Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) (2 page)

‘So you think
the mother is deliberately harming the child?’

‘It’s a
possibility, yes.’

Nightingale
took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘You believe in God, right?’

‘Of course.
There’s be no pointing being a priest if I didn’t.’

‘And
Jesus?’

The priest
nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘So why can’t
you consider the possibility that this is a genuine stigmata, that
this is Jesus proving his existence?’

The priest
shrugged carelessly. ‘It might be,’ he said. ‘But the simple fact
is that stigmata events like this always turn out to be something
else. Jesus Christ does not make his presence felt in this way. Why
would he?’

‘I’ve no idea.
But then I’m not a priest.’

The priest
flicked ash into an ashtray. ‘It wouldn’t make any sense. God makes
his presence felt in countless ways, he doesn’t need cheap parlour
tricks.’

‘That’s what
you think this is, a trick?’

‘Any of the TV
magicians like Derren Brown or David Blain could put together a
very convincing stigmata show. It’s not difficult.’

‘But suppose it
was real? Suppose this really was Jesus showing the world that he
exists.’

‘Jesus doesn’t
work that way,’ said the priest. ‘Neither does God. We have no
right to ask them to prove their existence. We need to have faith.
We are the ones who need to prove that we are worthy of his love,
not vice versa.’

Nightingale
nodded thoughtfully. ‘So specifically what is it you want me to
do?’

‘Visit the
family. Meet the girl. Find out what’s going on there.’

‘And if I find
out that it’s a real miracle. What then?’

The priest’s
eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Suppose it’s
genuine. Suppose Jesus has given this girl a real stigmata. What
does that do to your Church? Aren’t people going to wonder why
Jesus is talking to the people and not to the Pope?’

‘God talks to
us all,’ said the priest. ‘The question is whether we are prepared
to listen.’

‘So you
wouldn’t want to suppress the fact that there had been a genuine
miracle?’

‘The church
welcomes true miracles. That is how we choose our saints. But
occurrences like these are without exception not miracles. I am
confident that will be what your investigation shows.’ He reached
into his cassock and brought out his wallet again. ‘Can I pay in
advance, with a credit card?’

‘The church has
a credit card?’

‘We use Visa,’
said the priest, holding out the card.

Nightingale
took it. ‘That’ll do nicely,’ he said.

* * *

‘So he’s never
had sex?’ asked Jenny, as the priest headed downstairs.

‘What?’

‘Catholic
priests are celibate.’

‘It didn’t come
up,’ said Nightingale. ‘No pun intended.’

‘So did you
confess?’ asked Jenny.

Nightingale
tossed her the newspaper that the priest had given him. ‘Stigmata
in Beckenham,’ he said.

Jenny quickly
scanned the story. ‘And they want you to do what?’

‘Check it out.
See if she’s genuine.’

‘Because you’re
a world authority on stigmata? I sort of thought the Catholic
Church would be the experts.’

‘The family
aren’t talking.’ He grinned. ‘Fancy a drive?’

‘You mean the
MGB’s playing up again?’

‘You know me so
well.’

* * *

‘So what do you
know about stigmata?’ Jenny asked Nightingale as they drove south
over the River Thames towards Beckenham.

‘Probably not
much more than you,’ he said. ‘Marks or wounds on the body in
places that correspond to the crucifixion wounds of Christ. The
nails in his hands and feet and the wound in the side.’

‘Did you know
that eight per cent of stigmatics are women?’

‘I didn’t know
that.’

‘Well they are.
Quite a few are nuns. But the most famous was a man – St Francis of
Assisi. These days they almost always turn out to be fakes.’

Nightingale
turned to look at her, surprised. ‘How come you know so much about
it?’

‘I Googled it
while you were in the loo,’ she said, braking to avoid a black cab
that had suddenly decided to do a U-turn in front of them. ‘They’re
usually in poor Catholic countries and it’s usually a way that the
families can make money. They start selling souvenirs or charging
for interviews.’

‘That’s not
what’s happening here,’ said Nightingale. ‘They won’t speak to the
priest, or to the Press.’

She grinned
over at him. ‘But they will talk to Jack Nightingale, private
eye?’

‘I was hoping
they’d be more open to his pretty young assistant.’

Jenny sighed.
‘So I’m not just the designated driver, I’m actually doing the
legwork, too.’

