Authors: Stephen Leather
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Thriller
Nightmare (28 page)
‘Okay,’ said Nightingale hesitantly.
‘You couldn’t have saved me. No one could. You tried your best, I know you did.’ Lord’s hands began to beat on the table and his eyelids were fluttering crazily.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Nightingale. ‘What’s happening?’
‘It’s like you’re fading, Jack,’ she said. ‘I can see you and then I can’t and it’s like you’re a long way away.’
‘What do you want from me, Sophie?’
‘I don’t want anything really. But I don’t want you to feel guilty because I died. You do feel guilty, don’t you? You think it was your fault?’
‘I wish I’d saved you, yes. I keep wondering what I should have done differently.’
‘You couldn’t do anything. But it was nice that you tried. You were the only person who wanted to help me, Jack.’
Lord went suddenly still and his head dropped so that his chin was against his chest again. He started to breathe heavily, as if he was in a deep sleep. Nightingale sat back in his chair and waited. The deep breathing continued for several minutes and Nightingale wondered if he should say something or try to wake the man up. Then Lord stiffened and slowly raised his head. His eyes opened and he stared at Nightingale.
‘I know what you did, Jack.’
Nightingale stared back at Lord. The man’s eyes were blank and lifeless.
‘I know what you did to my father, Jack. I know what you did. But you mustn’t feel bad about it because he was a bad man.’
Nightingale felt a chill run down his spine.
‘I’m glad that he’s dead, Jack. My mother too. She knew what he was doing and she didn’t stop him.’ Lord began to cry silently. Tears ran down his cheeks and plopped onto the table.
‘Sophie?’ said Nightingale.
Lord started to tremble and then his whole body went into spasm and he slumped forward. Nightingale stood up and hurried around the table. He grabbed Lord by the shoulders and pulled him back into a sitting position. Saliva was dribbling from one side of his mouth and as he sat up his head lolled back. Nightingale slapped him gently on the cheek.
‘Lordy, are you okay?’ asked Nightingale.
Lord groaned, then coughed. Nightingale stood back and looked down at him. The man coughed again, pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He sighed and gazed up at Nightingale, blinking his eyes as if trying to focus. ‘What happened?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘Did she come through?’
‘Don’t you remember?’
Lord rubbed his eyes again and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m not normally aware of what happens when I’m channelling,’ he said. ‘She was here?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘And did you hear what you wanted to hear?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Nightingale. He took out his pack of cigarettes. ‘It was . . .’ He shrugged without finishing the sentence. ‘I need a cigarette.’
Lord tried to get up but the strength seemed to have gone from his legs and he sat down heavily.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Nightingale.
‘It can be draining,’ said Lord. ‘The spirits seem to suck the energy from me while they’re talking through me. The longer they channel through me, the worse it is.’ He forced a smile. ‘I sometimes think that if I do it too long I won’t recover.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘Sorry.’
‘No problem,’ said Nightingale. He patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’m going to go.’
Lord looked up. ‘Did you hear everything you needed to hear?’
‘It was interesting.’
‘If you need to hear more we can try again another time. Generally I find that subsequent sessions are easier. You can call me.’
Nightingale tapped a cigarette out of the pack and slipped it between his lips. ‘I’ll do that,’ he said. He let himself out of the house and lit the cigarette as he walked towards his car. He reached the MGB and turned to look back at the house. ‘What a load of bollocks,’ he said, blowing smoke up at the clouds.
40
Nightingale was back in his Bayswater flat taking a bottle of Corona from the fridge when his mobile rang. It was Jenny.
‘How did it go?’ she asked.
‘Complete waste of two hundred quid,’ he said.
‘Did Sophie talk to you?’
‘Couldn’t shut her up,’ said Nightingale, flopping down onto his sofa and pressing ‘mute’ on his TV remote control. ‘Except it wasn’t Sophie.’ Off in the distance he heard the wail of a police siren.
‘So he was cold reading? Telling you what you wanted to hear?’
‘No, I was careful not to give him anything,’ said Nightingale. ‘But she told me not to feel guilty, that there was nothing I could have done to stop her falling, and that she was happy about what I did to her father.’
‘Jack, that’s amazing!’
‘Is it?’
‘Come on, that’s incredible. How did you get the messages? Was it like a Ouija board or a séance?’
