Jase removes a key from his pocket and unlocks the side door with a grinding thud. The hinges scream, the sound obnoxiously loud in the silence of the surrounding yard. Inside, there’s a short corridor, and a second door, the modern brushed steel a jarring contrast to the rusted iron of the first door. It opens easily, unleashing a wall of sound: Machinery humming, people shouting, vehicle engines starting. The entire facility is a building within the original shell of the warehouse. The interior build is completely soundproofed with its own solar-powered generator and air filtration system. No one would ever know this place was here.

  The scent of milled paper lingers in the air, a noxious odour that I’ve come to like, simply because it’s synonymous with success. Men hurry around, printing, cutting, and packing. Forklifts load palettes of forged money into lorries. Much of it will go abroad, while the rest will be shipped to cleaners here in England. They will run it through various businesses, effectively changing dirty money for clean money, for a cut of course. I walk through the factory, studying each stage of the operation intently. It’s when I reach the packing area that I pick up a stack of notes and inspect them closer.

  “Stop printing.”

  Jase nods before walking away. A few seconds later, the thrum of the printing press slows before finally dropping into silence. No one speaks, and I could hear a pin drop in the factory.

  I hold up the wad of twenty-pound notes that make up ten thousand pounds. “This is wrong.”

  My brother moves closer, a frown on his face as he takes the stack from me. He squints at the top note. “It looks fine.”

  “The ink is the wrong colour.” He narrows his eyes further, bringing the note a mere inch from his face. “Every note must be perfect!” I shout.

  A palpable tension has settled over the warehouse. Everyone terrified that it’s their cock-up, that they’re about to meet the wrath of Saint Kingsley.

  Jase places the stack of notes back amongst the block he found it on. “No one but you would notice.”

  And this is the problem when you are forced to delegate your work.

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I hiss a breath through my teeth. “No, they noticed, Jase. Why do a job if not to do it well? This is not just a business. This is art.” And my art is compromised right now. I’m fighting the sense of blind rage that wants to consume me. Someone has fucked up, and they will pay because this is my business. Mine.

  The rest of the Kingsley family deal in drugs and guns, but I have steered clear. All those casualties, such a stain on the soul and without the pleasure of even witnessing the death it reaps. There’s also no skill in it, no craft, and what is life without a degree of art? Anyone can deal in drugs or guns. People always want to escape their shitty lives and get high. It’s just so…uncouth. “Destroy everything from the last week. Recall it from the cleaners—”

  “We can’t recall. They won’t trust us.”

  The rubber band that is my temper snaps, and I turn on him, grabbing the front of his jacket and bringing my face mere inches from his. “There won’t be an us if this investigation gains any traction.”

  “You know it’ll never lead back to you.”

  “Never? Arrogance has been the downfall of many great men, Jase.”

  I eye my brother, he who has such little respect for the finesse of creating notes of this quality. “Destroy it all and halt production. Find me whoever allowed that ink to even touch paper. Stay here and handle it.” Turning my back, I stride towards the door, craving the outdoor space. Once outside the warehouse, I inhale the night air, letting the chill burn my lungs before exhaling and watching the fogged breath dance through the moonlight. The faint scent of rubbish and car fumes drifts on the wind, but it’s a damn sight cleaner than inside the factory. Though it does nothing to clear the mess that is my thoughts. I’m troubled. My life is controlled, exacted and planned to the very last second. This is only one mistake, but mistakes do not happen in my world.

  My phone rings, an unknown number flashing across the screen. With a resigned sigh, I answer it.

  “Yes?”

  “Saint, it’s Grant.” Grant is a rather unsavoury character with fingers in almost everything illegal in London. “What’s this I hear about you getting those chinks arrested for dodgy cash?” And this is the fallout of that one mistake. One error that can topple a dynasty.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I hear the pigs seized a load of your money from them.”

