Firerose
I have heard the mermaids singing,
each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
From 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' by T.S. Eliot
(1)
'A date,' she'd said, as we
sat side by side in the Hyperion's courtyard garden. Then, 'Okay,
humour me.'
Remembering the last time I'd seen her -- holding her face under
the shower-head while she choked back into consciousness --
humour had suddenly seemed like a good idea. Not to mention the
fact that a flat refusal just then would have seemed a little,
well, churlish. (The smallest act of kindness is the greatest
thing in the world ... had I really come out with that
pretentious crap?)
A date, then. One more step in the fragile Kate--Angel truce.
I'd vowed once never to go on another date, but then I'd vowed to
stake Darla and burn Wolfram & Hart to the ground. Maybe this
epiphany thing of mine means that some vows should be quietly
shoved under the carpet?
Thirteen minutes to seven. I couldn't have written the address
down wrong, could I? The way she'd talked it had sounded like she
was suggesting some kind of restaurant, but...
I scour the quiet back street, anonymous in the gentle twilight.
A second-hand bookstore, opposite. Closed. Dingy books heaped up
untidily, mainly hardback novels, the kind that public libraries
throw out each month when the new stock comes in. Not even Wesley
would've been interested in any of these. An antique-cum-junk
shop next door. Also closed. That walnut Louis Quinze writing
desk framed in the window is reproduction, of course; something
too regular, too mechanical about the scrolled decoration on
those slender curved legs.
My careful survey confirms what I already knew. No restaurants.
No Kate either, but then I'd arrived about twenty minutes early,
wanting to give the sewer odour plenty of time to wear off my
clothes. I'm not sure it ever really disappears, that and the
stale stench of blood that hangs on my breath no matter how often
I gargle with Listerine.
The fragile Angel--Cordy truce had extended to her insisting on
choosing my clothes for this date. 'No more Mr-Broody-Vampire
look,' she'd said, picking out a sea-blue silk shirt from the
wreck that had been my wardrobe minutes earlier. I'd steepled my
fingers, said 'Okay, Cordelia,' and refrained from telling her
that that particular shirt had originated in what she insisted on
calling my 'Angelus phase'. (Makes me sound like an artist, for
Christ's sake.)
I expect it had also extended to her telling Kate about the
curse. Cordy seems to take a perverse pleasure in spilling the
intimate details of my sordid unlife to every woman I ever meet.
(Especially the blonde ones.)
I turn back to the illuminated noticeboard behind me. Two hundred
and forty-seven years of existence had turned me into an
insatiable consumer of the written word, however prosaic. Those
oh-so-familiar words from my childhood, matins and evensong,
feast days and holy days, sacraments and devotions. The proud
boast that mass is celebrated at the Church of the Immaculate
Conception every hour from seven a.m. to nine p.m., with services
in Spanish at eleven a.m., three p.m. and eight p.m. on Tuesdays,
Thursdays and Sundays. Meeting times for the Mothers' Union,
confirmation classes, choir practices, Sunday school: tots,
sevens-to-elevens and teens. (Teens has an entirely unnecessary
apostrophe, 'teens.) Telephone numbers for the Father, the two
Assistant Fathers, the parish office. The last has e-mail, fax
and web address listed, too.
God on the Internet. Cordy would like that idea.
I wonder whether He listens to e-mail. (He's probably got some
sort of heavenly autofilter set up to delete messages from the
damned.)
Quotation for the week: 'For God so loved the world that he gave
his only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him should not
perish but have eternal life.'
Newsflash. Eternal life ain't all it's cracked up to be.
Eight minutes to seven. Sure enough, faint organ music is
beginning to emanate from the velvet darkness beyond that
half-open door, its imposing expanse of studded oak as fake as
the Louis Quinze desk. (Why do churches always feel the need to
look ancient? LA has so little real history. Christ, the whole
city's younger than I am.) Scent of candle smoke and incense
winding out tendrils from the doorway, mingling with the
fragrance of black roses out here on the sidewalk. (They're black
under the sodium lamps, anyway.) Trickle of quiet people
entering; mainly pensioners, couple of student types. All women.
'Come on, Kate,' I murmur. The gold embossed cross after the word
'Conception' on the board above my head is beginning to make my
flesh creep. (Hope she's taking me somewhere nice.)
