Dead Angels (21 page)

Dougie Nicholson stepped from the shadows several yards behind Frannie, who he had been following. He paused for a moment as the girl ahead stopped, as the lightning raged in anger outside again. Dougie heard her sudden gasp as it slipped back over her shoulder towards him. The school corridor flashed with a sudden burst of light and his face looked as if it had been carved from alabaster. The flash of light disappeared as quickly as it had come, and the girl started to move on towards the chapel at a faster pace.

Dougie followed, not because he wanted to hurt her – but because he was in love with Frannie. He loved everything about her and he was sure that he was the only boy at St. Stephen’s High School who did. The other boys and all of the girls, in fact, didn’t like her because she was different. She came from a family that was very poor, and she dressed from the flea market and some said that she smelt real bad. But there was something else that made her different - Frannie had one big, fat juicy secret. A secret – a dark secret – which Dougie knew nothing about. A secret he had to discover for himself. Dougie had only been at St. Stephen’s High School a month, and in that time he had made several friends – who, if he were being honest with himself, he didn’t like none too much. He had been placed in detention three times for failing to hand in homework on time, and had fallen in love with the school Ratbag.

So that’s why he was following her today, to discover her secret, which kept him from sleeping at night. The other kids on the schoolyard had hinted many times that the secret had something to do with what she carried in the brown paper bag that she carried clutched to her swelling chest.  But Dougie wondered if the stories about this dark secret were not just wicked lies, rumours spread about Frannie because she was different. Dougie knew that if there wasn’t any gossip to spread, then people usually made up their own. That’s what Dougie needed to find out – did Frannie really have a dark and terrible secret?

Frannie bobbed up and down as she moved towards the chapel, a quiet place where she could be alone. Her fountain of rich, auburn hair cascaded down her back like lava. Her two thin arms hung from the sleeves of her grubby T-shirt. Her checked skirt, held together at the waist with a safety pin, swished about her knees. Her legs were creamy in colour and slipped away into a pair of scuffed brown shoes. As she made her way down the corridor, she would pause suddenly as the lightning continued to split the sky in two on the other side of the stained-glass windows. Rain spattered the windows, which loomed up on her left every few feet. Frannie would sometimes disappear in the gloominess and then reappear when she passed one of those windows. Purple flashes of light almost seemed to soak her up.

Careful not to be seen by her, Dougie followed at a safe distance, loving the sudden glimpses he got of her. Every time she halted, he would duck into the shadows, just in case she stole a quick glance back over her shoulder. But he didn’t really need to bother. His school uniform was all black; the only pale garment was his face.

Her scuffed shoes continued to make a snap-slap sound on the cold stone floor, and in the flashes of light, he thought she looked beautiful and he couldn’t understand the cruel comments that the other kids made about her. He had often brushed deliberately against her in the corridor, hoping that she would lift her head and notice him, but she never did. But when he was close to her like that, her hair and skin had smelt of soap. The end of the corridor loomed ahead.

Frannie disappeared to her right with a quick swish of her flowing hair. The snap-slap of her worn-down heels slowly ebbed away as she bobbed into the chapel. She paused by the open doorway, and with a flick of her right wrist, she dipped her doll-like fingers into the small font fastened to the chapel wall. She made the sign if the cross by touching her forehead and chest, then walked slowly into the dimly-lit chapel.

Dougie ducked right and stopped flat against the wall as he watched Frannie moved down the threadbare carpet that lined the floor between the rows of seats. The chapel was barely lit by a cluster of slow burning candles in the corner. Dougie watched his love as she bobbed down the aisle. Once he was sure that he wasn’t going to be seen by her, Dougie stepped from the safety of the shadows. But almost at once he was forced to hide in them again, as Frannie came to a sudden halt ahead of him. Dougie spied on her, his chest rising with laboured, anxious breaths. Plumes of air escaped from his mouth in wispy clouds and disappeared into the freezing cold chapel.

Frannie had stopped by the end of a pew. Then, as if not believing what he was seeing, Frannie appeared to be sinking into the ground. Dougie screwed his eyes almost shut as he peered into the darkness. But to his relief, he could see she was only genuflecting in front of the huge crucifix which hung on the wall. Frannie stayed on her knees, her hair looking as if it were on fire as it reflected back the spooky candlelight. With that brown paper bag clutched to her chest, Frannie crawled between the rows of pews. It was as if she disappeared in stages, first her head, then shoulders, upper body, bottom, legs, then last of all, her feet. Dougie frowned as he watched her hide between the pews.