  “You must have heard wrong. My money is flawless. Of course, if you disagree, I’m happy to cancel your next delivery and end our business dealings.” What these people fail to understand is that they are nothing. A small cog in a big machine — each and every one entirely replaceable. The issue only comes if all of the cogs rebel at once. This is just stacking problems on top of problems.

  “No…no, it’s fine.”

  “Good.” I hang up. Of course it’s fine. They make a ten percent cut on the half a million a week I send them. It’s the easiest money they’ll ever make. And with very low risk. Unless you’re stupid enough to get caught for drugs while having hundreds of thousands in counterfeit cash on the premises. I’m surrounded by idiots.

  I furiously reach for my sense of calm, but it’s nowhere to be found. Carnage creeps over me inch by precarious inch, and I feel…out of control. Lost. My sense of self, fleeing with my rationale.

  Hurrying towards my car, I get in and start the engine. I’d usually go to Salvation, check on the place and host meetings with various individuals who may further expand my empire. Instead, I forgo my ritual and go straight to the church. I need peace, balance, and sanctuary from the storm.

  The scent of incense and wood polish greet me, warm and inviting. I usually come in the early hours of the morning, when not a single soul is here, not even the priest. In those silent hours, it’s just God and me. But my routine has been disrupted. It’s earlier, not even eleven o’ clock. A man sits in the front pew; my usual spot. He looks dirty, a filthy stain on the magnificence of the church. His hood is pulled up, and his grubby jeans are ripped at the knees. I can only assume he’s homeless. God clearly turned his back on this man a long time ago, and yet here he is. A woman kneels at the foot of the Virgin, while another lights a candle. Their presence upsets me immensely.

  Father Maxwell spots me, and his white brows crease together, confusion blanketing his features. He only ever sees me on the last Wednesday of every month, when he takes my confession. It’s been that way for years, but he’s known me since I was a child. Back when my mother would bring me to Sunday service. I no longer attend church on Sundays. Those services are for the pretenders — those who wish to be witnessed in their worship. My relationship with God is my own. I need no witness but Him.

  The priest hesitates for a moment, knotting his fingers together in front of his bulging stomach. Finally, he shoves his glasses up his reddened nose and walks over.

  “Saint?” he asks, tentatively.

  “Father.”

  He lingers a few feet away from me. “Are you well?” Am I? No. I’m not. Everything is wrong. I’m standing in the church at eleven o’ clock at night, staring at the back of a homeless man’s head and suffering the presence of strangers.

  My business is in the worst state it’s ever been in. And I’m plagued…plagued by the single image of a burning angel and wondering; am I being judged? Does it mean something? Eden Harris walked into my life…with no appointment, bringing with her an unprecedented and uncontrollable situation, and I turned her away. Is it a coincidence that the biggest crisis to ever hit my business happened a mere twelve hours later? What if she truly is an angel? Perhaps this is simply The Lord showing his displeasure because I shunned her.

  No, no, no. I rub at my temples. I need guidance.

  I take a seat on the pew, and the old priest slides in beside me, cautious not to get too close. “Do you believe in angels, Father?” I murmur, my voice carrying through the high arching buttresses of the building.

  “Of course. They are the messengers of God. Sent to guide us.”

  “Have you seen one?”

  A small smile touches his withered lips. “No.” Then how can he possibly know? “But I have faith that we are not alone. I have faith that the Lord does not simply sit back and witness our suffering, but that he allows us to make our own mistakes. He sends his angels to guide us, but his greatest gift to us was free will. We must choose the right path. That is the beauty of humanity.”

  “So he would only send an angel to one who is straying from the path?”

  He shrugs one narrow shoulder. “Perhaps. That small voice of reason — your conscience — some believe that is your guardian angel.” When I was ready to have her killed, something stopped me. “But I’m only a priest. My life is simple, with very few decisions to be made. I can’t say I’ve experienced it.”

  Wordlessly, I push to my feet. He stands and shuffles out of the pew, allowing me to pass. “Goodbye, Father.”

