Fallen Angel Read online

  FALLEN ANGEL

  MELODY JOHN

  Copyright © 2015

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  For questions and comments about this book, please contact us at [email protected]

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Author's Note:

  Fallen Angel can be read as a standalone, but it is highly recommended that you read Dark Angel first. Thank you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  My tutor looked like the mother from Modern Family. What was that actress’ name again?

  ‘What you have to remember is that to a Victorian audience, Nancy was completely irredeemable. As soon as she was introduced and identified as a prostitute, her fate was sealed. To the Victorians, the only saved prostitute was a dead prostitute.’

  Jeez. No wonder they had such a problem with Jack the Ripper. I scribbled down a few notes and sneaked a sideways look to see what the rest of the people in the class were doing. One guy was on his phone, one girl was browsing Twitter on her laptop, another was picking her nails, and another guy was scratching something on the table with a dead biro pen.

  I sighed inwardly a little. Almost four weeks into my first term at university, and already I could feel the thrill of it wearing off. Somehow I’d expected university to be full of people champing at the bit for knowledge, desperate to learn and grow and expand their minds. But half the students didn’t seem to want to be here at all. And none of the tutors were the Robin Williams-esque mentors that I’d secretly been hoping for.

  ‘Now I want you to turn to the person next to you and have a discussion over the extract on your sheets. Remember to think about feminist theory, and whether Dickens might have wished to keep Nancy alive, despite literary conventions of the time.’

  Julie Bowen, that was it, the actress from Modern Family.

  The guy next to me yawned and put away his phone. He picked up his sheet, which was empty of notes. ‘Right. So what are we doing?’

  Wasn’t he listening to any of the class? ‘Talking about the extract.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘There’s only one extract on the sheet,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, right.’ He scanned it. ‘So it’s like about this hooker, yeah?’

  ‘Nancy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Her name is Nancy.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He shrugged.

  ‘I take it you haven’t read the book,’ I said, trying not to sound like a pissed-off schoolteacher.

  ‘Nah, not my thing really.’

  Then why was he was in this course at all? ‘The musical?’

  ‘Uh?’

  I sighed. ‘You haven’t seen the musical, either? Or any of the films?’

  He looked at me blankly. ‘No.’

  ‘Then why did you even come to class?’ It came out sounding far meaner than I’d intended, and he blinked.

  ‘Woah. I don’t know, I just thought I should. See what everyone else is saying.’

  ‘But without contributing anything.’ Dammit, I still sounded pissed-off. Well, I was pissed-off. But I tried to sound kinder with, ‘I’d just find that boring, you know, not knowing what people were talking about.’ And I smiled.

  He shrugged. ‘It’s just about some prostitute, isn’t it? Not very difficult.’

  ‘Because you know so much about prostitutes.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ He shrugged, grinned in a manner I instantly disliked. ‘That’s my plan, really. I’m going to have this massive house, it’ll be called the Rainbow Palace, yeah, and each floor’s gonna be full of girls of all different countries. Like, the top floor’ll be full of black girls, then the next floor’ll be full of Chinese and Korean, then the next floor—’

  ‘You’ve put a lot of thought into this,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Well, yeah. It’s the dream, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it.’

  ‘Sure!’ He jogged me with his elbow. ‘Cheer up. If you smiled more, I might even let you in.’

  I smiled in a way that I hoped conveyed how much I wanted to smack him over the head. ‘Thank you. Such a compliment. No, really, I am flattered. To be a part of such a shallow and vapid male fantasy would really make my day. No, not my day—it would be the crowning achievement of my entire existence. I simply can’t wait.’

  He grinned. ‘See, I told you it was the dream.’

  ‘Either a dream or a nightmare.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, chill.’

  ‘Chill?’ I repeated. ‘You’re talking about how your dream is to have a racially segregated brothel, and somehow you think that’s not offensive?’

  ‘Well, jeez,’ he said, smirking, ‘someone’s clearly on her period.’

  I twisted my fury into a laugh and raised one eyebrow, managing to grin in what I hoped was an insulting manner. ‘Oh my god. You’re that insecure in your dream that you have to resort to period jokes? Oh wow. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise your male fantasy was so fragile. No, really, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise you were so sensitive. Truly, I apologise if you feel that threatened.’

  His smirk faded, and he scowled. ‘You don’t have to be such a bitch about it.’

  ‘Excuse me, Tariq?’ The tutor raised her eyebrows. ‘I hope you’re discussing the extract and not being insulting. This isn’t the playground.’

