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  ‘How soon?’ Trying to sound casual, I leant back in the chair and took another mouthful of the fiery liquid in front of me.

  The angel thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, Michael’s almost ready to go,’ he said. ‘And there are a couple of other arrangements to be made.’ He fell silent, obviously ticking points off a mental list; he was silent for a long time.

  ‘Metatron.’ I tapped him on the hand. ‘How long have we got – a month? A year? Five years?’

  ‘Hmmm?’ He looked up at me with a peaceful smile. ‘About four days.’

  ‘Four days!’ I tried to imagine what this actually meant, but my mind just refused to deal with it and sauntered off into a dark corner humming to itself.

  Metatron looked surprised at my outburst. ‘Well, yes, as long as I succeed, four days is my best guess.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘But only if I can get Lucifer to show himself, and with God missing it means we can’t follow the prophecy exactly.’ He shrugged ‘So it’s all up to me.’ He traced circles in the desk with a finger he’d dipped in whisky. ‘I wish it wasn’t the case but there has to be balance.’ He got to his feet. ‘You head off now, Joe.’ He ran his hands through his hair making it stand out in all directions. ‘I’ve got to get started on a very unpleasant job.’ He stared meaningfully at the sleeping figure in the corner of the room. ‘But that’s OK, I think it’s a test, I’m being tested …’ He smiled. ‘It’s not one I’m going to fail so you just dial your own number and you’ll get home.’ He spoke over his shoulder as he hoisted Graham up by the underarms and simply carried him from the room.

  I called after him. ‘But what about me? In four days’ time, what happens to me?’

  Metatron turned slowly back to face me. He had no expression at all. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing happens to you.’

  ‘But you’ve always promised.’ I was beginning to feel a certain amount of panic. ‘You always said I could stop – we were only talking about it a couple of minutes ago.’

  ‘And so you shall,’ he said. ‘Originally this was all “nothing” and that’s what it will all go back to.’ He laughed. ‘What’s that line of that song?’ He hummed a familiar tune. ‘Oh yes: “You’ve come from nothing, you’re going back to nothing. What are you going to lose? Nothing.”’

  Whistling the chorus, Metatron carried the sleeping man from the room.

  I could feel my heart racing. He’d never intended to keep his promise. I tried to feel angry but couldn’t. There are some things that I excel at: turning a blind eye, self-delusion and I definitely have a flair for ignoring the bloody obvious. I think I’d always known that Metatron was lying to me, but ignoring this had kept me going. I’d had to hope, hadn’t I?

  Four days! Dear God, four days till the end of the world. It sounded like the plot for a bad sci-fi movie. I remembered Carly’s eyes, wide with terror as she was carried away by the Drekavak. My heart started pounding; if I concentrated really hard I could still taste her when I ran my tongue over my lips. And even if, as that rock band said ‘Hell ain’t a bad place to be’ she’d still be so scared right now.

  Unconsciously following the boss’s example, I ran my hands through my hair and found myself pacing the room. What was the point in bringing her back? At least she’d know I cared enough to try. I stopped pacing as I reached Metatron’s desk again. What if he didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle? What if one of them sort of disappeared? If I gave the demons what they wanted, it would certainly slow things down. Metatron would, at the very least, have a headache to deal with and I, quite frankly, had absolutely nothing to lose.

  My head felt as though it was filled with wet sherbet. Thoughts and feelings, old loyalties and new loves, my thoughts fizzed and bounced, shying away from the knowledge of what would happen if he caught me.

  Reaching forward I tried to open the desk drawer just enough to peer in. It was locked – what a surprise. I quietly checked the other drawers for the key but I didn’t really expect to find one. I was just about to leave when I decided to try one last thing and, drawing my knife from its holder, I pushed it into the lock.

  I twisted gently and, sure enough, I could feel the lock grate slightly. Casting glances over at the door I jiggled it quietly. ‘Come on, come on!’ It was no use – there was no way that lock was going to turn. ‘Damn it, fucking damn it!’ Frustrated, I jammed the knife into the lock for one last time and wrenched it to the side. ‘Come on, you bitch … TURN!’ There was a small flash of blue light and the lock gave a satisfying click.

