Archangel

I don't know where Ceridwen came from. I think she's a melange of the tired city girls you see every day on the London commute.

Our city is hard and jagged, and those of us lucky enough to have someone should be glad; too many people here are alone.

--

I was tired and cold.

The Victoria line platform at Vauxhall was busy and I clasped my violin case to me as I dodged around other people and made my way towards the train station. It was a windy evening, with drizzle and low clouds scudding over the small patches of blue sky. Commuters huddled into their coats as they walked, or crowded into areas of relative calm behind bus shelters or walls in order to smoke. I hurried to try to make my rehearsal on time.

It had been a long Tuesday. Work had been difficult; I was reporting in to a new manager and he'd been abrasive and condescending about both my prior boss and my work for her. I'd put up and shut up but it had taken energy that I didn't have to spare, and I'd had an exhausted, frustrated cry in the ladies afterwards. I'd got sympathetic looks and a hug from Ally, but it didn't take the sting away, and it hadn't helped the sense of shame I felt about blubbing at work; I hated looking weak.

But I was so tired.

I cursed my new boss under my breath, and hoped he'd fall in front of a bus on his way home.

I touched my oyster to the reader; the gate beeped, and I turned sideways, stepping through the barrier. I glanced up at the departures board; my train was still on schedule and I had a few minutes to spare. I took a left turn and started the climb to platform three.

I missed Jason. He had left me a few short months ago - he'd come home, packed a bag, and left again without even a goodbye hug. In hindsight the signs had been there for a while, but hindsight is no comfort when your heart is a lump of stone in your chest. I'd spent the first week sobbing myself to sleep; my friends had been gentle and supportive but they had their own lives and, ultimately, I was alone.

I'd lost weight. People were commenting that I looked too thin; Sam from operations had brought me a tub of ice cream and had shared it with me.

She had shared her tissues too when I'd cried again.

The last thing I needed was a reputation as a crybaby. But Jason and I had been together for four years, and even though it had been cold and hard at the end it had still been an us, and now it was just me.

And it hurt. Some days it hurt more than others, but every day was a struggle, and yet in spite of it I had to get up, get dressed, go to work and be a productive team member in our small marketing consultancy. I had no safety net any more, and my job and my music were all I had left.

.:.

I'd climbed maybe a third of the way up the stairs when a suited man charged down past me. His backpack hung from one shoulder, and as he passed me it swung out and caught my violin case, and his momentum pulled me backwards. I screamed and tried to grab hold of something to stop my fall. But there was nothing but the empty space behind me, an empty space full of metal-edged stairs.

I think I hit each of them on the way down.

.:.

I lay, curled into a ball, cradling my left wrist and gasping for breath.

Vaguely I heard voices around me.

"Oh my god, are you alright?"

"Come on love, come on, you're OK,"

"Did anyone get a look at him?"

"Cunt didn't even stop. Wanker."

A big black man in a London Underground uniform knelt down in front of me and spoke gently to me. "Love, you alright?"

"No," I cried, "no I'm fucking sore."

"Love, you stay where you are, alright? Don't move, we'll get the ambulance guys here for you. Alright?"

I sobbed out something affirmative as the pain ramped up. My wrist felt like it was on fire, and my head and shoulders ached. Somebody, I don't know who, covered me with their jacket, and a dreadlocked girl held my hand. I lay there on my side, watching the feet go by me. Time seemed to pass slowly, but I guess it can't have been that long before the St Johns Ambulance people were there.

A kind woman in green overalls shone a penlight into my eyes as her partner put a neck brace on me, and they talked gently to me as they rolled me onto a spine board for transport, their voices gentle and pitched to be reassuring. I tried to ignore the bystanders filming my bad luck with their cellphones, and I desperately caught the hand of the female paramedic as they wheeled me to the waiting ambulance.

"My handbag. My violin," I begged.

"We've got them, lass," said the woman. "Don't fret. We'll get you to St Thomas and get you checked out, OK? You're going to be right as rain in a short while, lass. Don't fret."

I closed my eyes and tried to be brave.

.:.

X-rays and checkups, an eternity of them. I sat, aching, on a cot in A&E as the duty orderly strapped up my wrist.

"You have some really bad bruising," she said, "but no broken bones and no fractures. You were lucky."

"I don't feel lucky."

She snorted. "A fall like that can kill. Take it from me, you were lucky."

I sighed. "How long do I need to keep my wrist bandaged?"

