I’m unravelling. I can feel it: the vulnerability, the exposure. My sense of self is being compromised. By a girl. A girl I’ve seen once. Green eyes. Wings. Flames. I can no longer ignore her, or what she is. The truth is being shown to me, night after night.

  I can feel it eating away at me: the need to see her, to be near her.

  I pride myself on my constant control. My routine is set in stone, as it has been for the last five years. No deviation. I wake up, I run, I pray and punish myself. I come to Bleu where I have a 1993 French Merlot and the Fillet Mignon steak with asparagus, sweet potato mash and a honey and radish jus. I then leave for Sanctuary, where almost all of my business is conducted. I may venture elsewhere if business dictates, then I go to church. Home at six thirty and eat breakfast at seven. Sleep and repeat. It’s always the same. Until now. Now, punishments come at all hours, the church has become my home from home, and my business…my business is crumbling. No money is being printed, and my cleaners seem to be getting picked off one by one.

  I just need…her.

  And so I do something that I have managed to refrain from so far. I text Jase requesting all the information he has on Eden Harris. I impatiently wait for long minutes before receiving a response. A single attachment. Opening it, I scour it like a starved man.

  Eden Rebel Harris. Twenty-one years old.

  Father: Donald Harris, deceased.

  Mother: Iris Harris, deceased.

  Brother: Otto Walter Harris, whereabouts to be determined.

  Address: 503 North Tower, Russell Road, Peckham

  Studying law at Kings College. Full scholarship. Granted legal guardianship of her brother four years ago. Works at Elysium nightclub, Thursday through Sunday.

  I read on, absorbing every little consequential detail about her. No friends, no family. An anomaly.

  A miracle.

  The centre of London on a Friday night: revolting. I turn up the radio, filling the car with classical music in a bid to drown out the thumping drivel pouring from the bars lining the street. People stagger about drunkenly, falling in the road and causing traffic to halt or swerve around them. Women tug on their short dresses, perilously risking a broken ankle on high heels. Establishments spill out onto the pavements, and people linger, huddling together and smoking cigarettes. The entire city becomes a cesspool.

  I wind my car through the bumper-to-bumper traffic until I’m finally where I need to be. Elysium sits bang in the middle of the business district. It’s where rich bankers come to flash their money and chat up women far out of their league. The queue to get in reaches around the side of the building. Intermittently, a girl who thinks a little too much of herself will try her luck with the bouncer, only to be shamefully turned away like a dog with it’s tail between its legs. I approach the door, alone and inconspicuous.

  The bouncer places a hand on my chest, and I glare down at the offending appendage. “I suggest you remove that.”

  “Back of the line,” he grunts, like the Neanderthal he is.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  He laughs. “I don’t care.”

  My patience runs out, and I grab him by the lapel of his cheap jacket, dragging him closer. “I’m Saint Kingsley. My family pay your wages. Move.”

  I see the tiny cogs of his brain working at warp speed, trying to work out if I’m lying. I’m actually not. But then, any club, hotel or restaurant of any note in this city is owned by a Kingsley. I don’t particularly like most of my family, but there’s no arguing that we are the true monarchy of London.

  I guess he decides the fight simply isn’t worth it, or perhaps it’s the fact that my brother, Judas, whose appearance is near identical to my own, owns this particular club. The man steps aside and allows me to pass. Inside, the club is just like any other, full of sweaty, drunk people. Girls sway their hips in skimpy clothing, their minds so blurred by alcohol that they couldn’t make a good decision if they tried. And circling them nearby is the array of young men, so lacking in any form of pride that they must take advantage of a female’s weakened state. Repulsive, and yet, society breeds this kind of behaviour. Several of those women will wake up tomorrow morning, naked, next to a man they have no recollection of meeting. They’ll dress and leave, and think nothing of it because that’s the way this world works. It’s a sickness.

