Читать книгу Sons of Angels - Rachel Green - Страница 7

Prologue

Carol Goodwin closed the book and placed it on the bedside table. She tucked the bedclothes around her sleeping six-year-old son, kissed his peachy-smooth skin and stood. Her smile lingered as she picked up the clothes left in a pile by the chair, the jumper inside out and the trousers with one leg rucked backward. After she dropped them into the empty laundry basket, she selected Peter’s clothes for the following day: a white shirt, gray trousers, socks, underpants and the garish red jumper the school insisted upon, and placed them on the chair to save Peter searching the house in the morning.

She took a final look around the room, righting several of the dinosaurs Peter collected before turning out the main light, to leave only the small bedside lamp to cast gently turning shadows of cartoon dogs. She closed the door and went downstairs, just in time for the weekly detective series she followed and a glass of the chablis she’d uncorked over dinner.

* * * *

Peter woke in darkness. He looked around, his nervousness and heartbeat increasing as he pulled the covers closer against the cold in the room. He could just make out the thin outline of the window and the sliver of light from the landing under his bedroom door, but his nightlight had been turned off. He felt nervous without the gaily dancing puppies to protect him from encroaching shadows.

He felt all around, his fingers trailing quickly across the scratchy wool of the blanket and the shiny satin of the quilt until it touched the soft velvet of Philip, his stuffed horse. Peter clutched the toy against his chest, the chill of the fur against his pajamas making him shiver. Whether the grasp was for the protection of the horse or for Peter, it was impossible to say. His breath coalesced where it passed the ray of light from the edge of the curtains and he clamped one hand over his mouth to listen.

The room was silent but for the trickle of water through the radiator pipes and the beat of his heart, but Peter could hear the faint sounds of the television in the living room downstairs, so he knew his mummy had not yet gone to bed. He let out his breath, feeling pressure from his bladder due to a bedtime cup of warm milk. He pulled back the quilt to slide out of bed but froze when he heard the creak of a floorboard.

The house didn’t creak. Mummy had bought it new when she and Daddy had got a divorce last year, which meant someone was on the landing. Peter froze. Mummy never crept about at night so the only explanation was. a burglar or a skeleton from the graveyard at St. Pity’s. He lay stock still in the darkness and was about to call for Mummy when the bedroom door opened.

He strained his eyes against the sudden influx of light but the silhouette in the doorway wasn’t Mummy. She would have called out to him to tell him it wasn’t a monster and, besides, the figure was much too tall. He held his breath again, hoping he wouldn’t be noticed. Where was Mummy? The figure stepped farther into the room, the light flickering like white fire around its body. Peter could see it was a man, of sorts. Not a nasty man, for no one nasty could have a face so perfectly calm and a smile so genuine.

Peter relaxed. “Who are you? Are you one of Mummy’s special friends?”

“You could say that.” The man moved closer to the bed and spoke in a voice so soft and gentle it felt like a ribbon trailed through Philip’s fur. I am a special friend to all. I am of the Light and the Life.”

“Are you an angel, then?” Peter remembered the phrase from assembly at school.

“An angel?” The man considered the question. “Yes, I’m an angel.”

“Where are your wings then? Have you come to take me to Heaven?” Peter frowned. “Where’s Mummy?”

“My wings would be too bright for you to see, little one, were I to unfold them.” The angel raised a hand to touch Peter’s face. “Suffer little children to come unto me.” The touch connected, and Peter felt such peace that, for an instant, he understood his mother’s love.

“Suffer little children.”

Peter felt the heat before he saw the flicker of orange flames as they engulfed Philip’s acrylic fur. He tried to scream, but the fire was so very, very hot and the one breath he managed to take he couldn’t release. Everything went gray.