16.3

 We’ll get to that when it happens.” Steve gave the garden below one last glance and turned to face them again, “And forewarned is forearmed.” He held up his phone. “I need to make a couple of calls first. Preferably before that happens.” He walked back across the length of the kitchen, pausing when he got to the table. “Just don’t do anything daft like opening the door because someone says they’ve got a parcel to deliver.” 

“What if there is a parcel, though?” Paul looked genuinely concerned. “I’ve got a parcel due sometime before ten.” 

“Who the buggery delivers at this time of night?” 

“It’s not late until it’s bedtime.” Paul grinned. “Stafford Stone guarantees delivery on the specified day or your money back.” 

“Let’s hope you get your money back when the van driver’s been reduced to ash by a pissed-off angel, then.” Steve patted him on the shoulder. “I hope you got sale or return.” 

“I hope he didn’t mean that about the van driver.” Paul rose to flick the kettle on. “What are your powers then, as an angel, I mean.” 

“I don’t really know if I’m an angel.” Roisin rubbed at a scratch in the wooden surface of the table. “That’s Steve’s educated guess, though where he got his education is anyone’s guess.” 

“Divinity school.” Paul rinsed a dirty mug under the tap, rubbing at a stubborn coffee stain on the underside of the handle. Satisfied with the result, he set it next to the one Roisin had put ready and added a spoonful of instant coffee. He replaced the lid on the jar just as the kettle came to a boil. “Cambridge, though you wouldn’t guess it to look at him. Benefits of his dad being a slum landlord, I reckon.” 

“What did he do, then. You wouldn’t think Cambridge to look at him. He gives off more of a Dudley Tech vibe.” 

“Now’t wrong with that.” The kettle boiled and he filled both cups with hot water. “Do you want sugar?”  

“Just milk, please.” Roisin didn’t even spare him a glance, intent as she was on looking up everything she could about angels, thou the effort of separating actual knowledge from the spurious accounts of people who claimed to have seen one was more than daunting. Most of the visions were of traditional, human-looking ladies (and the occasional well-built male) in shining white robes and armed with well wishes and good advice, whereas she knew for a fact that angels were terrifying beings comprised mostly of eyes and teeth. Likewise, she barely glanced up when Paul deposited a mug of coffee next to her right hand. 

After skimming through several dozen web pages, including some very sordid wish-fulfilment stories even the whores of ancient Babylon would have turned down a silver shekel for, she had two accounts she considered at least moderately reliable; and both of them related to the same angel who would promise eternity for the exchange of a simple signature and the promise never to wage war upon a less-capable nation. 

Finally, she put her phone down and addressed Paul, who seemed to be watching something he was streaming. “This is black.” 

He lowered his screen and raised an eyebrow. “Black too good for you, now that you’re an angel?” 

“No. I just prefer milk in my coffee, thanks. I did ask for milk.” 

“And as I said earlier, we hadn’t got any, so unless someone’s nipped out to the convenience store in the last hour, we still haven’t got any.” 

“Right. Sorry. I remember now.” She gave him a smile and demurely took a sip. It was, as she had suspected, utterly undrinkable; somewhere between sewer water and the stuff you could buy from the Pound Bakery in town to dip your bargain stale croissant in. “Who do you think Steve is calling? Are there other people with talents like ours?” 

“I sincerely hope not.” Paul took a long swallow of his coffee, careful to shield the mug from her view.  “I’ve had my horizons broadened quite enough for one day, thanks. All I need now is St. Paddy turning up to frighten away all the trouser snakes in England.” 

“I thought it was only real snakes he banished.” 

“Been to a lot of Catholic church masses, have you?” Paul rose to put his now-empty mug in the sink. “Sex is reserved for married heterosexuals only. Everyone else has to confess their sins daily to give the priests something to think about during vespers.” He began to run the tap, rinsing out the mug and scrubbing off the stains with a yellow scouring pad. 

"I’ll take a solid pass on that, if you don’t mind.” 

“I wish I could.” He chuckled. “Every time I go home me’ mam drags me off to St Michael’s to redeem my immortal, blackened soul. And that’s if I’m lucky.” 

“And if you’re unlucky?” 

“Then she’ll introduce me to some spinster of the parish, in the hope I’ll take the Holy Sacraments seriously.” 

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