Nightmare (45 page)

‘And who decides what happens to me?’

‘Negotiations are taking place,’ she said.

‘Between who?’

‘Between those who want you to burn in Hell for eternity, and those who think you deserve a second chance.’

‘And is that possible? A second chance?’

She smiled and nodded. ‘It has happened before, yes.’

‘And when will I know?’

Mrs Steadman shrugged. ‘You’ll know when I know,’ she said.

Reality, or what passed for reality in the Nowhen, flickered again.

Nightingale was alone.

Time passed.

Or didn’t.

He had no way of telling.

87

‘Are you happy now, Nightingale? Is that what you wanted? An eternity of nothingness?’

Nightingale didn’t recognise the voice, but then strictly speaking there was no voice to recognise. He didn’t actually hear the words; they were simply there.

‘Who is that?’ said Nightingale, except that he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t even a thought, truth be told. Just a feeling, a vibration in the nothingness that was the Nowhen.

There was a flash of light and then he was standing on a windswept cliff looking out over an ocean; the waves were flecked with white froth and dark storm clouds were gathering overhead.

‘Your soul was supposed to be mine, Nightingale. Mine to do with as I want.’

Nightingale turned round. It was Lucifuge Rofocale, wearing his crimson jacket with gold buttons and gleaming black jodhpurs. He was holding a black riding crop and he swished it from side to side as he glared up at Nightingale with blood-red eyes.

‘I know that,’ said Nightingale. ‘We had a deal. This has nothing to do with me.’

‘You never said you were going to kill yourself for the girl.’

‘That’s not what happened,’ said Nightingale. ‘I wanted to save her. And I did.’

Lucifuge Rofocale stamped his foot. ‘You sacrificed yourself for her and now look what’s happened.’ He raised the riding crop as if he was about to strike Nightingale across the face and sneered when he saw Nightingale flinch.

Nightingale raised his hands to protect his face. ‘It wasn’t planned,’ he said.

‘Planned or not you’ve screwed everything up.’

‘So take my soul and have done with it,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t care any more.’

‘Don’t you understand? It’s not my decision any longer. It’s out of my hands.’

‘This isn’t my fault,’ said Nightingale. ‘We had a deal. You kept your end of the bargain and I did what I had to do. I had no idea it was going to end up like this.’ He looked out across the sea. ‘Whatever “this” is. I still don’t understand what’s happening.’

Lucifuge Rofocale glared at Nightingale. ‘This was what you intended all along,’ he growled. ‘You tricked me.’

‘I didn’t,’ said Nightingale.

‘You knew that if you went back and died to save the girl then all bets would be off.’

‘I’m not as smart as that. I just did what I had to do.’ He patted his pockets, looking for his pack of Marlboro.

Lucifuge Rofocale cackled and waved his crop, and a lit cigarette appeared between the index and second fingers of Nightingale’s right hand.

Nightingale stared at the cigarette in disbelief, then raised it to his mouth and inhaled gratefully.

‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, Nightingale. I don’t know who’s going to get your soul. But I know one thing as surely as if it was carved in stone. I will make your life, or what passes for your life, a misery for all eternity.’

Nightingale blew smoke. ‘Sticks and stones,’ he said.

Lucifuge Rofocale roared and shimmered and there was a loud crack and a rancid stench, then something huge and scaly loomed over Nightingale. A massive claw whipped out, just missing his stomach but ripping through his sleeve. The monster’s jaws opened and Nightingale saw rows of sharp teeth and a forked tongue covered in purple scales, and then a wave of foul-smelling smoke washed over him.

‘Like I said, sticks and stones,’ said Nightingale. ‘This place doesn’t exist. I’m in the Nowhen. Neither here nor there. So there’s nothing you can do to hurt me.’ He stared up at the monster, his eyes watering from its sulphurous breath. ‘If I’m wrong, do whatever you want and do it now because I’m past caring.’

The monster roared and a cloud of yellow smoke engulfed Nightingale. The giant claw lashed out again, missing his face by inches, but Nightingale grinned because he knew he was right.

