WHEN ANGLES BLEED AND DEVILS LIE is a book set in the contemporary era. Meridian is a child who resides in the twisted world of today. He encounters numerous losses in his life at a very young age. However, everything changes when he is adopted by a politician. He changes for the better and he realises that nothing is impossible to achieve in life. Set in a fictitious Harlem, this book discusses many problems in the modern world from the view of a child who shares a similar background to the author of this book. Meridian will grow up to be a politician and he would learn that the world of politics is a world where racism, injustice, cruelty and mercilessness thrives. Throughout his life, Meridian would learn many things from his foster mother, his travels to faraway lands (from Pakistan to Timbuktu) and his loved ones but will the saying, "This world has no place for good people" prove to be true in this book? "In this book, an entirely different side of me comes out. This book mirrors numerous events which happened in my life over the past year. I hope to inspire readers and I sincerely do hope that they will cherish this book forever" - Peace, R. R. Pravin

WHEN ANGELS BLEED & DEVILS LIE

By R. R. Pravin

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 R. R. Pravin
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-8352-3

Chapter One

(Uncertainty of Life ...)

The city was dead with sleep. Souls were drowned in the ocean of slumber. The street lights emitted a faint glow, only enough to illuminate the blind corners of the gravel pavement. The moon bloomed in the darkness of the night. Buds of stars grew from the petals of the night sky. Nocturnal Harlem was more active than any other city in the United States of America. The policeman on petrol was ever vigilant in this city where illegal activities thrived. Apprehending a thief in the city was as tedious as finding a needle in a haystack. Nevertheless, the Harlem Police Force has been commended and awarded many a time for being the Most Effective Police Force in America. As the policeman walked past a streetlight, a pair of eyes followed his shadow until it disappeared around a corner.

A sports car, as dark as the night, drew up beside him. He was dragged in and soon, found himself being scrutinized by several pairs of eyes around him. The dimly lit car comprised of a few people. He recognized a handful of them but there were new faces. In the ever-versatile environment, change was an inevitable constant. The pristine faces, which were as pure as white milk, could be the very faces to appear on the obituary page of the Harlem New Paper the next day.

"Where is Eliza?" he inquired in consternation as he searched the ring of faces for the most important person, Eliza Genre. Eliza Genre was the leader of the opposition party in Harlem. Harlem, a city stricken by extreme poverty and rocked by waves of severe climate change, was ruled by iron-fisted rulers who displayed no interest in the welfare of the common people. Instead, they were consumed in their political self interests and became wealthier as the poor became more destitute by the minute. Their rules were always in proud favour of their abhorrent motto "Justice shall Prevail". Their idea of justice was one in which bribery and slavery could thrive. There was no peace. There was disharmony and the people were living in utter disillusionment.

These corrupt barons were threatened by the very presence of Eliza Genre. She bore the immense agony of the ruthless actions of the barons. Her parents were both sold into slavery and she had to flee from her house to escape from the cruel clutches of fate. She resented these government officials, who were more than frauds. She was appalled by the people's inability to make the right decision when the first ever democratic elections were held two years ago. When the "All People's Party" won, Eliza was outraged and instantaneously created her own party, titled the "Party of the Poor". The moment she commenced the party proceedings, the party had received excessive publicity from the press and Eliza seized this golden opportunity to make her policies known.

He looked around the car at the circle of faces swivelling around him. There was no Eliza Genre. He turned to one corner and Alas! She was seated there in silence. That was bizarre and so very uncharacteristic of Eliza, who was outspoken and could never be muted, not even by the barons.

"Eliza?" he asked once again, his hand groping for hers. Another man seated next to him stopped him and said "That is not the real Eliza Genre. She is Stephanie James. Her appearance resembles that of the real Eliza. We have received news of rumours circulating about a possible assassination attempt on Eliza by the government officials of the "All People's Party". The incident should take place over the next few days. However, we are not taking any risks. All essential precautionary measures have been taken to ensure the safety of Eliza Genre ..."

As the name Eliza Genre was being repeated several times over, the young man's thoughts drifted away.

It was Christmas Day during the bitter winter. I will never forget this particular Christmas for the rest of my life. I had just turned twelve on the very eve of Christmas. However, it was not like other lavish birthdays regular twelve year-olds enjoy. There were no presents except the cupcake my grandmother had bought from the pastry store across the street. There were neither festive lights nor were there any Christmas trees or carols which resonated in other houses. All I was grateful for was having a roof over my head. My father had walked out on my mother a few days ago. They could barely make ends meet. Frequent quarrels and arguments made my parents the cat and the dog of the neighbourhood.