Ironic really. Warrior for the Lord, and all, whose skin burns at
the touch of the universal symbol of Christianity. (No matter how
good a boy you are, God doesn't want you.) Catch myself absently
scratching my right hand; that burn had never quite healed. Shove
my hands deep into my coat pockets. The Virgin Mary looks down on
me from the stained glass beside the door, her robe the exact
same shade of blue as my shirt. (I wonder if she can see the
blood on my hands.)
And it isn't until Kate is walking towards me -- long skirt
flapping round her knees, fingering the cross around her neck in
that nervous gesture which has become a habit of hers around me
-- that I finally realise.
'Coming in?' she says.
I could swear she's smiling at me. The Virgin I mean, not Kate.
Though she's smiling too, as I grit my teeth and bow my head and
follow her through that wannabe Chartres archway.
After all, it won't be the first meal with friends I haven't been
able to share.
***
Inside, the aura of that huge bronze crucifix above the altar
hits me like Lindsey's sledgehammer. I look down at the
terracotta tiles of the floor and follow Kate's tan leather boots
as they pause by the stoup of holy water, then click click click
to the right.
'Here okay?' she whispers, and I shuffle after her into a pew
near the wall, behind a huge stone pillar.
'Fine,' I say. Better now I'm sitting down, anyway, and I'm
partially shielded from the altar. The air is solid with smoke,
but that isn't what's making my eyes water, my skin itch and my
head throb. Darla told me once that the Master used to keep a big
wooden crucifix hanging in the anteroom to his bedchamber, and
look on it every morning and evening, so that he would become
habituated to the pain, cease to feel that instinctive fear that
we all suffer. (She didn't say whether or not it had worked.)
Strange. The Master was almost certainly old enough to have been
there at the original.
'There,' Kate says, rapidly swapping over the hassocks at our
feet so that she gets the one with the embroidered cross and I
get a Tudor rose. I realise that she must have checked the
details out in advance, and thank something that most definitely
isn't God for her anally-retentive police procedural habits.
She picks up the maroon cardboard-bound prayer book, opens it and
holds it up between us. I fail to suppress a laugh: it's at her
chest height and only just above my navel.
'Never mind,' I say, 'I couldn't read from it anyway.'
I remember the gold-tooled, black calf leather prayer book that
my grandfather gave me for my first communion, the marbled
flyleaf dated the twelfth of March, year of Our Lord seventeen
hundred and thirty-six, in his large angular hand. I used to
stick the leather cover under my nose and breathe deep like some
glue-sniffer, it felt like Heaven. Remember getting cuffed for
'showing disrespect' when my grandfather caught me at it.
Remember our family Bible, its flyleaf crammed with the dates of
my grandparents' and parents' marriages, the births of my
parents, and of Liam Fergus and Katherine Jane, and the only
remnants of that other little sister who had died of scarlet
fever before she reached two years, and then, in my father's
smaller handwriting, the dates of my grandparents' deaths.
I guess that Liam Fergus was the last family death to be recorded
on that flyleaf, though I never thought to check at the time.
It's perhaps appropriate, then, that that Bible is the last his
flesh has touched without pain.
I remember too those other deaths, Katherine Jane and her mother
and her father, and Anna, their maidservant.
I only realise that I'm compulsively scratching at my right hand
to the point of drawing blood when Kate pulls my fingers away,
encloses my large cold hand in her small warm one. I
surreptitiously replace the bloodied hand in my coat pocket. The
service hasn't even started yet.
'What's wrong with your hand?' she whispers.
'Nothing.'
And then the choir start to sing the Gloria. 'Glory to
God in the highest, and peace to His people on earth.' I can feel
the pure sweet notes like a dentist's drill in my teeth, my jaw,
my skull.
'Are you okay?' Kate whispers, squeezing my hand. 'What's wrong?'
But I can't tell her that what I'm really afraid of is not the
growing headache nor the itching burning of my skin, but the
telltale tightness in my forehead, around my eyes, that tickly
trembly ache in my gums, the swirly redness at the very periphery
of my vision, the increased sensitivity to her heartbeat, to the
rushing eddying schwooshing noise that is the blood in her veins.
Can't even say a word when I don't trust my voice not to snarl or
growl.
I stare down at the terracotta tiles beneath my shiny black
boots, count them furiously, add up rows and columns, divide by
three. How can I explain to her that once the painful stimulus
goes beyond a certain threshold, the transformation is no longer
under any kind of conscious control? It's like an erection --
train yourself all you like, sooner or later it's just going to
pop out. (Except of course she doesn't get those either.)
