FIVE THE SEVEN ANGELS
FIVE
THE SEVEN ANGELS
I t feels as if we’ve been running for hours.
The pain from my head throbs with every step I take, as the boy leads me through the streets of Sarumbourne city centre.
The downpour drowns out the sounds of my laboured breath.
Water drips down my face, mingling with the taste of copper in my mouth. I’m bleeding.
Am I keeping up with him? He looks back at me, his features obscured by the dim glow of the streetlights. The pavements are empty of people; only a few cars pass on the roads, their wipers zooming back and forth.
The young man slows down, holding up a hand for me to do the same. I catch my breath as my chest pounds. How did he find me just in time back at the college? Did he follow me after I left him in Smokers’ Clearing?
‘We’re almost there,’ he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the crashing rain and passing vehicles.
‘Where are we going?’
He doesn’t respond.
I follow him across a road and through an archway sitting between a coffee shop and a bakery. We pass through open gates and down an underpass. I enjoy the temporary break from the rain before we emerge into an open courtyard.
In all my life in Sarumbourne, I never knew this place existed.
I’m guided across the cobbled paving to the darkest corner of the courtyard. The boy locates a nondescript door and produces a key. He turns it with practised ease and the door creaks open, revealing a dimly lit space.
As I step inside I’m greeted immediately by the stench of alcohol and old tobacco. The sounds of cheers and laughter pulse from the end of the corridor. I squint toward the light and can make out groups of people moving about with drinks in hand. It’s a bar.
‘Up here,’ he says, closing the door behind us and heading up a set of stairs.
I quickly follow, attempting to take in the building’s Tudor-esque interior. Lily would love this place.
We reach the first floor, and he leads me down a hallway, our footsteps echoing as we go.
Finally, we enter a bedroom. A double bed occupies the centre of the room.
It’s set between two square-crossed windows.
A dormant fireplace stands on one wall, its mantle displaying books of varying sizes.
A chest of drawers, worn and broken, and an armchair make up the other wall. He lives above a bar?
He closes the door behind us, flipping on the light, the room now bathing in a warm glow. My gaze narrows on the boy, now more visible in the light. He’s even more handsome than I first thought. His wet hair clings to his forehead, trailing beads of moisture down his lightly stubbled jaw.
He removes his sodden jacket.
He’s taller than me, and I can tell by his arms he’s a gym-goer. He’s probably one of those guys who eats lean turkey and broccoli for breakfast.
He makes his way over to the fireplace and waves a single hand over the logs and they immediately erupt into flames.
Is that thing motion-censored? It doesn’t look like a modern fireplace in the slightest. How did he do that?
He gestures toward the drawers. ‘You can find some dry clothes in there. Take anything. I’ll fetch something for that cut on your head.’
He leaves the room.
Should I trust him? He did save my life. Now here I am, about to get naked in a complete stranger’s bedroom. Talk about uncomfortable. Yet, the alternative of remaining damp and injured seems equally undesirable.
I quickly select an outfit – a plain navy T-shirt and grey joggers.
This isn’t how I pictured spending my Friday night. Normally, it’d be a takeout with Mum, that is if she isn’t working. She’s probably assumed I’m with Lily tonight. At least, I hope she has.
I take out my phone. One message from Mum and a billion from Lily. Fantastic.
I tap into Mum’s message:
I’m heading to bed. Hope you’re having fun. Dinner in the fridge. See you in the morning x
An early night for Mum then. I can never keep track of her shifts at the hospital. Maybe that’s where I should be right now, judging from the pounding headache.
I toss my wet and partially bloody clothes by the fire. The door creaks open behind me, and the boy returns with a first aid kit and a small bowl of water in hand.
‘Good choice,’ he says, examining my outfit. ‘Here.’ He hands me the kit and places the bowl on his bedside table. ‘Use this.’ He taps a free-standing vanity mirror beside the bowl. ‘You can sit on the bed.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, watching him move behind me toward the drawers.
I quickly adjust my eyes as he begins removing his clothes. That’s happening.
I take a seat on the edge of his bed and begin rummaging around in the first aid box. Any sort of distraction right now is needed.
I can’t help but steal glances at myself in the mirror. My hair is a dishevelled mess, but that’s the least of my concerns. The cut looks bad. I look like the zombie I dressed as for Jack’s Halloween party last month. Only this is real blood, and not the sticky red syrup Lily invented.
I pick up the mirror and dip a cotton bud in the water. I start cleaning the area. It stings, and I recoil before proceeding.
