Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (31 page)

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F
rom the bedroom window, Nightingale saw Jenny walk towards her car, then stop and look back at the house. Their eyes met. He gave her a small wave but she shook her head sadly and turned away. Nightingale lit a cigarette as she got into the car and drove off.

He smoked slowly, then stubbed out the butt. He was in the master bedroom, the place where his father had killed himself. He stripped off his clothes and walked through to the bathroom. The large tub was already filled with water and he slid into it. He held his breath and submerged himself, sliding down the cold enamel and staring up through the tepid water. He stayed under until his lungs started to burn, then pushed himself up and exhaled. He scrubbed himself clean with a small plastic brush and a bar of soap. He washed and rinsed his hair twice, then climbed out of the bath and towelled himself dry. He put on clean underwear, socks, a pale blue polo shirt and cargo trousers. He took his cigarettes and lighter from his suit, stuffed them into one of the knee pockets in the cargos and put on a pair of brand new Nike trainers. He looked at the padded envelope, then took out the crucifix and hung it around his neck. Finally he combed his hair, checked himself in the mirror over the wash-basin and walked slowly downstairs.

He went to the drawing room and lit the five candles. Then he stepped inside the pentagram. He took several deep breaths to compose himself, then went over the chalk outline with the birch branch. He sprinkled more consecrated salt water around the perimeter of the circle, then set fire to the contents of a lead crucible. The herbs and bits of wood in it hissed and spluttered and filled the room with cloying smoke.

He picked up Jenny’s notebook and began to read the Latin words she’d shown him, stumbling over the strange language. A wind blew through the room, even though the windows and door were firmly closed. The candle flames flickered and the smoke pouring up from the crucible began to form a circle. Nightingale coughed and continued to read, running his finger beneath the words so that he wouldn’t lose his place. When he finished, he coughed again and said out loud,‘
Bagahi laca bacabe
.’ He closed the notepad.

The room was thick with smoke, as dense as a pea-souper fog, sickeningly sweet but acrid enough to make his eyes water.

What happened next, Nightingale was never able to explain to anyone, not even to himself. He wasn’t sure that he remembered it properly. The only way his mind could come close to interpreting what he’d seen was to picture it as space folding into itself, a series of flickering flashes. Then the air blurred and she was standing within the apex of the triangle. It was a girl, in her late teens or early twenties, white-faced, with heavy mascara, a black T-shirt with a white skull on it, a black leather skirt, black boots and a studded collar around her neck. She looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ she said, her voice a throaty whisper. ‘Are you in such a hurry to join me? You have only six hours left. Why are you wasting them?’

Now Nightingale saw that a second figure had folded out of the air. A dog, a black-and-white collie, that sat at the feet of his mistress. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘We’ve met before.’

‘Our paths have crossed from time to time,’ she said. Her eyes were black and featureless, the irises so dark that they merged seamlessly into the pupils. ‘I have an investment in you and I watch over my investments.’

‘Are you Proserpine? Princess of hell?’

‘So formal,’ she said. She laughed and the floor shook. The dog at her side growled menacingly. She reached down and stroked it behind the ears. ‘Do you want to see my ID, Nightingale?’ She laughed again, and this time the whole building vibrated. ‘You expected what? Horns? A forked tail? The stench of brimstone? I can give you that, if that’s what you want.’

‘But you’re a girl,’ said Nightingale.

‘I am what I am,’ she said. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at his neck. ‘Nice crucifix,’ she said.

‘It belonged to my mother.’

‘I know,’ said Proserpine. She smiled. ‘I’m not a vampire. Crucifixes are only good against the Undead.’

‘That’s not why I’m wearing it,’ said Nightingale. ‘Did you kill her? My mother?’

‘She killed herself.’

‘And my uncle? And Barry O’Brien? And George Harrison?’

‘I always thought he was the weakest member of the band,’ said Proserpine. ‘I mean, “My Sweet Lord”. What the hell was that about?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Nightingale. ‘Did you kill them?’

‘They killed themselves.’

‘What about Robbie?’

Proserpine shook her head solemnly. ‘A tragic accident.’

‘Uncle Tommy? Auntie Linda?’

‘You have been unlucky on the relatives front, haven’t you?’

‘You killed them all, didn’t you?’

‘Is this how you used to interrogate suspects when you were a cop?’ she said. ‘It’s not very subtle, is it?’

‘Did you kill them?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Ask them yourself,’ said Proserpine. She waved a languid hand and four figures appeared behind her, flickering at first, then becoming solid. Rebecca Keeley was on the right, wearing a long grey nightdress, blood dripping from her wrists, her eyes wide and staring. Next to her, Barry O’Brien was naked and soaking wet, his arms cut open to the bone. Blood and water dripped to the floor. Uncle Tommy stood next to O’Brien, his neck at a grotesque angle, his lips drawn back in a snarl. Just behind them Auntie Linda was crawling along the floor, her skull in pieces, blood and brain matter trailing behind her.