He waited for just a few seconds, then left the coldness of the shadows and followed the path Frannie had taken down the centre of the chapel. The white stone walls almost seemed to come alive as the candlelight flickered off them in a sudden draught. Dougie shivered, his skin over run with gooseflesh. A steady hiss of rain could be heard from overhead as it drummed against the rickety roof. Dougie’s trainers whispered on the carpet with each step he took nearer to Frannie as she sheltered in her hiding place.

He could see the two pews that she had crawled between just ahead. As he got nearer, he walked on tiptoe. He didn’t want to make a sound. Dougie didn’t want to disturb Frannie if he were to discover her big, fat, juicy secret. He slowed then stopped, just behind the pew where Frannie had performed her disappearing act. Lowering himself onto his hands and knees, Dougie crawled into the gap between the pews. He had gone a short distance, when he stopped to listen. Up ahead, on the other side of the pew, he heard a rustling sound, then a frantic squealing noise. With his heart racing in his ears, he knew that he was just inches away from discovering Frannie’s secret.

Dougie drew level with her on the opposite side of the pew. The rustling sound came again, and it sounded as if someone or something were struggling. Drawing a deep breath, Dougie waited and waited and waited, then suddenly popped his head up and peered over the top of the pew. He looked down and he shoved a fist into his mouth to stifle a scream.

Frannie sat with her legs drawn up to her chest, back arched as she chewed away at a sandwich. But the sandwich looked as if it were moving –
squirming
– somehow. Between the two thick white slices of bread which Frannie had sunk her teeth into, something fat, black and hairy wriggled between the slices. Then, he saw it – something pink, thin, and long, swishing frantically from side to side. It was a tail – a rat’s tail. He made a gaging noise in the back of his throat, and Frannie heard it. Snapping her head around, she looked up at Dougie. But instead of looking shocked at finding him there, she just smiled sweetly at him, black clumps of wiry black fur sticking out from between her teeth.

Then, cocking an eyebrow, she held out her hand and offered him the half-eaten sandwich. Dougie smiled back at Frannie, and stretching out his hand, he plucked the writhing sandwich from her and took a bite.

Paisley End

Shane Cole sat behind the wheel of his old Ford truck. The windscreen wipers squeaked back and forth furiously as they tried to drive off the falling rain. The truck rattled and shook as it moved slowly down the winding country lanes. Dark clouds moved across the leafy sky. Bluish–mauve sparks of lightning flashed from behind the clouds and lit up the sky like a crazy firework display. Thunder sounded as if a thousand iron balls were being rolled across the floors of heaven. Rain fell heavier in long, sparkling streaks. Mud spattered up off the road and freckled the bumper, mud-guards, and sides of the truck, yet it rumbled on. Fields stretched out on either side of the road, and they looked dull and grey through the rain.

Shane sat with his back hunched over the steering wheel, concentrating hard as he guided the truck around the tight bends in the road. The wind howled and it almost seemed to whisper as it entwined itself around the trees and raced across the open fields. It sounded like a thousand voices moaning all at once. Crows squawked as they fluttered up from the cornfields and took shelter beneath the leaves of the trees. 

The truck slowed, listed to the right, sloshed through a giant ditch, then carried on. Shane took one hand from the wheel and rubbed the back of it against the mist-covered windscreen. Once he had made a clearing, he gasped with surprise on seeing a figure step from the side of the road up ahead. The figure made a fist and waved its thumb back and forth in the air. As Shane pushed the truck on through the storm, he could see that the figure was in fact a bedraggled looking man. He wore only a grubby T-shirt, blue jeans, trainers, and had a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.

Shane glanced up at the bruised and battered sky, and although half of him wanted drive straight on, the other half knew that he had to stop. The man looked soaked through. Shane slowed the truck to a juddering halt. He slid across the seat and opened the passenger door.

“Hey, son, where you heading?” Shane shouted over the sound of the screeching wind.

