Table Of ContentThe series from BBC Books
Apollo 23 by Justin Richards
Night of the Humans by David Llewellyn
The Forgotten Army by Brian Minchin
Nuclear Time by Oli Smith
The King's Dragon by Una McCormack
The Glamour Chase by Gary Russell
Dead of Winter by James Goss
The Way Through the Woods by Una McCormack
Hunter's Moon by Paul Finch
Touched by an Angel by Jonathan Morris
Paradox Lost by George Mann
Borrowed Time by Naomi A. Alderman
Touched by an Angel
JONATHAN MORRIS
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Published in 2011 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
A Random House Group Company
Copyright © Jonathan Morris 2011
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in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One.
Executive producers: Steven Moffat, Piers Wenger and Beth Willis
BBC, DOCTOR WHO and TARDIS (word marks, logos and devices) are
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licence. Weeping Angels created by Steven Moffat.
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To my wife, Debbie
10 April 2003
Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack!
The rain splattered against the windscreen before the
wipers swiped the glass clean, patting the water down into
a splashy trough above the dashboard. Beyond, the car
headlights picked out a narrow country lane rolling out of
the darkness, the high hedges on either side giving it the
feel of driving through a tunnel.
Rebecca rubbed her forehead. Another headache.
Probably due to the idiot who had spent the last five miles
behind her, his headlights blazing away in her rear-view
mirror. Or exhaustion from driving non-stop from
London. There was definitely no other reason for her
headache. OK, she had been having them almost daily
since the accident, but that was no reason to go and see a
doctor, no matter what Mark said.
Rebecca felt a flush of anger. Mark should be with her
now, paying the traditional bi-monthly visit to her parents
in Chilbury. He had an excuse, of course; he always had
an excuse. There was a crisis at work and he had
volunteered to work late to sort it out, as usual.
Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack!
The radio hissed as it lost the signal for The World
Tonight. It didn't matter, Rebecca already knew what the
news would be. It would be all about the invasion of Iraq.
The television news had been full of nothing else for
weeks; journalists in flak jackets reporting live from hotel
rooms, interspersed with infra-red footage of green blobs
flashing back and forth over a burning city. It was like
watching someone commentating on a computer game.
Today's big story had been about American soldiers
pulling down a statue of Saddam Hussein in some dusty
town square while the reporter burbled excitedly about it
being a momentous event in history. Seeing the footage of
the conquering heroes draping their flag over the fallen
statue, Rebecca had felt sick and ashamed. They'd be
handing out chocolate bars next.
Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack!
Rebecca twisted the dial for Radio 1. A plaintive piano
riff emerged from the speakers, introducing Beautiful by
Christina Aguilera. Rebecca left the song playing; it suited
her mood and wouldn't distract her from driving.
Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack!
Approaching a sharp left turn, Rebecca changed down
to second gear. She turned the corner, to be suddenly
confronted by two brilliant shining lights bearing down
upon her.
A horn blared out like a monster's roar. Instinctively,
Rebecca wrenched the steering wheel to the left to avoid
the oncoming heavy goods lorry. The left-hand side of her
car went into the hedge, leaves and brambles scraping
along the side. Her heart pounding, Rebecca remembered,
too late, to apply the brakes.
The front of her car smashed into the grille of the lorry
and the windscreen shattered into a million beads of glass.
The impact threw Rebecca forward, her seatbelt tightening
so much it crushed the wind out of her lungs. Barely a
second later, Rebecca found herself being thrown to the
side as her car rolled over. Rebecca had a brief sense
memory of being on a theme park roller-coaster ride. She
had never liked roller-coaster rides.
Her only other thought was to observe with wry
amusement that this was like something out of Casualty.
The next thing she knew, she was lying in her seat,
gazing across a muddy field. Lying in her seat? Her seat
had been upturned and her weight rested on her back. But
if she was still inside the car, why could she feel the rain
upon her face? She couldn't feel any pain, though, which
was a relief.
Rebecca cursed herself. How many times had her
mother moaned on the telephone about lorries using the
village as a shortcut, even though the council had installed
speed cameras? It was an accident waiting to happen,
she'd said. Turned out she'd been right.
Rebecca wondered why everything in the field had an
orange hue, as though lit by a street lamp. A second later,
everything went dark, before lighting up again with the
same orange hue. The lorry must have activated it's
warning lights. What had happened to the lorry driver?
For a moment, Rebecca hoped that he'd been hurt, it
would serve him right, before banishing the thought.
She'd been very lucky not to be injured.
But if she was OK, why couldn't she move? Rebecca
tried wriggling in her seat; her seatbelt was so tight she
could hardly breathe. But nothing happened. She wanted
to wipe the rain out of here eyes, but for some reason her
hands didn't respond. She began to wonder if she
might've been hurt after all.
Outside the car, the orange light blinked back on.
Now that was weird. About six metres away, in the
field, stood a statue, like might be found in a graveyard or
a Roman museum. The statue was of a young woman
with coiled hair wearing a flowing robe. It had two
wings. An angel. The statue stood hunched, burying it's
head in it's hands as though crying. To add to the effect,
rain trickled from between it's fingers.
The light blinked off, returning Rebecca to blackness.
She thought briefly of bonfires, of Guy Fawkes Night and
toffee apples. Why was she thinking about bonfires? And
then she realised she could smell burning.
The orange light blinked on again. Rebecca couldn't be
sure, but hadn't the statue been holding its head in its
hands? Because now it was looking towards her with
blank, pupil-less eyes.
There was the darkness again. Then the orange light.
The statue had moved closer now. Still staring at her
with it's impassive, stony eyes. Its mouth was now
slightly open, as though drawing in breath to speak.
Darkness. Orange light.
It now stood only two metres away. It filled her view,
looming over her.
Caught in the flickering glow of a fire, thick black
smoke billowing around it, its expression had changed to a
snarl of hunger. Its lips had drawn back to reveal rows of
sharp fangs, like those of a bat. It reached towards her
with outstretched hands, its long fingernails like talons.
But this was impossible, Rebecca thought. It wasn't
moving. It wasn't moving.
