Chapter Text
There is an absence in Yaz’s head. Something has slipped her mind.
And from her hand.
“Woah, mate, watch it!” Ryan exclaims.
Yaz blinks, looking around her at the pale palette of light which swamps her vision. The sky above is wan and wet, drizzle falling from the sky. It seeps into the concrete surrounding her, the air sallow with the smell of damp. Grey sky, concrete. Oh. Sheffield. She looks down at the ground beneath her, at the splatter of coffee spreading between the cracks in the pavement slabs. Her carboard cup lies empty, its content wasted.
“You alright, Yaz?” a kind voice asks, and Yaz blinks, looking up at Graham. His eyes watch her patiently, concernedly. Yaz blinks again, looking from him to the other man, to Ryan, frantically wiping off his jeans, coffee splatter travelling up his leg.
Ryan and Graham.
She is in Sheffield with Ryan and Graham…
… Why is she in Sheffield with Ryan and Graham?
She should be- she should be- she should-
There is an absence in her mind.
“Wait.” She wets her lips with her tongue, looking around for a familiar dash of blue, for a sweep of blonde. “Wait, where’s-”
… Where’s who?
Who is it she thinks she should be with?
There is an absence in her head, and in her chest… something begins to ache.
Memories flash like lightning, cutting through her mind ephemeral, gone in a moment, only a sharp flash of colours. Of eyes, a face, bright sky and rocky-
“Wait, I thought-”
Thought what? A voice in her head says, tone cut through with impatience. Don’t think. This is all correct.
“But-”
This is all correct.
Yaz sucks in a shaky breath. Wait, yes, this is right. In Sheffield with Ryan and Graham. Of course she is. Of course.
Why wouldn’t she be in Sheffield?
The lightning flash of memories slip away like pebbles underneath her feet.
“Yaz?” Graham asks again. Yaz jolts, coming back to herself, realising that both men are now staring at her with concern.
“Yeah.” Yaz clears her throat, voice scratchy. “Yeah, fine. Why wouldn’t I be?
Ryan and Graham share a secretive look, and Yaz’s eyes narrow.
“What?” she asks. The boys share another look, almost comically bad at hiding their guilt, and Yaz huffs. But then, another encouraging thought comes along, settling over her mind like the drizzle in the air.
There is nothing to be suspicious about.
“No mind, love. We were just being silly, that’s all,” Graham replies, and with nothing else to go off, Yaz accepts his answer.
She takes a deep breath, looking around her as the reassurance settles. They are in the city centre, crowds of people milling about around them. In fact, they seem to be in a queue, and when Yaz peeks past heads and hats, she can see in bold, striking red letters, the main entrance to the Millennium Gallery.
“Why are we here?” she asks.
There is a slight pause before Ryan answers. “The gallery?”
Yaz nods. Ryan scoffs.
“Why else?”
“Not that strange empty canvas thingy they call ‘modern art,’ that’s for sure!” Graham chuckles.
The queue begins to move at that moment, and Yaz is swept along on the current, drifting towards the doors. A bored security guard stands at the entrance, and he pays them no mind as they slip past and into the entryway. Yaz sees arrows pointing and a large poster above the welcome desk promoting something. The newest exhibit.
“What is… ‘The Angel’?” she asks.
Graham raises his eyebrows. “We’ll see.”
The current continues through large exhibits rooms, sneaking secretly to some long-awaited destination. The banners continue to embellish each entryway, arrows pointing teasingly. Yaz has no choice but to follow, sure she should know what they are going to see but confused, nonetheless.
Finally, the queue stops outside a large entryway, large letters applied to the white wall besides it promoting ‘The Angel.’ Small clumps of people are allowed in at a time, and Yaz finds herself growing more and more impatient as they wait for their turn.
“I don’t even understand what we’re meant to be seeing here,” she grumbles.
“You will once you see it,” Graham reassures, although strangely, it does nothing to appease Yaz.
