Chapter Two: A Nasty Blast from a Pasty Past
I walked through the streets, retracing the steps to my flat.
The streetlamps were too weak to be effective. The rotting gray light cast a heavy shadow over the bricks and stones, leaving a grim reminder of the misery haunting each step.
On the street corner there stood a church. The stained glass windows had been punched through, leaving the Madonna without a face, and the Christ without a heart.
I quickened my steps. Because there was a slight chill in the air. Not because I was afraid. I had little to be afraid of. I had no money, no jewellry to lose. My pride, my dignity had been lost long ago. I lived through my work, and my work alone.
And no one could take that from me.
The houses down the alleys were boarded up and abandoned long ago. Only cockroaches and drug dealers held meetings there anymore. But the alleys were quiet, now. It must have been late...or very early.
The stores faced the main roads. The tiny flats above them were still inhabited by those lucky enough to afford a roof over their heads. The daytime traffic was adequate to allow for the installation of the wrought iron bars, almost necessitated by the neon signs flashing "OPEN LATE" and "AUTHENTIC CUBAN CIGARS AND RUSSIAN VODKA". Only a keen eye could pick out the holes ripped in the crumbling siding and stucco in the dark, rendering all security useless. I wasn't the only skilled thief in the city, but I was one of the few who followed any semblance of moral code.
A barbed wire fence to my left bore a new sign: "Gas Bar No Longer Serving".
I watched as the hardened smokers, drug addicts, beggars, and nighthawks kicked through the rubble on the streets, searching for treasure and trouble. An abandoned car stood next to the rundown pizza joint ("Mama Em's Cheesy Bites! Get 'Em While They're HAWT!").
I walked a few blocks more.
Police tape.
Police tape surrounded the building I had visited earlier. The officers formed a perimeter around the dirt garden.
I craned my neck.
Two policemen flanked a handcuffed Mr. Upstairs. I recognised one of them as the tawny Barn Owl from earlier. They were rough, but, this time, it was deserved.
Indeed, it was gratifying to see Mr. Upstairs taken away. Good to know my work wasn't entirely in vain. Tomorrow, I might revisit the flat and see if there was anything of value for my troubles.
As for now, though, it would be best to continue home.
The night was waning.
As was my strength.
My head was spinning.
I needed to go home.
As I climbed the steps of my building, I noticed the rust covering the rails. I pulled back, wiping my hands on my shirt. So much rust? It certainly wasn't healthy. But cleaning would do no good. The rust would return as soon as the polish rubbed off. Truthfully, the entire building was a health trap. Decrepit and dilapidated. As were many of the buildings in this part of the town.
But it was all I needed. And it was home.
The sun was beginning to break through the cracks in the night.
I needed to rest. To think.
I turned the key in the lock, and fell onto the couch.
My body groaned.
Had I really been gone that long?
I hadn't done much...only visit Mr. Upstairs...and go for a jog.
Why, then, did I feel so...down? So tired?
The events of the day replayed in my head. Mr. Upstairs...now, that was a job well done. Justice had been served. Hopefully the necklace would find its way back to the Lady Burnham.
I remembered the handcuffs, and an image of the tawny Barn Owl flitted across my mind.
The police moved quickly across town.
Had I done the right thing?
The drunk boy...he shouldn't have been driving. It was wrong. Someone might have been hurt.
But the disgrace! The torment! No human should have had to endure such treatment.
Anger surged through my chest.
Should I have done something? Should I have intervened? Was it still too late? Perhaps I should pay the police a visit tomorrow night.
No, of course not. They were only upholding the law. The boy had broken the law. There's nothing left for me to do.
But they were so rough! The boy's face still haunted the back of my mind. He had been afraid.
I’d lived long enough among humans to know that their laws are not always morally strong. But this case was ambiguous. Difficult. The scales of justice were obscured from my sight.
The back of my neck tingled.
But I didn't even know who the boy was. He would be difficult to find. Too difficult.
There seemed no point in pursuing the case further.
Yes...yes, perhaps it would be best to forget...to move on.
But I would certainly keep an eye on that tawny Barn Owl. The man oozed trouble. After the way he had treated the boy on the highway, I had a feeling I would be seeing him again.
As these thoughts wrestled in my mind, I heard a noise outside my door. I stiffened, sinking deeper into the threadbare upholstery. Straining, I discerned a series of seemingly isolated words: “hurt”, “gone”, “use”. The words stopped for a moment, and I heard a creak, a rustle, and a moan.
And then…
"AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
I jumped off the couch and threw open the door, my fists clenched and ready for action.
But it was only my neighbour, the Crazy Spaniard.
I relaxed. Slightly. I might have known. The Crazy Spaniard was renowned for his...episodes, particularly at odd hours of the night.
"EEET EES A DEEESGRACE!"
I closed my door and covered my ears with my hands.
"OWWW CAN THEY DOOO SECH A THING! EEET EES EEELEEEGAL!"
I kicked the wall, and shouted. "Oi! Tone it down out there! People are trying to sleep!"
"OOOOOOOOAAAAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
I threw the door open. "SHUT UP!"
