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  ‘Michael!’ Metatron grasped his shoulder and gently turned him away from me. I drew in a deep breath and tried to slow my heartbeat. I could see Raphael sniggering quietly as he helped himself to the whisky decanter standing on the desk. He looked at me over the rim of the exquisitely cut glass tumbler and winked.

  ‘Just do your job and leave Joe to do his.’ Metatron’s voice made it clear that this wasn’t a subject for discussion. ‘He’s not going to get in your way – just make sure he gets in with you and then he’s on his own.’

  Michael cracked his knuckles and stared at me, one lip seeming set in a permanent sneer. ‘He’s not trustworthy.’ He pulled his shoulder from beneath the other angel’s hand and swung back toward me. ‘Why do you even keep him around, he’s just a stinking, traitorous, stupid and ignorant human.’ The tall angel punctuated every insult with another poke at my chest, his voice becoming deeper and more strident with each slur.

  ‘Michael!’ Metatron snapped.

  Ignoring him, Michael carried on. ‘I was there, you stinking little piece of shit,’ he snarled down at me. ‘I had to stand and watch because the “Voice of God” …’ he jabbed a finger toward Metatron ‘… wouldn’t let us do anything to stop you. Preordained was the word he used, I called it cowardice.’

  I had no idea what he was talking about – we’d only been together on a couple of jobs. Admittedly none of them had gone as planned and, yes, there were times when I’d stepped back and let the angels fight; I didn’t feel this was cowardice, I felt it was eminently sensible – they were harder than I could ever hope to be.

  Breathing heavily he raised himself to his full height, closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He seemed to be struggling with some internal dilemma. As I watched, his face took on a certain pallor and tall loops of colour began to spiral slowly upward from the back of his neck, changing from pink through gold and on towards the purples. As the colours became darker, the movement became stronger. Colours leapt and circled, creating spirals which sent out pulses of light that whirled and danced before fading into invisibility. Diminutive solar flares bathed the room in ghosts of pastel light.

  Crap! Out the corner of my eye I noticed that Raphael had come to his feet, his normally open and friendly face worried, his mouth open in an unvoiced shout.

  Michael’s eyes became a pale, icy violet and his jaw, previously darkened with a hint of stubble, cleared and became more chiselled, the lips darkening and filling. Trousers and shirt disappeared to be replaced by a thigh-length, sky blue silk tunic which only served to accentuate the muscles in his legs. His feet pointed elegantly as he rose toward the painting of Lucifer, his long toenails shone silver through the straps of his plain leather sandals.

  Although the changes were pretty amazing I really didn’t take much notice – I’d seen it all before. My attention was on only one thing. In his left hand a shaft of flickering red and orange light appeared. This quickly became a huge sword, fully six foot from pommel to tip. Flames licked and curled along its shining length then fell toward the floor. Scattering like a child’s fumbled sweets, each drop hissed and bubbled, forming smoking black holes in Metatron’s beautiful blue carpet. With no other option available, I reached up and pulled my knife from its holster. The dull, grey metal of the blade refused to reflect the terrifying light show that was going on in front of me.

  The angry archangel became almost incandescent. ‘You piece of rat shit,’ he screamed, ‘you cockroach, you viper. You’d pull a weapon on ME? He rose another foot into the air. The sword, now held high above his head, began its inevitable downward plunge, trailing silent flames that all but hid the metal of the blade. With my back to Metatron’s desk there was nowhere left to go. Shaking, I raised the knife and closed my eyes. Let’s see Metatron bring me back from this, I thought. It might be a bit difficult, even for him, to actually stitch two separate halves of a human back together.

  ‘MICHAEL!’ Metatron shouted and reached forward to stop the descending weapon.

  ‘Michael!’ Raphael leapt between me and the descending sword. ‘This must NOT happen.’

  The sword winked out of existence but the enraged angel’s eyes stayed fixed on me, his chest heaving as he fought to regain control.

  ‘Michael,’ Raphael’s voice rolled around the room soothing and calming. ‘This doesn’t help – you’ve got a big job to do today.’