The priest is speaking now, and even in this state I can
recognise cosmic jokes when I hear them as he announces the
reading from chapter fifteen of the Holy Gospel according to
Saint Luke, and starts:
'There was a man who had two sons; and the younger of them said
to his father, "Father, give me the share of property that
falls to me." And he divided his living between them. Not
many days later, the younger son gathered all he had and took his
journey into a far country, and there he squandered his property
in loose living.'
And now Kate's stifling laughter too, and I can concentrate on
her laugh, on the pressure and warmth of her hand on mine, and
not on the siren call of those rushing eddying schwooshing
sounds.
'Seems kind of appropriate, somehow,' she whispers close to my
ear, her soft hair lightly brushing at my cheek. (The monster
that is me could snap her neck in a fraction of a second.)
'I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in
heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine
righteous persons who do not need to repent.'
For a minute -- the words echoing round in my head, the memory of
Kate's hair against my cheek -- I feel almost like I felt that
Christmas day when it snowed in Sunnydale and took all the pain
and fear and failure away. (Though it came back, of course.)
Even after the minute's over, it's better somehow: not so
difficult to control the tightness and the ache in my gums, and
the headache and the itching burning sensations aren't getting
any worse. I can survive this, I think.
Even when the priest is saying, 'Take this, all of you, and eat
it: this is my body which will be given up for you,' and the
little bells are ringing and I'm cowering in the pew, remembering
the rumours that eating those little white wafers is the most
excruciatingly painful death possible for my kind; even then I
can survive my fear.
Even when we reach, 'Take this, all of you, and drink from it:
this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting
covenant,' and Kate is rubbing at my mark on the side of her neck
and I know that we're both thinking of the same moment, months
ago now; even then somehow it's still okay.
(2)
Outside in the street, Kate
touches my arm. 'There's this great little espresso place I found
a couple of blocks from here ... Let me buy you a coffee. You do
... um ... drink coffee, don't you?'
'Yeah, coffee's certainly on this Not-So-Evil Evil Thing's menu,'
I say, simultaneously wondering why on Earth Cordelia's little
chats seem to tackle the more embarrassing bits of my unlife head
on, whilst entirely omitting the relatively salubrious aspects.
The brisk walk in the cooler evening air starts to clear my
headache, soothe the itching sensation.
The coffee bar is the type sporting small round wicker-topped
tables and home-baked chocolate cakes that's still owned by a
little Italian family, though the traditional dusty potted plants
have been replaced by brand-new PCs and the sign announces
'Internet Café'. It comes complete with a grey-haired father who
looks like an operatic tenor and greets Kate by name, and a dark
beauty of a daughter who reminds me uncannily of a plumper,
pinker version of Drusilla, an illusion fostered by the sleek
black cat lounging proprietarily behind the counter. It's warm
and dark and smoky and the entire clientele, apart from us, seems
to be under twenty-one and, moreover, to be conversing volubly in
a variety of languages among which English is prominent by its
absence. I'm not really convinced that it's any closer to Kate's
natural environment than D'Oblique's, but she's heading for a
secluded corner spot by the window, and I follow her.
'I had you figured as an espresso guy,' she says, stirring in the
foam on her own small dark coffee. 'Kind of goes with your usual
black-on-black look.'
'I must admit, I didn't have you figured as a Catholic gal,
Katie,' I say, flashing her my best Liam smile.
'Lapsed Catholic gal,' she says. 'I thought I'd give it another
try.' She pauses and looks a bit embarrassed. 'To be honest, at
the complimentary Employment Reassessment Session included in my
LAPD "fuck-off" package, one of the saner things that
the computer came up with for an ex-cop with a sociology degree,
leanings towards mental instability and no life whatsoever was
charity co-ordination. The guy suggested that a "religious
background" might be an asset on my resumé.'
I don't for a minute believe that's the only reason, but I don't
get a chance to respond. With conversational gears audibly
clunking, reminding me that her small-talk skills are not much
more developed than my own, she says, as calmly as if she's
asking me to name my favourite movie: 'How many people have you
killed, Angel?'
There's a clattering noise, and I realise that I've dropped the
spoon into my saucer. She's still stirring her espresso, but her
face shows none of that prurient curiosity I've seen in others
asking such questions. She's a cop, remember. She's attended
murder scenes, comforted rape victims while the semen's still
trickling down the inside of their leg.
Perhaps this is part of what 'friends' means? Suddenly I'm
slightly hurt that I've known Cordy for, oh, four and a half
years now, and she's never asked anything of the sort. (Wes, I
guess, already knows the answer, near enough.)
