Page 121 of The Mysterious Case of the Alperton Angels
Amanda Bailey
They both saw angel symbols. But weeks later, when Khan was shown a photograph that disproved what he’d seen, he ‘knew’ he had to have been mistaken. He believed the hard evidence he was presented with. Rose, on the other hand, didn’t – because for him, there are forces that defy understanding. In the face of coincidence and unexplained phenomena we are all at the mercy of our own thought processes.
A story printed out from the Sussex section of the BBC News website and dated 28 July 2021:
FIRE DEATH MAN NAMED
The man who died in a house fire in Lewes yesterday (Tuesday 27 July) has been named as David Polneath, 67. Firefighters were called to the house on Bishop’s Road at 2 a.m., but were unable to reach Mr Polneath. He was declared dead at the scene this morning. Neighbours paid tribute to the retired accountant wholived alone. ‘He was a quiet, friendly man who was interested in the world and always had a project on the go,’ said one, who did not wish to be named. Police say it is too early to determine if the fire is suspicious, but that the large amount of paperwork in the flat helped the fire to spread.
WhatsApp messages between me and Oliver Menzies, 28 July 2021:
Amanda Bailey
Did an amateur sleuth called David Polneath contact you?
Oliver Menzies
No.
Amanda Bailey
He was an accountant. Retired. Took up the Alperton Angels as a hobby. He was smart, rational, invested in the case and seemed forensic in his approach. I gave him your details. Thought he might have something.
Oliver Menzies
An amateur sleuth? Have I got to listen to some twat’s obsessive ramblings? Kill me now.
Amanda Bailey
He died last night. In a mysterious fire. Just popped up in my feed. See the link.
Oliver Menzies
Shit. Shit, that’s not good.
Oliver Menzies
That makes five people dead. Four of them immediately before or after connecting with ME on this case.
A page torn from the novelMy Angel DiaryBook 2 by Jess Adesina:
The misty-magic of glowvember
I’ll call him Gabriel. The angel man. He reminds me of Gabriel the cat. Could he be a divine reincarnation? Realistically, no. Gabriel the man was born at least thirty years before Gabriel the cat was born. And Gabriel the cat is still alive and well. Still, cats have nine lives, who’s to say it’s all in the same body or at the same time?
I’d be flattered if someone likened me to a cat. They may be murderous psychopaths, but when they decide to, they can be the sweetest, gentlest most loving creatures on earth. If a psychopath chooses to be sweet, gentle and loving, it means so much more than when a non-psychopath does the same.
Gabriel the man has wings in his eyes, but it’s his voice that sweeps me up and carries me away.
A page torn from the novelWhite Wingsby Mark Dunning:
The corridor stretched to a pitch-dark vanishing point ahead of her. A kaleidoscope of scarlet and green, glossy wood and gold brocade. The house was a living relic of a time long since passed. Nothing was younger than a century and a half, except the flickering light bulbs and an unmistakable odour of 4711. Celine twitched her perfect nostrils.Not the eau de cologne, she mused,but spray, polish and wax intended to emulate it.
There had to be at least fifty doors. She glided past the first few, her BB heels somehow too elegant to dent the vintage Persian silk beneath them. Her body weightless like a dream. Her wings brushed the antique candle holders as she passed. Each delicate fringe of Murano glass rippled, then shivered and shimmered as the teardrops kissed each other in her wake.
Celine studied each door, her senses acute for what might be on the other side. Not here. Not here. Here? A door identical to the others. But a glance left and right, delicate fingers tapered around the handle and she glidedswiftly and silently through until the corridor was as still as when she found it. Except for the dying chimes and a single white feather that wafted back and forth on its ever-downward journey.
This was the room. The library. Celine inhaled as if she could read the very ions and particles in the air. Her eyes, as deep and liquid as a fawn’s, suddenly narrowed. It was here. Beneath the window. Alone. Unprotected. She floated to it.
