Free Here Comes the Sun by Tom Holt

tiny pieces to bother with detailed observations of that kind.
    â€˜Right,’ she said and, using her thumb and forefinger, picked a razor-sharp shard of casserole out of her hair. Outside, the air was suddenly full of the sound of many motorists restored to normality and lamenting their lost no-claims bonuses with the help of their horns. The last glossy magazine twirled a few times in the air and flopped to earth like an exhausted pigeon.
    â€˜You’re on,’ she said.
    Â 
    â€˜Tell me,’ said Gustav tremulously, ‘all about it.’
    The fire burnt low, so that the interior of Gustav’s small but cosy cottage became full of deep shadows, each one a curtained doorway into hostile infinity. Using his teeth only, Bjorn removed the crown cap off a bottle of Carlsberg and spat it accurately into the grate.
    â€˜Not a lot to tell, really,’ he said. ‘I applied for the job, got it, tried it, didn’t like it, told them to stuff it, moved on. Simple as that.’
    â€˜Um,’ said Gustav, ‘yes, I suppose it is, really. But tell
me,’ he went on, overcoming his feelings of acute apprehension. ‘What was it really like? Being an angel, I mean.’
    There was a silence: a huge, heavy, abrasive silence you could have ground corn with. The firelight glinted red on Bjorn’s eyes, making Gustav shrink back into the chimney corner.
    â€˜You ever call me that again,’ Bjorn growled, ‘I’ll pull your lungs out through your nose and make you eat them, okay?’
    â€˜I’m very sorry,’ Gustav squeaked. ‘I’d got the impression . . .’
    â€˜Because,’ Bjorn went on, ‘we don’t like that name, right? It’s a poncey name. Makes you sound like a right fairy, being called that.’ He paused to glower savagely into the fire. ‘Makes you think of little lacy dolls with wings and Christmas trees shoved up their jacksies. Anybody tries that with me, they’ll get what’s coming to them, understood?’
    â€˜Understood.’
    â€˜Fine.’ Bjorn took a long pull of beer and burped assertively. ‘The lads and me, we used to call ourselves “the Boys from the Blue Stuff ”. Sounds better, you know, meaner. More macho. And we didn’t fart around playing harps, either.’
    â€˜Absolutely not,’ Gustav agreed, nodding furiously. ‘Right on,’ he added.
    â€˜Right on what?’
    â€˜Sorry.’
    Bjorn drank some more beer and scratched his ear thoughtfully. ‘I’m not saying we didn’t have a few laughs, mind. I mean, it wasn’t all answering prayers and polishing the sun. Bloody awful job, that was,’ he parenthesised, ‘took all the skin off your knuckles if you weren’t careful.
    Bloke I worked with, he got his fingers caught in the works when he was trying to clean them out and nobody
noticed. They launched the damn thing same as usual and he was left there, trapped, dangling by his fingers, yelling his head off, but nobody heard. You just imagine that,’ he went on, after a deep shudder that started just below his neck and finally earthed itself out through the soles of his feet. ‘Just imagine it, hanging by your fingers from that bloody great hot thing, miles above the ground, for a whole day. And when he tried to get compensation, what did they say? Should have observed the safety procedure, they said, all his own silly fault, served him right. He went a bit funny in the head after that so they put him on Earthquakes. Nobody notices if you’re a bit funny in the head on Earthquakes.’
    â€˜I see,’ said Gustav. ‘Well . . .’
    â€˜We were always having them,’ Bjorn ground on, staring straight in front of him into the fire. ‘Industrial accidents they called them, only some of them weren’t accidents if you ask me. You can’t tell me a grown man suddenly falling off a perfectly wide,