'Lots,' I say, looking down at the large hands nursing my
cappuccino.
'How many?'
I consider saying 'I don't remember' or 'I lost count,' but
neither is true. Anyway, they almost sound worse than the truth.
Almost.
I swallow. I know Kate's already done her homework.
'Forty-five thousand,' I say quickly, looking up into her face,
hearing the words out of my mouth solidify, like a black granite
headstone. I catch the widening of those grey eyes, the rapid
intake of breath and acceleration of pulse, but she recovers her
composure quickly -- at least on the surface.
It's actually forty-four thousand six hundred and two, give or
take a few (sometimes I didn't hang around to work out whether
they lived or died), but I don't think the precise total will
help. (About twenty percent of the number who died in Hiroshima
after the sixth of August, 1945. Less than five percent of those
who starved in Ireland during the potato famines in the 1840s. A
tenth of a percent of those who perished in the Spanish influenza
pandemic of 1919.)
I can't help but wonder how many hours in the confessional it
would take to go through the complete list. Hours? The priest
would probably die of old age -- if he hadn't already died of
shock.
'I've killed six people; seven counting your friend,' she says.
'All in self-defence, of course.'
'And how many did you enjoy killing?'
For a moment her face flashes with anger, the old Kate back. Then
she says slowly, 'I see what you mean.'
'The one thing I've learned in the past few months is that this
isn't a numbers game.'
'Do you...' She stops. 'Do you remember...?'
'Not all the names, but... yes, I remember the faces.'
Every single one. Sometimes when I can't sleep they parade past
me, one by one. They never say anything, they don't scream or cry
or beg or plead, they just walk past and look at me. I've never
got to the end of the line. I'm not sure that I ever will.
'There was one guy, maybe two, two and a half years ago now. A
drug dealer who pulled a gun when we tried to talk to him. His
wife was nineteen.' She pauses, looks up at me. 'And twenty-eight
weeks' pregnant. She got hold of my address somehow, followed me
round in the mall one Saturday morning, screaming
"murderer", and "racist pig". Saying I'd
orphaned her son before he was even born. She sent me a picture
of the baby from the maternity ward. My boss advised me to file
for harassment.'
Her eyes are wet with tears, and she downs her coffee in one
gulp. I don't know what to say, so I get up and order another
double for her and a cappuccino for me and get a plate of little
Italian iced biscuits, cremini they're called, a mixture of
chocolate and vanilla ones, and when I sit down again Kate's
wiped her eyes and stopped sniffling.
'Thanks,' she says. Starts nibbling at one of the biscuits. 'How
did you know that I just love these biscuits?'
I pick one from the plate, a chocolate one, take a bite. It
tastes like ashes. I put it down in my saucer.
We sit in silence for a while.
'Forty-five thousand,' she says eventually. 'Christ. Forty-five
thousand. That's a heck of a lot of atonement.'
'Sometimes I think nothing can ever be enough.'
'And other times?'
'The other times are worse.'
The other times, the really black times, those are when I really
don't give a fuck anymore. But I don't say that to Kate, and
she's much too shrewd an ex-cop to ask a question that she really
doesn't want to know the answer to.
'So you can't buy your way out of it,' she says instead. 'But I'm
not sure that's the deal.'
'God doesn't deal with vampires.' But even as the words are
leaving my mouth I think, but what about the visions? Sunnydale's
first-ever snow at Christmas? (There will be more rejoicing in
heaven over one sinner who repents.)
'I thought you were always a Special Case?' she says, her
emphasis making the capital letters clear.
I shake my head, but she's looking at her watch. 'Sorry. No time
to argue with the most stubborn vampire in LA,' she says. 'Gotta
go and pick up my dry-cleaning -- interview tomorrow morning.'
She's already standing up, putting on her jacket.
'You could try Anne Steele, runs a teen shelter out on Crenshaw.'
I realise my words are more an attempt to keep her here than
anything else. 'Cordy should have her details in the office
database. I hear she's looking for someone to help set up a new
drop-in advice centre. Just ... well, don't mention that it was
me that sent you.'
'Another of your fans, Angel?' she says with a smile and a
half-wave, then disappears through the door, melts into the
endless stream of people in this city that never really sleeps.
An endless parade of people that I haven't killed. Some
of whom I've probably helped, saved even.
And I'm left alone with a lingering headache, half a mug of
cooling cappuccino and a plate of biscuits that I still can't
eat.
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