Epilogue

As the young, impressionable, and frankly unshaven man ran through Cambridge, a small, detached part of his mind began to wonder why he was putting himself through all this. The answer was simple and came in two parts. Part one, the Cambridge Post paid some of the highest wages for journalism interns among the local papers; part two, he was broke and desperately needed the money.

It had sounded so simple at first. All he had to do was track down one of the former journalists for an interview with the Post. Apparently, the editor was interested in running an article on the disgraced and deceased former Prime Minister, Vincent Kendall, and he had recalled that one of their photographers had known Kendall, to some degree. Despite the fact that the man in question had disappeared some years before, the intern was confident he could track him down. Besides, it was an excuse to get out of the office, away from his tea-making duties.

It had been slow work but he had been making progress. Last week, he could have sworn he had seen the guy as he got off the bus. So he was in Cambridge. That narrowed the search down by a wide margin – those calls to America had been expensive. And just then, as he had been eating a panini outside a café, he had seen him again. He had hastily dropped some coins on his table and took off after his mystery man, Charlie Maurice.

He looked normal enough, the intern thought. Maybe a shade taller than average but apart from that, nothing spectacular. He had mousy brown hair that was borderline unkempt. There was nothing distinguishable about his clothes either. It was as if his greatest skill was blending into the crowd, being one in a million.

Maurice glanced over his shoulder randomly. Had he heard someone call his name or something, the intern wondered. But then he seemed to look straight at the intern and, foolishly, the intern returned the look. Maurice smiled broadly, before taking off like a bat out of hell. The race was on.

And that was how he found himself running through the crowds at the centre of Cambridge. Maurice was fast, that was for sure. It was all he could do just to keep up. If he lost sight of him for just a second, that would be the end of the chase, and the end of his internship.

It was only when the crowds thinned out that the intern realised that there was someone with Maurice, running just in front of him. It was a woman; the long golden brown hair and the attractively svelte figure told him that. Naturally, it was hard to tell from the behind from but if he had to guess, he would say they were the same age as Maurice. It may have been his preference for taller woman (he was a rather short intern – soon to have an even shorter internship) but whereas Maurice was indistinguishable, he had no trouble picking his companion out of the crowds.

Now the chase was not only for Maurice but also his friend too. He could forget the journalist waiting for him back at the office – he would conduct the interview himself. He had some very probing questions – for her – such as, what do you know about Vincent Kendall, did you ever meet him, and are you single?

The intern was so absorbed in the pursuit that he barely noticed the changing scenery around him. He was so focussed on Maurice – and his friend – that he didn't look twice at the people he passed.

At one point, they ran past a street-side café, it may have been the one he started at. If it was, the clientèle had changed since he had left. There hadn't been the man clad in black (in this weather?) with a general aura of creepiness around him. He was sitting at one of the tables out front with the ankle of one leg (black army boots as well!) resting on the knee of the other. On the table in front of him sat a fresh coffee (black, naturally) and a clarinet case. Funny, the man didn't look like a musician. He was reading an old, slightly tatty book. The title, in faded gilt lettering, read Ancient Antiques and Relics of Some Interest. The man seemed engrossed in the tome, reading it from behind a pair of neat spectacles, the bangs of his dark hair obediently staying out of his way. The intern flew past this scene in a flash, and of course, took none of it in.

A few minutes after they had ran past, the man snapped the book shut and pocketed it away inside his long coat, along with his glasses. He leisurely drained the contents of his cup and stood up. Picking up his case, he stepped out onto the pavement. He stood there for a few moments before moving on. He gazed up at the sky, at the clouds that skimmed their way across it, a confident, self-sure smile on his face.

“Another day, another chance.” He murmured, quiet enough so that he wasn't overheard. Eavesdropping on someone else's soliloquy was simply the height of rudeness. “The Stone of David was a good start but there are other relics out there, just waiting to be found.” The man grinned again as he set off, heading in the direction of the nearest bus stop. It had been awhile since he had visited Cambridge Airport. Not that he needed it this time. “And I shall be the one to find them, the Great Lord Malachi, ha ha!”