  Raphael grabbed the angry angel’s face and forced it away from me. He smiled and, as he gently rubbed a thumb down Michael’s jaw, the taller angel’s breath became steadier. His wings faded to smoke and whirling motes of light and then disappeared completely. As he landed he was fully in control of himself, his handsome face expressionless and unforgiving once more.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, and positive that I could actually see my heart beating through the skin of my chest, I slowly put the knife back into its sheath. Not at all convinced that my legs would support me, I stayed leaning on the desk.

  ‘Thank you, Raphael.’ Metatron watched Michael walk away and lean his forehead against the cold glass of a window, chest still slightly heaving. His hands, gripping the sill, alternately flexed then released, the only outward sign of his inner turmoil.

  ‘Right.’ Metatron turned to me with a bright smile. ‘You know what you’re doing.’ He looked at Raphael. ‘And you know what you’re doing.’ He glanced across the room at Michael then dropped his voice to Raphael. ‘Keep an eye on Joe, please, I want him back in once piece. I can’t stress how important this is.’

  Raphael looked at me with a slightly puzzled expression and then nodded slowly. ‘We’ll bring up the rear, eh, Joe?’

  I felt like a child being told to keep hold of his big sister’s hand. Quite frankly, after Michael’s little display, they could put me in gingham and tie pigtails in my hair as long as it kept me from being skewered on the giant and scary physical representation of one of the dour archangel’s tantrums.

  Walking through the sunny streets of Cambridge with Raphael beside me, I was indeed, bringing up the rear. All dressed alike in black trousers, white shirts and black ties, the group ahead of us looked like a collection of Mormons gathering for a pep talk. The scribes and lesser angels walked in pairs, silent and smiling, looking neither left nor right. It was no wonder that the shoppers avoided us with such vigour. Any that looked our way were treated to such a matched set of toothy smiles that they soon turned and hurried about their business.

  Dressed in my usual worn jeans, Para boots, T-shirt and combat jacket I felt scruffy and far too human as I trailed behind the happy-looking group. ‘If they break into song I may throw up,’ I muttered at Raphael who started humming Kumbaya with a grin. ‘So what’s got The Commander of the Armies of the Lord in such a knot?’ I asked the tall blond next to me; it was more to shut him up than for any real need to know.

  He looked down at me and frowned. ‘You can hardly blame him, Joe.’ Raphael looked sad. ‘He has a very long memory and he’s under a lot of pressure to get things sorted out. It’s not going to be long before some of those titles of his are going to get a good airing. He knows that the end’s coming. I know it, Hell knows it and it’s driving him mad to have to sit and wait for the “right” time.’ The tall angel smiled down at me. ‘Metatron isn’t helping in the least. All Michael wants is a timescale and The Voice just refuses to give one; he just keeps telling us that our father says, “Not yet”’.

  ‘God says it’s not time yet?’ I struggled to keep my face straight – so Metatron was lying to the Host as well. ‘Isn’t that good enough for him?’

  Raphael nodded. ‘Michael had just finished banging his head on the wall when you walked in.’ He shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, with nowhere else for his frustration to vent, you got both barrels.’

  Hmm, I decided it was time to change the subject and looked around the colourful marketplace. The canvas tops to each stall flapped in the light summer breeze. Rows of fruit and vegetables formed a brightly coloured backdrop to c
heap clothes, bags and tarnished jewellery. Spoilt students and disappointed tourists milled around the stalls, drinking overpriced coffee and eating cheap ice creams. ‘Doesn’t really look like “Hell”,’ does it?’ I said.

  Twenty different languages flowed and clashed over the sounds of screaming children and crying babies. Locals on bicycles wove their way through the shoppers: some didn’t make it. Small battalions of desperately smiling sales people hassled passers-by, urging them to go punting or see the city from a rickshaw. It was certainly Hell to me.

