Fall From Grace

By Matthew Munson

"It's time for Heaven to become
a democracy."

 

Since
leaving his calling in the priesthood and saying goodbye to the church, Paul’s
life has gone from bad to worse. But now, his inability to hold down a job is
the least of his problems.

 

He
and his friends, sceptic extraordinaire Joseph and academic psychologist
Lauren, are thrown headfirst into a celestial war that has raged on for two
millennia. As a secret plot begins to unravel, the fate of thousands lies in
their hands.

 

To
put things right, the three of them must venture into the Heavenly Ruling
Chamber alongside those who started the rebellion two thousand years ago – and
survive coming face to face with the Almighty himself.

 

Fall
from Grace speaks about faith, loss, friendship and the truths we all seek.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspired Quill
• Release date: Sep 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781908600509

Book preview

Act One

Paul Finn’s Flat, Broadstairs

Paul groaned as his alarm clock buzzed loudly, yanking him rudely out of his dreams.

He’d only gone to bed – what was it? Four hours ago? A quick glance at the LCD display confirmed the worst: 06:55. He’d been watching some documentary on TV that had kept his mind whirring until three o’clock this morning, leaving him with just four short, stupid hours of fitful and restless sleep. He had no one to blame but himself, of course, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

He groaned again as another yawn threatened to dislocate his jaw. He couldn’t remember what he’d been dreaming about, but it had made his heart pump with adrenaline. He’d had these vivid, powerful dreams for as long as he could remember – and he hated them.

He forced his eyes open. He couldn’t lose another job, especially now that only his wage was keeping the roof over his head. He had to get up on time. He absolutely had to.

A fist slammed down on the OFF button.

A second later, he was snoring again – and sucked into another dream. But not one of his regular, adrenaline-raising dreams that he forgot the instant he woke up. This dream was one he knew well. It didn’t make any more sense today than it had yesterday, or the day before that, or the week before that… but by now it no longer mattered.

He stood in the giant, high-ceilinged chamber, its vastness awe-inspiring. He knew, without needing to ask, that this was no ordinary place. This was the court of final appeal, which his father had presided over in cool, dispassionate judgement since time immemorial. And yet with every passing day, she grew closer to him, making his judgements ever more erratic, unpredictable and without compassion.

He looked up at the throne in the middle of the dais, where his father would soon sit to hear his appeal. Their relationship so often hinged on events like these… and every time, they failed miserably to understand one other. After so long, it had become tradition that the two should only argue.

Behind him, the raked seating of the auditorium was nearly full; word had quickly spread of his audience with his father. Everyone wanted to see the encounter. He could pick his friends out of the crowd, smiling at him encouragingly. He drew strength from their presence, knowing that they would always stand by him. He hoped they were proud of his willingness to speak up at last.

He wondered, as he looked back up at the still-empty dais, whether his speech today would actually make a difference. He hoped it would, but couldn’t help doubting it. Nothing could truly change while she was still around, and even without her dark influence, he suspected that his father would still be implacable. A wave of despondency flooded over him, and he looked down at the sparkling gold of the tiled floor.

Was he serving his world well? Could he make that judgement? And what of the other question: was he doing right by that tiny, insignificant blob of a planet so far away, whose destiny had become so intertwined with their own due to his father’s meddling?

He glanced behind himself again, and caught the eye of one his friends. She smiled at him, and nodded once. She understood him, and her calm immediately reassured him. He smiled back, his resolve restored.

A susurration of noise from the assembled host drew his attention once more to the dais. His father had arrived, and now took his place on the throne. He swallowed, took a breath and stepped –

– Paul sat bolt upright, breathing heavily, bewildered by the sudden change of surroundings. Even after all these years, it still shocked him every time.

Idiot, he muttered. He ran a hand through his ruffled, jet-black hair, and forced a laugh.

He turned to check that he hadn’t woken his girlfriend, and blinked in surprise as he saw the empty space beside him. It all came rushing back. Swallowing back a sudden rush of guilt, he blinked again, hard, to clear his eyes, and glanced at the hated alarm clock on the other side of the bed. 07:45.

Shit!

