Weeping Angels - Digital Only

‘Yeah, well, goodnight, Ron,’ said Mark. But before he turned to go he glanced at the closed-circuit television on Ron’s desk. Something had caught his eye. The black-and-white screen showed the reception area, facing out towards the street. Where someone stood peering in through one of the doors, their face almost touching the glass. As though waiting to come in. Mark turned to look at the door, but there was nobody there. He turned back to the monitor on Ron’s desk, but it had flicked over to show a view of one of the office stairwells. When it flicked back to the view of the reception area, there was no longer a face at the door.

Ron paused as he turned the page of his Daily Mirror, ‘Was there something, sir?’

‘No, no, nothing.’ Mark buttoned up his coat and headed out into the night, taking care to use a different door from the one in which he had seen the marble-white, staring face.The rain eased off to a drizzle as Mark pulled into the petrol station. Pulling his coat tightly around him, he stepped into the freezing night and glugged thirty pounds of unleaded into the tank. He started to walk towards the shop to pay when he remembered the envelope, which he’d placed on the passenger seat. For all he knew, it might contain confidential legal documents and was not the sort of thing he should leave unattended.

Mark returned to his car and studied the envelope under the forecourt light. The name on the front definitely looked like his handwriting, but that didn’t mean anything; someone else could have similar handwriting to him. But he was intrigued as to why anyone would leave an envelope with instructions for it to only be delivered eight years later. And why 7/10/2011? What was so important about that date? Mark poked a finger under the flap and tore it open, just enough to see inside.

The envelope contained at least a hundred neatly folded fifty-pound notes, with several pieces of paper wrapped around them.

Siobhan had been right, it was a real mystery. But it would have to wait. Mark stowed the envelope into his coat pocket, locked his car and made his way into the shop.

It was one of those petrol station shops that was like a small supermarket, selling newspapers, magazines and microwaved sausage rolls. There were no other customers. Mark hurried to the counter to be served by a young Asian who didn’t look up from his smartphone.

‘Thirty quid.’

Mark slotted his card into the chip-and-pin and typed his number. As he waited for the machine to respond, he glanced over the attendant’s shoulder at the monitor showing the output of the petrol station’s closed-circuit cameras. The screen showed a view from a point above the counter, looking down into the shop. Mark could see the attendant and himself at the counter in grainy, flickering black-and-white. And behind him, at the end of the aisle near the door, stood a statue of an angel.

That was ridiculous. If there’d been a statue by the door, he’d have noticed it on his way in. Mark frowned at the picture on the screen. It was an old statue, it’s surface crumbling and pitted. It stood hunched, holding its face in its hands.

Mark turned to look back down the aisle. It was empty.

Where the statue had stood – where the statue should have been standing – there was just shiny, wet floor.

Mark returned his gaze to the monitor and shuddered.

The statue was still there, at the end of the aisle. But hadn’t it been standing further away? And hadn’t it been holding its head in its hands? Because now it seemed to have moved a metre or so towards him, and had lowered its hands, cupping them as though in prayer. He turned to look back down the aisle once more. It was still empty. No statue, nothing.

He looked back at the monitor. The statue had moved again. It was looking up, directly into the camera lens.

Looking at him. With staring, blank eyes and a slightly parted mouth. And a couple of metres in front of it he could see himself, standing at the counter, looking up at the monitor, and the attendant, still tapping away on his smartphone.

The PIN machine beeped and the attendant tore off Mark’s receipt. Mark mumbled some thanks and turned to go. Thankfully, the shop was still empty. His heart thudding, Mark hurried out of the shop, taking care to avoid the aisle where the statue had been standing.

He sprinted back to the safety of his car and slammed the door shut. He was just overtired, that was it. That was the only possible explanation.

It was with some apprehension that Mark checked the rear-view mirror. But there was nothing there, nothing sitting on the passenger seat behind him, nothing standing in the forecourt. He was alone.

After parking near his flat in Bromley, Mark headed to the high street to get some dinner. Huddling himself into his coat, he trudged down the road, his eyes fixed on the pavement to avoid the puddles. An ambulance siren whined in the distance, but apart from that, he could have been the only man alive on the planet.

Mark hurried on to the Taste Of The Orient. Inside it was dry and warm and smelt of sizzled rice. A couple of kids sat waiting by the window, chatting. A petite Chinese girl emerged from the kitchen and took Mark’s order: sweet and sour pork, egg-fried rice. Mark paid her with the last ten-pound note in his wallet.

