Harold leaned forward and put the van into gear. “Mostly they use pigeons.” Dill made a noise like a valve releasing steam from an stationbound engine. He looked across to see a rictus-like grin spread over the zombie's face. Not wishing to embarrass the young man he kept silent, trying to establish a cause for the noise – and the stench from the zombie's putrefying lungs – without worrying him. A few moments of copying the expression later, he had his answer. Dill was laughing, only he hadn't bothered to engage his vocal cords and hadn't modulated the flow of breath into a ha-ha-ha, thus resulting in a single sibilant haaa... “I'm glad you think it's funny.”“Angels taking the form of pigeons to spy on mortals? Of course it's funny. What? Are you being serious?”
“I don't joke about thinks like that.”
“But why would they need to? I thought they could change their size at will. 'Ten thousand angels dancing on the head of a pin', that sort of thing.”
“Technically, that's quite right. You're forgetting one thing, though. One fundamental thing about the nature of angels.”
“And what's that?”
“They have an inferiority complex as big as the Shard of Glass.” He released the clutch and pulled out, his three point turn briefly illuminating Mrs Parkes at her living room window. “Best put your seatbelt on.”
“I can survive any crash, you know.”
“But can you survive me being pulled over for having a passenger without a safety belt?” Harold glanced at him. “You're not rich yet, old son.”
No comments:
Post a Comment