And with that, the insensibly black-clad man strode away. There were other people sitting outside the café but he paid them little attention; after all, they were puny and insignificant. He completely looked over the young couple sitting a few tables away from he had sat. On the surface, there was nothing particularly significant about them: on the surface, the iceberg that sank the Titanic looked like an ice-cream float.

The woman, the younger of the two was eating a chocolate doughnut with a knife and fork. She dressed conservatively but was probably quite attractive beneath the façade. Her intentionally inexpressive face, combined with her brown, bobcut hair, gave the impression of banking middle-management, or something with the same neutral civility.

The man was drinking a latte, with obvious enjoyment. His dress sense was considerably freer. An untucked shirt beneath a light jacket was quite at odds with what his friend was wearing. He wasn't even wearing a tie. A panama hat, the same colour as his jacket covered his uncut, sandy hair – apart the ponytail that fell down the back.

As the man in black moved past them, the gentleman set his latte down on the table and looked over his shoulder, at the man in black. He removed his hat and narrowed his eyes. Smirking to himself, he replaced his hat and stood up. The man with the coat and the clarinet case hadn't noticed them – good.

“I don't know how he did it but he did it.” Gabriel whistled, wiping his brow, “Malachi broke out of Heaven.” Part of him was impressed; this kind of thing hadn't been done before. If anyone was going to try something like this, he would have put his money on Malachi. “And since there would be so much paperwork otherwise, I think we had better bring him back. What do you say, Selena?”

“By himself, Malachi is a danger,” the woman stood up, her bland expression superseded by something more alive. “With some supercharged antiquity in his possession, he's a catastrophe.” They had learned that lesson the very hard way. She grinned and adjusted a brooch in her jacket, a silver scythe, before looking back to Gabriel. “We better get to work.”

The man in the hat chuckled softly as he withdrew a pair of sleek, black sunglasses from his jacket pocket. He put them on and set them in place with a deft nudge of the bridge with his finger. He turned around to find the man in black again; he was making swift progress down the street. He smiled, “Let's,”

Of course, by the time all this had transpired, the intern was several streets, sweaty and tired. He wasn't ready to give up though. It may have just been his mind crying out for oxygen but he was sure he gaining on Maurice and his friend.

Foolishly, he blinked.

Suddenly, they were gone! When he opened his eyes, the street was exactly as they had been except they were now missing the only two people he was interested in. The intern stopped in his tracks, panting for breath. They couldn't have just disappeared; that was impossible. His hands on his knees, he looked around desperately. If he lost them now, there was no guarantee he would find them again.

Just behind him, on his left, there was an alleyway, sandwiched in between two shop-fronts. They could have ducked into it to give him the slip. Well, it wasn't going to work. Sucking in another breath, he trotted over to the mouth of the alley.

Aha, there they were! And, fortuitously, he didn't think they had seen him. Maybe if he ran in quickly and starting asking questions, they wouldn't bother running. Or maybe not. He decided to wait for a moment to see what they did next. Later, he was glad that he did.

He watched as the woman put her arms around Maurice from behind, a tender gesture. He watched as Maurice touched her hand and smiled softly. He watched as eagles' wings rose out from the woman's back. He watched, wide-eyed now, as they drifted upwards out of the alley on slow wing-beats. As they disappeared into the sky, Maurice grinned conspiratorially at him with a wink. After that, they were nothing more than a speck among the clouds.

The intern stood there for several more minutes, not daring to believe what he had seen. On the one hand, Maurice had got away and he would probably lose his job. On the other hand, flying people! After careful consideration, he had decided the best course of action.

Finally replacing the look of utter amazement on his face with one of optimistic confidence, he turned around and strode off down the street, or into the sunset as he imagined.

“The Cambridge Post? With a story like this, I'm going straight to the News of the World!”

“I heard what he said, but I did not understand what he meant. So I asked, 'How will all this finally end, my lord?'

But he said, 'Go now, Daniel, for what I have said is kept secret and sealed until the time of the end.'” – Daniel 12: 8-9

“There, finished,” Gabriel sighed, putting his pen down. Raising his eyebrows with a smile, he looked up, “Well, for now at least.”

The End