‘Just knock on
the door, play it by ear,’ said Nightingale.

‘And what to I
tell them exactly?’

‘Tell them
you’ve got a kid that’s dying from leukaemia. You heard that their
daughter can help.’

Jenny’s nose
wrinkled in disgust. ‘Are you serious? You want me to lie to
them?’

‘Jenny, honey,
they’re hardly likely to talk to you if you tell them your client
is the Vatican.’

‘I’m not
comfortable about inventing a fictional sick child,’ she said.

Nightingale
sighed. ‘Okay, tell them you work for a charity and that you have
kids who need help.’

‘So now I’m
inventing multiple fictional sick kids. Explain to me how that’s
better?’

‘It’s less
personal,’ said Nightingale. ‘Look, tell them anything you want,
just see if you can get in and have a chat with Tracey. I’d do it
myself but I know they’ll be more likely to talk to a pretty
face.’

‘Yeah,
flattery’ll do the trick every time,’ said Jenny. ‘I tell you,
Jack, this is part of our job that I really don’t like; lying to
people.’

‘If you can
think of a way of telling the truth and getting the info we want,
you go right ahead,’ said Nightingale.

* * *

They
pulled up outside the Spradbery house just after mid-day. It was a
semi-detached house on a council estate, the paint on the doors and
windows cracked and peeling. Moss was growing between the paving
stones that led up to the front door. There was a white van in the
driveway of the Spradbery house and a five-year-old blue Nissan
next door. There was a rusting metal swing set and a BMX bike
leaning against the garage door of the neighbouring
house.

Jenny climbed
out of the Audi. Three hoodie-wearing teenagers standing outside an
off-licence were smoking and staring at the car. ‘Make sure you
stay put,’ she said.

Nightingale
chuckled. ‘You’re such a snob.’

‘It’s nothing
to do with snobbery, I just don’t want to find my car on blocks
when I get back.’

‘They’re just
kids,’ said Nightingale.

‘Stay in the
car,’ said Jenny. Nightingale watched as she walked up to the front
door. He took out his cigarettes and lighter but then remembered
that she didn’t like him smoking in the Audi. He put them away as
the front door opened. A middle-aged woman in a flowered apron
spoke to Jenny for several minutes and then closed the front door.
Jenny came back to the car and bent down to talk to him through the
open window. ‘They’re not there.’

‘Who did you
speak to?’

‘
Mrs
Spradbery’s sister. Tracey’s aunt. She’s in there to feed their
dogs and give the place a clean.’

‘Did she say
where they’ve gone?’

Jenny
shook her head. ‘All she said was that the Spradberys have taken
Tracey with them to keep her away from the press. They were ringing
their doorbell every hour of the day and night.’

‘Did she
confirm the stigmata?’

‘She said it’s
true. But she said the family don’t want to talk to anybody.’

‘Any idea when
they’ll be back?’

Jenny shook her
head.

‘Tracey has to
go to school, right?’

‘I asked her
that. Apparently they pulled Tracey out of school when the bleeding
started. They’re home-schooling her. What do we do?’

‘We talk to the
neighbours.’

‘That’ll be the
royal “we” I suppose.’

‘
Nah,
I’ll come with you this time,’ he said. ‘Ben Spradbery’s family
don’t seem to mind talking about what’s happened.’

Jenny looked
around but the kids had gone from outside the off-licence.

‘Your car’ll be
fine,’ said Nightingale. He got out of the Audi and Jenny locked
the doors.

‘If my windows
get smashed then you pay, right?’

‘Cross my
heart,’ said Nightingale. ‘But you worry too much.’

They walked by
the Nissan and Nightingale rang the doorbell. There was no response
and he tried again. ‘Maybe they’re not in,’ said Jenny.

‘The car
suggests otherwise,’ said Nightingale. He headed around the side of
the house.

‘Jack, where do
you think you’re going?’ hissed Jenny.

‘Let’s check
the back door.’

‘I’m not up for
breaking and entering,’ she said. ‘That’s not in my employment
contract.’

‘No one said
anything about breaking,’ he said. ‘Let’s just take a look.’

The rear garden
wasn’t much bigger than the one at the front, but was considerably
more overgrown. There was a garden shed at the bottom of the garden
and a washing line from which fluttered a sheet and a quilt
cover.

