Nightmare (17 page)

‘Jack!’

Nightingale jumped as Wainwright’s hand fell on his shoulder. Wainwright pulled him away from the mirror.

‘What’s your problem?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Don’t go touching the surface.’

‘It’s only a mirror.’

Wainwright snorted. ‘It’s more than that, Jack. And you don’t go touching the glass.’

‘Because?’

‘Because a dark mirror is a delicate balance of the past, the present and the future. The glass is the interface, and if you touch it you can ruin it.’ He picked up the cloth and carefully draped it over the mirror.

‘How would I go about using it?’

‘To do what, specifically?’

‘What you said. Talk to the dead.’

Wainwright’s eyes narrowed. ‘This isn’t a toy, Jack.’

‘I know it’s not a toy. I was just thinking that maybe I could use it to contact that girl. The girl I was talking about.’

‘Scrying is one thing; contacting the dead is a whole different ball game.’

‘I’m a big boy, Joshua. I can take care of myself.’

‘Don’t get cocky. Just because you’ve called up a couple of demons doesn’t mean you’re an expert in the black arts. A black mirror like this is more than just a scrying tool. Under the right circumstances it can be a portal.’

‘A portal?’

‘Jack, this is way above your pay grade.’ He gestured at the mirror. ‘You don’t want to be messing with it unless you know what you’re doing.’

‘I’m just curious,’ said Nightingale. ‘You made it sound like something I could use.’

‘Not if you don’t know what you’re doing. It’s like the Ouija board. In the right hands it’s a useful tool, but treat it like a toy and you’re asking for trouble.’

‘Been there, done that,’ said Nightingale.

‘Yeah, well, the Ouija board is one thing; a dark mirror like this is way more dangerous. Spirits might be able to manifest themselves through a Ouija board and cause mischief, but if they can get to a dark mirror and the person using it doesn’t know what he’s doing, they can use it to gain access to this world.’

‘Pass through it, you mean?’

‘It has been known. A mirror like this isn’t for amateurs, Jack.’

‘So tell me about scrying.’

Wainwright shook his head. ‘Don’t even think about using it to scry,’ he said. He went back to the sofas and sat down. He stubbed out what was left of his cigar in the ashtray there.

Nightingale sat down on the other sofa. ‘When my friend picked up the crystal ball, he saw himself being hit by a car.’

‘That’s plain weird,’ said Wainwright. ‘Like I said, that’s not how crystal balls work. They don’t push out information like that. They’re a means to an end, that’s all. A way of focusing your concentration.’ He grinned. ‘You want a master class in the crystal ball, do you?’ He waved at the display cabinets. ‘Go and get one and I’ll show you how it works.’

Nightingale got up and went over to the cabinet containing the balls. He opened the door and took out a medium-sized one, about the size of a large apple. It was sitting on a silver filigree stand and he took the ball and the stand over to the seating area. He sat down and put the ball on its stand, then looked expectantly at Wainwright.

‘Good choice,’ said Wainwright. He looked around the basement. ‘Is there any way of dimming the lights?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘There’s just the one switch. On or off.’

‘Okay, well, in an ideal world you’d dim the lights. Or light candles. Now the trick is to be totally relaxed. And you need to keep both feet on the ground. Then it’s a matter of getting into the zone. Breathe slowly and evenly while you look into the crystal.’

Nightingale took a deep breath as he stared at the glass ball.

‘Once you’re totally relaxed, you let your eyes look under the surface of the crystal, so that you’re not looking at the outside, but focusing somewhere inside. Like when you’re looking at those 3D pictures, the ones that suddenly jump out at you.’

Nightingale tried to do as Wainwright said, but he couldn’t focus on anything other than the surface of the ball.

‘If you’re doing it right, the crystal will start to look cloudy, or it will move in and out of focus. You’ll find your natural reaction is to tense up as soon as you see anything, but the trick is to stay relaxed.’

Nightingale stared at the crystal but nothing happened.

‘Relax,’ said Wainwright. ‘You’re breathing like a train.’

‘It’s not easy, is it?’ said Nightingale.

‘Concentrate on your breathing. Slow it down. Look deep into the crystal and then try to pull your focus back, just a bit.’

