John Pritchard - Angels of Mourning

‘Melphalan got out,’ she continued after a moment, her unseen eyes now roving the room. ‘Bastard. I couldn’t hold him …’ The shades fixed me once more. ‘But you stopped him, Rachel. You really did. I was impressed.’

An image of cremation lit my mind – and filled my nostrils with its stench. I grimaced, instinctively rubbing my fingers over my pinched-shut lips. Then something else occurred to me, and almost froze them into place there.

‘But … If you got out …’

Her smile was back again, still faint; she shook her head. ‘The other two didn’t. They hadn’t the strength: they hadn’t the will . They’ll still be sinking now, Rachel. The Void goes on forever.’

And you almost dumped me there, didn’t you?

Another pause. She’d returned her attention to her hat: was turning it idly between her fingers. I noted the circlet of old, discoloured iron pushed down around the crown.

‘So what do you want now?’ I asked.

‘Your help,’ she answered simply.

‘ What? ’

‘It’s true,’ she insisted. ‘Believe me, Rachel, if I didn’t, I’d have left you in peace. You’ve already been through enough.’

I could agree with her on that, at least. More than enough. Again I waited.

‘I’ve things to do in this city,’ Razoxane said slowly. ‘Things you don’t want to know about …’

‘Oh, God,’ I blurted. ‘Not more Clinicians?’

She shook her head. ‘Not this time. My business with them is finished.’ She settled herself back. ‘I’ll say no more about the wherefores: it’s best you don’t know. But it’s work I’ve recruited some help for.’

I thought of the restless woman downstairs; could almost picture her pacing up and down in the hall. ‘That girl – Jackie or whoever. She’s …’ I hesitated, half-aware I was stating the obvious. And half afraid to. ‘She’s a terrorist, isn’t she?’

‘That’s an emotive word,’ said Razoxane mildly.

‘ Razoxane . Jesus!’ I could feel my frightened outrage beginning to seethe. ‘What the hell are you doing, bringing her to my house?’

‘I thought it would cut out some of the small talk,’ was her unperturbed response. ‘Explanations and such. Much easier to let you see for yourself.’

‘I’m living with a policeman , for God’s sake.’

‘Well, she doesn’t know that, does she?’

I found I was hugging myself. Gripping my shoulders tight. ‘All those bombings … Liverpool Street and places. You did those?’ My voice had sunk to a disbelieving whisper.

‘Not personally, no. But I’m involved. There are reasons, Rachel.’

I stared back at those uncompromising shades. The face below had hardened; like the voice.

Open-mouthed, I just shook my head. Fractured images of mutilation seemed to rattle round inside it. And then all the rest came crowding in; the other injuries and deaths. The tearful faces. The creeping fear we’d all begun to feel – and our revulsion for the people who made us feel it.

One of whom was staring at me now.

‘No reasons, Razoxane,’ I said, still whispering. ‘Not for that …’

‘You’ll understand them someday,’ she told me evenly. ‘Some fine day …’ She paused then, and glanced back down at her hat; picking her next words carefully. ‘But in the meantime, one of my … co-workers has managed to get himself injured. He’s in your hospital, under guard. We need your help to get him out.’

Just run that by me again is one of those Americanisms I pick up from time to time. I almost used it then.

Instead I just said, incredulously, ‘Fuck off .’

‘Language, Rachel,’ she chided amiably.

‘Just go away ,’ I snapped, not looking; my fingers sliding up into my hair to grip my skull and squeeze it. As if that would somehow stop the pounding in my head. ‘Please, Razoxane … whatever you’re up to … for Christ’s sake leave me out of it.’

‘I’m sorry: it has to be done. This isn’t something primitive like politics, Rachel; it’s much more serious than that.’

‘Razoxane. I don’t want to be involved.’ I stressed it like a string of full stops.

‘But you’re already involved,’ she pointed out softly. ‘You’ve seen her face, now: one of my terrorists – as you call them. An excitable young woman, as you’ll have noticed. If she finds you won’t co-operate … Well.’

I felt my stomach lurch, and looked up quickly. She was fingering the occult-looking amulet she wore at her throat; her pale smile had grown sly.

‘What if she was to find out you sleep with a policeman?’ She glanced over at the dressing table. ‘That him, is it?’

There was a photo of the two of us in a frame there. Nothing fancy; just a snapshot by a friend. Nick in a chair and me sitting in front; his hands resting gently on my shoulders.

I nodded wordlessly.

Razoxane’s smile grew chilling. ‘What a very nice couple you make.’

My eyes were suddenly stinging wet: tears of sheer frustration as much as anything. She’d do it, all right – and nothing I could say would stop her. I was past feeling scared for myself now; but fear for Nick yawned inside me like a bottomless pit.

‘Please …’ It came out sounding like a sob.

‘No need to get upset,’ she murmured. ‘It’s all so straightforward, Rachel. No risks. I just need you to find out the layout of the ward he’s on; where the guards are. That sort of thing. All right?’

I sniffed, and managed a reluctant little nod.

‘Excellent. I knew we could count on you.’ And with that she clicked on the bedside lamp, and turned her attention to the bookshelf beneath: the things I sometimes browse through on the downslope to sleep.

I rubbed my sleeve across my cheek, and watched her study the selection. I tried to focus my frustration into rage again, but it wouldn’t gel. I was too demoralised for that. All I could think of was house and home and happiness now balanced on a knife-edge: the steel of her razor smile …

‘Glad to see you’ve still got both feet on the ground,’ she remarked drily, pulling out a book to read the back. The Radical Tradition ; I recognised it from here. Saints standing up for the poor. Most of my religious books were the same sort of thing. Social awareness; justice and peace. None of that trite evangelical stuff.

‘Still believing in saints then, Rachel?’

I nodded again, feeling the smallest spark of defiance inside me. But it wasn’t kindled. Her smile was thin, but not mocking.

‘And guardian angels too?’

‘Maybe, Razoxane,’ I said dully. ‘Maybe. But you’re not one of them.’

She shrugged, and picked another book.

‘Ah, yes …’ There was satisfaction in the word. ‘Mother Julian of Norwich. The visionary. The Anchoress.’ She looked at me again. ‘You know her story, then?’

Once more I nodded; warily now. ‘She walled herself up inside a church – to meditate on God. A lot of people did things like that in the Middle Ages. Hermits and such …’

‘So they did. Withdrawn from the sight of the living … that’s what the name meant. Anchoress. Anker. Ankerite …’ There was an edge to the way she pronounced that last word, but I couldn’t grasp why; and Razoxane just went on thumbing through the book.

‘Cheer up,’ she said a moment later: her smile sardonic. ‘See what she says here, Rachel. All manner of thing shall be well .’

She had, too. All manner of thing. But right now I couldn’t believe it.

After a pause I said: ‘Your … terrorists. They don’t know what you’re doing either – do they?’

She put back the book, still smiling. ‘Not entirely.’