  My hand tingled and my heart was beating fast. I snatched the box and file and placed them in my rucksack. Quietly shutting the drawer, I kept half an eye on the door as I slowly and carefully dialled my number. I hit the last button and was away.

  Sweating like a hammered horse I rolled over the carpet. Not bothering to stand up, I crawled quickly across the room to reach under the sofa where my big trunk resided. Dragging it into the light I tipped everything out: a crossbow, two short swords, a small horn, some dried olive leaves still attached to a small branch, half-burnt candles, and three cans of silly string. I couldn’t find what I was looking for. As I riffled through all the bits and pieces, throwing them with casual abandon about the room, I began to feel the first stirrings of panic. Eventually I gave up and, with a string of rather elderly Gaelic curse words, I threw a half-burnt smudge stick across the room and slumped down with a sigh. It took a couple of moments before I realised that I was royally uncomfortable. Fumbling around under my leg, my fingers closed around a fuzzy box and, pulling it slowly into the light, I stared at it for a moment before heaving a huge sigh of relief.

  Opening the tiny blue velvet box, I winced at the creak from the hinges, as though Metatron was looking over my shoulder. Nestled inside was a small key on a long silver chain. With a fair amount of disregard for its fragility, I ripped it out of its velvet womb and dropped it over my head. The key lay hot against my skin, a burning reminder of my impending treachery. I stared at the clutter all over the floor then shrugged: it would still be there if I ever got home: Turning my back on the mess I headed outside to make a door.

  ‘Hello, Joe.’

  I must have leapt a foot in the air. I definitely said ‘Glaeark’.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.’ An angel I’d never met before gave me a vague and insincere smile. With his crumpled linen suit, dark skin and black eyes he looked like a dodgy timeshare salesman. ‘Were you just going out?’ He casually stuck his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers and raised an eyebrow which disappeared under his heavy fringe.

  I glanced over his shoulder. Mr Morris was studying his shrubbery; his back was to me but the tension in his shoulders told me that he had to strain quite hard to hear what was going on. I turned my attention back to the angel and returned his smile. ‘Only down the shop, nowhere very important.’

  He nodded. ‘Good, I’d hate to have interrupted something important.’

  I was stuck. If I invited him in, there would be no way I could hide the mess that was all over the living room. If I talked to him out here … I shuddered. Nope, I really didn’t want to have that conversation anywhere near my next-door neighbour.

  He smiled again. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

  I could feel sweat beginning to gather in my hair. My scalp prickled and my upper lip tasted of salt. The stolen knife and file in my backpack were getting heavier by the moment; at any moment they would fall through the bottom of my bag.

  The angel studied his fingernails. ‘The boss felt that you were upset and sent me to make sure you were all right and that you weren’t going to do anything …’ his smile widened. ‘… stupid.’

  Despite the summer heat I felt myself growing cold. Metatron knew. The only reason he’d sent this idiot down here was that he was too busy with his new friend to come himself. For some reason that, more than anything else, really hurt my feelings. If he was going to finally get rid of me, the least he could
have done was send something more than a bloody low-level scribe. My nerves settled as an idea dropped whole and complete into my head. Calm, serene and utterly relaxed I stepped aside and waved him into the hall.

  He frowned for a moment but when I looked over his shoulder again and called ‘Morning, Mr Morris’, he nodded and stepped past me into the dim hall.

  Kicking the door shut behind us I reached for my knife. It dropped into my hand like a greeting from a friend.

  The angel turned – all signs of friendly banter had disappeared. ‘Give me the file,’ he said.

  Sighing heavily I allowed my head to droop and swung the backpack around my shoulders. I held it against my chest, using its bulk to hide my weapon.

  The angel snorted. ‘I honestly don’t know how you’ve managed to live for so long. If all humans were as stupid as you we’d have wiped them out years ago.’ He was obviously enjoying his moment in the spotlight. He shook his head and huffed a short laugh then held out his hand to take the bag. ‘Come on, hand it over.’

  It was all over far faster than I would have imagined. I shoved the bag toward him knocking his hand away and, with one straight thrust, my other hand embedded the knife in his chest.

