Angels and Rain

I remember the night I was killed. It wasn’t real, but it wasn’t a dream either. Not really. It couldn’t be.
Everything was so vivid. I knew everything about the airfield. The smell of petrol, the majestic sight of
all the Wellingtons lined up along the runway as the sun rose and the dull drone of twenty or so
planes flying over the Channel, each pilot hating what they have to do. They all have families; mothers,
fathers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, married with children. They were all the same, really. Those
people were my friends. We went way back, some of us. I knew almost everything about all of them.
Jacob Baines loved to ruffle my hair and call me Curlyknob while the rest all treated me like a bit of a
duffer. I’ll never know why they did that.

It was a plane crash. We’d been flying over to Germany to carry out a routine bombing raid on
Hamburg when I was shot down. The dying part was easy. All there was was a flash of white, blinding
light and a heat that was for too intense to be humanly described. Then everything just went black.

Ordinarily, you would wake up screaming at this point, horrified at having to experience your own
death, as you do at the end of any nightmare. Although, after a few seconds of disorientation and
general terror, you’d realize you were actually in your own, warm bed. You were safe. I woke up then
too, but it was for a completely different and somewhat more serious reason. I was being suffocated.

Whenever a vampire is present, your body alerts you. Most people (Excluding those who are drunk,
high or accountants. Why accountants? I hear you ask. Well, I’ll tell you as much as I know. There, did
you enjoy it?) get a feeling on the back of their neck. It ranges from a light, almost tickle if the particular
vampy in question is a good mile away from you to an almost crushing force if it’s right behind you. Of
course, by then you’re already dead. Apart from Transylvanian Horses, nothing can outrun a vampire,
especially not a Bloodlusted one. Although, the Telling (For that be what some boff named it) can ‘get
used’ to a vampire. Pour Example- Delilah wouldn’t feel a thing if Avarice (Her vampire fiancée) was
anywhere near her, but if Vampy MacStakeington-Garlic III had popped in for afternoon tea and
scones, she’ know about it, put it that way. That night, I felt like I had John bloody Prescott sitting in my
neck. I remember the few seconds lying there, staring at the ceiling, clenching and unclenching my
fists against my light summer quilt. All I could think was not to move
don’tbreathedon’tbreathedon’tbreathe. Don’t do anything. I even stopped moving my fists at one point.

That was stupid. If it was going to kill me, it would have by now. Vampires are very quick workers. I lay
there, hyperventilating and tied up in my duvet with my eyes closed, waiting, hoping that nothing was
going to happen.

I walked head down, staring at my feet as they travelled across the sparkling grey cobbles. I knew in my head where I wanted to be going, but my feet seemed to have a different idea. I was on complete autopilot to where I had always gone, where I had always gone to feel safe, gone for advice. I knew where I was before I even lifted my gaze from the pavement. It looked ghostly, chilling, unwelcoming. All the windows were blacked out but the curtains were still open, where he had left them, probably. It’s unnerving how quickly somewhere so familiar can become somewhere so desolate, how somewhere so warm can become so cold.

As cold as death itself.

I shivered and turned to look away, but my eyes were drawn to a rather more disturbing image. A large
spider web type crack in the upper bedroom window, tendrils reaching over the pane, searching. He’d
probably thrown something at it, or it had got broken in the struggle. I looked away quickly. Bits of
broken glass crunched underneath the soles of my now pretty worn Converses. I kicked moodily at
one of the bigger pieces. It shot along the cobbles and skidded to a halt in a puddle. A black puddle.

Glass paved my way as I bent down and dipped two fingers, rather stupidly, into the dark liquid. It
shone a deep, thick crimson in the streetlight.

Blood.

I screamed and jumped backwards. Now that I looked, there was blood everywhere. Mingled in with
the shards littering the ground, lying in thick discoloured lakes all around me, the web in the window
was paved with red. I’d never seen so much before. There must be a whole bodysworth lying
discounted here, among the rainwater and gravel.

The image of my dead friend’s blood splattered over the road still burned freshly in my mind as I
walked quickly with my head down. Feadie, oh, Feadie. My poor, poor Feardorcha.

Yet I couldn’t feel anything for him. I wanted to, so badly, but my mind was an empty, compassionless
void. It disgusted me.

Wet locks of black hair fell over my face, hiding my red rimmed eyes and tearstained cheeks from
view. It was a few seconds away from his house, his mother had insisted he lived near a church, as if
no-one would dare do anything to him if there was a one there. Fat lot of good that did him.

I looked up at the daunting grey building. It gathered height from the floor upward into a towering spire,
making me feel even smaller than usual. The stained glass windows almost burned, like eyes glaring

at me from within. Did you have to knock to enter a church? I silently cursed the fact that I’d never paid
any attention to my RS lessons or choral concerts at school. I reached out a hand to touch the door. It
swung open beneath my fingers.

“Hello?”

My voice echoed eerily off the stone walls, making it sound like a dozen puzzled Helaynias were
standing at separate doors waiting to be let in.

I took another step into the building. Cold grey air enveloped me, wrapping around my exposed arms
and making m shiver. I rubbed them for extra warmth.

The nave stretched seemingly never endingly up towards the altar adorned with rich red cloth and
flowers. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do, or what I was even doing here in the first place, but I
felt a hell of a lot safer in here than I did out there.

The dim light sourced by streetlamps pouring in through pictures of Mary and Joseph was scarcely
enough to see by, but, as a first, I managed to get as far as the lectern before bumping into
something. A large copy of the New Testament fell to the floor with a thud. I gasped and leapt round
before remembering where I was. Monroeville church...

Legend.

Nothing but legend.

Stupid bloody make-believe.

Even so, whether it was my mind or not, I was sure I could hear whispering beneath my feet. A familiar
childhood prayer flashed through my mind.

‘Now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.’

Something wasn’t right.

A small flash caught my eye by the pulpit, a small, silver glint. A frown creased my brow gently and I
allowed my feet to walk me over there. A chain curled up over a tiny metal oval. A locket. In the middle,
the curly initials of ‘H.F’ spiralled round and interlocked each other. Someone must have dropped it at
the service on Sunday. Strange someone hadn’t noticed it before, though. Maybe they hadn’t seen it,
the place wasn’t exactly obvious. Someone will come looking for it eventually. I went to pick it up to put
it on one of the wooden sides of the ornately carved pulpit so its owner would be able to find it, but as
soon as my fingers made contact with the cool silver, a fizzing sound erupted. I drew back my hand
instinctively as it bit into my bare flesh.

“Son of a...”

I looked down in shock.

A bright red burn mark stained the otherwise whiteness of my fingers.