That absence is there again. It is like a ghost shadowing her, throwing doubt on everything. Since when have Ryan and Graham had an interest in art? Since when has she been here with them in Sheffield, also interested in art? She should be-
She should-
She-
The restless encouragement comes again. You belong here, this is right. What other alternative is there?
There is nothing. Of course, there is nothing.
Yaz shakes herself, following the boys into the room, finally, slipping through the archway and sinking into a deep, dark room. The walls are stained inky blue, lit with dramatic lighting to cast shadow and to draw the eye to the main feature, hung with reverence in the centre. Yaz can see only the top of a gilded frame, other visitors blocking her way, but then they move, and Ryan, Graham, and Yaz step forward.
And there it is.
‘The Angel.’
The paint is applied heavily to the canvas, the hand which had placed it there creating a blurred and indistinct image. Yaz feels as if she is staring at the subject through heavy sheets of rain. Greens are muted and flank a large object of greys and blacks and the occasional highlight of white. The angel. It stands lonely, its hands covering its face, wings held close to its body. Apart from that, there are no other details Yaz can make out.
There is something horrible about it, revolting. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up on edge. Her feet feel stuck to the floor, it is as if she cannot look away.
Something is wrong, something is very, very wrong…
Flashes of memory again, like lightning, strike her, and she gasps.
Stone means danger, stone means absence, stone had turned-
Had turned-
Reality snaps back into place.
“The artist has clearly been influenced by the impressionist movement,” a guide is saying a few feet away from them. Yaz blinks, staring hard at the painting. “There is something so striking about the image of a lonely statue, standing still, isn’t there? It looks so unprepossessing, its statuesque nature not betraying any of the folklore which surrounds it.”
Folklore? What folklore?
… What is going on?
A member of staff asks them to move along, and Yaz follows Ryan and Graham to the left. She takes one last look at the painting, at the angel with its hidden face and indistinct features, not able to shake the fear, the sense of wrongness.
They head through another archway and into a second room, as dark and dramatic as the first. On two of the walls, information boards are neatly presented. To the right, the details of the different elements of the painting are exhibited, close ups capturing the brushwork, the pigments, whilst to the left, bold letters stating ‘folklore’ titles a plethora of information.
“The angel’s here? In Sheffield?” Yaz ponders aloud as her eyes skate over the information, taking it in. The angel resides in the general cemetery, they say, hidden at the back, away from other graves. It is not even known if it stands above a grave because no one can go near because if they do, it is thought that they go-
“Mad?” Yaz frowns. “What does that mean, people go mad? What, when they look at a stone angel?”
There is a beat before Ryan answers. That feeling of wrongness rises in Yaz’s throat like bile. “S’all a bit mysterious. The angel’s always been here, no one’s ever understood how or why but… they used to call it witchcraft, but now… now they don’t know what to call it.”
“Is that why there’s no photographs?” Yaz asks, eyes trailing over the exhibit. There are images of other angels in other places, horrifying visages of stone, their faces contorted into evil expressions. The angel in the painting looks peaceful compared to them, but there are no photographs of it. “No one wants to go near it?”
Ryan nods. Yaz frowns, another thought coming to her mind.
“So, then… who painted it?” she looks between both Ryan and Graham. “Did they go mad?”
Both the boys look shifty, and irritation surges forth like a wave in Yaz. Their furtive, secretive looks, along with her own sense of something being amiss, have whittled down her patience.
“What? What is it?” she demands in a hissed whisper them, ignoring the glances she gets from the other visitors in the room.
Ryan sighs, taking a step towards her. With kind eyes and patience, he says, “They’re anonymous, and they’re anonymous for a reason.”
Yaz shakes her head. “What reason?”
Ryan glances to Graham, and Yaz catches like a slippery fish in a net that secretiveness once more. She laughs, affronted. “What is it about a painting that has you two acting like you’ve murdered someone?”
Ryan’s eyes widen a little with surprise at her outburst. Graham takes a step closer, sending an apologetic smile to the other visitors. Yaz feels like she has them trapped, has hit the weak nerve upon which her sense of wrongness rests. If she can just dig further, she could work out what it is that is bugging her, if she could just-
If she could just-
If she could-
Ryan’s hand lands on her shoulder.