The man moaned softly, and remorse crept into my heart. Oh, the pains of a conscience.
"Señor? Señor! Are you all right?"
The man continued to moan.
"OI! CRAZY SPANISH NEIGHBOUR FELLOW!"
The Crazy Spaniard stopped wailing, and looked at me. "You call me...Crazy?"
I nodded.
"¿Por qué?"
I threw my hands in the air. "It's the middle of the night! Good, decent people, trying to sleep! And then there's you, making a racket..."
The Crazy Spaniard chuckled. "You fool."
"I...I beg your pardon?" Did he just…?
"'Good, decent people, trying to sleep'? You don't look like you were sleeping, and neither you nor I could be called 'decent people'."
"You…you can't be serious! Do you even hear yourself? Are you drunk? You really are a load of --"
"Good people don't haunt the night, Alice Redglove. Or should I call you...Tessa?"
I started. This was an accusation I hadn't prepared for.
"Perhaps...perhaps you should come inside," I said, in a much smaller voice, holding my door open.
"¿Eh? Yes, perhaps I think so, too. Wouldn't want to wake the 'good, decent people' with too much chat, now, would we?"
I felt slightly self-conscious as the Crazy Spaniard's eye seemed to scrutinize the humble contents of my flat. A ragged couch, a side table with two chairs, a burner with two pots, a refurbished oak wardrobe, and a pair of socks. I shoved the socks behind a pillow, filled a pot with water, and motioned for the Crazy Spaniard to take a seat.
We sat in silence, waiting for the water to boil.
"So…" I said at last.
"So it would seem."
I wrinkled my nose at this reply. "Who are you? How do you know me?"
"I do not know you, señorita."
"You call me by a name I haven't heard in years
."
"Alice Redglove?"
"No, no, the --"
"Ah, Tessa?"
I cringed.
"Why do you fear the past?" the Spaniard said. "It is a beautiful name, 'Tessa'. Short for 'Teresa', mmm? Like the name of an angel. Una angelita."
"I am no angel," I said. "But you might be the devil."
The Spaniard chuckled. "Me? Diablo? I think not. My name is Pepito."
Courtesy jumped in. "It's lovely to meet you, Pepito." No! It's not. He's a madman. He's crazy! He's --
"Ja, lovely indeed, but we have met before, no? Pues, not properly, perhaps. You mostly yell at me for too much noise. At odd hours of the night. Funny how you never have the sleepy eyes like the others."
I frowned. The man spoke the truth. I didn't care for it. I decided to attack. "You were crying outside, earlier, weren't you? Why?"
Pepito frowned. "Pepito NEVER cries." He looked at the teacup I set in front of him. "And I prefer café."
I snorted. "Well, I'm sorry, but we haven't much of that to go around here!"
Pepito studied my face. "Lo siento. I meant no offense."
I shrugged. It was clear this man's interpersonal skills were on par with mine. But mine were from a lack of experience and an overriding sense of justice. The Spaniard was simply mad.
"I know! I have idea," Pepito announced grandly. "You answer one of my questions, I answer one of yours."
I shrugged. "Fair enough. But I start."
"Claro que sí, señorita."
"How do you know my name?"
Pepito grabbed my hand and twisted it, palm upwards. "There!"
I tried to pull back, but Pepito was stronger. Surprisingly so.
"Your scar, angelita! Your scar!"
There was a crescent-shaped scar on my palm. My poker face turned on. "Ah. Yes. I have a scar. Fascinating. And this means…?"
"Ah-ah-ah! One question for you, one question for me!"
I frowned. "You never answered my question. What does this scar mean to you?"
Pepito sighed. "You are Watcher, yes? I can see you are obstinada. Just like a Watcher. And both you and I know that all Watchers have a scar in their palms. But the Watchers are guardian angels. Invisible to the men and women they protect. Yet I can see you. Then, you must be Fallen. You have failed a task. You are no longer suitable to protect. Not up to the job."
I tried to speak, but Pepito raised his hand.
"But there is more, mmmm? You live here, among men. You do not have contact with the other Watchers. You must have gone Rogue. The only Watcher, I think, to have gone Rogue in quite some time. And both you and I know there is only one Fallen Watcher who has gone Rogue...Tessa."
Pepito spoke words I hadn’t heard in years. Words which brought the dead to life, and reminded me of a world I thought had left far behind. My hopes and failures all shattered across my mind, and my entire body began to shake.
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say.
Thus, I did what humans are apt to do when they are frightened.
I snarled.
"How do you know all of this, you Crazy Spaniard? Are you a Watcher? Did Raphael send you? Are you a spy? Because I'm NOT going back, no matter what --!"
"Ah-ah-ah! It is my question now."
I crossed my arms and pouted. "This is an atrocity."
Pepito leaned back in his chair and smiled. "How long have you been stealing, now? Eight years? Nine years?"
"I do not steal, I ensure justice is served."
"Ah, a thief with a conscience, have we? But what of the law? Does the law not provide justice?"
"The law is inadequate. I fill the gaps."
"Why do you think the law is inadequate?"
I shrugged.
"Is it because of Beth?"
