The Storm

  Howie, it said. My name is Howie. Where am I?

  It was him, the new boy, speaking to her. Maybe he was here too, somewhere in this palace of ice and dreams.

  ‘You’re . . .’ she started, wondering how best to explain it. ‘You were injured, I think.’

  My brother, the boy went on, and even in that soft whisper she could hear a heavy weight of sadness. He killed me. Am I in heaven?

  ‘He didn’t kill you. He . . . You’re still alive, but you’re changing.’

  Into what?

  ‘An angel,’ she said. ‘But not really an angel. It’s just what we call them. They’re . . . I don’t really know, Howie, but they’re good, they’re here to help us.’

  Is that what he is? He meant Schiller, Daisy understood. I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to kill people. I don’t want to burn.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she said. ‘It’s not him doing that, it’s her.’

  Rilke. Poor, sad, angry, crazy Rilke. How could she have got it so wrong?

  I just want to go home. Please let me go home.

  ‘You will, I promise,’ she said, trying to peer past the endless maze of ice cubes, trying to find him. ‘It won’t be long. These things, they don’t want to hurt us. They’re trying to help us. There’s something we have to do.’

  The man in the storm raged inside the ice, clearer than ever. He hung above the city, churning everything into nothing. His inkwell mouth was huge, that same awful, endless inward breath sucking up buildings and cars and people – thousands and thousands of people. It was horrible. It was like the time at home when they’d found an ants’ nest just outside their back door and her dad had brought out the Hoover and sucked them all up. They had one of those fancy new ones, with the transparent container instead of a bag, and she’d seen them, those ants, hurled around and around with all the dust and filth, hundreds of them caught in the storm until she’d pleaded with her dad to turn it off.

  She wondered if Howie could see it too, wherever he was. But the boy seemed to have gone.

  Maybe the man in the storm could be reasoned with too. After all, she had managed to get her dad to turn off the Hoover. He just hadn’t realised what he was doing, the harm he was causing. What if this thing was the same? If she could just speak to him, just tell him what he was doing was wrong, then maybe he’d stop.

  But how could she do that from in here? She floated through the ice like she was in a hall of mirrors. And all the while her own angel sat in her chest. She knew it was hatching in there, like somebody waking from a deep sleep. The angel had come from a place far away, she knew that much, somewhere even the fastest spaceship couldn’t ever get to. It had been a long journey, and now the angel was waking up, remembering how to use its arms and legs the same way she sometimes needed to when she woke from a deep sleep. And once that happened . . .

  You’ll be just like Schiller, she thought. You’ll be made of cold fire, and you’ll be able to flick your fingers and pull the world apart.

  And that scared her, because she did get angry sometimes. Once, years ago when she was about six or seven, she hadn’t been able to find her mum. It wasn’t even like they were out anywhere, they were all inside the house, but Daisy had called and called and called because she’d painted a picture and she wanted to show it. Her mum hadn’t answered, and the anger in Daisy’s chest had been so sudden, so unexpected, that she had torn the painting clean in two. Of course her mum was in the garden, putting something in the shed, and she’d come back in to find Daisy shivering with rage, the tears streaming down her face. She had taped the picture back together and hung it over the fireplace, and everything had been okay. Daisy had never forgotten that day, though, and the bolt of white-hot fury that had screamed up from her tummy. What if it happened again? What if the angel inside her saw it as a command? It wouldn’t just be a picture of a lopsided lighthouse that was destroyed.

  But what if she needed her angel in order to talk to the man in the storm? Right now she was a ghost, she could see everything but touch nothing. And before that she had been a girl; nearly a teenager, yes, but her voice was so quiet, people were always telling her she should speak up, especially her drama teacher, Mrs Jackson. The man would never have heard her. When her angel hatched, though, when it woke up inside her heart, then her voice would be loud, loud enough to hear even over the howling thunder of the storm – as loud as Schiller’s had been back at Fursville. She would tell the man to leave her world alone, to just go away. He would have to hear her, he would have to listen.

