Angel’s Watch
A novella
By Beatrice Preti
Copyright 2014 Beatrice Preti
Dedication
For MB, who loved to read
And AP, who never lied
Chapter 1: Steal the Night
“Nine-one-one, what is your..?"
"O-oh, thank goodness, Sir! It's awful! Simply awful!" My voice croaked in the right spots. I added a trill at the end for emphasis.
"Ma'am, could...?"
"Oh, Sir, the screams! The shrieks! Dreadful! And at this hour of the...!"
"Ma'am, I..."
"Would you believe that I told Cornelia yesterday morning - only yesterday morning! - that nothing good should ever come-of-that-man-living-up..."
"Ma'am, you..."
"Please, you must send the police. Send the army! Send someone! For God's sake, Sir, do you intend to let that madman murder all of..."
"Ma'am, we’ll be right there! I just need you to…”
CLICK.
"Perfect." I wiped the receiver of the phone before easing my way towards the window. Pulling the liners off my boots, I checked the floor for prints before jumping onto the roof. In a few minutes, Mr Upstairs would have a rude awakening. It was a pity the rest of the building would be woken as well. But the collateral damage couldn't be helped.
Besides, it was for a good cause. And I would think of it no more.
As if to prove myself right, I took a big step on the ridge of the roof, breathing in the cool night air. Tilting my head back, I sauntered into the night. It was exhilarating. The freedom, the feeling! All my doubts dissolved as the wind rushed through my hair, my soul. The pinprick stars danced above my head, cast into the distance by the sombre satin robes the world had donned, wrapped in mourning for another spent sun.
The free feeling...the free-falling…
I leapt off the roof, onto the next. And the next.
I turned a cartwheel. A summersault.
I was free. This was free.
This was all I ever wanted. Needed. Me, myself, and the night. We were one. Connected. Together.
A streetlamp fluttered, and I turned my back, scampering away from the light. Into the safety of the night. The dark roads ahead. The abandon. The rush.
Do you know how it feels? To have the sky at your fingertips, and the world beneath your feet...
"HAAAAAALLLEEEELUUUUUJAAAAAAAAHHHH!!"
I had enough in my pocket for the night. Mr. Upstairs had kindly furnished my next month's rent. I could afford some time off.
I deserved some fun.
I jumped off the roof, and began to run.
They call me names on the street.
Alice Redglove. Lil' Pearl. Soft Fingers. Patty Petticoats.
"Alice Redglove" is my favourite, though I often wondered how they knew I was female. They had never seen me. They knew me only as a shadow. A presence. A threat.
A thief.
Yes. A thief.
By profession, I am a thief. A common thief. A petty thief.
But my quarry is specific. I do not shoplift, rob banks, or snatch purses.
Oh, no.
I choose my targets more carefully. Too carefully.
I steal from other thieves, regardless of their affiliation with the law.
Usually, the assortment is grim. Particularly of late. My reputation spreads quickly, and most of the...lesser crooks think twice before letting temptation win.
But I extend my definition of "thief" beyond the world of the simple window crawlers and the safecrackers.
I know a thief as "anyone who steals".
Not just property. Not just possessions.
But lives. Loves.
Even freedom.
Especially freedom.
Stealing freedom is worse than stealing a life.
To control another person is to control their soul.
And I never want to be controlled.
By a thief, a criminal, or a cop.
Yes, cops are thieves. They steal freedom, and they steal lives. You wouldn’t understand, of course, if you've never been stuck behind bars, lost...alone...afraid...desperately praying, begging, hoping, searching for an answer which simply isn't there!
And, when you finally open your heart to the truth in the despair, you realise that even God's back is turned away from you, and there is nowhere for you to run.
But the chase...the free, night-long romps...now, that is worth living for.
I enjoy watching my prey squirm. At times, their reactions are comical. I adjust my "commission" accordingly. Good entertainment is difficult to find, particularly in this line of work.
The silent ones are more difficult, though. Mr. Upstairs, for instance. It's been two weeks since he stole the emerald-and-pearl necklace from the visiting Lady Burnham of Marblemarsh. Quite a brazen attack really, but the police had difficulty finding leads. The man was clever enough to cover his tracks. Not surprisingly. Mr. Upstairs was the younger brother of the regional police chief.
Given the slow advancement of the case, I decided to lend the police my assistance. Taking a generous donation from Mr. Upstairs' wallet first, of course. I have bills to pay.
The "job" itself wasn't quite difficult. I had only to draw the police to the scene; they would handle the rest. The neighbourhood itself was a poor one, full of crime and crudely secured. There was a broken window on the first floor of the building. Only two tenants: Mr. Upstairs and the elderly lady below whom I had impersonated on the telephone. Not sure what the police had made of that conversation; then again, I didn't really care. As long as they came, and justice was served.
I had moved the necklace itself from its place of glory inside the closet safe to the base of a flowerpot just inside Mr Upstairs’ front door. It might have been a little obvious for a robber of the man’s calibre, but the police would notice it when they arrived. Notice that an attempt at concealment had been made. That would be enough to arouse suspicion. That was all I needed.
The wind rushed against my face, and I was enveloped by the beauty of the night. I returned the embrace, drenching myself in the beautiful peace.
The night was dark. The dark was safe. For me.
I might pass for a shadow, and no one would think twice. They could walk by without even turning their heads. I might do as I pleased, and no one could…
Light.
Through the satin darkness flashed a light.
And then, another.
They were cycling...signaling.
Lights.
I squinted. My eyes burnt, then watered.
It was a flare.
The glare.
The coarse light cracking through my haven, the night.
Repulsive.
And then, the cutting roar of sirens.
The blinking red-and-blue.
The shattered peace.
I cowered into the shadows. Closer to the ground. But the cars didn't stop. They weren't interested in me.
I watched from my hiding spot. Watched the hapless victim on the road. It was a boy. Younger than me. Clearly drunk.
But it wasn't my concern.
Why, then, was I still watching?
The cops were rough. Particularly the big, brawny one on the left. Tawny hair. Face like a barn owl.
But it didn't concern me. I should have left. I had no place, here.
But my feet still stayed.
I watched them assail the boy, teasing him, calling him names which stung my heart.
No, he wasn't blameless. Far from it.
But he was a only boy. A child. A human child.
They treate
d him worse than a...a spider. Or an ant.
They were stealing something from him. Not his freedom. He had relinquished that the moment he turned the key. The law was against him. It is wrong to drive while intoxicated. I knew that. It didn’t bother me.
But the police weren't taking his freedom. They weren't after that. They were destroying his pride. His dignity. The very things which made him human.
They were taking it away.
And now…
He was nothing.
Just like me.
The boy's cries stopped, and I tore my eyes from the scene.
I began to run.
Through the shadows...past the flares...the glares...the blinking lights.
I felt the ground harden beneath my feet.
The grass gave way to cement.
I was back in the city.
I was safe.