Nightingale cupped the ball with his fingers and tried to breathe slowly, but all he could see was the crystal. Eventually he sighed and sat back. ‘It’s not working.’

‘It takes practice,’ said Wainwright.

‘And you can talk to spirits?’

‘You can see them, or that’s what I’m told,’ said Wainwright. ‘It’s not my forte.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’ll call you when I know the dates my people are available. But we have a deal, right?’

‘Do you want me to sign in blood?’

The American laughed and patted Nightingale on the shoulder. ‘I trust you, Jack,’ he said.

Nightingale stood up. ‘I’ll see you out.’

‘I’ll be okay,’ said Wainwright, heading for the stairs. ‘You get in some practice with the crystal.’

The American went up the stairs, waved goodbye and left through the panel. Nightingale went over to the table and picked up the yellow pad. He ran his finger down the list until he got to the book written by Daniel Dunglas Home. There was no title but it was close to the top of the list so Nightingale figured that the book would be on the shelves closest to the stairs, which was where Jenny had started the inventory. He went over to the bookcase and found it on the third shelf from the top, a green leather-bound book with the author’s name in faded gilt on the spine. He pulled it out. It was a slim volume, just over a hundred pages, and it was well-thumbed; the cover was scuffed as if it had passed through many hands over the years.

There was an index at the back and he ran his finger down it, smiling when he found what he was looking for. ‘Dark Mirrors: Their Use And The Dangers Thereof.’

25

Nightingale used his lighter to light the five candles that he’d placed around the mirror. They were all black and as thick as his arm, with greasy wicks. One by one the candles spluttered into life. The wicks burned with a smoky flame and Nightingale wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell that filled the air. He flashed back to the Met’s firing range where he’d spent hours honing his skills on the Heckler & Koch carbine and the Glock semi-automatic pistol.

One of the candles flared up, there was a crackling sound and a shower of sparks rained down over the tiled floor. Nightingale slid the lighter into the pocket of his trousers, then took an urn of herbs and sprinkled the contents in a circle around the mirror and candles. The book had been specific about the types of herbs and the quantities that had to be used, but one of the cabinets contained dozens of pots of herbs and he had found everything that he’d needed. The candles came from a storage chest at the far end of the basement. Inside it were candles of every shape and colour but the book had been adamant that the candles surrounding the dark mirror had to be large and black.

Once the urn was empty he placed it on the coffee table and then went up the stairs and switched off the lights. He stood for several seconds, staring down at the mirror surrounded by the five candles. The rest of the basement was in total darkness and he couldn’t even see the stairs leading down. He shivered. He knew that switching the lights off couldn’t possibly have lowered the temperature in the basement, but he had definitely felt a chill as soon as he’d flicked the switch.

He felt his way slowly down the stairs, holding onto the brass banister with both hands. By the time he reached the bottom step his eyes were more accustomed to the gloom and he walked over to the mirror and stood in front of it. There was no reflection, only blackness. He swallowed and realised that his mouth was completely dry. He grimaced. It was too late now to go upstairs and get himself something to drink. He bent down and picked up the book. He’d left it open at the page he needed. It had the words of a spell that the writer claimed would summon a spirit, though it was written in what appeared to be Latin and he had no idea how to pronounce most of the words. He moved closer to the candle on his left and turned the pages towards the flame.

‘Ego astrum in speculum,’ he began, but his voice croaked and he stopped and cleared his throat. He took a deep breath and started again, saying each word slowly and clearly even though he had no idea what he was saying. ‘Ego astrum in speculum,’ he said. ‘Vos ero tutus. Nusquam hic vadum vulnero vos. Deus vadum servo vos. Ego astrum procul speculum quod volo video vidi visum vos.’ Something moved in the blackness of the mirror, a dark shape that rippled through the smoke. The candles flickered as if there was a breeze blowing down from the panel at the top of the stairs and he shivered. He looked up, half expecting to see the panel open and someone standing at the entrance to the basement, but it was shut and there was nobody there. He took another deep breath and continued to read. ‘Deus servo vos. Hic illic est tantum pacis quod diligo. Adeo mihi quod sermo. Adeo mihi iam. Deus est vigilo nos. Nusquam nocens can venio. Adeo mihi iam. Adveho.’ He finished reading and closed the book as he stared at the mirror.

