Fallen Angel

1

He followed the pretty oriental-looking girl with the pink suitcase all the way from Paddington to Piccadilly Circus. He hadn’t intended to follow a girl today, but just the sight of her, her beauty, her exotic-ness, was irresistible. She wore a comfy black tracksuit, with gold trim, which hugged the curves of her body. Her dark silken hair was tied back into a playful ponytail that swung left and right as she walked, like a metronome.

She’d been making her way across the busy concourse at Paddington, first thing on Monday morning, looking every bit the new visitor, as the well-versed commuters hurried past, heads down in their phone screens.

She’d probably just arrived at Heathrow, after a long flight from Singapore, or China, or Malaysia. Maybe even Australia - they had a lot of oriental people there, he knew that. And yet she looked so good, despite what must have been a tiring journey. Long haul flights weren’t good for your health, so he’d read. They dried out the skin.

But she looked so fresh. And lovely. Good enough to eat.

She’d consulted her phone, before heading down the short staircase to the Underground, before passing through the barriers towards the Bakerloo Line. He followed closely, comforted that she would never suspect a thing, such was the number of people down here. The tube was the perfect place for him, with hundreds, thousands of human shields allowing him to service his desires undisturbed.

He watched as she stepped onto the longer escalator which took passengers down to the lower levels of the Bakerloo Line. With her suitcase, she took up the whole of the escalator, and a queue of mildly annoyed people quickly built up behind her on the left.

It must be her first time in London, he thought. She didn’t know about the protocol to stand on the right and leave the left-hand side clear for those in a hurry.

He watched as she realised, and shifted her case to the step directly in front of her.

You could tell a lot from people’s small actions; how they behaved, their mannerisms, the micro-expressions. It could reveal a whole hidden world, and he felt privileged to spend time getting to know these people; every single one of them.

How he would love to get to know her better.

As they reached the bottom of the escalator, he guessed which way she would be heading, and was correct when she headed right, southbound. He was only three people away from the girl, and as they emerged onto the platform they stood just a few metres apart. He ventured a sideways glance at her, taking in her beauty, as she tilted her beautiful head to read the train information board above them.

‘Your next train to Elephant and Castle is due to arrive in two minutes,’ the customer services host announced from just along the platform.

Two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds. He could have gazed at this beautiful girl for the whole time, but he didn’t want to put himself at risk. There was a CCTV camera just off towards the left, and he was right in its sights. In the control room at Paddington, someone was watching, flanked by a bank of screens, monitoring the masses for any suspicious activity.

He’d been more careful since the police operation had begun.

The posters were impossible to miss, showing a shadowy figure among the crowds, warning off possible offenders with the threat of arrest and prosecution.

And the police were serious. He’d read in the paper about the arrests that they had made as part of Operation Archangel. Men who had touched women, taking advantage of their vulnerability in the crowded, confined space of the tube train carriage. Pressing their hands against the warm bodies, pretending the contact was accidental.

That wasn’t him. He wouldn’t do that. But there was always the chance that he might be innocently caught up in the police net.

‘Your train is about to arrive. Please stand behind the yellow line, for your own safety, and let the passengers off the train before boarding.’

He watched down the tunnel as the train appeared, its lights shining brightly in the gloom of London’s manmade subterranean world.

‘Please stand behind the yellow line,’ the customer service host repeated, as the passengers on the platform edged closer in anticipation of the train’s arrival.

He imagined, as he often did, launching himself onto the tracks just as the train was speeding into the station, almost feeling the imaginary high velocity impact of metal on skin and bone.

How would it feel? Would there be pain? Or just darkness?

One day he might find out.

He stepped onto the train right behind her, enjoying being so close yet so invisible. The carriage wasn’t too busy, so the girl managed to get a seat, keeping the suitcase close. He took a seat opposite, but not directly in her line of vision. He would be able to watch better at more of an angle, where the chance of her spotting his interest would be less.

His eyes did a quick sweep of the half-full carriage. None of these people - the big black guy, eyes closed wearing oversized headphones, the young mother with pushchair and smiling baby girl, the older gentlemen reading a book - looked like transport police, but that was the point of plain clothes officers, wasn’t it? He had to always assume that someone could be present, looking out.

He didn’t want to be caught up in something he didn’t deserve.

He stole several glances at the flawless girl, craving her, from across the carriage as the train rattled and squealed through the darkness of London’s underground.

She was scrolling on her phone - the distance was too great for him to see exactly what she was doing - but he wondered whether she was messaging a friend, maybe a boyfriend.

