SEVENTEEN
Airports are excellent places for people watching, not only that but if you are tuned in enough to be able to pick out the plethora of emotions they give off you can almost drown in the intoxicating mix of pure raw feeling these places collect over the years. It was the same for any place people congregated in numbers, they'd leave it behind them like a wake, but there was something about airports that made the sensation stronger still, maybe it was because no matter where you looked there is always some drama being playing out, a tearful reunion here, an emotional farewell there, combined with the more mundane, a bored Business man making his tenth trip this year to some Eastern European city most people have never heard of, or the poor sap who works behind the counter of WH Smiths, who despite working in an airport has never actually flown in his life.
The air is electric with second hand Humanity in places like these. And as such they are a great place to soak it all up if you have all but none left of your own.
Randall could feel it in the air like static before a thunderstorm, it made him feel both exhilarated and depressed all at the same time. To be surrounded with so much life made him remember just how little he had left. He knew it would linger on his clothes for days after like second hand smoke used to back in the days when you could kill yourself slowly with cigarettes in public places without feeling like a social pariah.
He closed his eyes and tried to tune out the cacophony of voices around him and instead concentrated on the fragrant aroma drifting up from the cup of Earl grey tea sitting on the table in front of him. Like so many things lost in the darkness of his creation as a collector he had somehow picked up an almost addictive taste for the drink. Which before emerging from the big sleep he hadn't even heard of let alone tasted. Just another in a long line of unanswered questions.
Randall took a sip of tea and looked around the airports arrivals lounge. His flight had been miraculously early so he had taken the time to feed his addiction and watch the world he could never fully be a part of again go about its daily business around him before his contacts arrived to whisk him away in search of Larry McCulloch.
He felt invisible at times like these, just an observer like Ishrel and the longer he lived the more bitter it made him. He was an outcast, which made it easy, even at times a pleasure to do his job but still it seemed as if all this humanity, taken so much for granted by those who possessed it, was mocking his soulless existence. These were dangerous times for a collector, in the company of normal folks with nothing to do but think, to dwell on things. If he let himself he knew it would be all too easy just to snap and let loose such power that would kill everyone in the place, he smiled to himself as he imagined Ishrel’s apoplectic reaction to half a dozen demons tearing up an airport in broad daylight. It would almost be worth the shit storm he would reap just to see the look on its face.
The thought soothed him a little and he took another sip of tea and savoured the flavour. He exhaled slowly and felt the all too familiar weight on his shoulders again. The big question which gnawed on his subconscious from time to time reared its ugly head again. Mostly Randall loved being a collector, when he didn't think things through too much. Immortality, power to burn, the job had its many perks. But surrounded by all this life, the big question couldn't be ignored.
What was so special about me?
It was a reasonable question, and it was one Randall had asked himself countless times over the years since his rebirth as a collector of souls. Then he had time on his hands, like now, he would scour his past, to that time before Succubus’ and annoying observer demons when he was alive and kicking and looking out for number one on the trash filled streets of New York, Christ ninety years ago now. Trying to find that forgotten moment when they notice him.
What had the powers that pulled him back from the jaws of death and set him on this path of mayhem and destruction seen in him? What had made him different from those millions of other lowlifes kicking around the city back then? He was bright, sure and more than a little devious, but Randall had been strictly small time and no one, even his enemies wouldn't have called him cruel, he had never even killed anyone for Christ sake. Nothing he had done would surely have warranted such demonic attention.
Of course he had asked Ishrel, but the little shit wouldn't have told him, even if he knew (and increasingly it was clear he did not). The demon made no attempt to cover his jealously of him, of his echo of humanity, and obviously felt a mere human (albeit a dead dark magic wielding soul stealing one) was unworthy of having such power bestowed on it.
But there must have been something, some spark of, for want of a better word, evil in him that had marked him as a prime candidate for immortality and mischief making. But what?
Maybe when all this was over and Randall was finally at rest he would ask the devil just that when he met him. That and spit in his eye, not because he hated what he was, far from it, but just for the hell of it. That and make him look like a school girl just like Ishrel. Yes that would be a fitting end to the journey.
The thought made Randall smile, he supposed this was as close as a soul collector could get to sacrilege and if that can't raise a smile what can?
“Erm, excuse me?”
Randall looked up to see a blond haired young man in an expensive looking suit standing over his shoulder, the collector turned around. But didn't speak.
“Erm,” the kid said again a little nervously, “Sorry to bother you, but are you, Mister Randall?”
“Why yes I am.” Randall replied and stood up offering his hand.
The kid took it tentatively and shook it. “I'm, Charlie, Charlie Walker, Mister Lyne sent me and my associate to meet you, look after you while your here?”
“Pleased to meet you, Charlie Walker, Randall said. Charlie moved to pick up Randall's suitcase but Randall picked it up first. “I got it, thanks.”
“Oh. Oh sorry, of course.” Charlie said apologetically and just stood there looking at the American as if for instructions.
“Well?” Randall asked after a suitably uncomfortable silence. “Shall we?” He gestured to the door but the kid hesitated. “Or we could just stand around here all day.”
This snapped Charlie out of it and he grimaced embarrassed. “Oh, Christ, yes sorry.” He said.
“It's okay,” Randall wasn't sure if the kid was just nervous or if he was short of a few cards. Time would tell. “After you.”
Charlie led the way through the arrivals lounge and over to the entrance doors, Randall gave a final look around the place as they left. It was a nice enough place, but still a few dozen demons flying around the place reaping havoc wouldn't go a miss. Charlie grimaced and for a second Randall thought he'd actually just said that out loud, but as they reached the doors the young man pointed to the weather outside.
“Just started snowing as we arrived,” he said with disgust and buttoned up is coat. “Better wrap up sir, you're in the north now.” The automatic doors open and they were hit by an icy blast, Charlie let out an “Oofh!” and headed outside as if into the Arctic.
He didn't know why but Randall had grown to love the snow since coming back, maybe because somewhere deep in his subconscious it was about as far away from the supposed fires of hell as you could get in normal everyday life here on earth. Or maybe, he just liked snow now, like Earl grey tea. Just another knot he would never untie in the puzzle that was his life now. He made a mental note to ask the devil when he finally met him/it/her. 'What's with the whole snow and Earl grey thing, fallen one? And by the way, love the dress.”