Angels of Mourning - John Pritchard

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the sofa, watching Question Time. Comfortable and half-asleep – until a second ago. Now I sat up, frowning.

      ‘What are you on about?’

      ‘Listen a minute, will you …’ He saw my frown deepen towards a scowl, and spread his hands. There was a can of beer from the fridge in one of them. ‘For your own good, Raitch. Something … bloody terrible happened this evening.’

      The TV seemed suddenly too loud. I fumbled for the remote and flicked it off. Then drew my knees up under me and waited.

      Nick took a long swig, and swallowed it down. Wiped his mouth, still watching me. Then started to talk.

      ‘There was a fire-bombing over in Kentish Town – just after nine o’clock. Wasn’t it on the news … ?’

      I shrugged; I hadn’t watched it.

      ‘Well, it was a squat, and someone burned it down. Two people were trapped inside. Died inside.’ He paused for another gulp of beer. ‘Three managed to get out: two dossers, and some woman we think was a charity worker. Shelter or whatever. They’d all had the crap beaten out of them, and …’ He paused again there, but not to drink. Just shook his head. There was a look like helplessness on his face.

      I felt my heart-rate speeding up.

      ‘And we’ll never get to hear what happened, Rachel. Not from them. Because … Jesus … whoever did it gouged their bloody eyes out – and cut out their tongues. All of them: even the ones who burned …’

      I almost flinched back from him; almost mewled in disgust. But now he’d started talking, he had to finish.

      ‘Some neighbour came to see if he could help – so the bastards set dogs on him, Rachel. Bloody Dobermans, from the state he’s in. Poor sod’s in ribbons. And there I am, just looking forward to booking-off time when I get called to attend that. Blood everywhere, and … screaming. Faces, screaming. And they wouldn’t stop. Not even the ambulance men could make them stop …’

      I just sat there, numb, both hands to my mouth. Strands of hair had fallen into my eyes; I didn’t even think to brush them clear. This had been a cosy room a minute ago; now – in just my loose T-shirt and leggings – I suddenly felt freezing.

      Nick took a deep, tired breath.

      I clambered up quickly, and started towards him. His words alone had given me gooseflesh; but he’d seen sights. Such awful sights. There’d be counselling available, and colleagues to talk to – but right now, I knew, he needed holding. It was as much a nurse’s instinct as a lover’s.

       Oh, Nick.

      ‘Still don’t believe in evil people, then?’ he asked me sourly; and even through my sympathy, I felt the barb in that: it hurt.

      ‘Well they’re out there anyway, Rachel. And that’s why you’re not going on any more soup runs.’ His tone was flat, and categorical. ‘End of story.’ He turned back towards the kitchen.

      And of course, if he’d put it just a bit more reasonably, I might even have agreed. Would probably have jumped at the chance not to go out and get my hands dirty again – especially with Razoxane now lurking in those grimy shadows …

      But to tell me what to do like that, and turn his back, had just the opposite effect. Sympathy went up in smoke. Abruptly I was bloody furious.

      ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, Nick Mitchell,’ I snapped, going through after him. ‘And don’t ever tell me what I’m going to do.’

      I caught up with him as he was getting a second can out of the fridge; the kitchen lino felt clammy under my bare feet. I grabbed his sleeve. ‘Look, you can lay off that, as well … I’ll decide if it’s safe for me to go out and help the homeless, all right?’

      He shrugged me off. Blocked me with his back while he cracked the can open.

      ‘All right?’ I repeated, and he turned.

      ‘Sorry, Rachel, I forgot. You have to be a socially responsible member of society, don’t you.’

      I couldn’t stand the edge of sarcasm in his voice. Suddenly I tasted tears. ‘Just sod off, Nick.’

      ‘… or maybe it’s just your Christian bloody duty. Always the bloody same. God, you’re never alone with a Catholic …’

      I just gasped aloud at that. He walked past me, gulping beer, and I wheeled.

      ‘Well, thank you. I’m bloody living with you, aren’t I?’ And yes, I did get guilt complexes about it sometimes – but that was something I could live with too.

      He went back towards the lounge: I followed. The argument went round and round. Shouting didn’t help, but we shouted anyway. It struck me at one point, as I paused for breath, that this was the best row we’d had in ages – one for the archives. Perhaps he should get his bloody camcorder out, and tape it. The thought brought a moment’s bitter pleasure. Then I laid in once more.

      The end, when it came, was quite sudden. Without any warning the fires went out, and left us there weak and winded; I had the same sick feeling I remembered from school sports day, at the end of a gruelling race. I turned my face away long enough to wipe my arm across my eyes, then glanced back at Nick. He didn’t look too far from tears himself.

      ‘Oh God, Rachel, I’m sorry …’

      I sniffed.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeated, almost whispering. ‘I’m worried about you – that’s all. Couldn’t stand the thought of that happening to you …’ He reached tentatively out; I slapped his hand aside. After a pause he tried again, and so did I, but he caught my wrist, and then my other – and I felt my strength and anger melt like wax. I didn’t resist as he clumsily embraced me; and after a moment I was hugging fiercely back.

      ‘Oh, Rachel, Rachel …’ he whispered into my hair, as I finally let the floodgates open. ‘I love you. Love you so much …’

      We finished up in bed together: a reconciliation on equal terms that sweated the last of the bitterness out. Afterwards, I just snuggled up against him, with sleepy satisfaction. No thoughts left now, only feelings – and the sense of a timeless moment here in the dark: a refuge between tomorrow and today. I was probably still smiling as I floated into sleep.

      And found my worst nightmare waiting.

      The feel of it came first: a slick and clammy dampness on my skin. I tried ignoring it for as long as I could, lying there in the murk – but enough of my mind had surfaced for me to realise that I wouldn’t make it to the morning – not now. I was soaked in fresh sweat: fever-sweat, like the onset of flu. And sooner or later I was going to have to peel myself off the bedclothes, pick my way through to the bathroom and wash it off.

      So it might as well be sooner, I decided glumly; waited another few minutes, and finally forced myself upright. And with that movement, the scales fell from my eyes.

      Daylight filled them; but a dull, damp daylight, like the reflection from wet pavements. And everything was gone: the bed from beneath me, the bedroom around. I found myself out in the rain, beneath a bleary sky – cold droplets striking my startled face, and rolling down like tears.

      I was in the middle of a building site: a field of grey earth and gravel against the city skyline. The downpour had turned much of it to mud. The nearest buildings were all gaping shells; whether half-built or half-demolished I couldn’t tell. The rain pressed home the atmosphere of this unfinished place: the sense of dripping desolation.

      Pools and puddles were swelling in the mire around me, bubbling beneath the downpour.

      I clambered breathlessly up, already sopping wet. There was

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