  “Goodbye.” I can feel his eyes on me as I leave, but I don’t look back.

  The first rays of dawn creep over the horizon of London, shining through the windows and illuminating everything in ambient light. It’s breathtaking; a performance that the world puts on every single morning, and yet most of its inhabitants miss it, completely absorbed in their small lives and their need for just one more hour of sleep — unappreciative degenerates. Bowing my head over my plate, I clasp my hands in front of me and close my eyes. The elevator pings.

  Who the hell is that? Glancing across the open space, I glare at the closed brushed steel doors accusingly. They glide open revealing Jase. I gave him a key card as a backup, in case of emergency. This is not an emergency.

  “You may leave your key on the table and go,” I say, resuming my former stance.

  “Are you serious, right now? You’re sitting here eating breakfast.”

  “Yes. It’s seven, is it not?” His disruption and following belligerence are grating on my already frayed temper.

  “Saint, you didn’t keep any of your appointments last night. That cleaner you wanted from Manchester walked. He will only speak to you, and as you didn’t turn up…”

  “Leave.”

  “Saint!”

  Clenching my teeth, I inhale deep breaths. In and out. One, two…three, four…five, six… I clasp my hands in front of me once more and close my eyes, blocking out the incessant irritant that is Jase breathing.

  “Our Father who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name; Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses. As we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from evil.”

  “Really?”

  “Did you fix the problem at the factory?”

  “Yes.” Jase doesn’t divulge any more than that, and I don’t care to know. Ignorance is bliss as they say. “But I have some bad news.” I place my knife and fork down on the table and wait. “Police just hit another cleaner. About an hour ago.”

  White noise echoes through my eardrums, and I grind my teeth, trying to get rid of it. “How much?”

  “Over four hundred grand.”

  “Shit!” I swipe at the coffee mug on the table, sending it careening across the table and into the side of the breakfast bar. I watch the muddy liquid trickle down the pristine white, just as this crap is irreparably staining my glistening white reputation. “Someone tipped them off.” I can only assume the arrested Chinese from the last seizure. Icy rage creeps over my skin, tamping down any perceived mercy I may possess. “Find out who it was, and handle them.” He nods, turning away. “And Jase?” He pauses. “Be sure to send a strong message.” His shoulders rise on a deep breath before he steps into the elevator.

  I’m being punished. It’s the only explanation.

  Pushing to my feet, I immediately head for the shrine. Falling into the room, I slam the door closed and shove my jacket over my shoulders. I try to release the buttons of my shirt, but my trembling hands are too clumsy. With a growl, I yank the material, sending buttons scattering over the floor like the burning rains of hell hitting the ground.

  I grab the whip farthest from the door. It was specially made in a monastery in Thailand. The leather strands are embedded with shards of broken glass. Bruising and pain aren’t enough right now. I need to give Him blood.

  Kneeling in front of The Virgin, I waste no time in lifting my arm and swinging the instrument over my shoulder. Breath hisses through my lips as the glass pieces bite into my skin. The pain is instantly gratifying. I feel the adrenaline rush through my veins, chasing out the toxic sin. I bring it down again and again until I can feel the warm rush of blood trickling over my skin. It’s a high all of its own. With each new blow, blood flicks across the walls, dotting the Virgin until her face is speckled red.

  “Is this not enough?” I shout at her. “Do I not bleed for you?”

  She only stares at me in silent judgment. I keep going until my entire back feels like it’s on fire. My arm aches and my chest heaves with the effort of lifting the instrument over and over. My body is so full of adrenaline that I’m shaking and sweating. I do this for you, God. Do you see me? Do you see the lengths I want to endure to cleanse myself of the sins that would keep me from you? I am worthy. I am yours.

  My pulse pounds faster. Dots start to cross my vision, and then everything goes black.

  I wake up and squint against the overhead light. With a groan, I push off the mat and wince. The intense pain threatens to throw me into unconsciousness once more, and I find a sick satisfaction in it. The Virgin’s bloodstained gaze is cast on me, judging.