There was still no reflection, just slowly swirling smoke. Then something moved. A shape.

Nightingale wasn’t sure what to do. He squinted at the mirror. The smoke seemed thicker now, and it was becoming greyer, like a fog rolling in from the sea. The shape was moving forward, through the smoke. Nightingale gripped the book with both hands, so tightly that his fingers began to ache.

‘Sophie?’ he said. ‘Sophie, is that you?’

The smoke was darkening, black around the edges, grey in the middle. The shape stopped. It was a figure, but Nightingale had no sense of its size.

‘Sophie, it’s Jack,’ said Nightingale.

The figure began to move again, towards the glass. Nightingale could make out long blonde hair and pale skin, and he could see something hanging from the figure’s hand. Even though he couldn’t see it clearly, Nightingale knew what it was. A doll. A Barbie doll.

‘Sophie, can you hear me?’

The figure took another small step towards the glass. Nightingale could make out her shoes. Silver trainers with blue stars on them.

‘Sophie, it’s Jack.’

‘Please help me, Jack.’

The voice took Nightingale by surprise and the book tumbled to the floor. He stared at the mirror. Sophie was about three feet away on the other side of the glass, smoke swirling around her. He couldn’t make out what she was standing on or what was behind her. There was just her, and the smoke. She was wearing the same white sweatshirt and blue cotton skirt that she’d had on when he’d seen her on the balcony. Before she fell to her death.

‘I’m cold, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’m so cold.’ She had her head down so that he couldn’t see her face. She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

‘Where are you?’ asked Nightingale.

She sniffed again. ‘I don’t know.’

Nightingale took a step closer to the mirror. Except it wasn’t a mirror any more. There was no reflection. It was a window, a window into Sophie’s world, wherever that was.

‘Jack, please help me.’ Her voice was hoarse. Muffled.

‘I want to, honey, but I don’t know what to do.’

Tears were running down Sophie’s cheeks.

‘What is it you want me to do, Sophie?’

‘Help me.’ She clutched the Barbie doll to her chest and buried her face in its long blonde hair.

‘You have to tell me what to do, honey.’

‘Can you hug me?’

‘Hug you?’

Her body was trembling. ‘It’s cold here. Can you hold me?’

Sophie shuffled closer. Her head was still down so that Nightingale couldn’t see her eyes but tears were glistening on her pale skin. Nightingale reached out with his right hand and touched the glass. Even though his fingers were pressed against the mirror there was still no reflection. ‘Sophie, I don’t know how.’

She slowly raised her head and stared at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘You can hug me if you really want to,’ she said.

Her eyes were jet black. He’d never noticed that before. He frowned as he tried to remember that day when he’d seen her on the balcony at Chelsea Harbour. Had he seen her eyes? Were they black? He couldn’t recall.

‘Please, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’m so cold.’ She shivered, then hugged the doll to her chest.

Nightingale put his left hand against the glass, next to his right. He splayed out his fingers. ‘I can’t, Sophie.’

‘You can, Jack, if you want to. But you really have to want to.’

She dropped the Barbie doll. Nightingale felt suddenly dizzy as he flashed back to the moment when Sophie had slid off the balcony. Her hair had whipped around in the wind as she’d fallen to her death, still clutching her doll. And Nightingale’s stomach lurched as he remembered the sound she’d made as she hit the ground: a dull wet thud followed by complete silence. Nightingale’s frown deepened. Sophie had fallen thirteen storeys to her death, smashing every bone in her body. But the little girl in the mirror looked fine. There were dark patches under her eyes and her hair was streaked with dirt but she didn’t appear to be injured.

Nightingale opened his mouth but before he could say anything Sophie took a step towards him and put her hands up against her side of the mirror. ‘Please, Jack, you have to help me.’

Nightingale gasped as he felt the palms of her hands press against his. Her skin was warmer than the glass, but only just. Her hands moved slowly, her fingers pushing his fingers apart until they were fully interlinked.

‘Please, Jack,’ she said. Her voice sounded more assertive, Nightingale realised. Harder. And deeper. She pulled his hands towards her.

Nightingale stared into Sophie’s eyes. They were completely black. He couldn’t see where the irises end and the pupils began. They seemed bigger than when he’d first seen her. And narrower. Almost reptilian.