"Three days. You will have limited motion for a week or so, but after that you should be OK. Make sure you stop at Boots on the way out and get these painkillers," she added, handing me a printed script. "You will need them for a day or two."

"Ugh."

"Can you stand?"

I slid slowly off the cot, and straightened. I took a painful breath and then exhaled. "Yes."

"No dizziness? No weakness?"

"No. Just pain."

She nodded, sympathetic. "Do you have a bath at home?"

"No, just a shower."

"Take a long hot one tonight and try to dress up warmly in loose clothing. You are going to be purple by tomorrow."

"It gets better and better," I grumbled.

.:.

The queue was short, and I ordered and paid for my extra-strength Ibuprofen tablets. Then I limped slowly back into the entrance hall and ordered a latte in the small, dubious coffee shop there. I needed to sit and collect my thoughts before I tried to get home.

I was too late for rehearsal, there was no point in even trying to make it, and there was certainly no point in even trying to play were I somehow to get there - my wrist was agony; I would never be able to hold my violin, even were I to take off the bandages .

I laid my violin case down on the table and took a sip of my insipid latte. Then I undid the latches on the case and lifted the lid to check my baby.

My heart dropped through my stomach.

"Oh god, no..."

I reached into the case, and touched my broken instrument.

Then I closed it, slumped forward, and tried to fight back the tears.

My violin.

My mother had sold some of her silverware and had used the money to buy it for me when I was fourteen years old. It was a glorious instrument; old and mellow. I'd played it at Eisteddfod, at school, and at University. And now I played in a small string quartet to supplement my income. It was as much a part of me as my face. To see it lying there, neck broken, sound board cracked and bridge destroyed, hurt me far more than I ever could have imagined.

I scrubbed at my eyes, opened the case again, and lifted my instrument awkwardly out, trying not to lose any parts or do any more damage. I laid it in front of me, and just looked at it, gulping.

You can repair an instrument, but it never sounds the same. Something changes; a violin's soul dies when you break it and the new one is always different. My first teacher told me that the time I dropped my case. So I'd always cared for my violin. Always kept it safe.

And now some cunt had destroyed the best part of me without even a backward glance...

"Hey. I'm sorry to intrude... but are you OK?"

I scrubbed at my face with my sleeve, angry at being caught in a moment of weakness. "No. No, I'm about as far from OK as it's possible to be."

I looked up, then away, ashamed at the state I was in. He was tall, and dressed in what under other circumstances would have counted as a really nice suit, but the effect was spoiled by the stubble and the mane of brown, disheveled hair.

"May I sit?"

"Why?"

"Because you look like you need a sympathetic ear."

I scrubbed at my face again, wincing as pain lanced through my arm. "Are you going to try to sell me something?"

"No, but it's a fair question I suppose. What happened?" he asked, gently, as he leaned back into the rickety chair.

"I fell down some stairs thanks to some bastard who was in a hurry."

"Today?"

"Maybe an hour ago. Vauxhall station."

He winced. "Christ. Those stairs are vicious."

"No shit." I sighed. "Sorry. Sorry, I'm really sore and really hurt and my violin..."

He glanced down at it and made a face. "Can it be fixed?"

"No. Mended, yes, but it will never be the same."

"That sucks."

"Yeah."

He was silent a moment. "I'm Connor."

I eyed him. "Ceridwen," I muttered. "And yes, I'm Welsh, and fuck you if the first thing that crossed your mind was a sheep."

He laughed softly. "That wasn't the first thing that crossed my mind, but again, I guess it's a fair assumption. Are you part of an orchestra, or a Celtic band?"

"What?"

He nodded towards my violin. "Celtic woman, plays the violin. These are the two most obvious options."

"Hah. No. String quartet; I'm not good enough for orchestra, and I don't have the time."

"That was going to be my next guess."

"You know your music then, I take it." I gently put the wreckage of my violin back into the case, and closed the lid on it.

"Some," he murmured. "I sing. It goes with the territory."

"Karaoke?" I asked, acidly.

He grinned. "Good guess, but no. Chamber choir, mainly."

"Wow. Today just keeps getting weirder. Go to work, get crapped out by my new boss, fall down stairs, destroy part of my soul, and get chatted up by a baritone in a hospital coffee shop. Go me," I added, bitter.

"Are you always this angry?"

"No," I swallowed, shaking my head. "No... I just... No. I'm not. Today is just... probably one of my worst days." I glanced up at him. "And you certainly don't deserve the abuse. I'm sorry. I apologies." I sat up straighter, wincing at the pain in my back. "Hi," I added. "I'm Ceridwen."