He wondered about her life.

Where had she come from?

Where was she going?

He was so engrossed in these questions that he nearly missed her standing as the train rushed into Piccadilly Circus station. He followed her off the train, through the bustling station, up the escalator and into the brightness of the day in the heart of London’s West End.

He stood at the side of the station entrance, the warmth of the early-morning sun on his face, as tourists meandered past him. There were plenty of pretty, young girls among the hordes, but he only had eyes for one.

The girl had paused about twenty metres away, consulting her phone again.

Maybe she was lost.

Maybe she was looking for a hotel.

He imagined her entering the hotel room, slipping off her jacket before throwing her body down on the bed, satin hair spreading out over the freshly laundered bed sheets, legs parted ever so slightly.

Waiting for him.

And then the girl burst to life as another girl, just as beautiful as his target, approached, arms outstretched, joy across her face. They embraced.

A friend.

The two girls kissed tenderly.

More than a friend...

He felt the anger smoulder deep inside him as he watched the two girls walk off, arms linked, shoulders touching. He traced their journey across the street, re-imagining the hotel scene with a sense of disgust and fury.

He let the girls disappear from view.

Let them have their fun.

He turned and headed away, as his fury morphed into a plan.

2

Detective Chief Inspector Paul Cullen of the British Transport Police stepped off the train at Wigan North Western railway station, gateway to his hometown, and looked along the platform. Sarah was waiting down near the small coffee shop, and the sight of his wife’s smile as she spotted him lifted his spirits. He’d spent the two and a half hours from London Euston thinking about their current situation, wondering if his wife’s decision to move back up north on a temporary basis was more than it seemed. But those doubts melted in their warm embrace.

She kissed him briefly but tenderly on the lips. ‘I missed you.’

‘Me too,’ he replied.

It was only a week since she had travelled up to Wigan, but it had felt longer.

‘You look tired,’ Sarah said, as she gazed into his emerald green eyes.

‘Thanks. You look good.’

She reached up his six foot three inch frame and nested her fingers into his short, dark hair. ‘Thank you, Detective, your powers of observation remain strong.’

They smiled at one another, before making their way down the stairs, hand in hand, to the car park.

‘You want me to drive?’ Cullen said. Sarah wasn’t keen on being behind the wheel, so he usually did the driving.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. You be the passenger for once.’

Cullen shrugged. In truth, he liked to be in control and was never good at letting someone else take the lead, whether that be motoring or otherwise. But he was tired after the journey.

‘So, I haven’t spoken to you properly about last week,’ Sarah said, as she eased the car out of the car park and onto the main road.

‘It was a long week,’ he said, watching out of the window as they approached and passed the area around Wigan’s famous pier. He’d spent many a summer’s day down by that canal.

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

‘Later,’ he replied.

Sarah nodded, but wasn’t prepared to let it go. ‘I spoke to Amy about it,’ she revealed. ‘She tells me Natalie is doing okay.’

Natalie Long. Their daughter Amy’s friend, and university housemate, who had been the focus of Paul Cullen’s attention the previous week. Natalie had vanished in mysterious circumstances, and Paul (at Amy’s request) had taken it upon himself to conduct an unofficial investigation into her disappearance.

‘Yes, she’s getting support from the local force over in Bristol.’

Thankfully the case had been resolved satisfactorily, but not without Paul jeopardising his career by going against orders from the Chief Superintendent.

‘And you’re okay?’ Sarah glanced across. ‘You’re safe in your job?’

‘For now.’

‘I thought you said Maggie Ferguson was as unforgiving as she was formidable?’

‘I did say something like that, didn’t I?’ he smiled mischievously.

‘Maybe she has a soft spot for you,’ Sarah teased.

‘Maybe,’ Paul teased back.

‘Either that, or she knows an excellent DCI when she sees one, and she doesn’t want to lose you.’

‘She had every right to throw the book at me.’

‘But instead she’s given you the week off.’

‘A non-negotiable week off. In Wigan.’

‘Still...it’s with me, so it can’t be that bad.’

Cullen chuckled. He’d missed their banter the previous week.

Their discussion had diverted his attention, and only now did he realise that Sarah had not taken the usual turning towards her brother’s house, the place where she was currently staying. They were now heading away.

Sarah seemed to notice that Cullen had realised something wasn’t right, throwing a quick glance across at him.

‘We’re going to see Philip,’ she said, pre-empting his question.

Cullen tensed. ‘Can’t we go back to the house first?’

‘He’s asking for you.’