  It felt terrible. The blade sank through skin and muscle as though cutting lard. There was a slight vibration as the blade grated across the bottom of his sternum then a wet thud as the crossguard hit skin.

  I whipped my hand away, letting go of the knife as, with a look of bewilderment, the angel fell away from me. Choking and gasping he lay on the floor, slim fingers plucking at the knife.

  I backed against the wall breathing hard. My hand vibrated as if the feeling of ancient steel on bone was still with me – I wondered if it would ever go away.

  The angel stared at me as his breathing became more and more shallow. Eventually there was no breath at all. His blank stare pinned me to the wall and, between my ragged breaths, my breakfast crashed in heaving swells against my stomach walls.

  As silence fell I looked down at my still-tingling hand, covered in blood. That was all it took to breach my gastric break-waters and I emptied the contents of my stomach into the corner of the hall.

  When I had finished heaving I wiped my mouth and was surprised to find my face wet with tears. Wiping my hand down my jeans, I crept forward. I held my breath as I reached for my backpack, expecting at any moment a hand to grab my throat or a scream to erupt from those slightly parted pale lips. Nothing happened.

  I threw the pack over my shoulder and, swallowing convulsively, reached for the knife. Wrapping my shaking fingers around the hilt I pulled, hard, expecting the blade to be stuck. It wasn’t – it came out as easily as it had slid in and I ended up on my backside between the angel’s outstretched legs. Scuttling backwards on hands, feet and bottom I came to a sudden halt as I hit the front door and collapsed in a heap on the doormat just trying to breathe.

  I must have sat there staring at the body for a couple of minutes before I realised that fleeing and fleeing fast should be my next move. Using the door as a brace I climbed to my feet never once taking my eyes off the angel. Palsied and sobbing it took me three attempts to make a door. Stepping through, I imagined that, vigorous and renewed, he was a mere half step behind me. A quick check over my shoulder as my house faded into the pale haze confirmed that I was followed only by my guilt.

  I appeared, in Cambridge, just behind the bus station. My abrupt presence startled a small group of teenagers who were playing a raucous game of cards. Luckily, they were so stoned that they just laughed at my appearance. It didn’t take me long to orientate myself and start jogging through the city.

  This time the store’s security guard was nowhere to be seen and I walked quickly through the shop. It was hard not to draw attention to myself. Dressed in blood-stained, ripped combats, my hair greasy and unkempt and smelling of toxic smoke I must have been difficult to ignore, but you have to love the British public – they certainly managed quite well.

  Two elderly ladies waiting for the lift stared at me and took firm hold of their handbags. I leant toward them with a ghastly smile. ‘I don’t suppose one of you ladies has a tissue, do you?’ I looked hangdog and sniffed wetly. ‘I’ve got swine flu,’ I said. ‘But it’s the wife’s birthday and sometimes you just have to get off your sick bed and do what needs to be done, don’t you?’

  The effect was fairly immediate. Both women’s eyes widened and, apologising profusely for the lack of tissues, they backed away. Just to speed them on their way I began a deep hacking cough and held onto the wall for support. The performance was almost Oscar-worthy.

  Alone in the lift, I pulled the key from around my neck and gave it a kiss for luck. Metatron had given this to me a long time ago. I’d had to rescue a stranded seraph from a mad clairvoyant who, believing he was her guardian angel, was desperate to prove that the “otherworldly” were living among us. The key allegedly worked on any lock. However, Metatron had specified “earthly lock”; I had really no idea if it would work on the little panel above the lift buttons, but I’m always being told to have faith and it was the only plan I had. It had to work – if this failed there was nowhere now for me to go. I deliberately pushed the image of the dead angel lying sprawled on my hall floor out of my mind.

  I pulled aside the little metal cover and inserted the key. Holding my breath, I turned it gingerly to the right. There was no movement at all. Gritting my teeth and trying not to swear I tried the other direction. There was a quarter turn and a satisfying click. I opened the panel and pressed the small black button; with the first movement of the lift, I finally allowed myself to breathe again.

  I had about three minutes of travel time. Dragging my knife from its holster I stared at my distorted reflection in the polished aluminium walls as I mustered my courage. The next part of my plan was going to be damned painful.