He was going to be late for work. Again.

Paul threw back his bedcovers and ran to the bathroom, cursing his oversleeping, his work and his dream, in that order. He was about to curse his girlfriend as well, but remembered with another pang that Marie was gone – and had left him with several refreshing curses of her own.

Enough to last a lifetime.

Royal Mail Sorting Office, Ramsgate

Paul walked briskly through the main gates as his watch ticked over to 8:32am. Guilt fluttered through his stomach and he paused, glancing around the yard for any jobsworths who might get him into trouble. Only a few of his fellow posties were there, having cigarette breaks or preparing the wheeled containers for their deliveries. Most of them paid no attention to him, but those who did either looked at their watches and smiled (this was Paul, after all), or looked at their watches and scowled (it wasn’t the first time, after all).

Paul resumed his quick walk, and had almost reached the doors that led to the depot when –

Morning, Paul! Good night, was it?

Paul grimaced at the voice, turned his head and quickly waved, all without breaking his stride. Roger stood halfway across the yard, smiling sickly and waving back.

Paul hastily disappeared inside the depot and began up the stairs to the locker room. Roger was one of those people who naturally rubbed Paul the wrong way. A lot of people liked him, but Paul found him too… pally. He just tried too hard to be friends with everyone, and seemed to want to ingratiate himself into Paul’s life.

I don’t need any more friends. I like my private life just as it is: private.

As a result, Paul did his best to avoid him at all costs. He hoped he’d gotten away with it today.

He quickly stowed his coat and bag in his locker and turned towards the door, hoping he could get down to start work before he was intercepted again. He might have made it, had the door not opened at that moment to reveal the very man he most wanted to avoid.

George, he said guiltily, stopping in his tracks. Hi.

Morning, Paul.

George leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest – or, rather, with his arms resting on his oversized stomach. He carried an air of weary resignation, but annoyance plainly showed across his face.

I… uh… morning, Paul replied weakly. How’s it going? Did you have a good weekend?

"I had a lovely weekend, thanks, Paul. Roger just said you were in. How was your weekend? Sleep well?"

Paul flushed. He didn’t even consider lying, or thinking up an excuse – what would be the point? He’d never been renowned for his punctuality: he’d even been late for his mother’s second wedding (which was especially atrocious, considering she’d asked him to walk her down the aisle). But his timekeeping had become progressively worse and, over the last couple of weeks, he had outdone himself: last week he hadn’t made it in on time for a single shift. He could hardly believe George was only confronting him for the first time.

George, I… he began, but trailed off. He couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound weak and trite.

Paul, what’s going on? George asked with a sigh, stepping into the locker room. Paul couldn’t bring himself to raise his eyes and see the disappointment across his boss’ face.

I just don’t care about the job, Paul wanted to say. It’s just money into my bank account. I need to find a job that makes me feel alive again… and this isn’t it.

His thoughts returned to the recurring dream. As though he had actually been there, he felt things more vividly there than he ever did while awake. He always felt so confident and self-assured in his dreams; it put his waking self to shame. He still couldn’t understand what it meant, though, even after all this time. A snapshot, taken out of context.

Paul?

I – Paul struggled to find the words, and flushed. I haven’t been sleeping well lately. He held up his hands to forestall the retort he could see coming, and looked George in the eye for the first time. He saw anger, and was taken aback: George was never angry. It made Paul’s insides churn with guilt to think that he had been the one to change that.

Shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, he continued; It’s not just that, George, I’ve… I don’t know, I’ve just been struggling with – just with life. I can’t explain. I – He cut himself off. If our situations were reversed, I’d be as angry as I’d bet you are right now.

George looked away at the wall, expelling a sharp breath. He shook his head and ran a hand over his rapidly balding scalp.

‘Angry’ doesn’t cover it. Disappointed and let down is probably nearer the mark. You’ve been here… what, nearly three months?

Paul nodded, afraid to say any more. George started to pace up and down the locker room; Paul had never seen the man so full of frustration.

