless murk at the top of the stairs; but as I passed the doorway to the front room, something just grazed the corner of my eye – and clicked in my mind a moment later. My head snapped round.

A woman was sitting on the sofa, hunched uncomfortably forward: watching me from the dimness with cold, dark eyes.

I rode the bitter wave of adrenaline, and just stood there staring back. She looked about my age: her face pale and taut. The eyes stayed steady; but they couldn’t belie the wariness – and hostility – in her expression.

After an awful pause – a dozen painful heartbeats – she opened her mouth and said: ‘Rachel.’

I swallowed. ‘… What?’

‘You’ve no need to worry. Listen …’ Her voice was low, and carefully emphatic. There was an accent there, but my mind was still too slippery with shock to grasp it.

I wavered; her obvious edginess was hardly reassuring. Whoever she was. I made to ask the obvious. She cut me off.

‘Just sit down a minute, why don’t you?’ She was rising even as she said it. Shabby donkey-jacket, I noted; worn black jeans. And for all her attempts at a conciliatory tone, she was still watching with eyes as intent and unforgiving as a beggar’s.

‘All right …’ I’ murmured meekly, glancing down – then made a lunge for the front door. The lock, which Nick was always promising to oil, seemed to stiffen under my frantic fingers – stiffen and jam. I was still fumbling with the sodding thing when she grasped my collar, hauled me back hard, and sent me lurching off into the breakfast room. I turned around, teetering – and found she was pointing a gun at me. A pistol, held out at arm’s length. The face behind was livid.

‘Sit down ,’ she hissed; and now I caught it right enough. Her accent – thick enough to slice.

Sit doyne.

Oh … shit shit shit.

I took a helpless step backward – and once more had that spine-tingling feeling of somebody behind me: close enough to kiss my neck. I spun around. And this time there really was.

She was watching from the kitchen doorway; I’d been in and out and missed her in the dusk. All the time I’d been filling the fridge, she’d been one of the shadows behind me, muffled in her long black greatcoat – her face masked with gloom beneath the brim of her hat. But the hat was in her hands now, her close-cropped head uncovered, and her face stood out as bleakly as a newly-risen moon.

‘Hello, Rachel,’ said Razoxane softly. ‘Welcome home.’

Chapter 4

I might have fainted then – but my body refused to opt for such a cop-out.

Razoxane straightened up from her slouch against the door-jamb: smiling thinly. I flinched, and swallowed a moan, but couldn’t step back: not with that gun behind me. All I could do was gawp.

She hadn’t changed a bit. From the state of her clothes she hadn’t changed those, either. Maybe she looked a little paler; and thinner, to judge by the hang of her scarecrow coat; but still not a day over twenty-five or so. And the smile was all Razoxane: all razor. It cut me to the quick.

My hand crept up to cover my mouth. I made a small, scared sound behind it. No point protesting I was seeing things, hallucinating horrors; still less in wondering how she’d got here – because here she was before me.

Flesh and cold blood.

The day outside was almost dead – but she still wore those shades of hers, the lenses cupped like goggles to the sockets of her eyes to exclude all trace of sunlight: the light she couldn’t stand. I tried to return her blindwoman’s gaze, but it was hopeless: like trying to out-stare a skull. Dusty-mouthed, I glanced aside; and realised I’d begun to shake.

‘Jackie’s right,’ came Razoxane’s voice. ‘You look like you could do with a good sit down.’

It was the edge of dry amusement in her tone that brought my head back round – and pushed fear past the flashpoint into anger.

‘For Christ’s sake leave me alone!’

The words came out like a stream of spittle. I’ve even heard that spit can drive back demons – but perhaps it’s the vehemence behind it that counts; the hate that really matters. And hate was what I tasted now: it filled my mouth like bitter medicine. Hate for the past I thought I’d left behind me. And hate for Razoxane – who’d brought it with her.

Not being a demon, Razoxane stood her ground – and clicked her tongue in mild admonishment.

‘Rachel. Is that any way to greet your long-lost sister?’

‘You’re no bloody sister of mine …’ I managed grimly.

‘Not in this life, maybe.’ Her thin smile hadn’t faltered; it was still so horribly knowing . ‘But we still belong together, Rachel. Believe it. We’ve walked apart too long.’

I almost choked. ‘Listen, I’m not following you anywhere … ever … again . All right?’

Behind me, the Irish girl shifted impatiently. Unsettled. ‘ McCain . You said we could trust her …’

That lifted the hairs on the back of my neck: made me think of twitchy trigger-fingers, and bullets in the spine. I swallowed so hard it hurt my throat.

Razoxane looked past me. ‘She’s had a shock; it’s only to be expected. Thought I was dead, didn’t you Rachel?’ ( Hoped , I thought back viciously, still glowering.) ‘Listen, give us a few minutes alone: I’ll talk her round.’

I risked a glance behind me; the girl met my eyes suspiciously, before lowering her pistol with exaggerated slowness. There was a message in the gesture as much as in the gaze: a barely-veiled threat.

Jackie. That’s what Razoxane had called her. I found a moment to wonder if that everyday name – this young, unsmiling face – was one of those behind the atrocities of recent weeks. The thought was dizzying. I really hoped she wasn’t.

And was really afraid she was.

Then Razoxane was beside me, her hand on my shoulder: her bloody hand – however many times she’d washed it.

I didn’t even try to shrug it off. Suddenly I didn’t have the strength.

So we went upstairs to our bedroom – Nick’s and mine: retracing Razoxane’s dirty bootprints to the place I’d once felt safest. Once inside, I went straight to the window and just stared out – at the cherry-red streetlamps coming on, and the ashen sky beyond them; stared, while our bed creaked behind me. There were kids still playing, down there in the park: scampering and shouting through the gathering grey.

I left it as long as I could; then let go of the outside world, and turned reluctantly around.

She was reclining comfortably against the pillows, her booted feet crossed on our nice clean duvet. The black leather was withered and grey with grime; her jeans were tucked into the tops. The grubby combination of her greatcoat and her grin made me think of some Victorian ragamuffin in a long-faded photo.

‘I was quite looking forward to that cup of soup, you know …’ she said, reproachfully.

‘Why’d you come back?’ I hissed. It sounded almost petulant: the last stab of someone who’s lost the argument already. Which of course I had.

Razoxane shrugged. ‘It’s a round world, Rachel. Even if we walk away, we always end up back in the same place.’

I mulled that over dully for a moment, then ventured: ‘You … cheated the Void, then?’

She nodded. ‘In the end. It almost had me …’ Her gaze slid away as she said it, her voice growing raw. She paused, and her silence spoke the rest – or some of it.

I waited nervously.