"The Sacred Part Two" by Kate ´The Pirate´ Riley

The Sacred

Part Two

Saint Peter

‘I see the sun. The birds sing somewhere far off, somewhere miles away; the place where I want to be, Athens, the City of the Gods. Yet a return flight beckons me home, a place where an empty bed awaits me, a place with no soul, where the people have no faces. A cold room, a cold fire, a cold heart without vision and the figure I left there two weeks ago, a man without inspiration, the living dead.

I sigh. So cold out here…

Winding the camera, staring up at the sky the whole time. The skin on my thumb bristles against the cheap artifice, the plastic refuses to be turned anymore. Disposable. Hmph.

There was a time when I spared no expense for such a tool. A window into the outside world, a world none of us could see without the Second Sight, a gift given through the lens. To plaster the pictures with soft, subtle tones of grey, shades of colour bled out just to see where light and shadow met. There is such romance in photography, such feeling that no person but oneself can see. I never used to see the turrets, the skyscrapers, the bustling city streets of New York when I was younger, at a time when I lived for adventure, left behind the blurry lights of London for the ever more blinding lights of America. I saw magic that I could hold in the palms of my hands with the touch of a button; My kingdom from way up high on the second floor of my broken down castle, my courtesans straight from the streets, common and filthy and beautiful.

From the window I would stare, much as I did now, only in a different time and place. I would spend whatever time I could spare in front of that window, waiting from dawn to dusk, watching the hours pass, shooting the different phases of the moon each night, the sun as it rose and set along the horizon. In those moments I saw the gates of Heaven open and close, waiting lingering but for a moment to set free the dreams of those who slept there and we, mere mortals would catch them in our own two hands and dream the sweetest of their memories as the night drew in. My dream.

The winds have begun to pick up around here. I wonder how long it’ll take for them to find me, to realise that I won’t be coming home. Rachel, the tour guide immediately comes to mind, short skirt, red paisley blouse and the gaudy lipstick to match. Such a pretty face, a mask she wears to greet the tourists. Yet who knows what goes on behind the mask?

It bothers me.

It bothers me when people hide. I don’t trust artifice. I don’t like it.

The camera falls to the floor with a clatter. I take a step, just once to see the end before I reach it-

Wait. What was that?

A noise somewhere, over in the far corner, yes…

A cat. What’s a cat doing up here? Looking at me with huge round golden eyes, as black as the night, watching from the shadows, just by those boxes there.

“Shoo!”

Not even a flicker. Obstinate bastard. I just want to be alone, but what can a cat do?

In my minds eye I’m alone, nothing else matters but that, that I want this so much, that I need to touch the stars and capture it all on film.

What to do, what to do? Surely if one is going to…then one should just…

Oh to hell with it. Just do it, no regrets. I step up onto the platform, beyond the sea beyond the clouds the sun is shining and the rain begins to fall and summer showers kiss my lips, dancing across my eyelashes as I struggle to see the horizon.

Two steps backwards. No room for remorse.

If only the figure in the rain was real, if only the hands she clasped was mine…the pictures I took for the Gazette, the pictures strewn out along the floor of my bedroom, those that stared right through me above the fireplace…empty. For what could home be without her?

One step back, I feel the breeze turn sour with anger.

Of course, I’d try to capture her, keep her safe…every smile, every tear, every hug, every dress, every year, every hour of every day, every night I’d shoot from a different angle and she never once complained, the star that she was. Immortal…

Wind the camera again.

I want to stay here forever; I want to remember this always. I want you to see me now.

For you Clara, my one, my darling…

My child.’

I listened to the recording over again; and again, and again, and again. I didn’t try to comprehend why; I didn’t try to know what Peter Matthews did to deserve his fate. I didn’t know who Clara was; only that Peter had loved her, only that he had no children. I didn’t know Peter. I simply sensed him, I knew as I know now that he had once been kind, that he was one of the few in this world who truly belonged to My Lord. He had earned his place. And so must I.

It was for this reason that I followed him, a figure, a shape in the shadows, a dream built on reality: Guardian Angel, me. Only the Angels didn’t roam the Earth, those who truthfully only saw fit to guard Heaven itself and those souls within their sanctuary. I was, am, one of those wedged between worlds, a ‘ghost’ if you like, only a bit more special. I was the redeemer, the saviour of the good, nevertheless the Guardian of those who tended to stray from the path.

But that…this now was understatement. I knew this man’s soul, what he intended to do so I swept along the streets in his footfall, to partake of this arduous task myself.

In life I had been a killer, yet one of stealth and could follow such a man with ease as he focused entirely on himself, blocking out the world and continuously toying with a small disposable camera with both hands. Celestial prowess has nothing to do with my job here, only that I can deliver those souls unto God when hope is lost, save them falling to Lucifer.

Slowly silently I drew the blade at my side, eyes fixed on Peter, now standing stock still at the opposite end of the long alley I had followed him down.

For his and my own good. I too, certainly had no intentions of joining the ranks of Hell itself.  

He looked nervously about himself, the tension showing as the blood rushed to his cheeks, mouth half open, eyes wide as a rabbits, chubby fingers again peeling back the coloured labels on the camera. And I, little more than imagination, shrunk back against the wall, fell into my feline form, with a suppressed groan. All of the bones in my body cracked and melted, the motion fluid, as the shadows became my cloak, the only real place that I can exist, never truly able to walk in the open lest I fade away like the dream I am. Yet it is possible if but for a moment.

