Fallen Angel Read Free

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 thebare 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.

2
    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 hera 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