Fallen Angel (2 page)

Father Patrick Connelly, the stooped and elderly incumbent of the church of St Andrew's in Peckham High Street, was uncomfortably warm as he hurried along the path towards his place of worship.

The last service of the day was never particularly well attended, this being a part of London where gods other than his were worshipped, especially by the young. Friday night Mass had long seemed – Lord help him – something of a chore after the rest of the day's ministry. It was therefore one of the shortest of the week.

He looked up at the church as he approached. The white stone walls, rendered black by the fumes and dirt of London living, always saddened him, and he found it a relief to get inside, where the rich colours of the Victorian interior and the quiet dignity of the altar would fill him with the inner warmth that had comforted him ever since he joined the Catholic Church. Outside all seemed chaotic; inside was a place of peace.

The key to the heavy front door of the church was pleasingly large and chunky. It was a shame that he had to keep the place locked when it was unattended. While the gangs of youths that roamed the streets were happy enough to let him pass through their territory unmolested – he had no mobile phone and never carried enough money to make him a worthwhile target – they would
never be able to resist the temptation of the valuable ornaments within.

As Father Connelly inserted the key into the lock, the door swung open. His first reaction was one of horror. Had he really forgotten to lock up again? Eager to check whether his mistake had allowed in any vandals, he headed for the light switches, his footsteps echoing gently off the stone floor. As he flicked on the first switch, the church filled with a faint electric hum and its front section lit up, revealing the ornate splendour. Nothing seemed out of place but there was an unusual odour in the air. It was a strong, metallic smell like nothing he had ever known. Father Connelly took a large lungful and tried to make it out as he continued to turn on the lights.

Then something in the centre aisle caught his eye. As he moved closer, he could see that it was a puddle of dark liquid. In front of it was a piece of paper. He bent down to pick it up and immediately recognized it as a page from the Bible. One passage had been underlined in what looked like red ink.

By the disobedience of one man, many were made sinners.

The text only barely permeated his consciousness, for, as he read, a drop of liquid hit the side of his cheek. He instinctively reached up to wipe it away, then stared hard at the sticky red stain that covered his fingers.

As he raised his head, another drop of blood fell on to his face.

Something was above him.

Hanging from the rafters was a body. Apart from the
bare feet, which pointed listlessly at the stone floor, it was fully clothed. The face had been horrifically disfigured with deep, diagonal slashes. One hand was missing, and the mouth hung open as if emitting a desperate, silent scream.

But it was none of these things that made Father Connelly turn to one side and retch over the wooden pews. It was not the death, or the blood, or the disfigurement that unsettled him so. It was the fact that the corpse hanging there so dreadfully above him was that of a child.

‘Holy Mother of God,' he whispered to himself, making the sign of the cross with a trembling hand. He turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him, stumbling occasionally in his robes as he tried to wipe the blood from his face, and screaming for help in a voice that echoed helplessly off the walls around him.

Stacey Collins could not remember how the argument had started – she was just desperate for it to end.

Her daughter, Sophie, was one of only three pupils from her school who had been selected to play at a gala concert later that evening at the Fairfield Halls in Croydon. Despite this, Sophie had not spoken to her mother since she had got home earlier that day, ignoring her in the way that only a twelve-year-old could.

They were sitting at the table in the kitchen eating pizza with Stacey's parents. Sophie had barely eaten a slice and was just playing with the rest. The silence grew more and more uncomfortable, until Stacey could bear it no longer.

She turned to face her daughter. ‘What's wrong, Sophie?' Her voice, with its tinge of a South London accent, was calm.

Sophie continued to ignore her.

‘Please, Sophie,' she persisted. We're trying to have a nice time together before the show starts.' But Sophie just shrugged without looking up at her mother and continued to play with her food.

‘Are you ever going to talk to me?' The words came out a bit more fiercely than she had intended, yet Sophie continued to ignore her.

Sitting across the table, Stacey's own mother shot her
a disapproving look. ‘Just let her be. You're always nagging at her.'

‘Thanks, Gran.' The young girl's voice was quiet and soft.

The four were cramped around the small kitchen table. Stacey's father, John, was in his wheelchair, as he had been for the past twenty-two years. Her mother, Penny, spent far more time with Sophie than Stacey was able to. She was grateful for that – of course she was – but sometimes it felt, with her parents always around, as if she had never left home.

Sophie got down from the table abruptly. Her pizza was hardly eaten, and she managed to look somewhat guilty as she caught her mother's eye. ‘Where do you think you're going?' Stacey asked.

Sophie scuffed her way to the door before replying, ‘My room.'

‘What about the rest of your dinner?'

‘Not hungry,' Sophie called back, already slamming the door to her bedroom.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Stacey. She was a detective inspector within the Met's murder squad whose work involved tracking down and capturing some of London's most dangerous criminals. She could square up to a drug-crazed killer any day of the week. So why couldn't she get a twelve-year-old kid – her own daughter no less – to do what she wanted?

As these thoughts ran through her head, her mother made her way upstairs to see Sophie, while her father manoeuvred his way uncomfortably around the kitchen until he was beside her. Something about his bulky wheelchair
always made whatever room he was in seem smaller than it actually was. She always noticed the look of desperate concentration on his face as he tried to propel himself to wherever he wanted to be; she had to fight the urge to rush over and help him. That would never do. He hated not being able to do things for himself and was stubborn in his insistence on maintaining what independence he had.

As he drew the wheelchair alongside Stacey, the familiar fragrance of his cheap aftershave reached her nose. Ever since he had been confined to the wheelchair, he had taken the same care in his presentation as he had beforehand; he couldn't afford much, but, as he always said, when you lose your dignity, you lose your self-respect. And if he lost his respect, it would be the end of him. ‘Watch how you talk to your mum,' he said softly. ‘She's only trying to help.'

‘I know, Dad. I'm sorry. It's just Sophie. She's like this all the time at the moment. I wish she could be a bit …' She struggled to find the word. ‘Nicer,' she said, her voice barely masking her frustration.

‘Like mother, like daughter,' he observed pointedly. ‘Don't forget that when you were her age, you gave us just as much back-chat, if not more. Your mother and me thought you'd be spending your fifteenth birthday in borstal.'

Stacey smiled, even though she knew her dad wasn't joking. A silence fell between them again. ‘Are you coming back to stay the night after the show?'

‘No, love. We'll go home. I didn't bring my pills. Anyway, it'll be good for you and Sophie to spend some time together.'

‘I'm sure she'll be thrilled.'

‘You'd be surprised,' her father said, ignoring Stacey's sarcasm. ‘You've hardly seen her for the last three weeks. She misses you. And I expect she's nervous. It's a big night for her.'

‘Well, she's got a funny way of showing it …' she started to say, before being checked by her father's disapproving glance. ‘All right, Dad,' she said with uncharacteristic humility. ‘I'll go and see how she is.'

As her father moved aside to let Stacey through, they were distracted by a low buzzing sound. Stacey reached for the mobile on the kitchen worktop, flipped open the phone and answered it. ‘DI Collins,' she said firmly.

She listened for a few moments. ‘I can't. It's my daughter's gala concert tonight – surely there must be someone else?' She continued to listen. ‘Okay,' she said in a resigned voice, ‘I'll be there in ten minutes.' She turned to her father. ‘I'm sorry, Dad, I have to go.'

John just sighed as Stacey knelt down to him. ‘Please' – she placed her hand on his arm – ‘please explain this for me – she'll take it better from you than from me. I'll try to get to the concert as quickly as I can.' Stacey got up and kissed her father on the head.

‘Go and do what you have to do.'

‘I love you, Dad.'

‘I love you too, darling.'