Angel in Disguise

          The eyes of the ethereal messenger followed me as I moved around the room. A beautiful specimen of naked young manhood, I wasn’t sure if he was a human or angelic being. His arms were open wide as if to invite people to approach for a blessing. In fairytale woodland setting reminiscent of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the moonlight shone behind him radiating out to the world. Open and innocent, there was such a magnetic quality about him that I kept returning to have another look. I was thankful that I was alone, and had time to spare and no one waiting to hurry me along to the next room in the gallery.

          I was trying to mentally work out what the painter had intended his message to be, when I thought I could smell smoke and the silence was shattered by a fire alarm. People appeared as if from nowhere, running in all directions. My mind raced with possibilities, fire, a terrorist bomb, or just a smoke alarm in the nearby café, as I too raced towards the nearest exit. The bell was interrupted by a loudspeaker system announcing over and over again, “Do not panic. Do not use the lifts. Proceed to the nearest fire exit.”

          Although everything seemed to fast forward from that moment, my later memories were all in slow motion. The entrance to the stairwell was jammed with people trying to push past a young mother with a crying baby and toddler in a double buggy. A middle-aged woman with an elderly man in a wheelchair were thrust in a corner as the more able-bodied tried to squeeze through in their hurry to get out. We could smell the smoke strongly now and it was becoming harder to breathe freely.

          A young girl started to scream hysterically and an old man tried to use his stick as a battering ram, but as congestion built up we felt a surge from adjoining stairways pressing in on us and we made no progress. A fat red-faced man swore repeatedly, and I put an arm round a tiny, elderly, stick-thin woman next to me who was shaking uncontrollably. In the midst of the panic I noticed the extraordinary sight of a middle-aged couple who were standing with their backs against the wall, seemingly totally unperturbed, continuing to read from paperback books they had extracted from their bags.

          Seemingly out of nowhere a voice of authority from above said calmly, “Stand aside please” and two firemen appeared, one picking up the buggy, and the other the occupant of the wheelchair. As they descended, people were parting to let them through the center, like the dividing of the Red Sea. They were followed by two others from the floor above, one supporting a young man, chalk white and gasping for breath, the other cradling a black curly headed baby. Now subdued, we followed them outside onto the pavement.

          As we emerged unscathed into the sunlight, we started to laugh and talk to complete strangers as if we had known each other all our lives. I noticed four fire engines, two or more ambulances and several police cars parked in puddles in the road. A man in a pin-striped suit was talking rapidly into his mobile phone, a child sobbed for her teddy, and the woman who had kept tight hold of my arm whispered to me, “It brings back memories of people crowding into the underground shelters during the Blitz.” I handed her over to paramedics who were moving amongst the crowd to see if we were hurt or suffering from shock. Then a policeman with a loud hailer was dispersing the crowd and we were moved on.

          Later, curled up on the sofa at home, with a glass of wine in my hand, my partner Mike and I watched the news, and there was a short clip about the fire which had been rapidly brought under control by the firefighting teams. The report said that there were minor casualties and some damage to paintings, also that arson could not be ruled out, and a forensic team was investigating.

          Mike’s face was crumpled with concern as he said, “You’re always so outwardly calm Emma, but I bet you were scared underneath weren’t you?”

          “Just a bit,” I admitted, “but those firemen were great, like angels in disguise.”
 
          “Pretty hefty angels,” he snorted, “I thought they were supposed to be delicate with halos and wings” and my mind went back to the gallery and my ethereal messenger. I wondered how many of the paintings had been damaged, and if he had survived. It suddenly seemed tremendously important that he, in particular, should have escaped the fire.

          When it reopened, I visited the gallery and made my way to the third floor. Straight away I noticed the empty space and felt a disproportionate sense of loss. I went up to an attendant, described the painting and asked if he knew what had happened to it.

          “I’m new on this job I’m afraid,” he said, “but if you go to the Enquiry Desk and ask for Bill, he’ll be able to tell you.”

          I tracked Bill down on the Ground Floor. “Yes miss,” he said, “there’s a tale to tell about that picture. When the fire started a young man, stark naked, was reportedly seen, shepherding anyone who was lost or unable to help themselves towards the fire exits. The strange thing was,” he said, warming to his theme, “he was evidently seen on all four floors at the same time.”

          “How amazing,” I said politely, not sure if I believed a word of it, “but how about the picture?”

          “Well I was coming to that,” Bill said, relishing his story. “If you follow me I’ll show you.”

          He took me down to the basement, where several pictures were awaiting restoration. The picture was propped up on an easel in the center, completely undamaged, except for one thing. Where the body of my ethereal messenger had been there was now a totally blank space.









Caroline Hansen lives in Shoreham-by-Sea, on the south coast of England. Forward Press, Faithwriters, and Poetry Scotland have published her poetry. Her first poetry collection, Raspberries, is available on Amazon.com. She has a poetry blog and has written a few short stories.