John Connolly - The Wrath of Angels

‘Are we going further?’ asked Barbara.

‘Would you like to?’

Barbara looked out of the kitchen window. The falling rain resembled static on a TV screen, obscuring the picture so that she could not follow the unfolding narrative. Only the woman named Caroline was clear to her, her reflection apparent in the glass like a waning moon.

I’m right about her, thought Barbara. I feel that I’m right. All traces of desire, of lust, were gone now. It was the disease, Barbara realized. It had debilitated her more than she thought. In the past, she would have been alert to a trap like this, having set so many of them for others. They’d been watching for her, waiting for her. They knew. They knew .

‘What is your name?’ Barbara asked.

‘I told you: my name is Caroline.’

‘No,’ said Barbara. ‘What is your real name?’

The reflection of the woman’s face flickered in the glass, like an image projected from a faulty instrument. For a few moments, she even seemed to disappear, and there was only darkness where once she had been.

‘I have many names,’ she said, as her face was slowly illumined back into existence, lit from within, except that it was different now. Even in the rain-slicked glass, Barbara could tell that she had changed. She was more beautiful, yet also more terrifying.

‘But which is the true name? Which is closest to what you truly are?’

‘Darina,’ said the woman. ‘You can call me Darina.’

Barbara shuddered. Her legs felt weak, and she was grateful that she had the kitchen sink to support her. She suddenly wanted to feel cool water on her face. At worst, it would hide her tears if she began to cry.

‘I’ve heard of you,’ she said. ‘They send you after those who renege. You’re the shadow in the corner, the blood on the glass.’

Another, smaller face joined the woman’s. The child had come.

‘Why are you here?’ asked Barbara. ‘Were you sent as a temptation? As a reward?’

‘No, I am neither of those.’

‘Then why?’

‘Because you have already been tempted, and we fear that you may have succumbed.’

‘Tempted? By what?’

‘By the promise of salvation.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. Who is the boy? Is he really your son?’

In the stories Barbara had heard of this woman, there had been no mention of a child. Sometimes, when it suited her ends, she had worked with others, but they were similar in nature to herself. Barbara had encountered one of them many years before, a bloated imp of a man, his neck swollen by a filthy goiter, an outward manifestation of his spiritual pollution. The sight of him, the stench of him, had provided her with the first true insight into the nature of those whom she served, and of the price that would ultimately have to be paid. Perhaps, she now thought, that was the moment when the seed of doubt had been sown, and the lymphoma had been the final stimulus she had required to act, a reminder of the greater torment to come.

But that man was dead now, or so they said, the ones like Barbara who whispered behind their masters’ backs but had never gone as far as she had, had never resorted to betraying them.

‘Yes, he is my son,’ said Darina, approaching Barbara from behind. ‘My son, and so much more.’

She reached out and laid her hand on Barbara’s shoulder, forcing her to turn, to look her in the face. Her eyes had gone completely black, no distinction between pupil and iris, twin eclipsed suns suspended against pristine whiteness. Beside her, the boy stared unblinkingly at Barbara. There was something familiar about him, she thought, but then the woman’s hand moved from Barbara’s shoulder to her armpit, languidly brushing against her left breast along the way. Her fingertips found the swollen lymphs, and Barbara felt a coldness seeping through her system.

‘How did you think you could keep this hidden from us?’ she asked.

‘I’ve kept it hidden from everyone. Why should you be any different?’ Barbara replied, and she was briefly astonished at her own bravado. Even Darina appeared surprised, and the boy scowled in disapproval. Darina’s fingers pressed harder into Barbara’s flesh, and a pain shot through her that was unlike any she had experienced before. It was as though the woman had reached out to each individual cancer cell, and they had responded to her touch. The strength went out of Barbara’s legs at last, and she sank to the floor, the woman and child standing over her now as tears sprang from her eyes, the pain that had flared throughout her system slowly reducing to a dull, awful glow.

‘Because we are different,’ said Darina. ‘We could have helped you.’

‘How? How could you have helped me? I am dying. Can you cure cancer?’ She laughed. ‘That would be the kind of joke you’d appreciate: the capacity to prevent pain and misery held back from those who need it.’

‘No,’ said Darina, ‘but we could have brought your pain to an end. It would have been as if you had fallen asleep, and when you woke all pain would be gone. A new world would be waiting for you, your reward for all that you had done for us.’

And in the blackness of her eyes, Barbara saw the furnace flames, and smelled the smoke on the woman’s breath, and tasted burned flesh. Lies, all lies: any rewards were received in this life, not the next, and they were dearly bought. The price of them was the loss of peace of mind. The price of them was endless guilt. The price of them was the betrayal of strangers and friends, of lovers and children. Barbara knew: after all, she had looked for those who might be exploited, and formulated the agreements to which they appended their names and signed away their futures, in this world and the next.

‘But instead,’ the woman continued, ‘you began to doubt. You were frightened, and you looked for a way out. That I understand. I cannot condone it, but I can understand it. You felt fear and distress, and you sought a means to assuage them. But to confess? To repent? To betray?’ She grasped Barbara’s face in her hands, her fingers digging into the skin below her cheeks. ‘And all for what? For the promise of salvation? Here: let me whisper to you. Listen to my truth. There is no salvation. There is no God. God is a lie. God is the name given to false hope. The entity that brought this world into being is long gone. We are all that remain, here and elsewhere.’

‘No,’ said Barbara. ‘I do not believe you.’

She kept a gun by her nightstand, but she had never had cause to use it. She tried to figure out a way that she might get to it, then realized there was no way the woman would fall for any trick. Whatever she planned to do, she had to do it here, in the kitchen. Her eyes began to cast about for potential weapons: the knives on their magnetic rack, the saucepans hanging from their ornate hooks above the kitchen island . . .

Behind her, the coffee pot was bubbling. The plate had started to overheat a week ago. She’d meant to have it fixed or replaced when it began to act up, but she hadn’t managed to get around to it. Instead, she’d simply started using instant for herself, afraid that the glass on the pot might crack if she didn’t keep an eye on it.

‘We are the only hope of immortality,’ said Darina. ‘Watch, and I’ll prove it to you.’

But Barbara had no intention of watching anything. The car keys were on the table in the hall. If she could make it to her car, she’d find her way to safety. She had already reached out to those who might be in a position to help her. They could hide her, shelter her. They might even be able to find a place for her to rest, a bed in which to die in peace as the disease had its way with her.

Sanctuary: that was the word. She would seek sanctuary.