‘Jack, we
shouldn’t be doing this,’ said Jenny behind him.

‘It’ll be
fine,’ said Nightingale. He reached for the handle of the kitchen
door. He flinched as it moved just before his fingers touched it.
The door opened and a woman holding a plastic basket of washing
screamed. Nightingale jumped back and fell against Jenny as the
woman dropped her basket of laundry. The woman staggered back into
the kitchen and screamed again.

Nightingale
recognised her from the newspaper article. It was Mrs Miller, Ben’s
mother. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ said Nightingale. ‘We’re just here
to talk to you.’

Mrs Miller
stood staring at Nightingale, her chest rising and falling as she
gasped for breath. ‘You scared the life out of me,’ she said. She
was in her forties, a heavy-set woman with permed hair. She was
wearing a shapeless dress with yachts and lighthouses on it.

‘Mutual,’ said
Nightingale. ‘Sorry. I did ring the bell.’

‘I was in the
laundry room,’ she said, still panting. Sweat was beading above her
upper lip, emphasising a slight moustache there. ‘Who are you?’

‘Jack
Nightingale,’ he said. ‘This is my friend Jenny. Can we talk to you
about Ben?’

‘You’re not
journalists are you? We don’t talk to journalists any more?’

Nightingale
shook his head. ‘I have a nephew who has leukaemia,’ he said.

‘Oh, I’m
sorry,’ she said. ‘What type?’

‘Type?’
repeated Nightingale.

‘
AML,’
said Jenny, quickly. ‘A
cute myelogenous leukemia.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Mrs Miller. ‘Let me hang
these up and I’ll make us some tea.’

She carried the laundry basket across the
lawn to the washing line.

Nightingale opened his mouth to speak but
Jenny silenced him with a wave of her hand. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I’m
not proud of myself for lying like that.’

‘We don’t have a choice,’ said Nightingale.
‘You heard her. Someone’s told her not to talk to journalists.’

Mrs Miller came back and ushered them into
her kitchen. The lino was threadbare and the gas cooker looked as
if it was fifty years old. She told them to sit down at the kitchen
table while she made tea. It was covered with a white plastic cloth
and there were half empty bottles of Heinz ketchup and HP brown
sauce standing in the centre.

‘How is Ben?’ asked Nightingale.

‘As right as rain,’ said Mrs Miller. ‘Dr
McKenzie says he’s never seen anything like it.’

‘Dr McKenzie?’

‘Our GP. He’s taken care of Ben since he was
a baby. Lovely man. He’s Tracey’s GP too. He says it’s a miracle,
what happened to Ben.’

‘It sounds like it,’ said Nightingale. ‘But
he was treating Ben, right? Giving him medication and stuff?’

‘He was, and he
was helping us deal with the hospital,’ she said. ‘But Ben was
getting worse. He’d lost all his hair, bless. Then…’ She shrugged.
‘It was a miracle. It really was. There’s no other word for
it.’

‘Can you tell
me what happened, Mrs Miller?’ said Nightingale. ‘I only know what
I read in the newspaper.’

Mrs Miller
turned away from the kettle and folded her arms. ‘It sounds crazy
when I tell the story,’ she said, ‘A lot of kids wouldn’t play with
Ben when he was sick. They thought they could catch it from him.
Ignorant parents didn’t help either. But Dave and Carla were
different, they were more than happy to let Ben play at their
house. He used to spend hours over there. Tracey would go through
her schoolwork with him, helping him make up for the lessons he’d
missed. She’s an angel.’

The kettle
switched off and she poured hot water into three mugs and popped in
teabags. ‘Then about two months ago, the thing happened.’ She
prodded the teabags with a teaspoon.

‘The thing?’
said Jenny.

‘The stigmata.
Ben came back and said that Tracey was bleeding. I thought maybe
she’d hurt herself when they were playing so I went around. She had
these wounds on her hands and her feet and another in her side.’
She patted her own side. ‘There was blood but not a lot. And Tracey
said they didn’t hurt.’ She fished the teabags out of the mugs,
dropped them into a bin and took a carton of milk out of the
fridge. ‘Dave and Carla were frantic, of course. They rushed Tracey
to A&E and they bandaged the wounds and gave her antibiotics
but other than that they didn’t seem to know what to do. The doctor
said she’d never seen anything like it. I think Carla was worried
that they might call in social services.’