Mark glanced around for something to occupy his attention. Mounted on the wall behind the counter a monitor showed the output of a closed-circuit camera. It showed the entrance of the Chinese restaurant, it showed the couple by the window, and it showed Mark.

And standing right behind him, there was the statue of the angel, the same one from the petrol station. But now it was reaching towards Mark’s back with an outstretched bare arm.

Mark felt an icy shiver and, holding his breath, turned to look behind him. There was nothing there, just the rain-streaked window of the takeaway.

He turned to look back up at the monitor. The statue had taken another step closer. It was still reaching towards him. On the screen, Mark could see the coils carved for the angel’s hair, the feathers in its wings and its unseeing, blank eyes. And he could see himself at the counter, looking up at the monitor. The statue’s fingers were almost brushing the back of his neck. Choking with terror, Mark lunged towards the door of the Chinese takeaway, shoved it open and stumbled into the darkness, the icy wind biting his face. Not daring to look back, he ran down the high street, running so fast his stomach ached.

He had to get home. He would be safe there, safe from… safe from whatever that thing was.

Mark slowed to a jog, his heart thumping in protest, and continued down the high street. Past the bookmaker’s. Past the Halal butchers. Past the hi-fi shop –Suddenly all the televisions in the shop window flickered into life. It had a video camera as part of the window display, a camera that was now pointing at Mark.

He could see himself on the screens; the same image repeated, over and over again, of him staring into the window.

The statue was right behind him, reaching for his neck, its mouth open to reveal hideous jagged teeth.

‘Don’t look back. Don’t turn around, don’t close your eyes, and whatever you do, don’t look back! ‘

The voice came from behind Mark. It sounded like the voice of a young man but with the authority of someone much older.

‘What?’ said Mark, frozen to the spot.

‘Keep your eyes on the screen! It’s vitally important you don’t let it touch you.’

‘And how do I do that?’

‘It’s quantum-locked. It can only move if somebody isn’t looking at it.’

‘Quantum-locked?’

‘You know, the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, the very act of observation affects the nature of the object being observed. Amy, Rory. Keep watching the screens. Take turns blinking.’

‘Righty-ho,’ said a girl with a Scottish accent from behind Mark’s left ear.

‘Watch the televisions, got you, no problem,’ said a young man nervously.

‘And try not to blink at the same time,’ said the voice of authority. ‘That would be utterly disastrous. Good. Now, bloke-watching-himself-on-the-television, move forward. Very slowly.’

Mark swallowed and stepped forward until his nose was nearly touching the shop window.

‘Good. Now take two steps to your right. Slowly! ‘

Mark took two steps to the right, watching himself on the television screens as he edged out of reach of the angel. ‘What is that thing?’

‘It’s a kind of… temporal scavenger. Or a predator. One of the two. Or both.’

‘Rory, I’m going to blink… now! ‘ said the Scottish girl.

‘But it’s made of stone,’ said Mark.

‘Defence mechanism,’ said the voice of authority. ‘You see, you can’t kill a stone.’

‘Can’t you?’

‘Well, nobody’s attempted it and lived.’

‘Amy, I’m gonna blink… now! ‘ said the nervous young man.

‘OK, it’s safe to look back now,’ said the voice of authority.

Taking a deep breath, Mark turned around to see a tall, pretty girl with long, fiery red hair and a young man with a prominent nose and a wooly chullo hat, both staring attentively at the window. Beside them stood a handsome young man with angular cheekbones and thick brown hair swept up into a fringe. With his tweed jacket and bow tie, he looked like he was on his way to a fancy dress party as Albert Einstein.

There was no sign of the statue. ‘But there… there’s nothing here!’ stammered Mark.

‘No.’ The man in the tweed jacket had a device like an old-fashioned tape recorder slung over one shoulder and he twirled a stubby, torch-like device in his hand like a pop star performing a trick with a microphone. He levelled the device at the window and it emitted a high-pitched drone and glowed green. ‘No, this particular Weeping Angel has no corporeal form.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means it only exists within the televisions. Within every television. That which holds the image of an Angel becomes, itself, an Angel.’

‘So it can’t come out of the screen and get us?’ said the girl with the red hair. ‘Rory, I’m going to blink… now! ‘

‘No, I don’t think so. It must be very weak, running on fumes.’

‘But it can still touch me?’ said Mark.

‘If you’re being looked at by a camera, yes. It’s on the screen, your image is on the screen, so it can make contact with your image, and thus… you.’

***

Touched by an Angel, Chapter 1