Wallace was disinterestedly rummaging through a rack in a dusty little charity shop when he recognised the quality. Good cloth. Nice schmutter. A fine cashmere if he was any judge. Cut a little on the old fashioned side, but early seventies eclecticism was making a comeback, so there was a ready market for those styles, especially at the top end.

This particular frock coat certainly looked like a real find. As new condition. Mmm. Interesting. He checked the label on the inside breast pocket. Harry Mann. Saville Row. London. Cashmere Wool. Real gold thread in the label embroidery too. Very nice. A real find. Knee length, double breasted, lapels not too wide and an almost perfect black. Not your usual plain black-cat-in-a-coal-cellar charcoal but an all swallowing shade that looked like it snacked on black holes between meals. Wallace stared for a moment and shook his head as if to clear it before natural avarice took over.

Bundling the obviously quality coat in with a bunch of lesser, but still fairly well cut men’s coats he took them to the checkout desk. “Forty quid for the lot?” He asked in what he hoped was a winsome manner at the plain-looking mature student behind the counter. She paid his ingratiating manner little mind. She was too busy swiping left.

She glanced up briefly from her cell phone at the pile and gave him a shallow toothy smile in return. “Yeah. Forty. Lovely.” And took the two slightly grubby twenties out of his hand before ringing them through an old fashioned till.

She didn’t offer to wrap the coats. It was a charity store after all. But, she noted, it was a nice touch of his to leave the empty hangers. Most people just took them. Which so many didn’t appreciate. Coat hangers didn’t grow on trees.

Gingerly taking the proffered receipt, Wallace left the store, strolled around the corner and down to a side street to where he’d parked his old 1989 Daimler double Six. An underrated classic, but then Wallace had a nose for such gear. Pukka heritage kit was always worth good money to the right people. That was how he made quite a nice living. Find the good stuff cheap, spend a little tarting it up, then flog it to the highest bidder. All you really needed was the contacts. This particular coat should be worth at least two grand to the right punter. Maybe much, much more.

After folding his find carefully with fussy fine boned hands, he placed the coat in a large tissue-paper lined box he kept in the Daimler’s boot, covering it with lower quality items. Closing the lid with a nice solid thud, he slid his spindly frame into the leather drivers seat and a little thrill ran down Wallace’s spine as the smooth bass purr of the six litre V12 with it’s fake numberplate spun into life. The stereo, a cleverly disguised modern multimedia player, began playing an old 80’s b-side ‘moving in stereo’, an old favourite. As he drove, Wallace happily thumped the steering wheel in time to its heavy, erotic, backbeat.

Avoiding main roads, he slipped steadily through a maze of narrow residential streets. Half an hour later pulling into a row of Victorian era railway arches, now closed off and used as shelter for a variety of semi-reputable businesses, including his. The automatic door opener swung a heavy garage door up and a welcoming inside light came on. The Daimler slid inside and the door closed behind the car with a satisfying clunk just as Wallace shut down the engine.

Swinging himself out of the drivers side door into the echoing space, he opened the boot and carefully checked his purchases once more, looking for flaws he might have missed.

Checking the gate he felt reassured by the outer door panels reinforced with heavy steel framing and solid brick. Which was good because only a determined thief would attempt entry. Not that any round here would try, given his carefully nurtured relationships with the local crime families, but there were enough desperate souls in this world and it paid not to put temptation in their path.

However, the local junkies weren’t up yet. He was always out and safely back in his little home and workshop before the ugly night-spider people with their appalling habits and foul breath had levered their raddled bodies out of bed. The Daimler was always tucked up snug and cosy before midday unless he was pulling an overnight visit. A touch of a remote control snapped vanadium steel locking pins in the heavy door and he breathed a sigh of relief. Safe home again.

Home was a railway arch bricked up at one end with half partitioned off as living and work space. Not much of a view of course and it was only leasehold, but the council didn’t bother him because of some obscure old railway by-law, which was handy. Keeping a low profile also helped keep the Police at bay. His greatest fear being if they found his full-of-subversive titles video collection he’d be banged up for whatever the courts decided was a ‘hate crime’ that month.

