Policing dilemma. Do I let her come up and get closer to her potential target? Or do I go down the stairs and greatly increase the risk of both of us falling down and breaking our necks? I figured if she started coming up I could use impello to knock her feet backwards so she’d fall safely on her face. Then see if I couldn’t get a restraint in before she could recover. Impello, with its variants, was the second spell I’d ever learnt. So it’s something I can cast fast and accurately when I need to.
The woman gave a long-suffering sigh and, neatly solving my dilemma for me, turned and started walking back down the stairs. I started down after, keeping my distance and trying to not look like Scooby Doo sneaking after a ghost.
She paused at the bottom and turned to look back up at me when I was halfway down. I kept going but in as friendly and non-threatening a manner as I could.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t mind answering a few questions, would you?’
Her brow furrowed and she squinted at me for a moment and then she turned and went out the door.
I went down the remainder of the stairs three at a time, and just managed to avoid tripping and planting my face on the wall at the bottom. I yanked open the door, looked both ways and caught a flash of grey hoody heading north on the right-hand pavement. I went after her at a lope in the hope of closing the distance before she noticed me. But before I’d got a couple of metres she looked back, spotted me and took off in a sprint.
Running while yelling into your Airwave is a skill you pick up the first couple of weeks into your probation.
‘All units, all units, Falcon Two chasing suspect on Middlesex Street towards the market. IC1 female, slim build, grey hoody, blue jeans and white trainers. Possible Falcon – report only, do not approach. Repeat, do not approach.’
Once I’d got that out of the way I could concentrate on narrowing the gap. She was fit, but I was fitter and taller, and I was less than three metres behind her when she did an abrupt right turn into Wentworth Street. This is the street where Petticoat Market runs six days a week, and despite the rain it was choked with stalls and people out for a lunchtime shop.
As I rounded the corner she turned to face me and suddenly I heard the crash of cymbals and a brass note so deep it rattled my fillings. Around us there were yells and screams as stallholders and punters scattered.
I skidded to a halt like a cartoon character and showed my hands.
Her hood had fallen loose to reveal curly dark brown hair falling in ringlets to her shoulders, and behind her head blazed a circle of white fire. Light sprang from her back and spread like wings to either side. Where they brushed the tops of the stalls, the tarpaulin awnings snapped and rippled like flags in a gale.
In her right hand she brandished a spear of burning gold.
Fuck me, I thought, she’s the Angel of Death.
I lifted my hands to make sure she could see they were empty.
Her eyes were wary, her mouth a thin determined line.
The spear, I couldn’t help but notice, was pointing at my chest and I remembered the hole scooped out of David Moore’s chest, the shattered ribs pale amongst the glistening remains of his viscera.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘My name’s Peter Grant – what’s yours?’
The angel’s expression didn’t change. No response – nothing.
But nothing is good when you’re a copper. Nothing means nobody’s getting stabbed or shot. Nothing means time is passing, and time is the police officer’s friend. Time for support to arrive, time for members of the public to clear the area, time for … whoever it might be … to sober up, come to their senses or realise that, really, he ain’t worth it, Tracy.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I asked, giving her my best reassuring smile. ‘Nice cup of tea? Coffee? Latte? Chai?’
The mouth lost a bit of its firmness and the eyes widened. The tip of the spear dipped, although that wasn’t as reassuring as it might have been, given it was now pointing below my belt buckle.
‘We can sit down,’ I said. ‘Sort things out. I’ll even throw in a croissant.’
The eyes snapped up to meet mine and the spear came up again – obviously she didn’t care for a continental breakfast.
‘Full English?’ I offered, but even as I said it I was lining up the formae for my shield.
She lunged, spear darting, the wing-like sheets of flame sweeping forwards. I jumped back and got my shield going – angling it so any trouble would be deflected into the air.
The world in front of me went white, the cymbals crashed again, and when the light was gone so was the angel.
I ran forwards but there was no sign of her.
Bollocks, I thought.
Guleed arrived beside me with her extendable baton ready and held, sword-like, in an overarm position that she definitely didn’t learn on an officer safety course.
‘What the fuck was that?’ she said.
‘That was an alien, bruv,’ I said. ‘Believe it.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Guleed. ‘Looked more like an angel to me.’
We even had CCTV of the incident from a camera that was outside the area of immediate magical effect, and thus still had its chips in one piece. In it you can just make out, in the middle distance, me and the angel facing off. Just for once, it was a modern camera with enough resolution to get a clear image of her face.
What it didn’t show were the fiery wings and the halo. That some magical phenomena that seem visible to the naked eye don’t register either on chemical film or a photosensor array is something we’ve known for some time. Our current theory – that is, mine and my cousin Abigail’s – is that no photons are being emitted or bouncing off the ghost, or the unicorn or the burning spear of a vengeful angel. What we think we see is, in fact, our brain’s interpretation of input from different senses – the one with which we ‘sense’ vestigia and ghosts, et cetera. We’ve even run up a tentative experimental protocol and one day, when we have time, we might even get to carry it out.
Dr Jennifer Vaughan thinks this is bollocks. If it was merely our individual interpretation of magical sensory input, she reasons, why is there such a strong correspondence between separate witnesses? Answer that or get the next round in.
And it’s true. There were a dozen witnesses to my confrontation with the angel and all but two of them agreed about the wings and the halo. Although one of them thought there was a tail as well, and another was adamant that there were no wings but was sure she had a whip.
The uniformity itself was suspicious – usually you canvas three witnesses and get five versions.
Fortunately for my finances, Jennifer doesn’t have an explanation for why the wings didn’t show on the camera footage, and so we had to pay for our drinks separately like normal civilised people.
Except for Beverley, of course, who never has to pay for her drinks – not even when it’s a Sprite.
All that came later.
‘An angel?’ said Nightingale after he’d arrived on scene.
‘Wings, halo, burning spear,’ I said. ‘All she was missing was a chariot of fire.’
‘And you think it was truly a messenger of God?’ he asked.
‘An angel wouldn’t have run away,’ said Guleed, with the conviction of someone who actually paid attention during Saturday School at her mosque and had taken a GCSE in Religious Education to boot.
‘Whatever it was,’ said Nightingale, ‘it seems from your account both powerful and capable. And I’m worried by this apparent ability to disappear. I’ve never heard of anything that could do that – not even during the war.’