  ‘Howie?’ she called, wondering where the boy had gone. Had Schiller heard him? Or Rilke? Were they keeping him quiet somehow? ‘If you can hear me, don’t listen to Rilke. She’s not a bad person, but she’s got it all wrong. We’re not here to hurt people, I know it. We’re here to help them.’

  No answer. Her voice was just too quiet. It wouldn’t be long now, her angel was nearly ready. Then she wouldn’t be a ghost any more, she wouldn’t be a girl either.

  She’d be a voice, loud enough to blast away the storm.

  Cal

  East Walsham, 9.29 a.m.

  Only now, in the quiet stillness of the church, did his body seem to remember what pain was. It started in his feet, pushing up into his abdomen. He could feel his heartbeat like a pulsing heat in his skin. But he was alive. Alive and safe – if anybody had followed him to the church they’d be here by now, howling up and down the aisles.

  And he was warm. That was the main thing. He wasn’t slipping into a pool of ice like Schiller and Daisy. That was good. It meant that whatever was inside him wasn’t in a hurry to get out. He just wanted to drink something, lock the church door, and sleep for a hundred years.

  But what to do about the vicar? The old man sat on the altar, muttering something beneath his breath and occasionally smiling nervously at Cal. He kept taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his jacket, again and again and again. If he wasn’t careful, there would be no glass left in them. He put them on his nose, coughed, then spoke in a soft voice that carried the length of the church.

  ‘Your friend needs help. You need help. Please, we can work through this together. Just tell me what’s going on.’

  You don’t want to know, Cal thought. He flexed his jaw and a spasm shivered through the muscle like pins and needles. When he swallowed, it was as though he had a rolled-up sock lodged in the back of his throat. If he didn’t get a drink soon, he felt like he’d turn into one of the stone statues that gazed benevolently down on him.

  ‘Look,’ the vicar said, ‘let me free and I’ll tend to your injuries. There’s a first-aid kit in the rectory. I promise I’ll do everything I can.’

  ‘No,’ Cal croaked. ‘You don’t understand. If you come near me – come near any of us – you’ll try to kill us.’

  ‘That’s absurd,’ the vicar said. ‘I would never hurt a child, I would never hurt anybody. Please believe me, I’m a man of God.’

  ‘I don’t think God has anything to do with this,’ Cal said. ‘It’s . . . it’s older than that.’ He had no idea what he was saying. ‘Tell me what you know about angels.’

  ‘What?’ the vicar asked, cleaning his glasses. ‘Angels? Why?’

  ‘Just humour me,’ Cal said. ‘Angels.’

  The man cleared the phlegm from his throat, a noise that might have been a laugh. Then he must have seen the look on Cal’s face because his brow creased and he glanced at the floor.

  ‘Angels, well, I don’t know what you want to know. In the Bible, they are spiritual beings, they are the messengers of God – in fact, that’s what the word means, messenger. It’s Greek originally. Um . . .’ He shrugged, the coil of rope rising then slapping on the floor. ‘Is that the sort of thing you want to know?’

  Cal had no idea what he wanted to know.

  ‘No,’ he struggled to think of the right question. ‘Can they possess people? You know, like demons. Can they come to earth?’

  How insane did
that sound? The vicar was shaking his head.

  ‘Look, son.’

  ‘Cal,’ said Cal.

  ‘Cal, look, I’m not sure what it is you want to know. I—’

  There was a crunch of gravel from outside, then the squeal of the door. Brick pushed into the church carrying a glass of water in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other. He looked ashen, each freckle picked out like a pen mark against his pale skin, and when he held out the glass his hand was shaking – so much that most of the water had sloshed out over his arm. Cal took a sip that burned down like acid. It was cool in his stomach, though, and he instantly felt better.

  ‘I thought I told you not to speak,’ Brick said, looking at the vicar.

  ‘You told me not to try and escape,’ the man replied. Cal took another sip, bigger this time, before adding:

  ‘It’s okay, Brick, I asked him a question. About angels.’

  Brick hissed through his nose, crashing down on the back pew next to Adam. He handed the boy a fistful of bread, and Adam tucked into it like a starved dog.

