Fear jolts through me. My legs are telling me to run, but I force myself to keep walking, to pretend I haven’t heard, though I can’t help picking up the pace a bit. The footsteps behind us are moving faster now. As we reach the Parliament buildings, I hear a car engine rev.
‘Quickly!’ I break into a jog and pull the Being into a close just off the Royal Mile. The car, a red Honda, crawls past; a round-faced woman with short black hair stares out from the driver’s seat, then disappears from sight. A second car zips past, then a third. The Being lets out a strangled yell. It takes me a moment to realize what’s scared her: these beasts of red and black and silver metal, wheels roaring as they turn the corners, enormous eyes gleaming.
‘Don’t worry, we’re almost there,’ I whisper as she clamps a hand to her mouth. ‘Not much further to go.’
The Royal Mile, to my relief, is still busy. People pass in twos or threes while we stagger up the street, but they’re all too engrossed in their own conversations to pay us any attention. Eventually, we arrive at the crossing opposite our flat. As we start towards it, my heart gives another leap: there’s a red Honda parked outside Starbucks, directly opposite the entrance to our flat. The dark-haired woman steps out, squinting as she scans the crowd, followed by a guy with a beer belly squeezed into a green T-shirt.
I grab the Being’s hand and pull her into a throng of boozy guys stumbling across the road. One is wearing a tutu and a T-shirt with a picture of himself and the words ‘Stephen’s Stag Do’ printed on the back. His friend, a chubby guy with a tattoo of a dog’s paw print on his upper arm, lifts his chin at us and asks where we’re off to. His breath smells like beer and cigarettes. The Being’s nose crinkles.
‘Um, just heading home,’ I squeak. ‘My friend’s not feeling too well.’
‘Yeah? One too many, eh?’ The man squints at the Being. His eyes widen. My blood feels like it’s frozen over, but he blinks and shakes his head, trying to focus. ‘What’s up with your face, love? Is that sunburn? Looks like Gav in Gran Canaria. Ha, Gav! Check out this bird’s tan . . .’
Before Gav or any of his less drunken friends turn around and notice that there’s no amount of tanning that can turn your skin a metallic rose gold, I pull the Being down Cockburn Street and make a U-turn through one of the closes connecting with the Royal Mile. The couple is still standing by their car: the woman staring hawk-like around the street, the man rolling his eyes behind her back.
I slink out of the close and creep towards the entrance to our block. As I usher the Being into the stairwell, her face crumples into a confused frown. The steps, I realize – she’s never seen steps before.
‘Like this,’ I say, showing her how to bend her knee and push herself up. ‘Quickly, we don’t have much time.’
The Being hesitates, then slowly staggers up the first flight, Perry nudging her with her nose. By the time we reach Shona’s place on the fourth floor, my hands are trembling so much I can hardly get the key into the lock, but somehow I manage to open it. We tumble inside, and I bolt it shut and slot the chain into place.
‘Thank god.’ I lean against the door, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding in. ‘That was insane.’
Shona’s living room is just how I imagined it: a dozen china elephants on the mantelpiece, decorative Indian throws draped over the sofa, lingering smells of incense. I pull the blinds down so the neighbours across the road can’t see in and switch on only one light, a small desk lamp. I pat the sofa for the Being to sit, but she doesn’t move. Her lower lip is quivering. Out of nowhere, she opens her mouth and begins to sob again. The noise is so loud that the elephants on Shona’s mantelpiece start to tremble.
‘No, no, no!’ I jump up. ‘Shhh!’
I look around, but there’s no TV to cover up the racket. I put the radio on instead: a Nirvana song comes leaking out of the speakers. I turn the song up full volume, crossing my fingers the neighbours – or worse, Dad – won’t come and complain. The Being breaks off mid-wail. She blinks, stares at the radio, then gingerly takes a step towards it.
‘It’s a box, and music comes out of it,’ I say dumbly. We studied how they work a few years ago, but right now I can barely remember my own birthday, let alone explain how radio waves function. It doesn’t seem like she’d understand me even if I could. ‘Look, you can make it change like this . . .’
I turn the knob and it crackles through the stations: a weather forecast, some light jazz, an angry Aberdonian shouting about the council. The Being hiccups. She touches the button and gently twists it from right to left, blinking in wonder as the voices slide in and out of earshot. After a few minutes, she leaves it on Radio 1. Sia is playing.
‘Good choice,’ I say, as she gawps at the speakers. I turn the volume down, leaving it just loud enough to cover the Being’s footsteps as she paces around the room. Her right wing drags along the floor, leaving thin trails of golden blood over the carpet.
‘Are you hungry?’ I ask, though by now I’ve stopped expecting an answer. ‘Let’s get you something to eat.’
She watches me as I walk to the kitchen. I pull Shona’s cupboards open, expecting health foods and whole grains and vegan snacks and other generally unpalatable things. Instead, there are spaghetti hoops, chocolate digestives, multipacks of salt and vinegar crisps. A wall-to-wall stock of junk.
Next issue: What the hell do angels eat? I grab a box of Tunnock’s teacakes, a pack of Quavers and, in the name of healthy eating, a tangerine from the fruit bowl. When I go back to the living room, the Being is perched on the edge of the sofa, nervously prodding the orange fabric. Perry is stretched out beside her, beating her tail against the embroidered pillows. The angel’s eyes keep darting around the room, flitting from a framed drawing of Buddha to an old copy of the Yellow Pages to the purple lampshade above her and back again.
‘Here you go. It’s food,’ I add, seeing her blank look. I make a hand-to-mouth action. ‘You, um, you do have food where you come from, don’t you?’
It’s hard to tell from her reaction. She spits out the crisps, refuses to even touch the tangerine, and attempts to eat the teacake wrapper and all. I pry it out of her hand and peel back the foil.
‘You have to take the cover off. See?’
She lifts it to her lips and slowly sinks her teeth into the chocolate. Her eyes brighten ever so slightly. She shoves the rest of the biscuit into her mouth, then scoffs down a second one, and a third. I run my hands through my hair.
‘I am eating biscuits with a fallen angel.’ I try to let the words sink in, but they might as well be Russian. ‘This is too weird. This is so, so weird.’
My own stomach is rumbling, but I’m way too jittery to eat. Everything feels heightened. Shona’s embroidered pillows are psychedelic bright. Taylor Swift comes on the radio, and the melody swirls like warm chocolate sauce in my head. My finger brushes the edge of the Being’s feathers, and the tips tingle.
Maybe she’s having some weird effect on me. Or maybe this is what life is supposed to feel like. Maybe this is what it always felt like, before I became numb to it.
The song comes to an end. A lilting female voice begins to speak. ‘And now for the news at 2 a.m. . . .’
I leap up from the sofa – 2 a.m.?! The Being starts and almost chokes on her biscuit. Before I leave, I show her Shona’s bedroom (the bed receives a blank stare) and the bathroom – an even blanker stare, followed by a light-bulb moment in which her eyebrows rise and she shakes her head in amazement.
‘I need to go, but I’ll be back in the morning,’ I promise the Being. ‘First thing. As soon as I wake up.’
She stares at me from her spot on the sofa. I kneel in front of her, so her eyes are level with mine. There’s a ring of chocolate around her mouth, and her eyes are blurry from crying.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ I say, and though I know she doesn’t understand I’m sure I see a hint of relief flicker over her face. ‘I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.’
And, though I have no idea how I’m going to manage it, I’m determined to keep my word.