  Bit by bit, I manage to push to my feet, slipping on the pool of crimson liquid that has accumulated beneath me. My head swims, the mind threatening to break under the abuse of the body. I make my way down the hall and stumble into the shower, turning the temperature down. The hammering water is agony, but the cold numbs it somewhat.

  I collapse onto my bed, yesterday’s lack of sleep finally catching up with me.

  I open my eyes and stare at the ground directly in front of me. My fingers dig into the ravaged, ashy earth, the heat searing my fingertips. Sulphur lingers in the air, noxious and cloying. I can see my hands in front of me, and yet, they don’t feel like mine. I try to lift my head, to push to my feet, but I can’t. With each attempt, my knees just sink farther into the ground. It’s like a lead weight is pressing down on my back, buckling my spine farther and farther until my chest is almost touching the ground.

  Just when I feel I can take no more, a hand lands on my shoulder. Warmth radiates through my skin and the weight lifts. I’m able to raise my head, but immediately drop it, slamming my eyes closed to escape the blinding white light.

  “Saint.”

  That voice. So sweet, so tranquil, it’s like floating on a perfectly still lake. Raising my head again, I open my eyes, and through the light, the image of a woman comes into focus. Eden’s brows pinch together in concern as she reaches out, offering her hand. I don’t take it.

  “Is this a test?” I ask.

  “Take my hand.” A test or a trick? The ground starts to heat, and I rake my fingers through the dirt, trying to get up, but I can’t. I’m weak. “Take my hand, Saint,” she says, her voice more frantic this time.

  The ground grows unbearably hot, and the weight is back, pressing down on me until I’m physically unable to move a muscle. “I can’t,” I grit out.

  “Then you will burn,” she whispers brokenly. The ground cracks and flames shoot up in front of me. The very air seers my lungs before I’m completely engulfed. The heat doesn’t register at first, and then it’s nothing but sheer, blinding agony. And somehow, through my pain, I see Eden, standing there, her wings spread so majestically.

  “You only needed to take my hand,” she says, her voice so heartbreaking.

  Then the flames creep higher, blocking her from view, and I’m left alone. Burning, burning, burning.

  I wake up gasping for air and dripping in sweat, my heart still racing in a fear-induced panic. You only needed to take my hand. Two dreams. He sent her to me. I can feel it as surely as I can still feel the heat of those flames against my skin.

  She’s here to judge me.

  6

  Saint

  Glancing out of the restaurant window, I watch the headlights of passing cars reflect over the rain-slick tarmac. I always think the city looks less grotesque at night. The hard, formidable edges of concrete structures are hidden in darkness. Lights shine brightly in the windows of offices, glistening like fireflies on a clear night. It could almost trick you into thinking it’s beautiful.

  The restaurant hums with the low titter of conversation as couples meet for dates, and businessman preen and peacock in their business meetings. Cutlery clinks against plates and glasses tinkle over each other. Marble floors give way to antique French mirrors and turn of the century artwork in a bid to cater to the clientele who fancy themselves as somewhat cultured. Grand chandeliers cast sprinkles of light over the walls and carpet, illuminating the restaurant like a grand ballroom. And I here I sit in the darkness, an outsider in their shiny world, observing.

  The delicious scent of the food drifts around me as I lift my wine glass to my lips. My hand trembles; the result of too many caffeine pills, and I place the glass back down on the pristine white tablecloth. Sleep deprivation is driving me halfway to madness, and I wonder at what point the needs of the body over-ride the tribulations of the mind.

  It’s been a week of non-stop dreams. I wake from them feeling as though I’ve just run a marathon. The same dream. Over and over. The flames engulfing me, and yet I never take her hand. I have no control over my own actions — no power to make it stop. My rational mind says they’re just dreams, but my faith…my faith dictates that I believe. Bad boys burn in hell.