‘He was channelling. She spoke through him.’
‘But he couldn’t have got all that from reading you, could he? Not if you weren’t telling him anything.’
‘It was a con, Jenny.’
‘How?’
‘There was nothing in what he said that he couldn’t have got from Google,’ said Nightingale. ‘The papers reported what happened to Sophie, and to her father. And I was named in several of the reports. He knew my name. Soon as I rang him up. He was showing off, but the point is that once he had my name everything flowed from that.’
‘But he didn’t know who you were. We met him by accident, remember? He couldn’t have known he’d meet you in Marylebone.’
‘He was behind us at one point, and you mentioned Sophie. He could easily have overheard us talking.’
‘Okay, I might have said the name, but it’s not an unusual one, Jack. How does he go from “Sophie” to knowing who you are and what happened?’
‘We signed in at the meeting hall,’ said Nightingale. ‘He could have got my name from that. Then it’s just basic research. Put my name and Sophie’s into any search engine and you’re going to come up with what happened at Chelsea Harbour two years ago.’
‘That’s awful. And he did all that for two hundred pounds?’
‘It’s a long con. He said he had to stop because he lost the contact and that I should try again in a few days. And I’m sure that once I was hooked the price would start to go up. True mediums don’t charge for their services, that’s what Mrs Steadman said.’
‘But you’re a former cop, doesn’t he realise that he’s taking a risk?’
‘I think the emphasis is on “former”. Plus, I probably looked vulnerable. Why else would I have gone to Marylebone in the first place? Everyone in there was looking for something; all he has to do is to find out what it is and then to give it to them. And at the end of the day, how do we prove that he’s conning us? He says there are no guarantees and he’s right about that. How would anyone prove that he wasn’t actually channelling a spirit?’
‘You sound very relaxed for a man who’s just been ripped off to the tune of two hundred pounds.’
‘What was I supposed to do? Take my cash back? I doubt that he would have given it to me and I don’t want to add theft and assault to Chalmers’s hit list. Plus, I have to say, he put on one hell of a performance.’
‘Are you okay, Jack?’
Nightingale lifted the bottle of Corona. ‘Hunky dory,’ he said.
‘Not a phrase one hears a lot these days,’ she said. ‘Are you drinking?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘Corona?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘At least you’re not on the brandy. How many bottles?’
‘What are you, my mother?’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Oh no, she’s dead. In fact they’re both dead, aren’t they? My biological mother and my real mother. Shuffled off this mortal coil.’ He placed the bottom of the bottle against his forehead.
‘How many bottles, Jack?’
Nightingale groaned, took the bottle off his head, rolled sideways and peered down the side of the sofa. There were several empty bottles there and he counted them one by one. ‘Five,’ he said. ‘I’m on my sixth. A baker’s dozen.’
‘Thirteen is a baker’s dozen. Six is half a dozen. Please tell me it’s six.’
‘It’s six. I can handle it.’
‘Do you need company?’
Nightingale sat up. ‘I’m okay.’
‘I can come round.’
‘I’m not drunk, Jenny.’
‘No, but you’re not happy.’
‘Which one of the seven dwarves do you think I am, then?’
‘I’d have to go for Grumpy. Or Moron.’
‘There wasn’t a dwarf called Moron.’
‘That’s what I thought. I’ll settle for Grumpy, then. You’d be better off with coffee.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on. Soon as I’ve finished my beer.’ He sighed. ‘I’m okay, Jenny. Really.’
‘Call me if you need me, all right?’
‘Like the Samaritans?’
Jenny didn’t say anything for several seconds, and when she did speak he could hear the concern in her voice. ‘Why would you say that, Jack?’
‘It was a joke.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m not suicidal.’ He laughed but it came out half bark, half cough. ‘I’m just having a few beers and then I’m going to bed, and I’ll be in the office bright and early tomorrow.’
‘Sometimes you worry me.’
‘I’m sorry. But I really was joking.’ Jenny didn’t say anything. ‘Jenny, I’m okay.’
‘It wasn’t your fault; you know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. Jenny, it’s not about guilt. I’m sure of that.’
‘I know you, Jack. You’re not one of life’s sharers. You bottle things up. And as I’ve said before, that’s not healthy.’
‘Okay, tomorrow I’ll take you for a lunch and we’ll have a heart to heart. I’ll share.’
