‘Don’t want burgers, chips and Sprite – we want decent Beings’ rights!’
Half the queue turns to stare. Two kids, both about my age, come stomping along the pavement, each with a placard over their shoulder: a short, very skinny white girl with wavy brown hair, chanting into a plastic megaphone; and a boy who, though blond and less pale, can only be her brother – he has the same heart-shaped face, the same slightly upturned nose.
‘Celeste’s has no morality! Don’t profiteer from tragedy!’ the girl shouts, raising her sign into the air. It’s shaped like a pair of wings and shows a businessman trampling over the body of an angel, chunky pound signs twinkling in his eyes. ‘This place is an abomination – down with Being exploitation!’
The boy cups one hand round his mouth. ‘Novelty Being restaurants are demeaning to angels and humans alike,’ he says, forgoing the rhymes. He seems a bit nonchalant compared to his sister. ‘I mean, come on, guys – there’s a Nando’s up the road if you want chicken wings so badly.’
While the waitresses huddle on the top step of the restaurant, wings trembling as they discuss how to handle the situation, the kids walk up and down the queue, trying to talk to the people waiting to get into Celeste’s. Most shake their heads; some tell them to piss off. Almost everyone groans at the terrible chants, but nobody leaves. The girl doesn’t seem discouraged, but the boy puts his placard down and starts taking photos of the scene instead. When his sister notices, she flaps her own sign at him and hisses at him to concentrate. The boy rolls his eyes, slides his phone into his pocket and shouts something half-hearted about fair treatment of Beings instead.
For a moment, I’m almost tempted to pick up his placard and join in. They’re vocalizing every thought I’ve had about how people treat the Beings, about how horrible and unfair and exploitative it is. But before I can a short man with a shaved head and a wonky nose steps out. He exchanges a few angry whispers with the girls, then shakes his head and stomps down the steps. The boy’s eyes widen. His sister smirks.
‘Right, you two. Piss off,’ the manager snarls. ‘You’re not being funny; you’re not being clever. Stop making prats of yourself and go home.’
‘We’re on the pavement.’ The girl drops her placard and puts her hands on her hips. Her dress, dark green and decorated with tiny white birds, ripples in the breeze. ‘It’s not private property. We can stand here all day if we want to.’
The man grits his teeth. I flinch – it’s like watching a Great Dane squaring up to a chihuahua – but the girl doesn’t seem fazed. The boy steps forward, his arms crossed.
‘We have every right to peaceful protest.’ His voice quivers a little, but he looks the manager in the eye. ‘Call the police if you want, pal. It’s not like they can arrest us.’
‘Oh, aye?’ The man’s eyes bulge. ‘We’ll see about that, you smug wee shit.’
He fumbles for the phone in his pocket so fast he drops it to the pavement. There’s a collective ‘eesh’ from the crowd. The manager’s hands twitch into fists, but he just snatches it up and storms back into the restaurant while the kids snigger. One of the angel waitresses waits until he’s past the golden gates, then runs up to the protesters.
‘Can you just go – please?’ She’s wringing her hands like damp cloths. ‘This is our big launch; he’ll be unbearable if it doesn’t go well. If you really have to do this, could you come back tomorrow?’
The boy’s expressions softens, but the girl’s hands are still firmly on her hips.
‘No. Sorry, but this is important. We’re trying to get you to realize that the Beings are people. It’s sick, treating them like this, as if they were just –’
Whatever the next word is, it catches in her throat. Her chest heaves, and she coughs. Not your usual cough, but a great, tearing sound that sends tremors through her whole body. A few people in the queue turn around to stare; the angel waitress takes a hasty step back. Her brother leans in, passes the girl a tissue and whispers something to her. It takes a minute for the coughing to ease off, but eventually she wipes her mouth and shrugs.
‘God, whatever.’ Her voice is hoarse, but she rolls her eyes like it had never happened. ‘We’ll let you have your stupid launch. This isn’t right, though. Not by a long shot.’
The waitress thanks them and runs back inside, teetering in her white heels. The pair shoulder their placards, the girl sneaking in one last chant before they leave: ‘Hope your business bellyflops – exploitation has to stop!’
As they turn towards me, her eye catches mine, and I realize I’m still holding the restaurant’s flyer in my hand. I don’t want her to think I’m just another Wingding, so I crumple it and give her a double thumbs-up. My cheeks flare – a double thumbs-up? What am I, Borat? – but the girl just grins and salutes in return. She’s kind of cute. Really cute, actually.
They walk right past me, and there’s a moment when I could say something – strike up a conversation, let them know that I find all this Wingding crap as stupid as they do. But by the time I’ve fished a half-coherent thought out of my brain, they’re already rounding the corner, laughing about something, their placards bobbing in the air.
FIVE
The next morning, I wake up to find the flat empty and Shona, dressed in plum jeans and a satin violet shirt decorated with green flowers, knocking on the door.
‘Smoky quartz!’ For a second, I think she’s speaking German at me, but then she pulls a large, shiny oval the colour of dirty dishwater from her pocket. ‘Removes negative energy from the aura. Always works for me. And this one –’ she holds up a jagged lump of amethyst, a perfect match with her lipstick – ‘will draw in divine energy to protect it.’
‘Er . . . thanks?’
She pushes the stones into my hands. They’re lighter than I imagined.
‘Um, what do I do with them?’
‘Just pass them over your body, like so.’ She moves her hands around her chest, stomach and legs in large sweeping motions, like she’s rubbing cream into her skin. I must look unconvinced, because she adds, ‘I know it sounds like nonsense – and who knows, maybe it is – but if it works, if it makes you feel better, does it really matter?’
‘I guess not. I’ll, um, give it a go,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Shona.’
‘No problem, hen. Let me know how you get on.’
I begin to say goodbye, but she pulls a set of keys out of her pocket and holds them out to me. ‘Another wee thing – would you mind popping in to water my bonsai tree after I head off to my retreat tomorrow? I’m just downstairs at number four. I’ll leave instructions.’
‘Um, sure. How long are you away for?’
‘Two weeks. Two perfect, silent weeks.’ She closes her eyes and gives a happy little shake of her shoulders. ‘You should try it, hen. It’s fabulous, really centres you.’
I give a vague ‘mmm’ and thank her again for the crystals before she heads back downstairs. It’s kind of nice that she cared enough about my dodgy aura to bring them up. Even if I have no intention of using them for anything other than paperweights.
On the other hand, I might as well be on a silent retreat with the amount of talking I do over the next few days. My friends back home are too busy with their summer jobs to chat much, and though I wander down to Celeste’s a few times, I don’t bump into the protestors again. As for Dad and Rani, they spend all their time visiting Fall spots around the city: the crater where No. 33 fell in Sighthill; the river where No. 42 washed up in May . . . It’s like a treasure hunt, each trip another step towards the final prize.