  Music throbs and various lights flash across my vision, blinding me temporarily. The scent of smoke and liquor form a cloying haze. The entire place repulses me in every way, and I’m ready to turn around and walk out when I spot her like a holy apparition through the crowd. She’s wearing a top that dips to her cleavage and exposes her stomach. Long golden hair falls over her shoulder, kissing the tanned skin of her bare arms. A man at the bar says something to her, and she smiles, though it’s fake. But of course she does because sadness is unacceptable. It makes people uncomfortable, as though any lack of joy instantly steals their own. I see her. Grief leaks through that mask of polite happiness that she paints on so well.

  I slip into the shadows and lean against the back wall. Watching. Always watching. I’m aware of Thomas sitting across from the bar, and Liam on the balcony above, two of the men Jase tasked with watching her. I’m careful to go unnoticed by them as well as Eden. I do have a certain reputation to uphold.

  She fascinates me. I’m in awe of her ability to blend in with the degenerates in this place because she isn’t like them. She’s so much more. Every single one of them lusts after her. Every time she turns her back, their eyes follow. They lean just a little farther over the bar, trying to get a better look. Their sinful eyes are all over her, and I want to rip them from their heads before choking the life from each of their worthless bodies, leaving them walking through hell sightless.

  Yet she allows herself to be the object of their dirty little fantasies. Why? Surely she’s above such things, touched by grace as she is.

  I don’t know how long I stay there, but as time passes, the club gets more and more packed. Eden rushes to serve drinks, and my view becomes disrupted. I find myself getting frustrated and creeping from the shadows. It’s then that I feel a hand land on my arm. Turning, I glance down at the tiny dark-haired girl. Recognition pulls at the corners of my mind.

  “Saint? Judas would like to see you.” Ah, yes, I know this one. She’s Judas’ little obsession. His very own heathen, sculpted especially for him. Delilah Thomas or I suppose Kingsley now. He married her just to save her from me because family is…protected. He used a loophole.

  “I’m not here for my brother.”

  She sighs. “He’ll only come down here himself.”

  The fact that he sent her at all is a wonder. My brother doesn’t trust me to behave at the best of times, which is laughable coming from him. I allow my eyes to trail over her body in disgust. She’s wearing a similar top to Eden, but her jeans seem to be twice as tight. Yes, she screams of sin. No wonder Judas likes her so much. Lifting her hand, she swipes a strand of hair behind her ear, the gold wedding band glinting there; a mockery of the sanctity of the church if ever I saw one.

  Wordlessly, I turn my back on her and leave. Judas is nothing but a heathen. The day I bend to his whims is the day I start worshipping the devil. When will he realise that he and I are entirely different entities? He will burn in the fires of hell, and I will laugh because it is nothing less than he deserves. He can’t be saved. Even mother says as much. My father corrupted Judas before she ever had a chance to save him. Judas’ greed has tainted him and pulled him to the darkness.

  Outside, people are still queuing to get in, despite it being almost three o’ clock in the morning. The temperature is positively Baltic compared to the sauna of the club, but the cold soothes my burning back.

  I walk the couple of streets over to where my car is parked. Getting in, I start the engine but pause because I don’t know where I’m going. I always know where I’m going. At this time, I should be at Salvation, working, overseeing — existing. That’s not where I want to be though.

  Instead, I pull out of the car park and make my way across town to the address that I have memorised already. I drive into what must be one of the ugliest areas in London. Everything looks dirty. Breezeblock outbuildings are covered in graffiti, and every single shop has rolled-down metal shutters on the front. Dirt and desperation seem to cling to the place like a second skin.

  “Your destination is on the right,” the sat nav delightfully informs me.

  I glance through the windscreen at the unpleasant blocks of flats reaching into the sky and blocking out the moonlight. I feel like I’m about to get carjacked at any minute. I have no business being here. I should leave, but again, I hesitate. Something makes me wait. The niggling desire to see her again chips away at me until it feels debilitating. It’s not a want. It’s a need.