My heart dropped with my voice. "How do you know that name?"
Pepito smirked. "Not as stupid as you thought, ¿eh?."
Too many memories and too few answers. I felt my patience crack. "Who ARE you, you Crazy Spaniard? Why are you here? What are you doing here? HOW DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?"
"So many questions, angelita!"
"Stop calling me that!"
"Why? Does the past sting you? Does it torment you? Torrrrrrrrturrrrrre you?"
"S-stop!"
"The past hurts, doesn't it?"
"You little --"
"Cálmese, angelita. The past stings me, too. Even tonight. I was fired. Just now. Tonight. They let me go. Thirty-eight years on the police force, and they decide to send me h-home. They push me out la puerta maldicha...a-a-AIEEEEEE!"
This time, I didn't flinch at the cry. "Why would they fire you? Did you do something wrong?"
Pepito sniffed. "They tire of my 'stories', they say. I say, puf."
"What stories?"
"For...two years now, creo...I have told them that Alice Redglove lived next door to me. Asked them for permiso. For officers. For weapons. But no one ever believed."
I was flabbergasted. "You...you knew who I was...all that time?"
Pepito nodded.
"…you would have brought the cops HERE?"
Pepito nodded.
"So you would have had me arrested? Imprisoned? Locked up? The work I do is important, señor, and if you can't see that..."
Pepito only shrugged. "I needed your help."
I felt a helium balloon burst in my heart. "But...you might have just asked..."
Pepito chuckled. "But you, angelita, are so very elusive. How to find you? And every time we do seem to meet, you are always yelling. Not a good time to ask for a favour."
"So...you would have had me arrested, instead?"
Pepito smiled. "Por favor, angelita. No one could arrest Alice Redglove. Certainly not a lowly human officer. But with enough persuasion, we might have been able to speak, though. One-to-one. Like...'decent people'."
I tapped my teacup, still full with the cooling liquid, in a weak rhythm. "...why do you need my help?"
"You are a Watcher."
"...not really."
Pepito looked at me. "You might be a Fallen Angel, angelita, and you might be a Rogue...but you are still a Watcher. Nothing can change that."
I shook my head. "I never was a Watcher. I failed my Trial."
The shock on his face told me that Pepito hadn't heard this part of the story.
"I failed my Trial. Then I turned Rogue, left the Pack, and never once looked back."
"You must have looked back," Pepito said softly. "At least once. I'm sure they would have given you a second chance."
I shook my head. "Beth died, Pepito. There are no second chances when death is involved. When I let my charge die on my watch. She wasn't supposed to go! Not yet. Not then. She was too young. She died...because of me! No Watcher has ever let their charge die. Not before their time. People die young all the time in this world. But it’s for a reason. Not Beth. The only reason there was my carelessness!"
Pepito twirled his moustache. "It isn't your fault, sabe…"
"You know, Pepito, you're right. It's not." My voice was laced with sarcasm and bitterness. "Beth died in a shootout. A police shootout. With a gang. She was walking by. Just a passer-by. And she was hit. Because the law was weak. The law was too lax to stop criminals from getting guns and killing good people. The police were too weak to do their job!" My voice rose higher. "I failed my Trial because the law was too weak. The police were weak. They couldn't protect her. But it's different now. I'm here. Alice Redglove. I uphold the law. And, now, it’s stronger."
"But are you stronger?" asked Pepito. "You do not look like a Watcher. You look like vagabunda."
"I'm not a Watcher," I hissed. "I never was."
"You bear the mark on your palm. You are a Watcher. They trained you. They raised you. And, now, I need your help."
I sighed. "Why should I help you? After you've insulted me...accosted me...assaulted my ears with your incessant moaning..."
"You need a ch
ange, angelita. You're a Watcher, whether you admit it or not. You have a need to protect. It burns within you. But you aren't protecting. Not the way you are supposed to. You are tired. Run-down. Possibly your powers are weakening. You want to help others, but you're not doing it the right way. You're only trying to create a vision of order and justice. It's not the same thing."
It was a struggle to find a response. My voice, my mind seemed to have abandoned me. I was lost in the Spaniard's words...and the truth behind them.
When I did manage to speak, it was only in a whisper. "I need redemption. I need another chance."
"I can give you that chance," Pepito said. "Beth has a brother. Rocky. He's a singer. In a band."
Singer? Celebrities. Never could stand that group. I crossed my arms, feeling my protective walls rise again. "And I should care...why?"
"He's being threatened. He needs help."
"Threatened? By who? Fangirls? If he's that famous, shouldn't he have bodyguards?"
"Bodyguards, angelita, will not stop these forces."
I shifted in my chair. Pepito seemed quite sincere. "What makes you think I can do it? I don't exactly have a good track record when it comes to protecting others."
Pepito smiled kindly. "You are a Watcher, Tessa. The Watchers protect."
"But -- "
"No te preocupes, angelita. I know more about you than you know about yourself."
"…how?"
"Let's just say I take an interest in you. A very special interest."
"Not for sponsors, I hope? I prefer to work alone."
"Ah, ja, angelita...you have no idea…"