My father was a mere chimney sweep and he blatantly squandered the few measly dollars he earned each day on booze. The booze that retained his sanity, my mother would often remark. He would return home late each night and sink into the armchair in the living room. He would do everything as silently and as stealthily as possible, but nothing could get past my mother, who was as sharp as an eagle. (I should know, smuggling titbits from the kitchen would leave me grounded for a week no matter how hard I tried.) My mother would then come out of her bedroom and began yelling at my father who would whine and groan, still snuggled up in his armchair. "You are useless", my mother would end her lecture and that always tipped my daddy off. He would rise and rebuke her with obscene words even I struggled to comprehend. Whenever I saw this happening, I would hide under my blanket and recite a silent prayer from the Bible to restore peace in my family. Yet, the squabbles persisted. Sometimes, I would whimper as I wondered why my parents could not simply stop fighting and just sit down to resolve their struggles. It was a war of words every night, something I personally resented. Everything ended when my daddy left the house for good. Each time I looked at the door, there was renewed hope that he would come in for Christmas but the devious door ferried everyone in except my daddy.

On Christmas Day, my mother told me to pack my things. She was locking all windows, emptying drawers and stacking all the china in her torn When Angels Bleed and Devils Lie and tattered bag. Everything was very abrupt and soon, I found myself tearing down the posters of Abraham Lincoln and stuffing records of Aretha Franklin into my haversack. "What's happening Mama?" I asked. "Just pack up your things honey, they are coming" she snapped. "Who Mama? What are they going to do?" I asked insistently. "Honey, stop asking so many questions. Just pack up, hurry!" she replied hesitantly. I could sense that something was awfully amiss, but I could not lay a finger on it. As we left the house, my mother locked up the door. She went to the corner of the road to flag a cab but on Christmas Day, getting a taxi was as good as finding a billion dollar bill on the pavement. "Look after these luggages honey while Mama gets us a cab" she instructed me. She walked further and further till I lost sight of her shadow. It was mid-morning when she left and I was left standing there with the luggage to keep my company.

A few hours later, I saw a police car and an ambulance across the street. What had happened? I wondered. Curiosity got the better of me and I rushed to the vicinity. A stretcher with a white sheet placed over it was being carried across. People all around me were lowering their hats. Who was that underneath that sheet? I wondered. As the paramedics lowered the stretcher and opened it, I saw my mother's face smeared in blood. Her mesmerising beauty had been ghastly ripped apart by the scarring marks of tyres. Mommy! I recall screaming and the neighbourhood police officer, Mr. Benson immediately recognised me as he had been my mother's good friend, giving her a couple of dollars when she was short-handed of money. My entire world shattered and the jaws of sadness devoured my every emotion. Tears pelted down from my face. I was crying incessantly. "Mommy! Mommy!" I kept screaming hysterically. My efforts were in vain. The people around me looked on and their blurred faces seemed worthless to me. All the world around me collapsed in shambles. No words can describe my sadness and until today, that was the most heart-breaking moment of my life. Mr. Benson brought me into his police car and he whispered something into the driver's ears, both of them exchanging glances with each other and turning unanimously to look at me at regular intervals. I had never felt so lonely and desolate. I was isolated from the world. All this time I had been protected in the womb of my mother's overwhelming care. Her death had cut the umbilical cord between my life and the outside world. As my mind roamed on the most incredulous grounds of hope, the car was moving. A few moments later, the car pulled up and Mr. Benson escorted me into this tall building coated with alternating grim colours of grey and white. We took the lift, Mr. Benson's right hand on my shoulder the whole time. I recognised the elevator music, Aretha Franklin's Let It Be. It was highly-appropriate and comforting. Perhaps, Mother Mary was re-assuring me that I should just let it be.

As I entered an office, I saw the words "Welfare Office" ominously embedded on the walls above the receptionist counter. Mr. Benson explained the situation to the elderly woman at the counter and moments later, we were told to take a seat. The elderly woman made a few calls and I noticed Mr. Benson anxiously clasping his knees as his fingers danced on his lap. A few moments later, a tall but attractive lady entered the door. She was dressed simply with a fiery sense of pride embedded on her face. She introduced herself as Eliza Genre. Mr. Benson spoke to her for a long time and an hour later, Eliza Genre followed us back to the police car. The driver relentlessly transferred all my luggage to the car behind the police car. "Now you follow Ms. Eliza home. She will be taking care of you from now. Behave yourself, okay?" Mr. Benson stooped down to tell me. I nodded obediently, entirely unaware of the proceedings around me.

Within minutes, I was in the backseat of Eliza Genre's car. When I reached her home which was a stone throw's away from the building, I was warmly greeted by a glorious Christmas tree and decorative lights coupled with carols. The scene would forever be etched on my mind.