And in all that time, George went on, you haven’t shown the slightest willingness to put some effort in. The fact is, I put my neck on the line for you. I thought I saw something in you. Instead…

George, I –

But George waved away his next words. Paul wasn’t entirely sure what he had been about to say, so he was glad for the interruption. He wasn’t quite so glad after what came next.

Sorry Paul, but I don’t want to hear it. I’ve had enough, I’m letting you go. Clear out your locker and leave. Now.

Paul didn’t try to argue; the look on George’s face told him everything. There would be no appeal. He emptied the few items from his locker, and walked slowly out of the room.

Before this job and the six months of sporadic employment that had preceded it, his chronic lateness hadn’t been such a problem: he had travelled the world for a year, temping in pubs and offices and everything in between to get himself to the next destination. If an employer disliked his laissez-faire attitude, Paul had just moved on to a different job, in a different city. Before that, he’d had a job he had believed in and been passionate about, to the point that he had overcome his poor timekeeping. But, of course, he would never go back to that now. He couldn’t.

And although he couldn’t have cared less about the post office, he hated that he had let down George, the man who had given him a chance despite his rather long and unimpressive CV. He had been desperate to finally re-establish his roots in the area he called home, and George had given him that opportunity. But now he had fouled that up, too. The guilt sank into his gut as he exited the yard.

Christ Church University, Canterbury

She paced the floor of the antechamber, scowling angrily at nothing and everything all at once; like the room itself offended her. A cramped and airless space with no chair, no window – no small comfort of any kind, its austerity reminded visitors that their presence was not entirely welcome.

Nerves began to flutter in her stomach, and she took a breath. Why was she nervous? She was the one who had requested the meeting in the first place, to argue her case in front of Metatron. It had made sense at the time, when she had spoken with her friends in the privacy of Lucifer’s comfortable office, for them to approach Metatron directly and try to reason with her. If they were to have any chance of getting through to the Almighty, gaining her sympathy was imperative. But the woman on the other side of that door could wrong-foot visitors with a single greeting. This required delicacy.

The door to the office opened. She exhaled and took a step forward.

Lauren blinked a couple of times, sighing as she shook away the spots of light before her eyes. Her fits were getting worse: more frequent, certainly, and her hallucinations far more vivid. Despite the ever-increasing frequency of her absence seizures, she had mostly become used to them by now. To anyone who didn’t know better, she simply looked lost in a daydream, while in reality, her brain blazed like a firecracker, exploding into bizarre visions that she only ever partly remembered.

She shook away the last vestiges of the fit – which she had become quite an expert at doing – and clicked open her emails. She expelled a nervous laugh at the first one: from her GP, reminding her of an appointment the following morning. The fact that she had been given an appointment so soon after her tests undoubtedly meant that the outcome wasn’t a particularly good one.

I’d have been fitted in sometime next week if everything was fine…

But worrying about it wasn’t going to help the day go any quicker; she, more than most people, should know all about that, given her line of work. She drummed her fingers on her desk, then clenched them into a fist to stop herself and glanced at her watch. It had just gone 8am, so she doubted that her faculty supervisor, Dr Tempest, was even in yet. After replying to her GP’s email and forwarding it onto Tempest, she leaned back in her chair and rubbed her face. A thumping headache started to build behind her temples.

At twenty-four, Lauren was the youngest psychotherapist on her team, and fast becoming recognised as a future leader in her field. But recognition carried with it a certain level of expectation, and that scared her. Tempest, for example, had taken to following her career with some degree of intensity; she was apparently capable of great things, as he once portentously told her. The mere thought of it made her feel a bit queasy.

However, one positive outcome of that recognition was being rewarded with her very own office – a rare and very coveted experience within the academic confines of the university.

It’s a broom cupboard! Lauren had first protested to her mother, who had been very excited at the prospect of her daughter being important enough to warrant having an office. Mum, it’s nothing exciting, I promise!

She had given the protestation without entirely believing it – mostly to stop her mother telling all and sundry about her ‘clever daughter who had her very own office!’ – but she had to admit, it was exciting. She smiled warmly at the memory of her mother going through her entire contacts list. It was a welcome antidote to the nervousness still cycling through the pit of her stomach, magnified again when her eyes fell back upon the email. The smile fell from her face; reality hit.