‘Screw you,’ he said, and turned his back on Lucifuge Rofocale. ‘I’ll see you in Hell. Or not.’

Everything went white again and Nightingale was alone.

Time passed.

Or didn’t.

88

‘Mr Nightingale?’

‘Yes?’

There was nothing to see. Just white. Or an absence of white. Then Mrs Steadman was standing in front of him, smiling benignly and dressed in black.

‘A decision has been reached.’

‘Yes?’

‘You are to go back.’

‘Back where?’

‘To where you were before.’

‘And then what happens?’

‘That’s up to you.’

‘And who has my soul?’

‘You do.’ She smiled. ‘Take better care of it this time.’

‘Mrs Steadman?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

‘There’s no need to thank me, Mr Nightingale. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Steadman.’

89

Nightingale was falling. The wind whipped at his hair and roared past his ears and he saw Sophie and he saw Hoyle, one foot on a large plant pot, just about to launch himself from the next-door terrace. Time seemed to have stopped. Hoyle’s eyes were wide and staring, his right hand stretched out in front of him, his fingers splayed. Directly below Nightingale, Sophie was kissing the top of her doll’s head, her legs sticking under the balcony railing.

He twisted in the air and reached out with his right hand.

Hoyle scrambled across the terrace, his arms outstretched.

Nightingale pushed Sophie back with his right hand just as Hoyle reached her and she fell backwards into his arms.

Nightingale hit the railing so hard that it knocked the breath from his lungs but he managed to hang on with both hands.

Hoyle put Sophie on the ground and rushed over to the railing. He reached down, grabbed Nightingale’s collar and hauled him up. Nightingale’s Hush Puppies scraped against the wall and then he fell over the railing and collapsed onto the terrace, gasping for breath.

Sophie was sitting with her back to the wall. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry,’ croaked Nightingale. ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.’

‘Bloody hell, Jack, don’t ever try a stunt like that again,’ said Hoyle.

‘It was a one-off,’ said Nightingale, rolling onto his back. He ruffled Sophie’s hair. ‘Are you all right, Sophie?’

Sophie nodded but didn’t say anything. She began to sob quietly.

‘It’s okay now,’ said Nightingale.

Hoyle picked her up and hugged her.

‘No,’ she sobbed into Hoyle’s chest. ‘It’s not okay.’

Nightingale got to his feet and brushed himself down. Hoyle looked at him over the top of Sophie’s head. ‘Social Services,’ mouthed Nightingale, and Hoyle nodded.

While Hoyle took care of Sophie, Nightingale took the stairs down to the ground floor. He lit a cigarette as soon as he was outside.

Colin Duggan was standing by a patrol car talking into his radio. He finished the call as Nightingale walked over. ‘Please tell me that wasn’t you playing Batman up there,’ he said.

Nightingale offered him his pack of Marlboro and Duggan took one. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ said Nightingale, lighting the cigarette for him.

‘The girl’s okay?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘No, she’s not. Robbie’s going to take her to Social Services.’

‘What about the father?’

‘You should pick him up now. The mother too.’

Duggan nodded. ‘That was Chalmers on the radio. He wants you in the office.’

‘Screw Chalmers.’

‘You’d better go, Jack.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

Duggan blew smoke. ‘What’s going on, Jack? Do you know this family?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I just know what’s been going on, that’s all.’

‘If that’s the case, why didn’t you do something before?’

‘This is the first chance I’ve had,’ said Nightingale. ‘Be lucky, Colin.’ He walked over to his car.

90

‘You’re finished, Nightingale. And not before time.’ Superintendent Chalmers held out his hand. ‘Warrant card,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I want your warrant card. Then you can report to Professional Standards.’

‘I didn’t do anything to Underwood,’ said Nightingale.

‘Who?’

‘Simon Underwood. The father. I haven’t been near him.’

‘What the hell are you talking about? Who is Simon Underwood?’

‘Sophie’s father. He’s been having sex with her. The mother knows what’s going on. She’s either scared of him or doesn’t want to lose him.’

‘The girl in Chelsea Harbour?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘She wanted to end it all because of what her father was doing to her.’