Carefully hanging up his other finds, he singled out the black double breasted cashmere and put it on the modified tailors dummy he used for steaming. Steam cleaning was always a good idea because these vintage clothes occasionally came with added surprise guests, like lice, and his pickier clients would never forgive him if he was to sell them gear with value added infestation. So he had a specialised steam wand which he used to ensure the seams were visitor free. Then he’d give it a light dry and steam clean before drying on the dummy, where he’d installed a warm air blower to gently dry the fine wool without damaging the cloth.

Humming quietly to himself, he cleaned off the few bits of lint that always seemed to find their way onto black clothing, then steamed the seams carefully and went over the rest. After an hour he stepped back to examine his handiwork. Oh yes, very nice. Just the right size for that lippy little whippersnapper who thought that because he could rap he was the bees knees. Well he’d pay for something like this. Wallace nodded quietly to himself and went to his living quarters at the back to make a few calls.

“Hey Rufus.” He dialled the rappers manager. “Got some great gear for your guy. A really nice black cashmere. First quality. Should fit him like a glove.”

“Cashmere? Nah. Too fuddy duddy, you got anything else?” Rufus replied.

“A red Guardsmans jacket for a little sixties vibe?” Wallace offered. Bugger. So much for that idea.

“Do me a favour. No one wants sixties stuff no more. Nuffin’ else?”

“I’ll keep my eye out.”

“You do that son. You do that.” Rufus rang off. Charmless toad. Oh well, if no one else wanted it. Wallace went back to his clothing workshop, put on the coat and stuffed his hands in the generous slash pockets. That felt nice. Nothing quite like good cashmere. Looked good too. He did up the three front buttons and examined himself in the five foot mirror on the wall. Very smart. Stuff the rapper, Rufus could get his own gear from now on. This was too classy to sell.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but the mirror looked like it could do with re silvering, he thought, looking from left to right. He stood there for a few moments thinking his reflection looked badly double glazed. His reverie was disturbed by his mobile ringing. “Hello.” He answered. The call was from one of his occasional customers, a small time pimp called Razzle who had an ‘office’ two arches down. For office read ‘sex club’.

“Coppers!” Razzle yelled in his ear.

“What?” Wallace said.

“Coppers! They’re raiding the whole…” That was when Wallace’s entry door burst in and his world became full of interest and black body armoured men carrying guns and helmets. Then a woman in uniform, or was it? It was getting so hard to tell nowadays, stepped into his workshop. She / whatever had a funny smile on her face. “Right. Turn this place over for drugs and porn. We know this little toe-rag supplies half of East London. I want it all.”

“Have you got a warrant?” Wallace demanded weakly, but his heart wasn’t in it. The Police ignored him and began rummaging roughly through his stock. One even pushed him aside. “Hoy! That’s brutality that is!” Well, it was worth a try. Oddly enough, the officer didn’t seem to see him, or even react to his presence.

“He’s not here.” One of the black bundled bodies, Wallace thought it was a woman, said. “Found some porn though. Whole shelves of it. Hardcore.”

Wallace groaned. That was his whole movie collection. He’d given up years to build it.

“Nasty stuff.” Said the body armoured officer. “John Wayne, Arnold Swarzenegger, Quentin Tarantino, John Ford. I’ve even found some Stallone.”

“Male white supremacy filth.” Said the tall woman / whatever in uniform. “Any sign of the proprietor?”

“That would be me.” Wallace announced stiffly, if he was going to be nicked, at least he’d go down with some dignity. Oddly enough no one paid him any attention. “I said.” He raised his voice. “That’s my property! Put it back. That’s private!”

“Found a blacklisted item. Stallone. Demolition Man. Worst of the worst.” A male officer said, sounding rather pleased with himself. Wallace blinked hard. Bugger. He’d heard of people getting ten years in the camps for less. He stuck his wrists out to be cuffed in a pointless gesture of defiance. Again, he was ignored. It was like being in the middle of a crowded dance floor, people brushing around and past him, but not intending to, almost as if he wasn’t there. He looked around at the searching Police, just in case he had collapsed in a corner and was having some sort of out of body experience. No. No-one seemed to be bothered either, just digging through his hard garnered belongings like he didn’t matter. One of the Police was about to use a baton on the Daimler’s side window. Wallace, too far away to intervene, watched in horror, hand to mouth. Another pushed the baton wielder aside and simply opened the car door. Then the black clad figures wrenched open the bonnet and boot and started pulling at the door panels. “No-er.” Wailed Wallace,listening to the heartbreaking sounds of his pride and joy being trashed. Fabric ripped, glass was smashed.