  Eventually, the chugging putter of an engine comes down the road, distinctive against the otherwise traffic-less night. Checking my watch, I see that it’s five thirty; the time when most people are asleep, buried in their dreams. A bright yellow car pulls into a parking space, though I can’t clearly make out the model or details. The door swings open and a figure gets out, glancing in all directions. It’s only when she glances this way that the nearby streetlight reflects from her distinctive, golden blonde hair. Eden. She looks scared. Perhaps she feels eyes on her, watching. Yes, I’m here, Eden. Right now, we’re connected, her and I. We could well be the only two people in existence at this moment. In the darkness.

  She hurries across the gloomy car park, making her way into the pools of orange light that illuminate the path to the apartment block. She continues to glance over her shoulder nervously, and I wonder if she’s always been worried in the very place she lives. Or is this a development since the disappearance of her brother?

  She disappears from sight just as a black Range Rover pulls in and parks a few spaces up from me. A quick glance at the registration confirms that it’s one of mine. Either Thomas or Liam. Just as the shiny Range Rover looks completely out of place in this ugly place, so does my Jaguar. If they have any kind of brainpower, they’ll realise that. So I turn the engine on, cutting the lights to full beam before I pull away. My chest tightens, and a vulgar sensation starts to creep up my throat. Jealousy, envy, anger. Because they get to watch her now, and I don’t. The feeling burrows beneath my skin, infecting me from the inside out, like a disease.

  I call Jase as the dark streets of London streak past my window. He answers after several rings, sounding out of breath.

  “Yeah.”

  “Take your men off Eden Harris.”

  There’s a pregnant pause, several inhaled and exhaled breaths. “Why?” I hang up.

  There are times when I invite Jase’s questions, now is not one of them.

  7

  Saint

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I breathe, crossing myself. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, it has been one week since my last confession.”

  “Tell me your confession child,” the scratchy voice drifts from the darkness.

  I hesitate, unable to form the appropriate words. “I shunned an angel.”

  Several beats of silence. “How so?”

  “She asked me for help, and I denied her. Now she visits me in my dreams and watches me burn.”

  “Why did you deny her help?”

  “To save her,” I whisper. And it’s true. I let Eden walk away because something stopped me from having Jase dispose of her. So, really I saved her, didn’t I?

  “Say three Hail Mary’s—”

  “Does…does it mean something? Something more? Is it a message?”

  “God works in mysterious ways. He tests us.” The priest shifts, the old wooden bench creaking under his weight. “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  Stepping out of the confessional, I walk through the church. I usually feel lighter after confession, as though I have appeased God for another month, apologised for what I am. Not this time. It’s not enough. I can feel it. This sinking feeling, it’s his displeasure settling over me like a weighted blanket. I’m not forgiven, and no confession can make this right.

  Getting in my car, I wind through the London streets to that same address. I can’t help myself, night after night. It’s like an addiction.

  I pull into the car park littered with run down cars and a few mopeds. At one end is a walkway that leads toward the towering blocks of flats, an ugly smudge against the night sky. Parking the car, I get out. The throbbing beat of music comes from somewhere above me, in one of the higher flats. A baby cries. A car revs in the distance, tyres squealing. There’s a too-loud TV, and the raised voices it’s supposed to drown out. It’s a hive of activity right here in the very epicentre of undesirable living.

  The scent of desperation lingers like a noxious fog. Cold air whips around me, dragging with it the aroma of rubbish and city exhaust fumes. Traffic hums in the distance, mixing with the occasional horn and siren.

  I fold my arms over my chest, pulling my heavy wool jacket tighter around me.

  The blocks of flats tower in front of me, an ugly glowing monstrosity against the night sky… And in one of those blocks, is a single light. One window on the fifth floor, a single point in a sea of other glowing dots. That lone window has become my own personal viewing screen — a tiny glimpse at the only being capable of bringing me absolution. She was sent to watch me, but it’s me who watches her. Day after day, for…I don’t know how long it’s been.