‘But she’s not at risk now.’

‘Not now, no. She’s with Social Services. But she was serious about wanting to die. She’s going to need a lot of therapy.’

‘Look, Nightingale, this isn’t about the girl. This is about you assaulting a member of the public.’

‘What?’

‘I’m told that on the way into the building you thumped a plumber in the face. Broke his nose and chipped a tooth, as it happens. His lawyer’s already been on to us and he’s looking for six figures. Which, considering the number of people who saw you attack him for no reason, he’ll probably get. And apparently there was a photographer from the
Daily Mail
there, so expect to see yourself on the front page tomorrow morning.’

‘He was a rubber-necker; he only wanted to see her die,’ said Nightingale.

‘You walked up to him and belted him without provocation.’

‘Yeah, well, you had to be there, and of course you never are, are you?’

‘Just watch your lip, Nightingale,’ said Chalmers, pointing a finger at him. ‘You hit a civilian, which means you’re out. You can resign or you can wait to be sacked, but either way you’ll be out by the end of the month.’ He tapped the desk. ‘Warrant card. Now. Then you can get yourself over to Professional Standards to make a statement. If you want to take your federation rep with you, fine, but it won’t do you any good.’

Nightingale took his warrant card out and threw it down, then he took out his cigarettes and lit one.

Chalmers glared at him. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t smoke in here!’

‘What are you going to do, Chalmers?’ asked Nightingale. ‘You’ve already sacked me, right? What else can you do? Arrest me for smoking?’ He blew smoke up at the ceiling. ‘You are full of shit.’

‘Yeah? Well, you’re a crap copper. But I’ll be keeping my job and my pension and you’ll be out on your arse.’

‘You’ve no idea what happened. You’ve no idea why I did what I did.’

‘Get out, Nightingale.’

Nightingale took a long pull on his cigarette and blew smoke as he stared at Chalmers through narrowed eyes. ‘Okay, I’m going,’ he said. ‘Screw you and screw the job. But you need to look at Underwood. He’s a banker, over at Canary Wharf. You need to get a doctor to examine Sophie, run a rape kit too. With the right sort of handling Sophie will talk and I’m pretty sure the mother will give evidence against him once he’s taken away from the family. Okay?’

Chalmers nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Now get the hell out of my office.’

91

SIX MONTHS LATER

Nightingale sipped his coffee and looked out of the window at the wealthy housewives walking by with their designer bags and coats that cost more than he earned in a month. He filled in another crossword answer but realised that left him with a word ending in ‘J’ so he figured that he’d made yet another mistake. He’d never been good at crosswords but he was even worse at Sudoku.

He saw Jenny walking down New Bond Street. She was carrying a leather attaché case and looking at her watch. Nightingale knew that she was expecting a call from an advertising agency that had interviewed her. She wasn’t going to get the job. The director of human resources would be calling to tell her just that.

Underneath the
Evening Standard
crossword were classified adverts including the one that he’d paid for: ‘Private Investigator seeks bright assistant with a good telephone manner and Microsoft Office skills for a job that will never be boring.’ Nightingale wasn’t sure whether in modern Britain he was allowed to advertise for someone bright, as that presumably discriminated against all the stupid people in the nation’s capital, but the wording had been accepted without comment by the woman who’d taken his advert over the phone.

Jenny walked into the Costa Coffee and ordered a latte. She was wearing a blue suit under a long raincoat with the collar turned up, and she had clipped up her hair at the back. He’d never seen her with her hair done that way before and it suited her. He smiled to himself. Strictly speaking, of course, he’d never laid eyes on her before. They’d never met or spoken. That was all in the future.

Nightingale took out his pen and circled the advert, then dropped the paper down on the table. He stood up just as Jenny was collecting her coffee. She smiled when she saw that there was an empty seat but Nightingale turned away so that she couldn’t see his face. As he walked by her he caught the scent of her perfume.

As he left the coffee shop she was sitting down and putting her attaché case on the table, next to the newspaper. He stopped, lit a cigarette and watched through the window as she sipped her coffee. ‘Catch you later, kid,’ he whispered, and walked away.

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