It was tiring at home; Dalziel was getting his horns through. Plus the usual palaver of baby powder and red flaking skin – they’d been woken up several times that night by the cub’s mewling, not that they weren’t grateful and, as they used to say at law school, ‘adversity is a prerequisite of love’.
There was a light dusting of talcum powder on his tie, he noticed as he looked at himself on the mirror. Cleo approached him, slipping her sleeves around him as he moved up the powdery knot and he turned and kissed her as Dalziel began again to cry.
By the time he got to the courtroom the building was already looking full, weekenders queuing for spares, prosperous demons, vain angels and general afterlife ‘characters’ moving through the main hall.
‘Francis,’ he said at security to Francis, who was helping a demon run their trident through the scanner.
‘Charlie,’ said Francis, wholly concentrated on the monitor. ‘Busy day ahead?’
‘Just the one case. But high profile – main room.’
‘Well, hope you get the verdict you want.’
‘I’m arguing for the status quo.’
‘Someone has to, hey,’ said Francis, ushering the demon on. ‘Go on, go on.’
They crossed the marble halls of the palace of post-corporeal justice and he moved through the gathering crowd to the case boards. He stood there with a host of lawyers, most known to him, and they watched as the hearings ticked over on the displays; this year they had gone for an analogue board, procured from God knows where. Vintage design was a big thing in the hereafter.
Balwick was there, today genuinely wearing a T-shirt saying ‘I’ll take any case’, bending forward with his nostrils wide and a toothpick in his jaw. No doubt he was about to argue that some murderer should go unpunished, or a cheat prosper, or worse, that a woman be blamed for another one’s sins. But as Balwick knew and as they all did too, an argument only existed if both sides were made. Even the most clearcut cases demanded an entertaining of the alternative reality history would never see come to pass.
‘You seen me yet?’ said Balwick.
‘I don’t know what you’re doing. How can I see you?’
‘Are you doing Late Life Love at 10.40?’
‘I am.’
‘You’re in the Throne Room then. And me, I’m in 17b.’
‘Kidnapping, hey?’
‘Someone has to do it.’
‘Hey, no slights. Your reputation is getting round.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yup. People are saying, “Balwick isn’t short of work.”’
Balwick smiled. ‘Is it really better than arguing against love on the undercard?’
‘Hey, I’m always arguing for love one way or another!’
‘Yeah, we all tell ourselves things,’ Balwick said with an actual wink. ‘Have a good one – there’s chalk on your tie.’
The room was full to bursting, already standing room for the very first case of the day. Rows and rows of young lovers and middle-aged couples and former functionaries of the court, the latter dressed for another era, the former hardly dressed at all. It wasn’t so much that this particular case was of intrinsic interest, just that a romantic love case on a long weekend was always going to pack in the crowds.
Arriving at the benches, he saw Gabriel, his golden hair tipped with silver, the Archangel laughing with a young confidante as he arranged his papers in preparation for the proceedings. Behind Gabriel various people tried not to look impressed.
A cherub, dressed in a miniature top hat, came out to read the case brief.
‘Today we are considering the case of Ms. Elsie Grantola, 57, resident of Barrow-in-Furness, Cumbria. Ms Grantola is known for being a watchful mother and her decades of service as an NHS nurse.
We are going to consider whether Ms. Grantola is to, following the reappearance on the scene of her childhood sweetheart Ronald Grant, leave her marriage of 35 years to one Walter Brebby, a retired civil engineer. We consider the case for remaining, for preserving the sanctity of marriage and the marriage vow, against the chance of a love which could move the sun and other stars; for the case for change, the Angel Gabriel KC will first speak.’