“You shouldn’t worry about it, Yaz. It doesn’t help to worry about it,” he says. “They’re going to sort it soon.”
Yaz blinks, staring into Ryan’s eyes. They’re going to sort it soon, the voice in her head says, returning. You don’t need to worry about the angel, it has nothing to do with you.
“Who’s they?” she asks.
You know, the voice prompts. Ryan’s mouth opens, and at the same time the voice speaks, both giving the same answer.
Division.
“Division.”
Now Yaz knows of them, she cannot help but notice them.
They are there, lurking around the city like crows circling prey. Watching them all, keeping them safe, apparently, although Yaz thinks the dark clothing and helmets they wear, hiding their faces, does nothing to help reassure anyone they are on their side.
The Division.
She heads for the police station next day, thinking- well, thinking she should go to work. That is what she does, isn’t it? She goes to work.
But when she gets there, she is sent away by two Division guards on the doors. The police in Sheffield have been taken over, they tell her, they will be conducting the role of ensuring public safety for the time being. Deputies and juniors such as her need not come into work until further notice. Yaz demands to know why, but the guards do not budge.
Her frustration only increases when her sergeant appears, harried and flustered. He tells her to go home, too, but unlike the guards, his order is laced with concern. And there, in his eyes, is a similar look to Ryan and Graham’s, as if they know something Yaz does not and are keeping it from her for some reason. It angers her, makes her feel like a child, but she forces herself to walk away, to not lose her cool with her boss. That voice is there in her head again.
Do not make a fuss, this all as it is supposed to be.
It is starting to get annoying.
Yaz begins to ignore it.
Sometimes she can’t. Sometimes it is as if it is injecting itself into her mind, changing the makeup of her brain and forcing her to think the way it thinks. Everything is fine, everything is normal.
But the absence in her head and the ache in her chest are too pervasive, those Yaz cannot ignore, either.
And she finds she does not want to, not like she wants to ignore the voice.
The wrongness of everything feels like a malaise. Yaz wonders whether she might be sick.
Her mother hugs her and her father gives her a pat on the shoulder and tells her things just need to settle. Yaz tries to ask him what he means, but he sticks his face back into the screen of his computer, preoccupied with his conspiracies. Her mum is no good, either. She simply tells Yaz they should make tea, that tea makes everything better. Sonya is a lost cause, too, if Yaz can find her. She hides away in her room, and even when Yaz tries to ask her is she thinks something strange is going on, she rolls her eyes and makes derisive comments which fail to hide the disappointment in her eyes. Or perhaps it is concern.
Everything seems fine, everything seems normal. Her bedroom is the same, their flat is the same. There are moving boxes next door meaning there must be a new neighbour, but Yaz does not think that is particularly important.
And yet… she looks at her family and something feels off. Her Nani comes round for dinner, and she feels as if she knows something about her, something she shouldn’t, something secret.
And when she sleeps, there is nothing. She closes her eyes and then she is immediately awake again, and yet the hours have passed, and weak morning light struggles in through the gap in her curtains. She does not feel rested, though. She remains restless and disconcerted. Something really is not right.
Yaz finally looses her patience when she is at dinner at Ryan and Graham’s. She cannot remember how they became friends; she cannot remember when she started coming around to theirs for dinner. She also does not know why, when she looks at Grace, beaming and alive and bossing Ryan and Graham about, she feels wrong. As if… she should not be there.
Yaz curls her hands around her cutlery. What is wrong with her?
“Tough day, love?” Graham asks his wife as they all dig into their dinner, warm and comforting and tasteless on Yaz’s tongue.
Grace hums. “Not so much tough as long. I’m on rotation in the coma ward at the moment. S’always a sad atmosphere hanging over it.”
Graham puts a hand to her shoulder briefly, and Grace smiles gratefully.
“Plus, everyone’s tense because-”
Grace stops talking suddenly, fork pausing on its way to her mouth. She composes herself a mere second later, as if nothing has happened, and shrugs, taking a bite of food.
