Touched by an Angel PDF
Preview Touched by an Angel
The 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 Jonathan Morris has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work 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 trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence. Weeping Angels created by Steven Moffat. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009 Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 978 1 849 90234 2 The Random House Group Limited supports the Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation. All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace approved FSC certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at www.rbooks.co.uk/environment Commissioning editor: Albert DePetrillo Editorial manager: Nicholas Payne Series consultant: Justin Richards Project editor: Steve Tribe Cover design: Lee Binding © Woodlands Books Ltd, 2011 Production: Rebecca Jones Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives PLC To buy books by your favourite authors and register for offers, visit www.randomhouse.co.uk 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.
The list of books you might like