  ‘Angels,’ snorted Brick, spitting out crumbs. ‘I’m telling you, that’s bollocks.’

  ‘Doesn’t hurt to ask, does it?’ Cal said, the anger making everything hurt twice as much. ‘We’re here, we might as bloody well.’ He turned back to the vicar, waiting for the man to continue.

  ‘If you tell me why you want to know about them, I may be able to give you a better answer.’

  ‘Because . . .’ Cal started, hesitating, wondering if saying it aloud inside a church might make it real in a way it hadn’t been before. In front of him, Brick tore off another chunk of bread with his teeth, shaking his head. Cal finished. ‘Because I think we’re possessed by them.’

  The vicar didn’t reply, just swallowed noisily and started eyeballing the church door. His thoughts may as well have been broadcast over his head: They’re crazy, they’re on drugs, I just need to loosen the rope and make a run for it, if I can just get to the street . . .

  ‘Mr . . . I mean, Reverend . . .’ Cal started.

  ‘Doug,’ said Brick. ‘His name is Doug.’

  ‘Doug, I know how insane this sounds. If we could prove it to you we would.’ He cocked his head, an idea floundering inside the sea of pain that was his thoughts. ‘Wait, do you have a camcorder?’

  It didn’t take long to find it inside the rectory, Brick returning after five minutes with a small Flipcam. He crashed back into the pew, fiddling with the camera, snapping open the viewfinder.

  ‘Please be careful with that,’ said Doug. ‘It’s Margaret’s. She would be very upset if it was damaged.’

  ‘It will be fine, we’ll be careful,’ said Cal. ‘I need you to make sure that rope is secure, okay? It needs to be tight. Knot it again, just to be sure.’

  The vicar did as he was told, then tugged his arm, twice. It looked safe enough, but right now he was just an old fat guy. In a moment or two, when they crossed the line, he’d be something else, a creature of ancient, instinctive rage.

  ‘Do it,’ said Cal.

  ‘You do it,’ Brick replied. ‘No way I’m going over there.’

  ‘Look,’ said Doug, his voice an octave higher than it had been. ‘Whatever you’re thinking of doing to me, don’t.’

  ‘Brick, just do it.’

  The older boy pulled a face that made Cal want to kill him there and then. He looked as if he was going to try and hand the camcorder to Adam, then pushed himself to his feet and slid out into the aisle. He hovered for a moment, unsure, cast one glowering look back at Cal, then hesitantly made his way towards the altar. There was a soft chime as he started to record.

  ‘Please, just stop there,’ Doug whined, starting to pick at the knot with his free hand.

  ‘Leave it,’ Cal said. ‘We’re not going to hurt you, I promise.’

  Brick took another short, shuffling step, and another, closing the gap between him and the vicar. How far was it now? Twenty-five metres maybe? Cal couldn’t be sure, but it wouldn’t be—

  The vicar uttered a nasal whine, which curled up at the end into a snort. Even from the other end of the church Cal could see the man’s eyes grow dark, his face slack, as though the flesh was slowly sliding off the bone. His whole body lurched, bumping him down on to the next step, his arms gouging at the carpet, at the stone, as though he was having a fit. Brick paused, and Cal could almost see the waves of fear pulsing from him, filling the building with a sour, unpleasant smell.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You’re not close enough.’

  Brick muttered something that Cal couldn’t hear, then stepped over the invisible line of the Fury. Doug rocketed to his feet, a brittle scream grating from the black chasm of his mouth. He charged at Brick, making it all of three feet before the rope grew taut, locking him in place. Momentum caused his legs to fly up, his body thudding to the stone. He didn’t care, thrashing, howling.

  ‘That’s enough, Brick,’ Cal said. Brick staggered back, almost tripping on his own feet. And just like that he was back over the line and the vicar was just a vicar again, a bundle of black cloth in the aisle, panting for breath and spitting blood. It took him several minutes to remember where he was, wheezing his way on to the lowest step of the altar, wiping the sheen of sweat from his bald head. He clutched his wrist, slick with blood, his cloudy eyes searching the church until they landed on Cal.

