Angels of Mourning - John Pritchard

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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.’

      ‘So what … ?’

      ‘They’ve got fire-power in all its forms: I need it to finish this work. I need their bullets and their bombs. But most of all I need their blindness. Once someone’s started killing for a cause, they’re so easy to use. So easy to snare and to seduce. I promised them power, in the context of their sordid little war; they came scuttling to me for what they thought they could get. And now they’re mine.’ She flicked dust – or ash – from the brim of her hat, and watched it filter downward through the lamplight; then raised her sombre gaze to me. ‘We’re going to put the terror back into terrorism. Believe me, you’re well out of it.’

      ‘Will I be, though?’

      ‘Yes, you will. One small favour, and then you can forget you ever met us.’

      ‘Witch’s promise?’ I asked bitterly.

      Razoxane grinned.

      I swallowed. ‘And what if they realize … ?’

      ‘They won’t: at least, not in time. And a little more time is all I need.’

      My mouth was still dry, but I found the saliva somewhere. ‘I might tell them.’

      Razoxane’s smile grew almost fond. ‘Yes, Rachel, you might. But I wouldn’t recommend it. Not unless you want your vocal cords cut.’

      I didn’t. So I shut up.

      When we came back downstairs, the girl – Jackie – was waiting in the hall, her pistol out of sight again and both hands in her jacket pockets. She hadn’t turned on any lights, and her face was smudged with dimness, but I could read the impatience written there – and the unease.

      ‘All right?’

      ‘Sure,’ said Razoxane calmly. ‘No problem.’ She turned to me. ‘I’ll be in touch, Rachel. Soon.’ Her smile showed up palely in the shadows. ‘Keep the faith till then.’

      I almost hit her.

      Jackie opened the door – so easily, after all my struggling – and peered out into the street. The air that wafted in smelt of frost. After a moment she glanced back at Razoxane.

      ‘Okay.’

      Her gaze switched to me – a mistrustful parting shot – and she slipped out. Razoxane followed. I shut the door behind them.

      Silence fell.

      I listened to it for what seemed like ages: the stillness of a truly empty house. Then I went slowly into the unlit front room, sat gingerly down, and just waited for the rising night to swallow me whole.

      I felt suddenly – absurdly – afraid to turn the page, but only for an instant. Then, with a rustle of paper, it was done – and the entry leaped to meet me.

      Johann’s dog-eared copy of the British National Formulary: I’d picked it up from where he’d left it on the desk, without thinking, and started browsing morbidly through it, towards the page I used to dread. Perhaps today it would help me get a grip: seeing the word again in black and white.

       Razoxane.

      Just

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