“Anything?” Said the cruel looking uniformed woman. Wallace looked more closely. Didn’t only men have Adam’s apples? The black uniformed stormtroopers shook their heads. “Look harder.” She / whatever said. Wallace slumped onto a workshop stool and began to weep to the sounds of his precious Daimler being forcibly dismantled. Red-eyed he sat up and stared at the ongoing destruction, feeling a yawning pit of desolation open up beneath him. In his despair he leaned back against the big mirror and kept leaning.

Discontinuity. He fell onto his back with an ‘oof’ that shook him from nose to tailbone. “Oh bloody hell.” He complained and unthinkingly dragged himself to his feet, taking off the coat and fussily dusting it with his hands. After a few moments he looked around in vague surprise at the echoing cavern he’d been calling home. Bloody hell. They’d stripped it bare.

Where were the Police? Where was his Daimler and all his gear? Surely they couldn’t have stripped out everything without trace?

Once satisfied with the coats condition, he put it back on and made his way out of the little Judas gate in his arch-workshops main door. Outside, the street was unnaturally busy and a street cleaner passed by in the cab of his pavement scrubber. The man waved cheerful thanks when Wallace stepped aside. People smiling? In Bermondsey? Weird.

Wallace breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t invisible any more. Hang on. Where had all these shops and businesses come from? This wasn’t his street. Yet it was, the name was the same but the sign was newer, better. The pub was open with a chalkboard menu outside. A woman wearing an above the knee skirt wandered past in high heels, talking cheerfully on her mobile phone. Short skirts? Weren’t those sexist and illegal? Yet everywhere he went through familiar streets it was the same story. Although most people he saw looked well enough. It was like being in a timewarp. Places were open and brightly lit. People seemed relaxed, focussed, unafraid.

After an hour of bemused wandering, Wallace found himself back outside his workshop, seeking the familiar. It wasn’t bad here, but well, it just felt wrong.

From the other side of the road he saw a tall woman, every inch the upmarket lawyer in a well cut charcoal wool suit and knee length skirt, staring at him. Wallace reflexively looked away. Just in case. No sense in evoking an accusation of thoughtcrime. The woman, an athletic twenty something, eyes hidden by small, round lensed dark glasses, cut across the street and headed straight at him. Wallace turned around and started walking faster, trying to get away from the approaching footsteps. He glanced back over his shoulder to see she had disappeared, then put his head down, trying to look inconspicuous until a warm, very feminine voice at his elbow said. “Nice coat. Where’d you get it?”

The soft and above all feminine voice carried a soft menace, the kind you heard in pre censorship crime movies, where the anti-heroine wore tight black leather and carried a bullwhip. Wallace froze. However, “That’s not your coat.” was stated as a fact, not an enquiry or threat. “Where’d you get it?”

“Second hand store.” Mumbled Wallace.

“Seriously?” Said the owner of the voice, obviously surprised.

“Er yeah.”

“Which one?” Said the voice, loaded with disbelief.

“Oxfam shop, Perdeiu street.”

“Oh. Right.” The voice took on tones of disappointment.

“What’s it to you?”

“Belonged to a friend. I thought you were him.” The voice softened. “Asliana Staroth. Friends call me Azzy.” The figure stuck out a well manicured hand in greeting. Wallace carefully shook her hand like it had a hair trigger although the handshake itself felt firm and sincere. “Who are you?” She asked.

“Wallace Leary. I deal in high quality gear. For the client who likes discretion.” No sense in not blowing your own trumpet, even if he did skirt the edge of the law now and again.

“Wallace. Pleased to meet you. You strike me as a man with a thirst. Fancy a pint? I’d like to ask you a few things if that’s okay.”

“Any chance of something to eat?” Wallace asked hesitantly, realising it had been at least eight hours since a meagre breakfast. At least according to his body clock. He’d settle for a Veggie but what his body really craved was real meat, but he didn’t dare voice that wish. Not in these times.

“Of course.” Beamed Azzy. “On me.” She gestured at a pub on the street corner that Wallace only remembered as a boarded up shell.

Inside the pub, over a heartwarming feed of shepherds pie, made with real lamb, not ersatz veggiemeat, and a pint of well kept Fullers FSB, Wallace told his tale. Of finding the coat and the Police raid. Azzy’s eyebrows climbed up her smooth forehead. “I didn’t know things had got that bad. Hate speech laws and old films classed as porn? Dear me. No wonder Hady turned in his coat.”