  Raphael chuckled, ‘I take it this is your first visit?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’re going to love this.’ We walked a little faster in an effort to catch up with the others who were rapidly being swallowed up by the heaving Saturday afternoon crowds. ‘Come on, slowcoach.’ He slapped me on the shoulder then set off at a trot.

  The shining glass and chrome entrance to an exclusive department store loomed before us. A smartly dressed doorman touched a finger to his peaked cap and held the door open. Michael stopped abreast of him.

  ‘You’ll be wanting the lift, sir?’ The man pointed into the store, ‘If you’ll accompany me.’

  ‘Hell is a shop?’ I stared around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Women scuttled between the rows of clothes and shoes. Men lounged around on plush, red velvet seats looking bored and children alternated between whining, crying and wiping sticky fingers on anything they could find. It seemed like a perfectly ordinary Saturday afternoon.

  Raphael shrugged. ‘Everything moves with the times and just look at this place.’ He gestured around the store. ‘Come on, it’s the ultimate temptation for anybody.’ He pointed out a pretty young woman who was twisting and turning as she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘She’s just lost her job,’ Raphael said. ‘She’s up to her ears in debt but she’s going to buy that dress. She’s not listening to the little voice that’s telling her, “Don’t do it”. There’ll be no food, her bills won’t get paid and her husband is going to be really angry.’ He clicked his fingers and a button between her breasts unravelled and fell to the floor; a dark smudge slowly bloomed on the skirt. The woman leant toward the mirror and, after a fleeting frown, began to smile.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘At least now she’ll get a decent discount.’

  He pointed again. ‘That man over there is thinking about buying a present for a woman at his office. His wife, sitting at home and worrying about the mortgage isn’t even on his mind. She’s boring, she nags and he deserves young, fresh and carefree. It’s his money and he should be able to do what he likes with it.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It’s clever: pride, anger, avarice, adultery. Every vice, every sin, all under one roof; they cater for everything.’

  ‘Gluttony?’ I quipped, ‘I can’t see how they’d manage that one.’

  Raphael snorted as he shoved me between the closing doors of the lift. ‘They have an excellent patisserie up on the fourth floor,’ he said.

  Before the lift doors closed, I took a last look at the men and women that smiled from behind each glittering counter and display. ‘So is it all demons that work here?’ I said.

  Raphael laughed. ‘No, they’re all human; this is one of the best places to get qualifications in customer service.’ He laughed again at my expression. ‘Oh, come on, nobody knows how to give the customer exactly what they want like Hell. Those that really excel can expect a job for life, and beyond.’

  Making sure we were all settled, the doorman used a tiny key to open a silver panel above the buttons. He depressed a switch, then closed and locked the panel again. The lift doors shut with an efficient hiss and I could feel that we were rising, which surprised me.

  Being in a lift full of angels is exactly the same as being in a lift with anyone. After about two floors, feet start shuffling and everyone pretends to be listening to the banal muzak that is always either too loud, or just too soft. It was a relief to finally feel the slight jolt that heralded our arrival. I had kept my eyes on my boots for the entire ride; there was no way I was risking eye contact with Michael. The possibility of an angry angel transforming in a small metal box didn’t bear thinking about.

  The doors slid open and the doorman kept his finger on his cap as we all stepped out. Feeling Raphael’s hand on my arm, I took a deep breath and shut my eyes. If Metatron hadn’t offered me a second chance, this is where I would be. I had been told often enough that this was where I should be. Finally, after I couldn’t put it off any longer, I opened my eyes, heart steeled for the horrifying images that I would surely have to face.

  Well, “horrifying” wasn’t really the word I’d have used – “boring” actually suited it much better. Brown sand stretched as far as the eye could see. A huge expanse of mostly nothing was broken only by short grasses and stunted bushes. Small lumps and humps where the sand had blown over the fallen branches of long dead trees gave the area some texture. The view stretched, unchanged, toward the horizon. I sighed in relief as I remembered the myths and legends. This wasn’t Hell – this was what was known as the “plains”. A no man’s land through which all damned souls had to travel. The walk gave them the opportunity to contemplate their sins, time in which to really appreciate their horrible circumstances and time to build up a good reserve of guilt and contrition.