  ‘What . . . what did you do to me?’

  ‘Show him,’ said Cal. Brick flicked the camcorder closed and bowled it down the aisle. The little hunk of plastic skidded over the uneven stone, thudding into the wooden rail that Doug was tied to. He no longer seemed concerned about his camera. He didn’t seem too concerned about anything any more, as though the Fury had picked him up and shaken out anything that ever mattered, leaving him hollow.

  ‘Watch it,’ said Cal.

  Another silent age passed, then Doug reached down and picked up the camcorder. There were more quiet beeps, then Cal heard his own voice – Go on, you’re not close enough – followed by the unmistakable soundtrack of the Fury. Even hearing it like this made his skin crawl. The vicar’s eyes were like golf balls, huge and white, as he watched himself on the tiny screen. What was it like, to see yourself like that? To know that, for a short while, you were not you, you were something else, something terrible. The man watched it again, then gently folded the screen into the camera and laid it by his feet.

  ‘My God,’ he whispered, suddenly a child, as if Cal was the priest. ‘What happened to me?’

  ‘We did,’ Cal said. ‘Now please, tell us what you know.’

  Brick

  East Walsham, 9.52 a.m.

  ‘Angels are agents of God, more than men. They are messengers, mainly, bringers of revelation – like when Gabriel came to Mary in the Visitation, for instance. But they are warriors too.’

  Brick stared at his feet as the vicar spoke, trying not to listen. Nothing this man said could have anything to do with what was happening, no way. He was talking about the Bible, a book written hundreds of years ago by guys who had nothing better to do. This . . . This was something else, something different. And yet there were words that the vicar used, words that seemed to hit home. Warriors, Brick thought, listening to the priest, isn’t that what Daisy said? That we are here to fight?

  ‘What do you mean warriors?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t angels like goody-goody cherubs with fat faces and halos and stuff?’

  ‘Well, no,’ the vicar said with a shake of his head. He was still pale and trembling, and in the heavy shadows of the far end of the church he looked like a ghost. ‘Maybe now, perhaps, on Christmas cards. But originally they were more like an army, or . . . guardians is maybe a better word. They are usually depicted with flaming swords. Some stand by God’s throne.’

  ‘Like an Imperial guard or something,’ said Cal from the back wall. Brick could hear the exhaustion in the boy’s voice, wondered how long either of them would stay awake. It was just so still in here, like time had decided
to cut them a break, stop a while. Adam was already curled up on the bench like a dog, eyes scrunched shut. ‘You know, like with the Emperor out of Star Wars.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure about that comparison,’ Doug said. ‘But yes, I suppose so. As for the others, they were mainly tasked with carrying messages to mankind. They’re not just in the Bible, you know, they’re found in almost every religion across the world.’

  ‘So what are they made of?’ Cal asked.

  ‘I don’t understand why you think angels are responsible for this, for whatever is happening,’ Doug replied. ‘It’s . . . It has to be a chemical thing, a reaction of some kind. A disease maybe.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Cal. ‘You haven’t seen what we’ve seen. Go on.’

  ‘What are they made of?’ the priest shuffled uncomfortably, cleaning his glasses once again. This time he didn’t put them back on, just held them in his hands and examined them as if the answers were written there. ‘They are ethereal, I know that much. They are spirits. Have you heard the phrase “how many angels can you fit on the head of a pin?” The answer is an infinite number, because they are not creatures of this world. Scholastic theologians teach us that they are able to move between places instantaneously, which allows them to travel back and forth between here and heaven. Because of this they are often shown as being crafted from fire.’

  At this, Brick peered over his shoulder and met Cal’s eyes. He felt the sudden rush and shiver of goosebumps on his arms, folding them across his chest as if to hide them. Brick faced forward again, feeling a blush blossom over his cheeks and wondering why.

  ‘So no robes and little harps, then?’ he said.

  Doug pushed his glasses back on and blinked, seemingly unsure if the question was serious or not.

  ‘But there must be something in the Bible that says what they do, and how they speak to people, yeah?’ Cal asked. ‘Do they just show up and put the kettle on?’