He smiled and gently took my offered hand. "Hi. Nice to meet you. And by the way, I'm a tenor."

.:.

"You really don't need to do this."

"If you feel the way I imagine you do, you need the help."

"Won't whoever you were visiting in hospital be looking for you?"

He sighed. "No."

I looked up at him and saw the sadness, but didn't press him. Instead I simply focused on walking, trying to ignore the pain in my back, hips and thigh. We slowly made our way down the Albert Embankment; Connor carrying his bag and my violin case and reaching out occasionally to steady me or just help me balance. The wind was building and it was a miserable night; gusts of leaves from Lambeth's tattered trees skittered past us, and at one point a particularly violent gust staggered me so badly that had it not been for him I would have fallen.

"Gotcha," he'd said as he'd helped me catch my balance and my breath, and I'd given him a grateful smile. But the vast bulk of our slow walk had been silent, and it was beginning to worry me.

"Please don't be a murderer," I said, to break the silence.

He snorted back a laugh. "I confess that I sometimes wear odd socks and occasionally a clashing tie."

"Oh god, I'm done for."

"Yeah, sorry, should have had a card printed. Connor James Saumarez, Professional lunatic."

"Are you?"

"What?"

"A professional lunatic."

"Hah, no. Sometimes I feel like it's my true calling though." He kicked a can as it clattered past. "Sorry, childhood habit."

I caught myself smiling, and shook my head at myself. He had a really lovely voice, and an easy way with words. And his arm was strong; he was strong. Strong but gentle. A gentle man.

We lurched our way further, turning into Kennington road, passing the Imperial War Museum to our left, and then, eventually, home. I climbed the three pitted concrete steps and stopped outside the battered blue door.

"Well, this is me," I said.

He handed me my violin case. "Here. I hope you can get it repaired."

I sighed. "So do I, but it won't be the same."

"Have a little faith, Ceridwen."

"After today? Not likely."

He shrugged one shoulder. "I will just have to be positive on your behalf then. Well, I guess I should get going. It was lovely to meet you, Ceridwen, though I'm sure you'd have preferred better circumstances."

"Connor?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for helping me home. It was very sweet of you, and I'm sure you had better things to do than help a dumb girl limp home after biting the dust."

"You needed a helping hand; I needed something to get me out of St Thomas for a while. Lets call it a mutually advantageous encounter," he added with a grin.

"Uh huh. Where are you going to go now?"

He glanced at his wristwatch. "I have half an hour before rehearsal, so I'm going to see if I can make my way to Trafalgar square in time."

"Rehearsal?"

"Yep."

"Don't tease me."

He laughed. "Sorry, it's a bad habit. I sing in a small chamber choir; we're slated to perform a lunchtime concert in St Martins in a few weeks, so we're burning the candle on both ends a bit to polish it all."

"St Martins in the Fields?"

"Yeah,"

"Wow. That's an amazing venue. I'd love to play there sometime. I'm jealous, your choir must be good to be able to get a booking there."

"Mm. I guess we do alright. Tell you what; come listen to us when you get a chance. Maybe not tonight," he added, with a sympathetic wince. "But we're practicing again on Friday evening before heading out for a pint or twenty; if you feel inclined and would like the company of a bunch of rowdy singers, why don't you come with?"

"That sounds like it would be a lovely change of pace for me," I murmured. "I'd like that. I haven't got out much recently."

He dug into his jacket pocket. "Do you have a pen?" He scrawled some digits on the back of a business card. "My number. In case you want it."

"Smooth."

"I was aiming for suave."

"You'll need a haircut for that," I teased him.

"Touche. OK, I need to get moving."

I put down my handbag and violin case.

"Connor?"

I descended the steps again, stepped in and wrapped my good arm around him, pressing my cheek to his chest. "Thank you. You've made a horrible day a lot better for me. I don't know why you came to say hello but I'm glad you did."

He smiled down at me. "Take care of that arm, Ceridwen. See you Friday, maybe."

"Ceri," I said, soft and low.

"Eh?"

"My friends call me Ceri."

His grin was white against the darkness, and he gave me an insouciant wave as he loped off. I stood watching him until he turned the corner, then took a breath and let myself into the flat.

.:.

"You're home early and oh my good fucking god what have you done to yourself?"

"Hi, Bron," I winced.

"Ceri, what the fuck happened?"

I winced as gently put my violin case down. "Some cunt knocked me down the stairs at Vauxhall."

"Oh my god. Your arm, Ceri?"

"Sprained, not broken."

