Chapter 3

Eight years later, Kensington Apartments,

Knightsbridge, London, UK

He towered over the bed and watched with cold, narrow eyes, studying her face while she slept. In a few hours, she would be dead.

From the file he’d read, she was a healthy, hardworking, attractive young woman with a good soul and a clean record. They would determine no reason for her to move over. This one’ll be questioned, and they’ll complain.

Deep in thought, he brought a smouldering Cuban cigar to his lips, tilted his jaw to the ceiling, and drew long and hard on the Montecristo No. 2. They’ll fight for her. It’s bound to get dirty.

A burning sizzle cracked the silence as an orange orb hissed and glowed in the darkness, highlighting the lines of his battle-scarred face. Erthfolk will ask why. They always do. Why her…why now…why so young…why’s it always the good ones? Blah de blah...blah de bloody blah… whatever! When will they ever get it?

He bent over the bed and leaned in close to her face; stale breath cooled her cheek. His body rattled as he took a deep rasping breath, inhaling her sweet smell. They all had a smell and he liked to smell them. Erthfolk never understand death. It’s always a shock. You’d think they’d learned by now they’re only guests on this planet. I mean, it’s not like they don’t know it’s coming, for fuck’s sake. Death is the only certainty in life. Hmmm…you smell of lilies. I like lilies.

He heaved himself up and stood over her; legs apart, arms crossed. His job required him to guard her until the morning sun eased through silk curtains and welcomed her to her last day on earth.

He loved his job, particularly this time of night: the silence, the calm, the world stopping to catch its breath. It was a time when Erthfolk slept, and were at their most vulnerable, enabling him to sneak into their lives and move about his business with ease.

He stared down at her. It’s time, young lady. Not gonna lie, you’re not gonna like it. Nor will you feel ready. All those dreams you had, all the things you wanted to do, all those important possessions you coveted — your clock has run out, they’re all gone, they have no value. No goodbyes, no nothing. It’s gonna be a bit of a shock, and it will hurt…a lot…but it’s time.

He smoothed down his black tailored suit sleeves and glanced down to check out his gleaming patent shoes. To him, ever the dandy gentleman, looks were everything. Standards needed to be kept. The rancid smell of his body, he couldn’t help, but the shine of his shoes he could.

She turned in her sleep. He sighed. You see, dear, it doesn’t pay to be special; you tend to piss off too many people. I hope someone sends lilies to your funeral. They suit you.

Barely visible in the shadows, he stepped away from the bed and paced the room, getting itchy feet. Normally, he didn’t mind waiting. He enjoyed the calm before the storm, but this one was different. He sensed a troubling aura and shook his head.

He gently pulled at the curtain to check on the night sky. The moonlight exposed his crabby war-torn face. His eyes squinted with the glare. He abruptly released the curtain and peered over at her. Not long now, dear.

He admired her face. He’d seen more than his fair share of faces and had taken thousands of lives in his time, but she was special. She had the beauty and intelligent, stubborn air of her mother.

He brought the cigar to his mouth and pulled on its bitter tip. Rocking his head back, he leisurely blew a torrent of thick grey smoke into the darkness. Its ethereal shadow percolated the air and gently tumbled around him, highlighting his body with a cloudy haze.

Maybe he shouldn’t have taken this job. He still had time; he could let someone else handle her. But she was on his patch and they would ask why. He didn’t like questions; he lived by his own rules. They can fuck off.

Pursing his lips, he gave a soft blow across the tip of his smouldering Cuban, its embers blazing anew as soft white ash fluttered to the ground. Skipping up onto his toes, he took a few nifty steps backwards, managing to avoid the snowy residue landing on his precious clothes.

She groaned as she turned in her sleep. He watched quietly as her nightmares took hold. She was being warned. He sensed The Fallen were at work.

Used to it, he wasn’t too concerned. Interfering Fallens flitted everywhere, Guardian angels, always trying to help Erthfolk, especially on their return journey --- if only the Erthfolk would listen.

They didn’t realise they had choices, that fate could be altered or avoided. The power was in their own hands. The smallest tweak of circumstance or the gentlest ripple effect of the tiniest detail could realign it. Following gut instinct, a kind word, taking note of signs, delaying actions even by a nanosecond was enough to change life’s pattern.

But luckily for him, Erthfolk seldom paid attention to the Fallen; they rarely looked at the bigger picture. Caught up in their small lives, their greed for objects and desire to be liked overshadowed reality. They hardly ever took time to listen to their own powerful sixth sense. The greatest tool in the box, the subconscious, stored in the brain’s largest cortex remained unused. What a waste, bloody idiots.

The Fallen and their attempts to steer Erthfolk to safety were, in the main, fruitless. But every now and then, the Fallen managed to get through to a few, those who simply stood still and listened.

A Fallen tried to warn her now, visiting her dreams, but she wouldn’t understand it. She was too hazy with alcohol and too busy with her hectic bubble-of-a-life to pay attention. She would forget her dreams the minute she woke up.

He watched as her head rocked from side to side and her skin glistened with fear. Her arms reached out with pleading hands, her breath quickening. Her cheek muscles twitched and jerked. Her eyes scrunched tightly shut. Her mouth opened wide in a silent scream. Here we go. It’s starting. Get ready to rumble.

He waited patiently as her nightmares unfolded. He knew her fears, but would do nothing to help her— he was a Witness; it wasn’t in his job description. As a Witness, it was his business to watch, to tot up her life, to account her good and bad deeds, the balance of which allowed the boss to decide where she went next—up or downstairs, above the skies or below the earth.

In a few hours, her soul would sift through her mouth in a final rasping breath. She wouldn’t be alone during the ordeal; he’d be beside her, and possibly a few Fallen. He didn’t feel sorry for her; she’d waited 28 years for this moment. Careful what you wish for, dearie.

He dragged another leisurely puff off his cigar, holding smoke in his mouth, savouring its flavours. He readily admitted he wasn’t the best Witness to have in a soul’s corner. He wasn’t a very good boy; he didn’t play by the rules. But hey, today, she was unlucky. What can I say? Shit happens. Blah de blah…blah de bloody blah… bothered?

Lifting his head, he slowly opened his mouth, releasing lethargic swirling smoke. Relishing the aroma, he allowed it to skulk about his tongue and amble through his nostrils. He stood still in the darkness, his majestic head smouldering as if on fire. Today’s the day. You made a deal and it’s being kept.

A distant police siren blared from the streets outside. He looked to the curtained window, then to the ceiling above him and winked. No peace for the wicked…eh? You guys are busy tonight.