  I stare at that window. Waiting. Driving need roots my feet to the spot. I couldn’t say how long passes, but finally, finally, I see her, like a holy apparition to a faithless man.

  The silhouette of her frame passes over the light, and I see her tug her shirt over her head.

  I find a certain satisfaction in her lack of awareness. She has no idea she’s being watched. So blissfully naive despite knowing well that there are monsters in this world.

  I wait for her to leave, or for the lights to go out. Neither happens. Minutes trickle into hours, and the peaceful silence of the early morning hours fall like a blanket. Most of the other windows go dark, but not hers. No, it glows in the darkness, and it's like a lighthouse to a lost ship. I'm drawn to it. Closing my eyes, I imagine her sitting there, perhaps trying to forget her troubles. Maybe she drinks a few glasses of wine. She probably cries. The tears of an angel. When the black of night starts to turn to the darkest shade of grey, I grow edgy. Her light is still on. Curiosity eats away at me, and I can no longer just stand here. Pushing away from my car, I follow the path that leads towards the blocks.

  I hook left towards ‘North Tower’. There’s no lobby, just a concrete-covered area with an elevator and two doors labelled stairwell one and two. The elevator door is plastered in yet more graffiti. Using my elbow, I nudge the call button and wait. Nothing happens for long minutes until I finally surmise that it does not work. Stairwell one it is. Pale blue paint peels and flakes from the door, and the glass window at the top looks as though it has been smeared with something I do not wish to study too closely. Covering my hand with my jacket sleeve, I pull it open and am instantly greeted by the overpowering smell of urine. The concrete stairwell looks like a breeding ground for every bacteria known to science. The music from above gets louder as I climb to the fifth floorThe hallway is lit by a blinking overhead fluorescent light with wires hanging precariously. These apartments can’t possibly be managed. Either that or the residents are just accustomed to a certain level of squalor. Basic conditioning if a populous knows no better then they accept any given situation — exploitation of the poor and uneducated. Though, Eden isn’t uneducated. Full scholarships to King’s are elusive, only awarded to the best and brightest Europe has to offer. No, she’s not uneducated, perhaps just unfortunate? Dead parents, and a little brother to raise… They do say that God only gives us as much as we can handle. I’m not sure whether that’s true. I love and respect Him, but I think he enjoys our suffering. A powerful being such as him could surely fall to narcissistic tendencies. Maybe love isn’t enough. He needs proof. Defining acts of resilience that confirm our absolute faith.

  I move down the hallway, the flickering light making the scene before me look like the opening to a horror film. I finally come to halt outside her door. Number 503. The 3 hangs upside down, and the red paint has faded to pink, cracking along the edges of the frame. There’s a peephole, and I imagine her on the other side, staring at me. If it were a horror film, she’d be the innocent, terrified girl and I’d be the crazed killer. The thought makes me smile. I can picture it when I think of her, see it in my mind’s eye. Yes, the angel, cast to earth to live in poverty. It’s poetic really.

  I linger for long seconds before stepping closer. Closing my eyes, I press my palm to the door, picturing her on the other side. Getting even closer, I almost press my ear to the faded paint. I hear the low hum of the TV, and... footsteps. Distant. Not close, but if she were to look through the peephole right now, she'd see me here.

  One, two, three, four steps. Pause. One, two, three, four. Pause. She's pacing. Little Eden seems to be unravelling, and I’d be lying if it didn’t please me somewhat because look at me; here, watching her. I'm losing it every bit as much as she is. We’re bonded. Her in her grief and me, witnessing it from the shadows.

  Stepping away, I back up. One foot and then the other. Over and over until I’m at the stairwell. I force myself to walk away and get back in my car. She’s become an addiction, a drug that I’m willing to spend all my time chasing. And it’s that madness that makes me sit here until the sun starts to rise.