Cullen was shocked. ‘Asking for me? But he hasn’t spoken in nearly twelve months.’

‘He’s been asking for you, Paul. As much as you might not want to, you need to see him, now.’

‘So, he said my name?’

‘I got a call from the carers, to tell me that Philip had spoken. He said the word Paul.

‘Are you sure?’

They were en route to Acorn House, the residential care home in the rural outskirts of the town, where Sarah’s brother Philip had resided for the past two years. Four years ago, the sporty, strong rugby league playing Philip had been diagnosed with early-onset dementia.

‘I dashed over there straight away,’ Sarah explained, as she negotiated a roundabout, pulling out in front of a coach closer than Cullen would have liked. ‘To be honest, I expected to be disappointed, that I’d get there and he would be silent again. At first, he was. I did wonder myself whether the carers had imagined it. But then I heard it for myself, crystal clear - he looked right at me and said Paul. And the look he had, I just knew he was asking for you.’

‘I can’t believe it.’

The signs that something was seriously wrong with Philip had been there for a few years before - forgetting things, but putting it down to being busy. Then he couldn’t remember names of even the closest of friends and relatives. A keen runner, he started to go missing for hours at a time, not taking his mobile, only to return without any recollection of where he had been. And most worryingly, he started leaving on the gas hob after cooking.

His deterioration had been spectacular and shocking.

Philip was the reason why Sarah had last week moved back up to their hometown of Wigan. Her brother’s descent had accelerated, and he was in recent weeks becoming abusive to the carers in Acorn House.

And at six foot three, like Paul Cullen himself, he was not a man to be messed with.

There had been talk of possibly moving him out to a more secure environment, but Sarah was desperate to avoid that if at all possible. She had decided that more regular, daily contact with her might help to settle him down, maybe even improve his memory function, but at least keep his place in what was one of the best care homes for dementia in North West England.

‘Are you okay?’ Sarah asked, as they pulled up in a parking space at Acorn House.

Cullen nodded.

‘You’re mad at me, for forcing you to come here.’

Cullen shook his head. ‘I’m mad at myself,’ he admitted. ‘For not coming here sooner.’

Sarah placed a hand on his. ‘I understand, Paul. It’s not easy, seeing your best friend the way he is.’

The guilt was like an uncomfortable lump in his throat. ‘I should have been there for him.’

Sarah kept her hand in place. It felt warm and comforting, as was her kind smile. ‘You’re here now.’

3

Cullen and Sarah reported to reception, who informed them that Philip was in the main lounge and then they made their way up to the first floor. Acorn House was a modern, purpose built complex designed specifically for the needs of people with dementia. It followed the latest evidence, that placing people in environments that they felt comfortable in, and remembered, really helped.

For many of the residents, who were in their senior years, this meant references back to the 1960’s and 1970’s, which was why there was a juke box playing the Beatles’ Ticket to Ride as they passed the nostalgically-styled cafe area. Several elderly residents were sitting hunched around tables draped with red and white checked linen, with cups of tea and biscuits on china plates.

‘You okay?’ Sarah asked.

Cullen nodded, but was uncharacteristically nervous.

He followed Sarah through towards the lounge, taking her lead through the building like a man walking to the gallows.

To his shame, it was only the second time he had been here in the years since Philip had arrived, so he didn’t really know his way around.

The main lounge area was mocked up to resemble a private living room, with fireplace, mantelpiece, sofas and a large, flat-screen television over in the corner. Again, it was designed to put the residents at ease, to soothe their minds.

Philip was sitting bolt upright over on one of the individual chairs, looking blankly at the bay of windows, his large hands planted firmly on his knees.

‘Hi, Philip,’ Sarah said, as they approached. ‘I’ve brought someone to see you.’ She smiled lovingly and placed a kiss on his right cheek. ‘Someone you’ve been asking about.’

Cullen moved into shot and watched for any sign of recognition. But Philip didn’t flinch. He looked so out of place in many ways, this well-built, smartly dressed man in his mid-forties, surrounded by people who were nearly double his age. But in other ways, to Cullen’s continued horror, he fitted right in. He was the shell of his best friend. A ghost.

Except that he wasn’t a ghost - he was still Philip, living and breathing.

He was still the man Cullen had met over thirty years previously, on that first night of junior rugby training. The boy with the cheeky smile and sense of mischief to go with it. The boy who would soon introduce him to Sarah, the shy young little sister who would later become Cullen’s childhood sweetheart.

‘Philip,’ Cullen said, ‘how are things?’

It was a