“Well, things are always stressful.”
Yaz’s eyes narrow. That absence in her head feels like it is gaping, and something about the words Grace has swallowed feels as if they might be able to fill the void, partially, at least.
No, everything is-
Oh, shut up! Yaz tells the voice.
“Grace,” she says, clearing her throat. “Why’s everyone tense?”
Grace shifts in her chair. She looks at Yaz with no outward sign of any panic, but Graham and Ryan give themselves, and the situation, away almost immediately. They glance towards Yaz anxiously.
Right. That is enough!
“Okay, what’s going on?” Yaz demands to know. “All this week you’ve been giving me these weird looks. I feel… I feel like I’m one step behind everyone. Like everyone’s looking at me like there’s something I don’t know, and they feel sorry for me because of that! What is it?!”
There is a beat of silence. Graham looks to Grace who looks to Graham who then looks to Ryan who, finally, looks at Yaz. Finally looks at Yaz guiltily. An admission, then, that something is going on, something connected to her.
Suddenly, there is a buzzing in Yaz’s ears, as if something is trying to get through, a signal on a radio, a voice in her head. She shakes it, forcibly ignoring the interruption. Not now.
“Yaz, love,” Grace begins, setting down her utensils. “The reason everyone’s so tense at the moment is because there’s a woman on the ward who’s… well, under arrest, I suppose.”
“You suppose?” Yaz asks.
“Under arrest by the Division.” Ryan chimes in. He shifts in his seat. “They’re interested in her because… she’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“She hurt you,” Ryan says, and Yaz’s eyes widen in surprise.
“What?” she asks.
“We thought it best not to tell you, didn’t want to upset you,” Graham says kindly. Yaz cannot help it, she scoffs.
“Well, it’s had the opposite effect!”
Graham looks pained. “Right, well, she was trouble, but she won’t be anymore.”
“What did she do?” Yaz asks, both dreading and anticipating the answer.
Ryan clears his throat, giving her a meaningful look. “She took you to the angel, Yaz. She made you look at it.”
Yaz blinks. That buzzing fills her ears, that voice is desperate to get in, but she forcibly shoves it, throwing herself into the surprise and the shock. She wants to feel it, she wants to understand what has happened to her. She looked at the angel? The angel everyone thinks is a terrible omen that makes you go mad?
“It’s why you might be having some memory problems, love,” Grace says kindly. “The angel messes with your mind like that. Fortunately, you didn’t look at it for a long time, so things aren’t as bad as they could have been.”
That makes sense. That clears things up, that explains the strange looks from everyone and her sense of confusion, that feeling that something is missing from her mind.
Doesn’t it?
Yaz shifts in her chair, curling her hands into fists and drawing them down onto her lap. That makes sense.
The buzzing in her ears departs at her acquiescence, and Yaz’s breath catches in her throat. That is not right. People don’t have a voice in their ear which gets irritated at them until they comply with what it wants them to believe. Has the angel done this to her?
Potentially, but at the same time, she finds she cannot convince herself that things make sense, that it is the angel that had made her feel this way. She has answers, but the gaping gap in her mind still remains, and her chest still aches.
The sense of wrongness persists.
“I know, it’s very overwhelming,” Grace says sympathetically, misreading Yaz’s reaction. “But don’t push yourself, love. You’re still recovering. But nowt harm can come to you now.”
Yaz swallows heavily.
“Why?” she asks. “Why did she do that? This woman? Who is she?”
“Don’t worry about that now, there’s no point,” Graham replies. “She’s not important, you are. You feeling better is.”
“Can I not see her? Why is she in a coma? Is it because of the angel?” Yaz questions.
“Best not to, love,” Grace says. “Besides, they’ve got Division guards on the door, now. They only let approved staff enter.”
“Good,” Ryan mutters. “She’s getting what she deserved.”
Yaz looks to him in surprise, and then at Graham and Grace with even more surprise. That does not sound like something Ryan would say, nor does it sound like something Grace would allow him to get away with saying…
Something is not right here.