  ‘No,’ he muttered.

  I didn’t care if it was bitchy; I felt an exhilarating thrill of victory.

  When we were called on to talk about the extract, Tariq slouched in his chair and glared at the table. I said something about Dickens’ use of language and power struggles in the gender dynamic, which the tutor seemed to like. At the end of the class, I gathered my stuff together and shoved it into my satchel.

  Tariq huffed as I passed him, but I ignored it.

  *

  My room in halls wasn’t the most glamorous place I’d ever stayed in. My room had its tiny own shower pod, but I still had to share a bathroom with five other people. It wasn’t too bad; just a few times there had been things like finding massive tangled spiders of hair matted in the sink plughole and razor shavings sprinkled all over the soap dish. The kitchen was usually full of someone’s washing up that they were procrastinating over, but there were two sinks, so there was usually one free. I recognised Jaden’s wok and manky spatula in the rack.

  I went to my cupboard and rooted about for something to make for dinner. I refused to conform to the stereotype of students existing solely on Pot Noodles, and Mum had insisted that I make an effort to eat healthily: ‘Eating nothing but pizza and stuff from cans might seem like a quick fix for now, but believe me, you’ll regret it in the long run.’

  I had a real craving for pizza, something warm and comforting after the stress of today, but I was trying to keep pizza for the week
ends. So I pulled out a carton of eggs and made myself an omelette.

  The oil snapped and burst in the hot pan, and I flipped the eggs neatly, and then folded in the edges. Miraculously, it held, and I slid it onto a plate with a feeling of satisfaction. Some salad on the side, and I took it back to my room and sat on the bed and ate it slowly.

  I still didn’t feel quite comfortable in my room. It was nice enough, but it didn’t properly feel like mine yet, despite my Back to the Future poster tacked up over the bed and my growing collection of Funko Pop! figurines on the windowsill. Looking at them made me feel a bit lonely, familiar objects in an unfamiliar setting, and I concentrated on ploughing my way through the salad, which I didn’t particularly like. Eventually I gave up trying to force down rocket leaves, and took my plate and fork back to the kitchen.

  I was washing up the frying pan when David, the guy two doors down from me, came into the kitchen. ‘Hi Lizzie,’ he said.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  He smiled and opened the fridge. ‘What did you have for dinner?’

  ‘Omelette,’ I said. ‘I actually managed to fold it properly this time.’

  He laughed. ‘Achievement unlocked.’

  I liked David. He was always very friendly, always smiling. I wasn’t entirely sure what he was studying—possibly engineering or biochemistry or something like that. He was cute as well, tall, with curly dark hair and an air of being rather dishevelled all the time.

  But I didn’t like thinking that, didn’t want to admit to myself that I thought he was cute, so I tried to pretend that I didn’t notice the light on his hair and how long and graceful his fingers were and how good he looked in geeky t-shirts. I didn’t want anything more to do with that kind of thing.

  David pulled out a can of Coke and popped open the tab. ‘Do you want one?’

  I did. ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘Glass or can?’

  ‘Can’s fine.’

  He brought a can over to my sink and put it down next to the draining rack. Then he picked up the dishcloth and began drying up.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Eh, it’s all right. I’m at a bit of a loose end at the moment.’ He grinned, and even though I smiled back, I felt the familiar nagging feeling of distrust begin again inside my stomach.

  ‘Don’t you have Internet access?’ I asked, trying to make it into a joke.

  ‘Yeah, I do, but sometimes even Tumblr can’t substitute for actually talking to people IRL.’

  He had Tumblr and used Internet acronyms in everyday conversation. I was torn between a sense of immediate comradeship and that growing buzz of distrust. ‘Yeah, I suppose, sometimes.’

  ‘You’re not convinced.’ He grinned.

  I wanted to grin back and ask him what his fandoms were, what kind of blogs he followed, who were his OTP. But that would have led to conversation, and maybe we would have sat down in the kitchen and fangirled over Sherlock fanart, and I would have asked him what course he was doing and how he was coping with university life, and maybe I would have commented on his Lord of the Rings t-shirt and asked him what he thought of the last Hobbit film. And it might have been really nice, and we might have talked more, and we might have become friends.

  But of course we might not become friends. He might turn out to be boring or pompous or mean or thoughtless. Or he might turn out to be just like that guy, Tariq, in class today.

