Angel of Ruin Read Online Free Page B

story which I was simply supposed to forget about.
    I rummaged in my bag for my mini London A-Z. Deirdre had mentioned a cemetery on Bunhill Row, and I found it quite easily. Bunhill Fields Burial Ground. It wasn’t far from the Old Street tube. It wouldn’t hurt to see if I could find the old woman’s place, just as an intellectual exercise. Or just to see if she looked like the woman I had dreamed of. That would be worth writing about; not that I’d believe it was somethingsupernatural even if I saw it with my own eyes, I supposed. Still, I packed up my things and left.
    Outside, hot midday had taken hold of the streets. I shrugged out of my jacket and tied it around my waist. I walked to Leicester Square and made my way by the Underground to Old Street.
    Bunhill Fields was a very pretty, very green graveyard; a little sanctuary of quiet from the screaming traffic on City Road. But even this sacred place was not free from the scourge of tourists, a group of whom asked me if I would take their photograph congregated around William Blake’s headstone. It all seemed in poor taste to me, but I complied anyway. They offered to take my photograph and post it to me, but I declined. I walked through to Bunhill Row, unsure whether to head right or left. On a hunch I went left, and took the first side street. Deirdre had mentioned an old building marked for demolition. The whole area was peppered with construction sites, so I stood for a moment at the top of the street, surveying its length. One building about halfway down the block had a scaffolding and yellow tape decorating it. I walked up to it and stood out front, wondering if it was the right place. Something up high in a window caught my eye. I glanced up, thought I saw a brief flash of an old face moving away from the glass. I didn’t know why, but I felt frightened, and for a few moments I was rooted to the spot. I even considered turning around and going home and forgetting about the old woman. But I don’t like to be beaten by fear, so I pushed it aside and checked in my bag for my tape recorder, then went to the front door. It wasn’t locked. Inside was very dark. I crept up the stairs, testing each one with my weight first. I saw many rooms without doors, where all the fittings inside had been torn out. At the top of the stairs I called out, “Hello?”
    “In here,” she answered.
    I pushed open the door and found myself in an empty room. Empty except for a single bookshelf with a half dozen books on it, and a chair where an elderly woman sat, close to a grimy window. It was very stuffy and quite dark.
    “Hello,” I said. “I’m Sophie.”
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sophie,” she said. She was thin, dressed in black, and her face was very pale with very soft features. Not too much like the woman in the dream, really, unless you were energetically looking for similarities.
    “Look, this may sound a little strange,” I said, “but an acquaintance of mine told me about you. She said you had an interesting story to tell.”
    “I do.”
    “I’m a journalist. I collect interesting stories.”
    “I’m happy to tell you my story, but it may be dangerous for you to hear it.”
    “Yes, yes, so I’ve heard. I’m afraid I don’t hold much with such superstitions.”
    “Even so, I have cautioned you.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “I’d rather not say.”
    I pulled my tape recorder out of my bag, inserted a fresh tape. “Do you mind if I tape you?”
    “Not at all. What you do with the story once I’ve told it does not concern me.”
    Copyright presented no problem, then. I nodded. “So, what’s it all about?”
    “Can you see the blue book over there on the shelf?”
    I moved to the bookshelf, reached for the book.
    “No, no,” she said, “don’t touch it.”
    I peered at the spine.
“Paradise Lost,”
I read, “by John Milton.”
    “Have you read it?” she asked.
    “No,” I said, wondering where this was going. “I’m not