The man was much younger than Shane. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty-two or twenty-three. Rain dripped from his long, jet-black hair and onto his face and clothes. His face was pale, and his sea-green eyes stared out of two sunken sockets.

“Where you going?” Shane yelled again.

“Paisley End. Going anywhere near?” the man asked.

“Near enough,” Shane told him. “Jump in.”

Shane offered the stranger a friendly smile and slid back across the seat. The man got in and pulled the door shut. Shane drove on.

“Bitter out there?” Shane asked, knowing it to be a dumb question but conversations usually started with talk of the weather.

“You bet, its freezing,” the younger man said, rubbing his arms and shivering.

Shane rubbed the windscreen with the back of his hand again, then settled back into his seat. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“Jon. Jon Cooke,” the man replied. “Yours?”

“Shane Cole. It’s nice to meet you, Jon,” he said back.

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a moment, but Shane soon broke it. “You’re frozen right through. Take a look in the back and you’ll find my coat. Put it on if you’d like.”

“Thanks,” Jon said, reaching into the rear of the truck. He rummaged through some old newspapers, books, and fishing gear until he found Shane’s coat. It was khaki and expensive. Jon put it on and found that it was way too big for him, so he snuggled down into it and blew warm breath across his fingers.

“Feeling better?” Shane asked him.

“Yes, much better, thanks.”

“Good. You looked like death warmed up standing along the roadside,” Shane remarked.

“I’d been waiting for a while. You don’t get much traffic out this way, it’s pretty remote,” Jon said, rubbing his hands together.

“That’s true,” Shane said. “If you don’t mind me asking – why are you going to Paisley End?”

“For some peace and quiet,” Jon told him.

“You’ll get it there,” Shane said. “I’ve never been, but heard rumours that it’s kind of dead there – you know, people keep themselves to themselves. They don’t welcome strangers.”

“If I’m to be honest, I got myself into a bit of trouble back home, so I’m kind of hiding for a while,” Jon explained.

“Trouble?” Shane asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. “With the law?”

“No, nothing like that,” Jon said. “Girl trouble. Trying to keep away from her father. He’s really pissed at me. Besides, I’m a musician. I play the flute.”

“Any good?” Shane asked.

“Not bad,” Jon said. “I’m self-taught. Comes kinda natural, I guess. I’m planning on writing some music down here. You know, a bit of fresh air, beautiful scenery, peace and quiet – that sort of thing.”

“You’ll get plenty of peace and quiet in Paisley End,” Shane commented. “It’s pretty much a dead-end sorta place.”

“Where are you going?” Jon asked, pulling the coat about him.

“A place called Weather Beach,” Shane said. “I turn off about two or so miles before Paisley End. My daughter has a place there. Great for fishing.”

The truck rumbled on through the rain and the wind, Shane and Jon chatting all the way. After about an hour and with no let-up in the bad weather, Shane pulled over.

“This is as far as I go,” Shane said.

“I appreciate the lift,” Jon smiled, pushing the door open against the wind.

“Don’t mention it,” Shane said, then added, “It’s none of my business, but maybe after you found what you’re looking for in Paisley End, you should maybe go home to that girl you got into trouble with. It’s hard bringing up a kid on your own, I should know.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jon said. He closed the door to the truck, and hoisting his duffle bag over his shoulder, he set off in the direction of Paisley End and the dull day gradually turned into night.

Shane stepped on the accelerator and drove the truck towards Weather Beach. He looked forward to seeing his daughter again, and the fishing, of course. With more than an hour or so of driving left to go, and with his companion gone, Shane lent forward, opened the glove box and rummaged around for a cigarette.  He’d promised his daughter that he’d quit, but he had cut down. Unable to find a packet, and keeping one eye on the road ahead, he swung his arm over the back of his seat and felt for his coat. It wasn’t there and he suddenly remembered he had lent it to Jon.

“For crying out loud,” Shane cursed, remembering that his wallet, credit cards, and cigarettes were in the pockets of the coat, he slammed on the brakes.  Reversing back up the road, which was little more than a dirt track, Shane reached the point where he had last seen Jon walking away into the distance. Knowing that it had been little more than ten minutes since Jon had gotten out of the truck, Shane sped towards Paisley End, hoping that he would soon catch up with him and his coat.