Fallen Angel - 1800 word short story.
Copyright John Mathewson 2026 Gyppo's Fiction pen-name.
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She looked like a pile of discarded clothes in my headlight, crumpled against the faded grey tarmac as I jerked aside narrowly avoiding her.
Kicking down the stand on my old BSA and running back onto the road I leaned over and asked what people always do, even when the answer's obvious.
"Are you alright?"
"Do I look alright, you idiot? I've fallen." A pleasant voice but a very waspish tone.
Logic kicked in as I looked at her eyes. She didn't look bewildered, not the vague puzzlement or hyper twitchiness of concussion.
"Anything broken?"
She sat up, wincing a little. "Probably not. We don't break easily. But I hurt."
"Let's get you off the road. Not much comes along here, but they don't hang around. Be stupid to get hit if you're only walking wounded."
I held out my hand and for a few long seconds she just looked at it. Large, knuckles scarred from countless spanner accidents, and although I've settled down a bit with age, my fair share of fights.
"There will be consequences if you help me. I have to tell you this." It sounded almost formal, but I heard a car just a few turns away, moving fast. Some lead-footed yokel.
I grabbed her and lifted her to the side. She was a skinny wench, and although her lips tightened with obvious pain she stayed quiet as I sat her on the narrow verge near my bike, and a dusty white car sped past.
The sky was fading into darkness and there was a taste of pending rain on the wind. Time to go. Unless...
"Is there anyone else who needs help."
"No. I'm the only one."
"Okay. If you get on the back I'll get you to shelter, and see about cleaning up your scratches and cuts. Then you can decide what you want to do. My workshop's only half a mile away."
"If you insist..."
"I'm hardly going to ride off and leave you here. What sort of man do you think I am?"
Those amber-brown eyes sharpened and she studied me, the way I look at a damaged bike brought in for repair. A definite assessment.
She smiled. It was a good smile.
"I don't know. I've never met one like you before."
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At the workshop I put on the kettle, showed her where she could clean up, and took the first aid kit off the shelf. Mostly equipped for burns, trapped or cut fingers and knuckles. Usual workshop accidents. There was a sling in there, but I hoped she wouldn't need it.
She came through from the back room, smelling of soap, walking with a slight limp, but nowhere as near battered as I'd first thought. Wearing faded heavy denim jeans, a T- shirt, a denim jacket with the sleeves ripped off, and decent boots.
" I clean up well, right?" More amused than waspish now.
"Yes. Tea?"
"Thank you." She slung her jacket on a hook by the door, next to my own much older road-stained relic. I nodded towards the back patch as she took her mug. 'Outcast' in bright red. No top or bottom rockers with dates or location.
"Not heard of that chapter," I fished. "You're not local."
"Very true." She smiled again. "Further away than you can imagine."
I offered the pack of workshop biscuits, the universal chocolate digestives that no-one refuses.
As she took one I noticed her hands, which had been scratched and bloodied when we met, now just had a few pink patches.
"Anyone you need to call? The phone's on the wall in the front shop."
She laughed, a warm contralto sound. "No-one will pick up back home. They never do when you've been thrown out. I'm an outcast for twenty four hours. So that's about another twenty two left."
"I can probably find you somewhere to stay overnight, if it helps."
She looked around, spotted the narrow bunk in one corner, currently supporting a rebuilt engine awaiting collection. Sometimes I crashed out there myself, if I'd been working too long and didn't fancy the three mile ride home.
"Could I stay here? I don't really want to see anyone else. Not too good on the social bit. I reckon you'll understand that."
I pondered this for a while. Forty years earlier, probably even twenty, I would have casually lifted the engine aside and tested the obvious assumption. But I'm in my mid seventies, and there was about fifty years between us.
She was a fine looking wench, but I've not bothered for some time. It's too much hassle when your knees and knuckles sometimes lock up with arthritis. Most old-timers won't admit it, but I've made my peace with it.
I'm content repairing or building a good bike, and often hate handing them over to be mistreated by others, but at least there's none of that complicated emotional stuff.
"Alright. You're nearest, so check in the freezer for supper. There should be a couple of 'ping' meals in there." If there was only one we'd be sharing. I wasn't turning out again to the chippy.
There was an amused glint in her eyes as she replied. "So, I'm only good for cooking then?" But she was already opening the little freezer, and looking dubiously at my ancient but still functional workshop microwave.
"It's been a long day and an even longer week, Pet."
She shook her head. "Never expected to be turned down."