“Hady?”

“Hady Israel. Otherwise known as Azrael. Angel of death and mercy.” Said Azzy casually. She picked up her Martini’s olive and gave it an appreciative suck. “That’s whose coat you’re wearing.”

“What!” Wallace almost dropped his glass. He stared wildly at the sleeves.

“Keep your voice down.” Said Azzy amiably. “People will think you’re nuts.”

After a few moments, Wallace settled. “Angel of Death? You’re having me on.”

“People who cross dimensions shouldn’t be so sceptical.” She said.

“Eh?”

“Look. You’re not from this London, that’s plain as day.” Azzy smiled a dazzling smile. “If it wasn’t for the snappy frock coat you’d look like someone from cold war eastern Europe. Worn out shirt, bad haircut, terrible teeth, dusty trousers, clean but very old shoes. Oh, and bad skin. You really need to eat healthier and wash more often. I could recommend some skin care products. If you like.”

Wallace stared thoughtfully at the coat’s fine cloth. Even before knowing it was a supernatural garment he’d noticed the quality. “So, apart from flip me between dimensions, what else can it do?”

“I don’t suppose it will hurt to tell you even if you’re a mortal. Apart from make you invisible and out of phase, yes, it can help you move between dimensions. And in time. If you knew how, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Sorry?”

“Each dimension operates on its own set of temporal zones. Do too much shifting between them and you can end up with a really bad case of dimension lag.”

“So is that what happened to Azrael?”

“Angels don’t get dimension lag. We’re naturally immune. Let’s just say if a mortal did it too often they’d soon come apart in space and time and they wouldn’t enjoy that at all.” Azzy explained.

“Would it be bad?”

“Extremely.”

“How bad is extremely?”

“Depends on how you feel about having your entire molecular structure ripped apart, one atom at a time.”

“A human body has a lot of atoms.” Wallace pointed out weakly. “Billions of them.”

“True. So it might take an hour or four. Maybe ten. Very painful.” Azzy grinned. This time he could see how awfully pointed her canine teeth were. “So, not a great idea.”

“So I can’t go home? Where am I?” Wallace said.

“To answer both your questions, no you can’t and where you were. Well, sort of. It’s difficult to explain.” Azzy took a sip of her Martini and nodded approval. “Lovely. Always like a really dry and dirty Martini.” She paused, taking in Wallace’s confused expression. “I told you, dimensions.”

“I don’t understand”

Azzy sighed. “I suppose not. I take it you want the readers digest version?”

“What?”

“You want it simplified.” She said flatly, as though to a dull pupil.

“Er, yes please.” Wallace said.

“Time and space are layered. Don’t ask why, they just are.” She took another sip. “Sometimes the layers merge. Things and people cross between Universes. It happens. I think it might even be quantum. Angelic accessories, like that coat you’re wearing, just make it easier.”

“W-what’s that got to do with Angels and Demons?” Wallace stared helplessly.

“We get to travel between all the universes. Tidy things up. Prevent the worst cock-ups. Not that anyone bothers that much any more. Well, we used to. Now we please ourselves. Within limits of course. So, you want everything to be how it was?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Said Wallace miserably. “I wish I’d never picked this coat up.”

“Really? Oh well it’s not your fault. We’ll have to find Azrael first. Only he can put things right.” She idly stirred her drink with her cocktail olive.

“But he’s the Angel of Death!” Wallace hissed.

“And Mercy. That’s his job, yes. Doesn’t make him a bad person.” Azzy said defensively. “He is an angel after all. A bit morose sometimes, but he rarely sees people at their best. It’s not a popular job.” She leaned back against the wall, totally at ease. “If you think about it, he owes you a favour for finding that coat. Very important. I’m sure once he gets it back we can do something for you.”

“Really? What we are we talking about here?”

“The angelic population. Well, half of us are actually demons, but we’re all from the same mould so to speak.”

“D-demons?” Wallace sat bolt upright. He farted involuntarily.

“Now, now. Keep your knickers on.” Chided Azzy, giggling as Wallace’s eyes widened in alarm. “If anyone was going to hurt you, do you think you’d have just had a nice supper and a pint?”

“Huh?”