She had only agreed to the tests in the first place to stop her brother’s constant nagging. Now, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the results.

She looked up as someone knocked on her door. Who would be visiting this early?

Come in.

She smiled as a familiar face came through the door.

Paul! she exclaimed. She stood and kissed him on the cheek. How are you doing?

Not bad, he replied. How are you?

Yeah, not bad.

Good, that’s good. He sat down in the chair opposite Lauren and put his feet up on the desk. Lauren gave him a withering glance, and he pulled a face and quickly returned them to the floor.

Right, well now that we’ve finished lying to each other, Lauren went on, perhaps we can start telling each other the truth.

Paul chuckled. Always the psychologist…You’re never off duty.

I’ve got a few years’ practice at this sort of thing.

Yeah. Paul bit at his bottom lip for a moment and released a slow, thoughtful breath. Yeah, I guess you have.

Paul picked up the nameplate on her desk – an affectation picked up by the university’s vice-chancellor during a visit to America.

Lauren Crabtree-Tempur, Paul read out. Nice calligraphy, but they haven’t left room to put your ‘PhD’ on there when you qualify. I’d speak to Human Resources about that… or your union. Hey, do psychologists even have a union?

Lauren snatched it out of his hands and placed it back on her desk.

Displacement activities, she said. "They’re very common when people want to avoid talking about a subject. Something in particular you don’t want to talk about?"

Don’t try psychoanalysing me, Mrs Crabtree-Tempur, Paul laughed. I want to get out of here without having to pay you for therapy. My bank balance wouldn’t allow for it.

She smiled at him and rolled her eyes, like a mother chastising a recalcitrant child.

I heard about Royal Mail.

Paul scowled. Joseph’s such a snitch.

"Joseph’s my brother; of course he was going to tell me. You’re my friend too. But what I can’t work out is why it’s taken you two days to come and see me about it. You couldn’t even call?"

Paul shrugged. I’ve been busy, he said, not meeting Lauren’s eyes as he spoke. It’s hard work, looking for a job.

Yeah, especially with that extensive career plan you’ve got lined out.

She pressed her lips together, instantly regretting her sharp words – though not for any absence of truth in them. She hadn’t meant to be quite so harsh, but she couldn’t help it. She loved her friend dearly, but she knew she was right: he didn’t have anything close to career path. Thankfully, Paul didn’t seem to have taken offence.

You’re right, he said wearily. "I deserved that. I… I have been looking, but to be honest, I’m…embarrassed to show my face. I respect you. I didn’t want you to judge me."

Why would I judge you? she asked uneasily.

Paul glanced at her and broke into a grin. Lauren felt the brief tension dissipate from the room.

So, she went on, what are you going to do now? Perhaps it’s time to take stock at last. Take some more time out to decide what you want to do with your life.

Well, that’s a good idea, except for the fact that I’ve actually got a new job already.

Oh… Lauren groped for the right words. Well – that’s great. What are you doing?

Temping. Admin. At Lloyd’s bank – only for a week or so – right here in Canterbury. It’s my first day today, actually.

Ah. Of course. Just what you’ve always wanted to do. You’ve been saying that for years.

Hey, don’t knock it, Paul retorted. It pays the rent. Until I –

Figure out what you want to do, Lauren finished for him, raising an eyebrow.

Paul sighed. Yeah, whatever. I’m not going down that road with you – at least, not this early in the morning.

Lauren frowned. But you never do, she challenged. "Perhaps we should have the conversation one day. Talk about what exactly you do want. Do you even know?"

She had never openly confronted him before, and his eyes widened as he seemed to realise what she was doing.

I’m not going to apologise, she thought with determination. He has to start thinking.

I don’t know what I want, he admitted, but I’ll know it when I see it.

Lauren wanted to confront him further, but suddenly wondered, despondently, whether it would actually do any good. Paul seemed keen to change the subject, and for now, she decided to let him; she needed to find a way to challenge him more effectively than she could here and now.

Anyway, Paul went on I just wondered if you wanted to meet up for lunch tomorrow? I’m going to be stuck in training all day today, but could definitely do with a friendly face on day two.