"It's nothing personal. You're a fine looking wench. Just too late."
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We ate at the workbench, the clean end I kept that way for electrical work.
"Your hair," I said." I guess you're a blonde who dyed it black and now it's growing out."
"Yes. They're all blondes back home. The few rebels go black or red. Sometimes neon green. Drives the traditionalists mad."
I nodded towards her jacket. "I've known outlaws for years but this is the first time I've seen a 'zero percent' shoulder patch."
She looked blank for a second then put down her fork. She hadn't eaten much.
"I'm an Angel." She said it flat, without emphasis.
"That's what your cut-off suggests, but I doubt it."
"I really am. Just not the Hells' variety. Just a fallen one."
She saw my scepticism
"What you call heaven's not all it's cracked up to be. Some of us find it so boring we act up and they cast us out for a while to teach us humility." She gave a glorious little grin. "We don't tell them we enjoy it."
Sussed it! She was head case. The worst ones are rarely pop- eyed and ranting. They seem normal apart from one fixed obsession.
"When I get home I'm really gonna kick some arse in the costume department. Even if they throw me straight out again. This rig was supposed to help me fit in." Her eyes were flashing, ice cold blue. I felt sure they'd been warm amber a few seconds earlier.
"Got any Broon Ell in your fridge. Been looking forward to tasting it."
"Sure. " I knocked the caps off two on the edge of the bench and she necked hers in one long gullet bobbing swallow.
"I can see why you chaps like it. Can I have another?"
"Help yourself." It took her two tries to knock the cap off against the bench and she looked like a kid at Christmas over this small triumph.
"Any chance of a spliff?"
"Maybe." I dragged out a small tin with the dried up makings and clumsily made her a slim and businesslike spliff. I've long given it up myself, and she coughed horribly, smoked it all too fast, and then sat there with growing disappointment.
"It's not doing anything!" She slammed her fist on the bench. "Different metabolism I guess."
I lifted the engine off the bunk, pulled a couple of couple of old but warm blankets from underneath for her, and I made to leave.
"Sure you won't stay?"
"I'm sure."
"Just as well. There's nothing down there. Just like a bloody Barbie doll. Some of the others think it's fun to tease some poor sod. But I like you too much to do that. See you in the morning."
For a few seconds I was tempted to ask her to prove it, but I've dealt with screaming crazy women before. It's never fun, and usually a total scratch-fest.
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In the morning the workshop hadn't burnt down, the handful of banknotes was still in the cash tin, and she was making tea. A well- behaved guest.
She offered to do a bit of painting for me. I turned her loose on a bit of scrap sheet metal and damn me, she was a real artist with the fine airbrush. So I trusted her to decorate a few helmets, knew I'd make a good price later.
It was a lovely morning, spent mostly in a comfortable silence. Having a second person around I got more work done than usual. She just fitted in as if she'd always been there.
Mid afternoon I twisted the shop sign to closed, offered to take her for a ride to the coast, and she bounced up and down as excited as a puppy dog.
A fast 100 miles later we sat on a seawall, finishing off take-away burgers, and I carefully asked her what was the usual outcome of a fallen angel's visit. Did any of them ever get to stay beyond the twenty four hours?
"Never," she said. "It's an absolute rule." Years later I still manage to convince myself she looked a bit sad.
"Do I get any little memento? Apart from memories."
"Not really."
"Will I see you again after I die?"
"Sorry. It doesn't work that way. Angels really aren't human souls. Just creatures from a alternate reality. Not above or below, just adjacent. With far stricter rules than you humans can imagine."
"That's a bugger."
"It is, sometimes more than others. And there's nothing we can do about it. But you've treated me well, so I'll give you an Angel's Protection Blessing."
She clasped her hands around mine. Delicate compared to my life- scarred maulers, and I noticed her pink scars had vanished. Apparently they heal faster too.
She gave me a light kiss on the forehead, then sat back. I felt a little tingle run through me. Nothing very dramatic.
"What does it do for me? "
"Not much until the next time you do something really silly, like hitting a car, or a patch of spilled diesel in a fast corner, and then live to tell the tale. " She stood up. "Come on, it's time to be moving."
Halfway home I felt her weight come off the back and knew the clock had ticked over. I didn't stop to check, just kept riding. My default answer to life's disappointments.
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Some late nights, sat here alone holding my last mug of the day, I remember. She'd told me she was an Angel and I didn't really believe her.
But now, perhaps, I do.
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