“Let me explain. We immortal types have had to band together. Ever since we started getting such a bad press from the world’s major religions in the early sixth century, which was when people stopped listening by the way. Don’t even get me started on atheists.” She rolled her eyes sarcastically behind stylish shades before glancing around. “You like it here?”

“Dunno, haven’t made up my mind. The food’s brilliant and it’s a lot more cheerful than what I’m used to.”

“Trust me, you would. Let me clue you in. This particular dimension is managed for Angels by Angels. For example, no one cares what you say, only what you do. Even then, no-one’s really bothered unless people start using their fists. And we all know each other too well for that. So we can all have a nice civilised supper in the pub rather than get the flaming swords out.”

“Angels like pubs?”

“Best thing you mortals ever invented. Er with one minor correction; I’m not an Angel.”

“I was wondering about that. You don’t look like an angel.”

“Clever boy.” Azzy leaned forward and patted him on the sleeve. “Was it the eyes?”

“Just a bit too intense, even behind the er…” Wallace waved his fingers to indicate her dark glasses.

“Right.” Azzy said. “Technically I’m a demon.”

“You don’t look like a demon, your eyes aren’t right.” Wallace said diplomatically.

“What are demon eyes supposed to look like?” Asked Azzy with an ironic smile.

“Well, bright red, with the centre bit like a cats. Fiery. Glowing. You know.”

“Glowing?” Azzy arched a well groomed eyebrow. She smirked. “That is such a clich.”

“Er yes.” Said Wallace. “You’re also supposed to have horns, growing out of your head sort of thing.”

“Dear me.” Azzy laughed in a sexy contralto. Heads turned. It was that kind of laugh.

“Do we get it wrong?”

“Obviously.” Grinned Azzy and gave him a knowing look. “It’s a bit of a fine distinction but all demons are female, all angels are male, well, nominally in some cases.” She explained, recrossing her legs with a soft whisper of fine cloth. “We’re sort of archetypes.” She said with a languid half smile. Wallace swallowed, hard. Even in her severe lawyers outfit Azzy exuded so much sex appeal it was scary.

“What about God?” Wallace asked after an uneasy pause. “What sex is he?”

“No-one ever had the nerve to ask.” She shrugged. “Not that anyone has asked God anything worthwhile in eons. I think even if you tried, God would be busy elsewhen. Wherever that is. Even Gabriel and the rest of the board can only get the answering service. So we more or less run our own show. Keep things ticking over.”

“Oh.” Wallace looked at the floor for a moment. Wheels turned. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Fire away.”

“Where am I, really?” Wallace finished his pint, enjoying the hoppy rounded taste.

“I told you, where you were, only not.” She sipped her Martini again, then ate the olive in a manner so erotic Wallace blushed beetroot red. “The Universe is layers, dimensions, remember?”

“Okay. You said this place in managed by angels, yes?”

“That’s right.” Azzy leaned forward, elegant chin on slender hand. She seemed to be watching him closely, like an approving teacher with a slow pupil who is about to finally get it.

“So is this heaven?”

“Definitely not. No licensed premises in heaven.”

“Well, purgatory then?”

“Nope.” Azzy seemed to be taking a perverse form of delight at his confusion. “No such place. Purgatory was invented by Catholic priests to keep the plebs in line.”

“You don’t mean…” Wallace felt as though the floor was sinking underneath him.

“Yes.”

“This is Hell?” Wallace gaped. He looked around wildly. “But isn’t it filled with the worst of humanity? You know, Stalin, Hitler?” Someone across the other side of the bar chuckled.

“Not any more.” Azzy touched his hand, which calmed him a little. “We disposed of them. The market in used souls is pretty moribund. Frankly you can’t give them away. Even to Buddhists and the like.”

“So when bad people die they…”

“Cease to exist, yes.”

“What about the good people?”

“Most go to heaven to be virtuous all the time. Most angels find them rather tedious. The rest get to choose. Or rather Azrael used to do the choosing. Now when their time comes, most people prefer oblivion.”

“So there’s no fiery pits, no boiling lakes of blood?”

“Dear me no. The gas bill was killing us, financially speaking.” Azzy smiled.

“So I’m stuck in hell, doomed to an eternity of having a nice afterlife?”

“Yes. Good here, innit?” Grinned Azzy. “Fancy another?”

Wallace stared at her for a moment before giving a heavy sigh and bowing to the inevitable. “If you’re buying.” He replied.

Los Endos