16.2

 

Paul’s face went pale. “That sounds…” He paused for a moment, as is seeking the right word. Finally, he just shook his head. “Bad,” he finished, “Why?”

“Because she has the same polarity inside her as whatever was trying to get inside.”

Paul frowned. “Inside her?” He looked at Roisin. “Inside you?”

“News to me.” She held her hand up, as if she were in a classroom and wanted to ask permission to go to the toilet. “I thought I was one of the… What did you call them? Hollows? I don’t give off the facets like everyone else.”

“You certainly gave tout a few facets during that encounter. That’s why you look so… drained… now. You’re not one of the Hollow. You’re the opposite. Whatever that is.”

She shook her head. “You make me sound like a vampire.”

“No. Not a vampire.” Steve held up a finger to forestall Paul from speaking “If they exist at all, which I doubt, they’ll be Hollow, too, with just enough life force to keep them alive, and they would require more by taking it from other creatures. That’s the main problem with being Hollow. You can’t generate life force. Or fragments. Did we decide what to call it?”

“No. But all this is news to me. Until I saw those paintings, I had no idea about any of this. Actually, no. Before I came back to Wolverhampton. “I’m just… ordinary. I’m a wannabe artist.”

Paul snorted.” You’re anything but ordinary.”

Steve wasn’t so flippant. “He’s right. I knew you were special when you could see inside my boxes.  I think – and this is pure conjecture, you understand, that you’re a divine being wrapped inside a human form.”

Roisin snorted. “Divine being? What? Like an angel? Pardon my French but Fuck me!”

“Yes. Like an angel. I know this because of the way you reacted to that presence. You reacted the same way the cross reacted. You weren’t drained by the presence either. You reached an equilibrium with it.”

“I certainly feel drained.” Roisin wrung her hands as if the life had gone out of them. “And you both said I looked it, too.”

Paul nodded. “You looked like death.”

“You certainly looked different.” Steve nodded. “Your outer humanity was being stripped away.”

Rosin studied the linoleum on the floor, guessing correctly that it was the original floor covering from when the post-war house had been built. There was a good reason why people ripped it all out. “If I’m divine, does that mean the presence attacking me was a devil?”

“Demon,” Steve corrected. “Devils are post-human. Demons are the fallen angels, but no, it wasn’t a demon. I concluded by the reaction of the cross that it was also divine, not Fallen.”

“So… another angel?”

“Yes.”

“They why did it attack us?”

“It attacked you, specifically, because compared to a mortal, you’re like a barrel of port compared to a supermarket brand Liebfraumilch.”

Roisin nodded. “It’s like… like something is trying to open through me. Like I’m a doorway.”

Paul stood abruptly, chair scraping back. “Okay, no. No. This is— this is too much. You’re talking like— like she’s possessed or something.”

“I’m not possessed,” Roisin grinned. “I’m a motherfucking angel.”

Paul stared at her. “Right, yeah. And me’ mam’s a virgin seven times over.”

Steve laughed. “Purely in the interest of academic scholarship, may I ask something of a personal question.”

Roisin’s felt her good humour slipping away again. “You can ask, sure. I may decline to answer, though.”

“Do you have…” He waved one hand in a circular motion at waist level. “Genitalia? And if so, which? Or both? I only ask because academics have long argued that angels are genderless, but the ninth circle of them definitely possessed male genitalia because they mated with women.”

“The Nephilim.” Paul nodded to himself.

“That’s right.” Steve beamed like a teacher with a star pupil. “You know your Bible.”

“I know what Gothic Rock bands I like, anyway.” He winked at Roisin. “Do you grant prayers at all?”

“Only if it’s for a cup of tea.” Roisin stood. “I still haven’t made one from boiling the kettle half an hour ago.” She crossed the room and switched it back on. “I don’t think I’m the sort of angel who listens to prayers. Apart from the one that goes ‘Oh God, I’m coming,’ anyway.” She glanced back at Steve. “Which I think answers both of your questions, as well.”

Putting aside whether I think Roisin’s an angel or not, and me’ mam would lamp me if I even considered such blasphemy as angels inside young girls, there’s still the question of the paintings. What are they, and what have they got to do with Roisin?” Paul frowned. “And what are we going to do when that thing comes again?”