  I’d overheard lots of conversations in this past month, about all the hook-ups that you had to have to properly enjoy fresher’s week, and how Felipe down the hall had banged Lucy and Hannah on the same night and then found out that Lucy and Hannah were sisters, about all the best bars to go to find the hottest and most generous guys to take back with you. Part of me wanted to join in with that, to just have fun. But that didn’t really seem like fun at all, not the kind of fun that would last and not leave you with a bad feeling afterwards, and I looked at David and thought of Tariq, and felt a hopeless feeling of sadness rise up inside me.

  ‘Are you okay?’ David asked. He sounded genuinely concerned, and I had to swallow hard.

  ‘Yeah,’ I managed to say brightly, smiling. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.’ He’d finished drying up the pan and the cutlery, and I took the cloth from him and quickly dried the plate. Then I put everything carefully back in the cupboard.

  ‘Are you sure? I’m sorry if what I said about Tumblr was rude, or…’

  ‘Oh no, no it’s not that.’ He looked so worried, so sincerely worried. I made myself smile, and took the can of Coke from the side. ‘Thanks for this.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said uncertainly.

  ‘See you,’ I said, and went out of the kitchen before I could hear his reply.

  Back in my room I put the can on my desk and folded myself up on the bed. The bare blue wall opposite gazed back at me, and I closed my eyes. Tears trickled down my cheeks and made damp spots on the pillow. I wrapped my arms around myself and cried, quietly, hopelessly, into my hands.

  David.

  Tariq.

  Liam.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Morning, Lizzie,’ Paula said.

  ‘Hi,’ I replied, pulling out the chair next to her. ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘I am very well,’ she said. Paula was an older woman, studying as a mature student. I wasn’t quite sure how old she was, maybe in her early thirties, but she was nice. A bit grave, and very very polite. In our early conversations she’d looked so startled whenever I said something sarcastic that I didn’t have the heart to be snarky around her now. She was wearing earrings that looked like they were made from sky blue pearls.

  ‘I love your earrings,’ I said. ‘They’re so pretty.’

  ‘Oh, oh, thank you.’ She fluttered and patted her neck. She had soft brown hair, cut in a short wavy bob, and her eyes were large and blue, like a doll’s. When she smiled, it was shy but warm. ‘I, um, I like yours as well.’

  My earrings were ancient novelty ones from Claire’s, little red and green zippers. I knew she didn’t really like them—I think a lot of my style choices rather bewildered her—but I appreciated her saying it anyway. ‘Thank you. But yours are far prettier. Where did get them?’

  ‘Oh, they’re my mother’s,’ Paula said. She pulled one out of her ear and rested it on her palm so I could see it properly. ‘She went to Morocco for a holiday, and there was a trader there selling them. She bought two pairs, a pink pair and a blue pair, and she gave me the blue pair.’

  ‘They match your eyes,’ I said.

  Paula smiled shyly and clipped the earring back in. We sat in silence for a moment, then she ventured a question over whether I’d seen the latest episode of the Bake-Off. I replied that I hadn’t, and she filled me in on all the latest details and developments.

  ‘I always feel so inadequate watching it though,’ she said ruefully. ‘I can’t even make a Victoria sponge. My boyfriend’s the one who always does the cooking. He’s so good at it.’

  ‘Like, cakes and stuff?’

  ‘Not just cakes, everything. He does this recipe with sour cream and Swiss cheese and chicken, and oh, it just melts in your mouth. I should bring in some of his cooking sometime and share with the class.’

  ‘The chicken?’ I asked, grinning.

  Paula looked gently surprised. ‘No, I was thinking more along the lines of cookies or a cake.’

  I chuckled. ‘Yeah, that would be good. Maybe that would entice more people to show up for class.’

  We looked around the room, which held a grand total of five other people. Three girls talking and giggling together, a girl sitting by herself and ignoring everyone else, and a guy reading Testament of Youth. The first class of the year had had at least twenty students, but the numbers had dwindled and dwindled over the weeks until now it was a miracle if ten people showed up.

  I sighed. ‘You know, before I came to uni, I kind of thought it would be like a book club. Everyone super into reading, ever
yone really wanting to learn.’

  Paula laughed quietly. ‘No, that’s not quite accurate.’

  ‘I don’t understand, though. Why shell out all that money on a degree that you’re not going to enjoy?’

  ‘Things are different. Everyone goes to university now. It’s just like another step after Sixth Form.’

  ‘Well I wish it wasn’t,’ I grumbled. I eyed the giggling trio of girls. ‘I know it sounds snobby to say that. Like I should adjust my monocle and snort about letting the riffraff in.’

  Paula looked at me with her wide eyes. ‘Do you think that?’