As he recalled the past, he heard the other man's voice saying "To protect the real Eliza Genre, we had to have a decoy in place". He shuddered at the thought of losing Eliza Genre, his foster mother since he was twelve. He had already experienced all too well the feeling of losing a loved one dear to him, a mother.

He was adjusting to the environment when all of a sudden, a road block appeared in front of the car. No one had seen the road block before. It was highly unusual.

"Meridian, be on your highest guard"

II

(Assassination Attempt ...)

"Warning, trespassers beyond this point will be severely dealt with" read the red letters in bold on the road block. This was unordinary. In Harlem, construction sites were rare. The government hardly spent any money in providing shelter for the homeless. All of the funds earned during donation drives were being channeled towards the well-being of the government officials' families which was an outright injustice being covered by the blanket of the media. The chief security guards in the car, Nicholas and Bruce left the car and inspected the area beyond the road block all in the darkness. Bruce was working for the Land Development Authority in Harlem. He had pledged his allegiance to the "Party of the Poor" after he lost his family in an inferno which left many to scorch in the flames of exasperation as the government simply refused to provide victims with aid. The government merely dismissed it as an act of arson by a fanatic. Infuriated, Bruce had signed himself to Eliza Genre's party.

Bruce drew his hand phone out of his pocket. He attempted to contact the chief of the Land Development Authority. However, it was unfeasible as he had no connection which was awkward. Why would a road block not permit access connection to hand phones? Bruce glanced at Nicholas who knew all too well that something sinister hung in the dead of the night. Nicholas signaled the driver to reverse as he crossed the road block. He walked for a few metres but nothing happened. He turned back to signal the car to gear itself up to move forward. As he removed the road block, the car accelerated through the hump. The moment the car passed through the hump, five mines lined along the road, disguised as lights went off consecutively.

The first mine went off when the front of the car hit the hump, causing the front of the car to burst into furious flames. Meridian was dragged at his arm by someone. As the car went over the hump, two more mines went off, smashing the windscreen into a billion pieces. The driver slumped over his seat, bleeding profusely from his head. The final two mines exploded as the car leaned over the hump. "Get out! Now!", "Leave!", "Hurry!" Meridian heard cries from all directions. The car was now in flames. Everything was in pandemonium. There were screams and shrieks. "Help me!" the driver, who was ensnared in his front seat, yelled. He became silent as the car burst into flames which engulfed the car.

A piercing pain in his right arm left Meridian twitching on the floor. All he could see through the dust was the gleaming orange flames of the car he was in a few seconds ago. Burning parts surrounded him and the horrid stench of burning body parts polluted his breath. He suffocated and choked violently. The fire grew bigger and bigger. "We've got to scoot now!" he heard another man whisper into his ear. The man was in grave agony. Meridian sensed it in his quavering voice. He attempted to stand up with great determination. He fell down once again but he eventually picked himself up.

I vividly recall that night. I was doused in my thoughts when the car came to an abrupt halt outside the road block. Moments later, I could not see anything. The first blast rocked the car so bad that I felt the vibration even though I was tucked at the back. It had happened. The worst had happened. It was God's mercy that somebody tugged at my arm and pulled me out of the car before the next explosion. For a moment, I thought the end had come. When the "All People's Party" emerged triumphant, terrorist attacks were mysteriously launched at opposition members to eliminate all opposition. The political party in power longed to remain in power without losing it for as many as terms as they could seize it. That was Harlem politics, an endless vicious cycle. What had happened to the others who were in the same car as me? Did they pull through? As I was dragged out of the car, the badly charred face of the young girl before me bade me farewell from the living nightmare. As I fled the car, a sharp piece glass from the windscreen gashed my right arm. Moments later, I was writhing on the grass patch. Before I managed to fully recuperate from the unbearable agony, I found myself taking to my heels. The authorities would undeniably arrive at the vicinity of the fire soon and they would undoubtedly arrest all of us under the false accusation of "trespassing into unknown territory", extremely typical of the Harlem government. The media would usually portray the opposition as the villains because they were also run by the government. I ran and I ran as far as I could. In the darkness, it was near impossible to know which direction or where I was racing to. All I could feel was my heart palpitating, skipping alternate beats. My feet carried me as far as they could when out of the blue, a hand reached out and grasped me, reeling me into a pub.

"Meridian, are you alright?" a voice called out. I looked up and saw one of the officials in the car gazing at my right arm in a concerned manner.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from WHEN ANGELS BLEED & DEVILS LIEby R. R. Pravin Copyright © 2009 by R. R. Pravin. Excerpted by permission.
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