  The whole vista was rendered in sepia tones. I could just make out a path, only slightly darker in hue than the sand around it, meandering away into the distance. The bushes marked the edges of the path; they had no leaves but long, deep red thorns that stuck out at all angles. Each thorn was at least an inch long – nasty things.

  As earth and sky were almost the same colour it was nearly impossible to determine a clear horizon. What appeared to be hills were hazy and unfocused; they might not have been hills at all. It wasn’t hot, it wasn’t cold and the air had a thickened quality that muffled all sound. In the distance there started a doleful ringing, as of a bell stuffed with blankets.

  Raphael looked back at me as the others moved off. ‘Mind where you’re treading and don’t lag behind,’ he said. Frowning slightly he bent toward me. ‘Are you all right, Joe?’

  I nodded and shrugged. I felt sick, I wanted to run and scream. I really couldn’t face the horrors that squatted beyond this desolate wasteland.

  ‘Did Metatron tell you that you were going into Hell?’ Raphael put his hand on my hair, and like a cool breeze on a hot day, I felt immediately better. I nodded again.

  ‘If you go to Hell, Joe, you don’t come back.’ Raphael smiled at me. ‘This is the path to Purgatory where, those souls that choose to …’ he put a huge emphasis on the word “choose”, ‘… can pay for their sins and attempt to cleanse themselves enough to go to Heaven.’

  ‘No seven circles?’ I felt about five years old again.

  He shook his head, ‘Not here. No.’

  ‘No torture chambers?’

  ‘A few …’ Raphael shrugged. ‘But those that enter do so of their own free will in the hope that mortifying the flesh may expunge their sins.’ He looked over his shoulder at the line of scribes that were now moving away. ‘Come on,’ He linked his arm with mine. ‘We don’t want to let them get away.’

  We must have walked in silence for about half an hour. Each step was dogged by sounds of chittering and sighing – an unnerving and worrying sound. I spent more time looking behind me than toward the trudging column ahead. However, there was never any sign of life, just shadows and shifting sands. Eventually, in the distance, what I had first taken to be a hill, or even just a different coloured patch of sky, slowly began to transform into a recognisable wall. It seemed to be a fortress, although it was difficult to be sure.

  Thick at the base, the wall thrust itself into the sky, a huge wave of sand, frozen just at the very point of breaking. This colossal structure formed a solid barrier that loomed over the shifting sands below, it seemed ready to topple at any moment. Standing beneath its tip, I stared upwards
and struggled with vertigo and nausea.

  ‘JOE!’ Raphael’s voice cut through my musings. Turning toward him I was confused; he seemed to be dissolving, or blurring; indistinct as though standing in thick fog. He held a hand out for me to grasp. ‘Joe, take my hand.’ His voice was urgent and thick with worry.

  Reaching forward I took the proffered help and Raphael pulled me toward him becoming more distinct with each step.

  ‘Please don’t do that again.’ Raphael looked me over from head to toe. ‘I don’t want to be the one explaining to The Voice how I lost his …’ his voice trailed away. I couldn’t blame him – I’d never been sure what Metatron classed me as either.

  ‘You should have left him there.’ Michael’s voice from the front of the parade cut across the moment of discomfort. ‘I’d have explained for you.’

  ‘What happened?’ I looked back in confusion.

  ‘We have special dispensation to walk here.’ Raphael stared back at the path we had taken, ‘But if the group gets separated, all the “things” out there that have been prevented from molesting us suddenly find themselves with an unexpected playmate. Here have one of these.’

  I shuddered as I listened to the chittering and scratching. I didn’t even want to guess what would make that sort of sound. But, rebellious as usual, my mind conjured up a picture of something large, insectile and very predatory. I swallowed hard and reached into the battered white paper bag that Raphael was waving at me. Jelly babies, a red and a yellow sat in my grubby palm. I stared at them in confusion.