"Sit down, sit down. It's an emergency. Wine is called for."

Bronwyn flapped around me like a mother hen; dragging our TV lurk blankets out and arranging me on our shabby sofa. "You did a good job on yourself, Ceridwen," she muttered. "You look like someone used you as a punching bag."

"It gets worse."

"How much worse could it get?"

"Open my case."

Bronwyn paled when she saw the damage. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Ceri, it's trashed."

"I know," I sighed. "My mum's going to be so sad. She loved it almost as much as I did."

"Can we get it repaired?"

"Doubt it. I'm going to have to shop for a new one and I don't have the money for anything more than someone's derelict bent warped reject."

"Fuck sakes. Life is not fair."

"You know what's worse? I know this city is hard, but the fuckhead didn't even stop to check whether I was OK."

"I'll trip the next banker I see down the stairs myself. Wankers, the lot of them. How'd you get home?"

"Walked."

"Jesus, Ceri, in your state! You could have dropped dead somewhere! Don't fuck around with head injuries; how many times do I have to tell you this?"

Bronwyn is an amateur thespian, though you'd never guess.

"It was OK, Bron. The A&E cleared me, and besides, I had a guardian angel to help."

"Uh huh. Yeah, head injury, I should have known you'd start hallucinating. Fuck sakes, Ceri, you make me so angry sometimes! You don't have the sense God gave sheep."

"No, listen, you twit. There was a guy, a really sweet boy; he helped me home."

"A nice boy? In London? Now I know it's a head injury."

I snorted and she grinned at me. "Calm down, babes, just teasing."

"Stop, I don't have the energy tonight, Bron. Really, really don't."

"OK, OK. So, tell me the damage."

"Bruises everywhere on my back, head, wrist. Hip too I think. Bum. Cut on my thigh. Think I have torn skin on my shoulder blades. There was a satisfying amount of blood, anyway."

"Do you need me to take a look for you?"

"Not right now, Bron. Thanks. But I'd really appreciate that glass of wine you promised me."

"Coming right up, love. You sit right there."

Bron poured me a glass of our reliable Montepulciano, and shook her head over my sling as I sipped it. "Whoever did this for you should be fired," she muttered as she pinned me up again. "Shoddy work. I'll find out who was on shift and leave my socks and dirty scrubs in their locker."

"A&E was rammed, Bron. She did the best she could under time pressure."

"Being busy is no excuse for shoddy work, Ceri. When I'm on duty I don't care if the sky is on fire or some meth head is masturbating in the hallway, I make sure the patient I'm seeing gets my full attention."

"Not everyone is as good as you are, Bron," I said, softly.

"Of course not, I am Bronwyn, Nursing God," she intoned. "But people should still try." She sat back, reached for her own glass, and took a long, slow sip. "God I'm glad I'm off tonight though," she sighed.

"You and me both. St Thomas looked mad tonight. Enjoy your evening of freedom."

"So tell me about this white knight of yours." Her eyes glittered.

"Tall. Thin-ish. Strong. Lovely smile. Looks like he doesn't eat enough, or regularly enough. Long sandy brown hair, touselled. Brown eyes. Lots of laugh lines, but he looks tired and sad. Like he's grinning in spite of everything life's doing to him."

"Mm. You like him?"

"He was sweet. Gentle. And he didn't have to spare the time to walk me home."

"What's his name?"

"Connor. His surname is weird. Sanders or something."

"American?"

"No, Brit."

"What's he do?"

"I didn't think to ask. He's a singer; sings in a choir. A tenor, he says. It must be a good choir, they're singing a concert in St Martins soon."

"Hah. A fellow musician." Bron smirked. "Sounds like a nice chance for a pick-me-up, Ceri. Maybe he has the tongue of a fluter."

"Flautist, you filth. Anyway, he's not that kind of boy. He was attentive. And honestly just decent. Just... nice. He felt safe to be around..."

"Mm. Don't you go and fall for him, Ceri. You need to get your head right first, love."

"Not much chance of that," I sighed dramatically. "My heart is a jagged chunk of solidified obsidian. I will never love again." I sipped my wine. "Fuck today. Fuck it sideways. Christ, I'm sore, Bron." I added.

"I can't write you a script, Ceri. I don't give family drugs. You know the rules."

"I know," I sighed. "Just whining."

"Look on the bright side, at least you met someone interesting."

I stared at my wine, and didn't answer.

.:.

"Hello, Connor speaking, I can't take your call right now, but leave a name and number after the beep and I'll get back to you if you're interesting."