Lauren shook her head regretfully. Sorry, Paul. I wish I could, but I’ve got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow at two. I’ll need to leave by one to get through the traffic.

She smiled at the guilty look that crossed his face; he had clearly forgotten about her tests. She didn’t blame him; he’d had other things on his mind over the past couple of days.

Want me to come with you? he asked. I can easily blow off work for the afternoon.

Lauren shook her head and fixed him with a steely glare. "No! Paul, you need to keep this job, even if it is just for a week – or people are going to stop giving you chances altogether. I’ll be okay, honestly. Now, sod off to work."

Paul smiled, kissed her on the cheek, and left her alone once more. Her smile faded as she watched him go, and the concern she so often felt for her friend returned.

Her eyes flickered to the photos on her desk; both silver-framed, and both taken at the same event. In one, she stood with her brother – Joseph – and Paul; all smiling broadly at the camera. In the other, she stood with James, her groom. And she looked happy.

Nine months later, his frequent headaches had become so much worse that he’d been forced to go to hospital. He died of a brain tumour not long after. They’d been too late – far too late.

And yet it’s taken me three years to go to the doctor for myself.

There was no good reason why her fits were getting worse – at least, not as far as she could see. But the thought of going back to the same surgery in which James had spent so many futile hours filled her with dread. She had eventually acceded, though, and now all she had to do was get the results. Easier said than done.

Christ Church University, Canterbury

Paul had enjoyed the banter with Lauren – although her incisive ability to read him always made him sweat. She seemed to know what he was thinking and feeling, even when he wasn’t comfortable expressing it – to himself or others.

He walked slowly across the university campus, deep in thought. Her barbed comments had rattled him more than he was willing to admit; he didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. He hadn’t known ever since he had left the job he thought he’d have forever. Paul had drifted across three continents and who-knows-how-many time zones in the space of a year, running away from the shame and embarrassment, and hoping that along the way he would find something that gave him the same drive, the same ambition. But he had failed, and in the nine months since he had returned, he still hadn’t found this illusive thing that would supposedly give him purpose.

And it was frustrating: it was more than just a vague feeling, this conviction that he would find something. He’d always had a nagging itch at the back of his brain, trying to attract his attention and convince him of his purpose, but he could never quite… grasp it. He knew it was important, he just couldn’t say why. He had never told anyone about the feeling, not even Joseph or Lauren, because he knew they would look at him like he was crazy. Perhaps it was crazy. So he kept it to himself, and hoped he would figure it out before the sensation drove him mad.

He stepped out of the campus and onto the main road, pausing to wait for a car to pass.

He caught the quiet ruffle of a wing, felt the flutter of wind against his face, and there was a sudden, gnawing anger –

Careful, pal!

And it was gone.

He blinked a couple of times, trying to get the feeling back, but it had drifted away like mist in the wind.

Probably not a good idea to try crossing the road in front of oncoming traffic, eh?

N-no, he stuttered to the man who had grabbed his arm. Thanks.

The man smiled and nodded, then continued on his way. Paul turned back to the road, checked both ways, and crossed. Shaking clear his mind, his thoughts returned to Lauren.

She’d experienced mild absence seizures since her childhood, although doctors had never been sure how the seizures had started.

Paul was beginning to think there was more to her absence seizures than met the eye; he had known her long enough to sense when she was keeping something from him. Whenever she came out of a seizure nowadays, she seemed more disturbed, somehow. In any case, Paul had been glad when she finally agreed to see a doctor.

Their friendship had begun as a much-resented pairing, when Joseph’s parents would make them look after his little sister when the two boys wanted to climb trees and play football. Soon, however, Lauren had proved herself the better tree-climber and football-player, and their three-way friendship was quickly cemented – although Joseph hadn’t been entirely willing to concede it at the time. With the end of their school days, their friendship only grew. Paul had supported her through the slow death of her husband, as she all the while endured her seizures, and he was relieved she would soon be getting an answer. The fact that the process was moving so quickly had to be a good sign; he was sure of it.

Without realising, Paul had walked