Page 50 of Out of the Blue
‘Let’s do it ourselves, then,’ Ross says. ‘Now, before they can find out. That centre in California is offering a reward of—’
‘Who gives a shit about some reward? I’m talking aboutpower.’ Damien’s voice begins to pick up pace. ‘There are over a hundred believers here. We could have more if we bring the Newcastle and Manchester chapters up. Imagine it: all those people, hundreds of them, all standing together – and then this thing, this demon in our midst, falling through the air, breaking apart on the concrete. Do you not see? This thing is evil – Christ, it must be, if it’s been pushed out of heaven. We’d be the ones to send it falling down to earth! That makes us closer to the Creator than anyone else alive.’
He goes on and on, describing how they’d appear on every news channel in the world, how converts would flock to them from all over the globe, how they’d outsize the London and New York chapters in a couple of days. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images he’s describing swirl behind the lids. Allie keeps muttering ‘Come on, Teacake, please’ below her breath. Whatever she’s willing her to do, Teacake doesn’t comply.
Then my phone starts to buzz.
The men’s chatter cuts out.
‘What’s that?’ says Damien.
One of them takes a step. Towards us.
That’s when I stop thinking.
I leap out from behind the control panel, snatch the torch from Damien’s hand and throw it across the room. It smashes against one of the control panels and shatters, leaving us in darkness. One of the men lunges for me, but I kick him in the shins and push him to the ground. ‘Get her, Allie! Go!’
Swears and bumps fill the darkness. Allie grabs the back of Teacake’s chair and pulls her through the door, scrambling to untie the ropes as she does so. Another hand grabs my sleeve, but I slip out of my hoody and follow Allie through the door. I slam it shut and jam the chair, now empty of Teacake, under the doorknob. It won’t hold long, but a ten-second head start could be all that we need.
‘Go! Go!’
We turn towards the staircase that we came up. Before we can run back down, we see a cluster of Standing Fallen members, all ashen-faced and slow, ambling up the stairs towards us. A few of them look up, their jaws dropping as they see Teacake. The kids from the rooftop are among them; the little girl clutches the boy’s arm, her dark eyes huge and unblinking.
I spin around and push Teacake in the opposite direction, towards a second staircase leading upwards. After just a few steps, the door to the control room bursts open and the two men spill out, their heads twisting in all directions. Damien sprints after us. Ross leans over the barrier and shouts at the members staring slack-jawed up at us to move.
My legs have never worked so fast. I leap up the stairs three at a time, one hand holding Allie’s, and another pushing the spot between Teacake’s wings. I’m too scared to look back, but I can hear the men’s footsteps drawing closer, their heavy breathing just a few metres behind us. I bound forward and push open the fire-escape door at the end of the final staircase. We stumble out, tripping over each other –
On to the roof.
There’s nowhere to go – only forward, towards the edge. No wall to hold us back, no barriers. Up here the evening wind feels icy on my bare arms, and strong – strong enough to pull us from the rooftop and drag us into the sea beyond. My head starts to spin, but I grab Allie’s hand and follow her and Teacake towards the edge. Ross and Damien come running through the doorway. Other members hurry after them, their eyes wide and mouths gaping.
‘Stay back!’ Allie shouts. ‘If you come any closer, she’ll jump. Her wings are still weak. There’s no way she’d survive the fall.’
It’s a risky lie – they’ve seen Teacake zipping around McEwan Hall – but in the confusion of the moment it stalls them: they might want Teacake to die, but only in front of an audience. Damien holds the others back.
‘That’s not your choice to make,’ he shouts to us. ‘That thing is a fallen angel, a manifestation of evil. It’s not up to you to decide what becomes of her.’
‘It’s not up to you either—’ Allie begins to shout, but a sudden gust of wind sends us staggering sideways, knocking the breath out of me. Damien and Ross rush forward. This is it. This is the end –
But then Teacake begins to speak.
‘You’re wrong about God. You’re wrong about everything.’
Her voice is soft and lilting, almost carried away by the wind, but the men slam to a halt. For a moment, I forget about the crowd surrounding us, about the wind and the fact that we’re on a rooftop twenty metres above the ground. This is it. She’s learned to talk. She’s going to tell us her secrets.
But then I see Allie nodding, and it clicks: these are the words she whispered to Teacake down in the control room, a speech for her to parrot. Even with the Standing Fallen leaders just a few metres away, I find myself beaming at Allie. I would never have thought of that.
‘Go on,’ she says, loud enough only for Teacake and me to hear. ‘You can do this, Tea.’
Teacake closes her eyes and begins, in her strange, musical voice, to repeat Allie’s words.
‘You’re wrong about everything,’ she says again. ‘Choosing to sleep on a dirty floor doesn’t make you a purer soul. Risking your life climbing on to buildings doesn’t make it any more valuable, and you’re not going to save anyone screaming through a loudspeaker. I know you’re scared, but use that fear for something good – tackle the greed and destruction you see in the world, make it better for people who suffer from it the most. Go back to your homes and your families and get to work, because this isn’t the way to the afterlife. It isn’t any way to live at all.’
Teacake opens her eyes. Dozens of the gaunt, tired faces stare at her, the wind whipping through their hair or ruffling their scruffy clothes. There is shock in their expressions, confusion and fear – and in some cases, anger. But only Damien reacts.
‘No. No.’ He shakes his head. ‘You’re lying.’
This time, when he steps towards us, only a few people follow. The other members simply look at each other. Some run their hands over their protruding ribs or examine the fraying hems of their clothes, blinking, like they’re emerging from a dream. A skeletal woman slides her arm around the young boy and his little sister, pulling them close.