‘There you go again, making a joke of it. That’s your defence mechanism as soon as anyone tries to get close to you.’
‘I just don’t want you worrying about me,’ said Nightingale. ‘I can take care of myself. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’
‘I wish I believed that,’ said Jenny, and she ended the call.
Nightingale stared at the phone thoughtfully for a few seconds, then set it to silent and tossed it on the sofa. He picked up the remote, turned on the sound and began flicking through the channels looking for football.
41
Nightingale lit a cigarette and blew smoke towards the Thames. The wind whipped it away.
‘Cigarettes are bad for you,’ said Sophie.
‘I know,’ said Nightingale. He looked over at her and smiled. ‘That’s why they don’t let children smoke.’
Sophie held her Barbie doll close to her face and whispered to it. Then she held the doll near her ear and nodded seriously. She clasped the doll to her chest and swung her legs back and forth as they dangled over the edge of the balcony. ‘Jessica says you can get cancer,’ she said.
Nightingale tilted his head back and tried to blow two smoke rings but the wind was too strong. ‘Jessica’s right,’ he said. A police boat was heading up river, fighting against the current.
‘You know you’re going to Hell?’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘Doesn’t that scare you?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Scared or not scared, if it happens, it happens.’
‘You don’t care?’
‘Shit happens,’ Nightingale said, grinning.
‘You shouldn’t say “shit”, Jack. It’s a bad word.’
‘What do you want, Sophie?’
Sophie whispered to her doll. Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette.
‘You’re here to help me, aren’t you?’ Sophie asked.
‘That’s the plan.’
‘But you can’t, can you?’
Nightingale rubbed the back of his neck and his hand came away wet with sweat. ‘I don’t know, Sophie. I don’t know what to do; I don’t know what to say. Can you tell me?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘I don’t know either.’
Nightingale felt something cold run down the small of his back and he shivered.
‘Jack?’
He looked over at her. ‘What?’
‘Could I just go with you now? Could you take me inside? Will that fix it?’
Nightingale smiled. ‘I don’t think it will. No.’
‘Because I’m dead?’
Nightingale nodded.
‘I don’t want to be dead, Jack.’
‘So what do you want, Sophie? Tell me what you want.’
A single tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I want to be alive, Jack. I want to take back what I did. I thought I wanted to be dead but now I don’t. And only you can help me. Only you.’
‘Sophie, I don’t know how,’ said Nightingale.
‘You said you could help me, remember? You said we could go inside and talk about it. You said that you could help me and you said “cross your heart”, do you remember?’
Nightingale smiled sadly. ‘I remember, Sophie.’
‘So help me now. Cross your heart and help me.’
‘It’s too late. There’s nothing I can do.’ He put the cigarette to his lips.
‘No one can help me, then,’ said Sophie. She lifted her doll, kissed it gently on the top of its head, and then slid off the balcony without making a sound.
Sophie’s skirt billowed up around her waist as she fell. He leaned forward and reached out with his right hand even though he knew there was nothing he could do. ‘Sophie!’ he screamed. Her golden hair was whipping around in the wind as she dropped straight down, her arms still hugging the doll.
He closed his eyes at the last second so that he didn’t have to see her hit the ground but he couldn’t blot out the sound, the dull thump her body made as it slammed into the tarmac at terminal velocity. The cigarette fell from his nerveless fingers and he ran into the apartment.
There was an old couple sitting on the sofa, holding hands. Mr and Mrs Jackson. They stared up at him with blank faces. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ they said in identical flat, emotionless voices.
Nightingale hurried by them. There was a young uniformed constable standing at the doorway, his right hand touching the mic on his shoulder. The constable’s radio crackled but as Nightingale drew level with him his eyes misted over. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ he said. Nightingale pushed him out of the way and rushed along the corridor to the emergency stairs. He hurtled down the stairway. The cop shouted something after him but Nightingale was already out of earshot, taking the stairs two at a time.
He burst into the reception area, where a dozen paramedics and uniformed officers were all talking into their radios. Nightingale pushed through them. One of the men, a heavyset bruiser in a fluorescent jacket, grabbed Nightingale by the arm. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ he said, his voice a deep growl as he stared at Nightingale with unseeing eyes. Nightingale shook him away and ran out of the building, turning left towards the river.