‘So… where exactly are we?’
‘The Seven Angels,’ he says.
I angle the mirror at the sound of his voice, and I’m greeted by his muscular back as he rummages through his drawer for clothes.
He’s wearing some sort of chain around his neck, but I can’t get a good look at it from where I am.
I let my eyes slip down and notice a large scar across his lower back.
It looks surgical. My eyes continue down and… oh.
I make a noise I can’t stifle, almost dropping the mirror in the process.
‘Everything alright?’ he says.
‘Uh, no. Yes. This.’ Form words, Liam. ‘It’s difficult doing it one-handed.’ I really hope he didn’t notice me spying on his bare bum. ‘So… uh… The Seven Angels, cool place.’
I’ve always passed by this building, yet I’d never stepped foot inside until now.
Had we entered from the front, I would have undoubtedly recognised it.
The Seven Angels is renowned as one of the oldest buildings in Sarumbourne.
Jack often raves about its fantastic student nights.
He has plans to bring Lily and me here on Open Mic Thursdays once we turn eighteen, although I’ll be purely an observer since singing and I go about as well together as Taylor Swift and a stable relationship.
The boy, now dressed in white T-shirt and jeans, begins rearranging my wet clothes.
‘Do you live here?’
‘Yes,’ he says, carefully hanging my T-shirt from the mantle.
A photo frame resting on his bedside table shows three individuals tightly embraced on a lawn bathed in sunlight.
A man with his arms affectionately wrapped around a woman, their gazes fixed upon a young boy.
The trio possess matching features – dark locks, a similar complexion, and wide, joyous smiles. They all look so happy.
‘Is this a family business?’ I ask.
He raises his gaze to me, then the photo briefly, before resuming his current task.
‘It’s just me,’ he says. ‘And I don’t work here. I just use the room.’
I detect a subtle tremor in his voice. Where are his family? Is he alone here in Sarumbourne? I choose not to probe.
I shift my focus back to my forehead. As I glide another cotton bud over my cut, a sharp, strong sting elicits an involuntary noise from me.
He rushes to my side. ‘Here, let me.’
He dips a fresh bud into the water and begins to softly wipe my forehead. It still hurts, but somehow less so with his touch. He flicks his damp hair away from his eyes.
I clock the chain around his neck again, its end disappearing beneath his T-shirt.
‘Do you have a knack for getting injured or is this just a bad week?’ he asks, his gaze shifting toward my bandaged hand.
‘I… uh… had a disagreement with a vending machine.’
He nods, smirking.
On his next wipe, a single droplet escapes and traces a path down my cheek. He intercepts it with his thumb, his touch lingering slightly. His eyes meet mine. They hold me captive, instantly boring into my soul.
‘As we’re in such close proximity, I should probably know your name,’ he says, resuming his work on my wound.
‘It’s Liam.’
‘Nice to meet you, Liam. I’m Tariq.’
‘Ta… rick.’
‘My family’s from Egypt,’ he adds, almost as if offering an explanation. ‘Feel free to call me Tar if you’d prefer.’
‘Nice to meet you, Tariq,’ I say.
A warm smile spreads across his face. I relax, and try to gather some courage to ask what I should have asked the moment I stepped into this room.
‘Those guys who were chasing me, were they Shark Buyers?’
Tariq laughs. ‘Dark Friars. And yes.’
‘Why are they after me?’
‘Because you’re a Keeper. Close your eyes.’
I do as he says. The cool, moist pad gently glides across my eyelid and down my nose. This level of intimacy with a total stranger is unfamiliar, yet our connection feels entirely normal.
‘But you already know about Keepers, don’t you?’
I open my eyes.
‘I saw you,’ he continues. ‘Before, I mean. Walking in the forest with your friends.’
He was watching us? I fidget, feeling uneasy. ‘You were spying on me?’
He pulls his aiding hand away.
‘No, Liam. I promise. That wasn’t my intention. I was there for the same reason you were.’
He reaches for a nearby towel, hesitantly holding it up as if seeking permission to touch me again. I turn my head to the side. He gently presses the towel against my forehead.
‘And what reason was that?’ I ask.
‘You don’t have to pretend. I may not be one of your friends, but you can trust me.’
He retrieves a large plaster from the first aid kit and gently applies it to my wound.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘You’re welcome.’ He discards the used supplies in a bin, packs away the kit, and settles himself in a chair by the crackling fire.
A brief silence envelops the room. My gaze wanders around the unfamiliar surroundings.
‘When did your nightmares start?’ says Tariq.