Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman

Author:Neil Gaiman [Gaiman, Neil]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3, pdf
Tags: SteamPunk, Fiction, Fantasy, General, London (England), Contemporary, Epic, Horror, Horror tales, Fantasy - General, Reading Group Guide, Fiction - Fantasy, Modern fiction, Subways - England - London, Modern & contemporary fiction (post c 1945), Subways, General & Literary Fiction, Horror - General, Fantasy - Contemporary
ISBN: 9780380789016
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 1998-11-01T05:00:00+00:00

ANGELS OVER ENGLAND

AN EXHIBITION AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM

Sponsored by Stocktons PLC

They crossed the corridor and walked through an open door, into a large room in which a party was going on.

There was a string quartet playing, and a number of serving staff were providing a roomful of well-dressed people with food and drink. There was a small stage in one corner of the room, with a podium on it, beside a high curtain.

The room was completely filled with angels.

There were statues of angels on tiny plinths. There were paintings of angels on the walls. There were angel frescoes. There were huge angels and tiny angels, stiff angels and amiable angels, angels with wings and haloes and angels with neither, warlike angels and peaceable angels. There were modern angels and classical angels. Hundreds upon hundreds of angels of every size and shape. Western angels, Middle Eastern angels, Eastern angels. Michelangelo angels. Joel Peter Witkin angels, Picasso angels, Warhol angels. Mr. Stockton’s angel collection was “indiscriminate to the point of trashiness, but certainly impressive in its eclecticism” (Time Out).

“Would you think,” Richard asked, “that I was being picky if I pointed out that trying to find something with an angel on it in here is going to be like trying to find a needle in an oh my God it’s Jessica.” Richard felt the blood drain from his face. Until now he had thought that that was simply a figure of speech. He hadn’t thought it actually happened in real life.

“Someone you knew?” asked Door.

Richard nodded. “She was my. Well. We were going to be married. We’ve been together for a couple of years. She was with me when I found you. She was the one on the. She left that message. On the answering machine.” He pointed across the room: Jessica was making animated conversation with Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, Bob Geldof, and a bespectacled gentleman who looked suspiciously like a Saatchi. Every few minutes she checked her watch and glanced toward the door.

“Her?” said Door, recognizing the woman. Then, obviously feeling that she should say something nice about someone Richard had cared for, she said, “Well, she’s very . . .” and she paused, and thought, and then said, “. . . clean.”

Richard stared across the room. “Will she . . . is she going to be upset that we’re here?”

“I doubt it,” said Door. “Frankly, unless you do something stupid, like talk to her, she probably won’t even notice you.” And then, with more enthusiasm, she said, “Food!” She descended on the canapés like a small, smut-nosed girl in a too-large leather jacket who had not eaten properly for sometime. Enormous quantities of food were immediately crammed into her mouth, masticated and swallowed, while, at the same time, the more substantial sandwiches were wrapped in paper napkins and placed into her pockets. Then, with a paper plate heaped high with chicken legs, melon slices, mushroom vol-au-vents, caviar puffs, and small venison sausages, she began to circle the room, staring intently at each and every angelic artefact.

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