  There is a particular sigil in the angelic script that, if cut into flesh, should make me invisible to demons. I hoped it would make me undetectable to all otherworldly creatures. Holding the knife, point first, to my forehead, I had to use one hand to still the shaking of the other. Remembering how easily it had buried itself in an angel’s heart I half-heartedly scratched the first line of the simple shape into my skin – I didn’t want to embed the blade into my own brain! I watched with a certain wry detachment as the cut repaired itself within seconds. Well, damn it all I should have expected that. I was going to have to cut very deep and even then I reckoned I had about three hours at the most.

  Gritting my teeth, I pressed the knife down hard, whimpering slightly as I felt it touch bone. Moving slowly I created one straight vertical stroke. Sweat broke out simultaneously on my brow, my back, the palms of my hands and my eyes watered copiously. Using the bottom of my T-shirt I wiped away the tears. Only four more strokes to go.

  One horizontal stroke created the base to the sigil. I swallowed convulsively, heaving chemically scented air into my lungs with a horrible gasping sound that drowned out the gentle warbling of some unknown singer that drifted through the speakers. Two down, three to go. Blood ran freely down my nose and dripped from my upper lip to patter onto the embossed metal floor. I cut a horizontal half-stroke to create an uneven capital “I”. Trying to keep my rolling stomach under control I stared at my wobbly reflection in the metal; it was a ghastly mess that peered back at me. This next stroke was going to be hard, a wavy line that crossed from the top to the bottom on a left-hand diagonal. Gritting my teeth I cut slowly, going as deep as I could stand, whimpering as the salt sweat dripped into the wound. Only one figure left: a small circle above the upper horizontal line. I heaved and clamped my lips together in an attempt to stop myself vomiting. The circle actually took two agonising strokes to complete. Unable to control myself any longer, I deposited what was left in my stomach into the corner of the lift.

  I stood entirely still for a while, chest heaving, convulsively swallowing again and again. I concentrated and watched each drop of blood hitti
ng the floor with every ounce of focus I had; it gave me something else to think about other than the screaming pain in my head and the frenzied churning of my stomach. Within a short time the flow of blood had slowed and my stomach had managed to get itself back under control. Leaning on the wall I watched as my reflection dissipated. Slowly I faded away. Well, at least it had worked – but for how long? I had no real clue. The faster I moved the better it would be for everybody – especially me.

  Chapter Five

  HAPPILY, THE SEPIA WORLD outside the lift did nothing to aggravate the headache I’d given myself. I stared around, trying to find the darker line that marked the path to the city. Everything was unnaturally still – only the sound of my footfalls broke the silence. This time there were no threatening shadows or movements, no chittering laughter. Walking through that twilight world I headed toward the tall stone structure that dominated the horizon and congratulated myself on a job well done.

  As I approached the base of the walls, my congratulatory mood melted away and it dawned on me that as a strategist I sucked. So busy patting myself on the back I hadn’t really considered how I was going to get into the city. As I stood, tiny and insignificant, beneath the huge black gates I finally saw the tiny flaw in my plan. All my grand ideas of sneaking in undetected, rescuing the damsel in distress and making a heroic, if hasty, getaway crumbled into dust. I stared up at the black, forbidding portal. Sitting cross-legged on the sand, studying the gates I rejected one stupid idea after another. There was nothing for it – I was actually going to have to knock on the bloody door. Fumbling around in my pockets I waited for the ’dusters to settle themselves around my hand. Well, if I was going to have to knock, I was going to do it very loudly.

  There was a thunderous boom as I tapped lightly on the solid old wood; the vibrations shook little runnels of sand from between the stones surrounding the huge doors. Although the ’dusters bestowed a huge amount of strength, they were also slightly unpredictable. Even a slight slap tended to send any aggressor bowling away like a beach ball in a high wind. The first time I’d ever used them I’d killed a small rat demon. Intending only to catch and hold it, I’d managed to break its neck. I still broke out in a sweat every time I remembered the sickening crack, the feeling of loose bone beneath my fingers and the way the light had just faded from its beautiful golden eyes.