I fled my hiding place but for a moment and retreated the blurred outline of the man himself beneath the dim floodlights above the door at the end of the alley. I watched as he opened the door, slid under it after him as it closed. It is a pain when they do that, as down here my form is always material, you can always touch me, hear me, see me…you just might not realise it when you do.

I charged up the stairs after him, the bulk of the man surprisingly agile and fleeing as though someone was to come and seize him by the arm. I paid little attention to the stench that lingered, familiar as it was to most blocks on that particular estate. My mind was set, my small feet silken and silent drummed against the concrete stairs, pieces of my body reaching out to elope once more with the scattered shadow along the stairwell, giving me a somewhat horrific appearance, as it often does, almost as though I were being pulled back into the darkness, melting physically. I felt sure, as I always do, that he was going to tear back down and glimpse me. I smiled wryly despite myself. In any case, the sight of me was sure to terrify him. Perhaps, I wondered, I should simply tap him on the shoulder and get him to turn around…

It seemed an age before we were finally into open air, fresh pollution seeping through the skies and bearing down upon us and I was all too aware of the contrast between my world and his. Out here, in New York, the people simply did not care, well no more so than my Tokyo had although now they had the technology to give up, to allow this place to rot, same as any other. It sickened me every time to know that I may yet see the decline of this place.

Peter stared out at the skyline, and I knew instantly what he was thinking; what could he have done different? It’s always the same, no matter the person; no matter the problem…I remember feeling that way once. I know I did then. I flooded my brain with strategy and bided my time sitting alone in the shade of the broken down canopy over the door. The place was littered with old beer cans, dead cigarette buds and the decaying remains of various pot plants, which from the scent I could tell had been lilies, reminded my of home, Japan where once I had pledged to return before I realised there was never a spare moment in my life anymore. There was always someone somewhere calling, someone to talk to, someone to comfort in their dreams, cradle their confused children as they grew, help them to understand what even now I wasn’t so sure of. And I could never truthfully say that I would like to see modern Japan, when all I really and truly wanted was Han and my place by the Emperor’s side, not my blood upon his grave. But I haven’t changed have I, really, I thought to myself as I listened to Peter speak into the recorder a way off. I’m still here and he won’t listen.

The final steps were taken, and I watched as he tried to usher me from the scene with frantic gestures and flailing arms. But his eyes grew sad and grey, and I knew as I always know that the time for prayer and talk was over that I must deliver. Such a look that I have seen written across many a face, and yes, I must admit to caring. It is such a sad thing to see the life drained from a character that knows it is his or her time to leave. With or without the help of God this man was going to die and I without instruction or guidance or even a memory of my master knew how.

Gone.

Intuitively I dived off after him, bringing to life all of the power death had given me. The world seemed to pass me by, the wind beat against my face and I let out a scream, streaking along the shadow of the fallen. His eyes were closed, his heartbeat was slowing, yet I moved with such speed that I barely found the time to think before clasping hold of his hand at the click of the camera, art at its most precious capturing us both as it sped off along the winds. Sick, twisting dilute anger found its way into my heart and I remember simply tugging so hard on his arm the I thrust the both of us up, higher and higher, the look on his face barely registering the majesty of all this as we soared upwards towards the sky, high above the city.

Goodbye.

Thud. I landed; feet firmly planted together once more in my human form, atop the roof, more than a little disorientated from my journey. I felt sick with the heat, as I wiped both sides of the Katana against my cloak and fell against the wall, slowly resting to sit, alone in the breeze. Somewhere down there the crowds were gathering, I could hear them even from way up here, gasping and touching and gossiping, the keypad of someone’s mobile phone bleeped the inevitable three digit number. Of course no one had truly seen me, I had been too fast. Nor had they seen Peter, my old friend skewered by the blade I now held fast, nor his decent to the higher planes. I had killed him before he could die of his own accord, damn himself.

The clouds gathered in the sky and the thunder clapped in the east, as the sun began to set. I began to laugh, softly to myself at the blasted irony of it all. He was angry. God was angry with me, but why…? The man would have died anyway.

I fished inside my pocket.

Producing a small leather bound wallet I sifted once more through the contents, that which had led me to my charge, the Good Reverend Matthews. I’d found it at the library, where I often slept in the desolate shades behind the towering cases. Of course I’d sensed it right from the moment I touched it, knew everything yet nothing about Matthews. Pictures of his deceased wife, May, dressed the inside cover, further reels of nieces, nephews, all labelled, oddly enough whilst the compartments were stuffed with bills and dates, receipts and a single letter stuff deep in at the back. From then on I’d followed him for those first few days and found the source of the ominous letter, the hospital appointment on the tenth. Peter was dying, May was gone…but I found nothing of Clara, not even of the supposed pictures Matthews had spoken of.

I sighed, found the recorder lying just a few feet away and retrieved it with one foul swoop, played back the contents. Right back were I left you and here I sit now, just hours after the good Reverend’s ascent. I wonder now as I watch the city lights go out one by one, as I ponder all that Peter could not say openly to the world who was Clara, who was the child I know Peter never had? Nothing seems to fit and I wonder what could Clara have been to have made Peter care so much for her but even more to point why do I care? A job is a job, right?

I sigh heavily; breath falls upon my chest through my open shirt. This is all becoming too much for me, as I laugh at the irony of my statement. That same line cost me my afterlife.

Hmph. Who knows someday maybe I’ll find Clara, perhaps she’ll find me. Yet the path is never mind to choose these days. You know what keeps me here you know my story. That I don’t burn for my crimes is down to the flock I keep and the tears I cried at the regret of losing Han. For every tear I didn’t cry before, an innocent like Saint Peter, waits somewhere to be saved…and who knows, dear friend, it could be you.