Proserpine’s hand moved again, forming a gnarled fist. Harrison appeared, the left side of his body mashed and bloody, one eyeball hanging from its socket. And next to him was Robbie, blood trickling from between his lips, a white bone sticking out from his left elbow, his right leg buckled and twisted. He was staring at Nightingale, his shattered jaw moving soundlessly.

All six figures moved slowly towards him.

Proserpine looked over her shoulder and frowned. ‘We’re missing someone,’ she said. ‘Who are we missing? Ah, of course . . .’ She waved again and Sophie Underwood appeared. Unlike the others, she didn’t bear the marks of her death but was exactly as Nightingale had seen her on the balcony of her apartment, her blonde hair tucked behind her ears, the Barbie doll clutched to her white sweatshirt. She looked at Nightingale, her lower lip trembling. ‘I don’t like it here,’ she said. ‘I want to go home.’ She took a step towards the protective circle. ‘Please help me, Jack.’

Nightingale forced himself to look away. He knew she wasn’t really there. Sophie was dead and buried and there was no way she could be standing in the bedroom at Gosling Manor. ‘I want to go home, Jack,’ said Sophie, and began to sob.

Nightingale glared at Proserpine. ‘Don’t do that,’ he said.

‘Don’t do what?’ asked Proserpine. She put a finger up to the side of her mouth and smiled girlishly. ‘Am I being bad? Do you want to punish me?’

‘Don’t use others to get to me,’ said Nightingale. ‘Fight your own battles.’

Proserpine’s eyes hardened and she waved her hand again. The figures vanished. She crouched and put a hand towards the chalk circle. ‘Consecrated salt water,’ she said, and nodded approvingly.

‘What are you? A devil? A demon? Are you here or am I imagining all this?’

‘I am what I am, Nightingale,’ she said, as she straightened.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’

‘With respect, you’re no Stephen Hawking, are you? Now,
there
was a book. How can you write about the creation of the universe without discussing heaven or hell? And how can you get away with telling people that one moment there’s nothing but the void and the next there’s an expanding universe heading out to infinity?’

‘I couldn’t finish it,’ said Nightingale. ‘If there is a hell, then where is it?’

‘Hell is everywhere – you just can’t see it.’

‘And heaven?’

‘The same.’

‘The same place?’ Nightingale shook his head. ‘Maybe you’re not even here. Maybe this is some sort of stupid delusion, brought on by the crap I burned in the crucible.’ He took out his pack of Marlboro. ‘Do you want a cigarette? I’m guessing cancer isn’t one of your worries.’ He took out a cigarette and slipped one between his lips. He held his lighter to the end and was just about to flick it, but hesitated. He looked at Proserpine with narrowed eyes. ‘Cigarette smoke’s an impurity, isn’t it? It’ll weaken the pentagram.’

Proserpine shrugged carelessly. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Try it and see.’

Nightingale slid the cigarette back into the packet.

Proserpine studied the pentagram, the candles and the still-smouldering crucible. ‘Where did you learn this?’ she said.

‘I read a diary written by Sebastian Mitchell.’

Proserpine’s black eyes snapped. ‘And how did you come across it?’

‘My father had it,’ said Nightingale.

‘It won’t do you any good,’ she said, putting her hands on her hips. ‘It didn’t do your father any good, it didn’t do Mitchell any good, and it won’t do you any good either. Your father sold your soul to me on the day you were born. The contract is inviolable, written in his blood. And you bear the mark.’

She stalked around the pentagram, occasionally moving closer to him but never touching the chalk mark. It was as if she was testing his defences. Nightingale kept turning so that he was always facing her. She looked like a punk teenager, but she was a devil from hell and not to be trusted. ‘Deals can be broken,’ said Nightingale, quietly.

Proserpine threw back her head and laughed. The noise was like a thousand wolves howling, a blood-curdling scream that chilled him. The sound went right through him and he shivered. The dog sat up and stared at him. The animal’s eyes were as black and featureless as the girl’s. ‘Not this one,’ said Proserpine. ‘Your soul is mine. There’s nothing you can do to change that.’

‘Why do you want it?’

‘It’s what I do. I take souls.’

‘Why?’

‘The why doesn’t matter. It’s what I do.’

‘But what good is my soul to you?’

‘It’s how we keep score,’ said Proserpine.

‘It’s a game?’

‘No, Nightingale, it’s not a game. It’s a struggle between the dark and the light, between good and evil.’

‘Between God and Lucifer?’

‘Whatever,’ she said.

‘If you’re a demon, or a devil, or whatever you call yourself, why do you look as if you’ve just walked out of Camden Lock market?’

‘It’s my style – it’s what I’m comfortable with.’

‘But you don’t really look like that, is that what you’re saying?’

‘I do and I don’t,’ said Proserpine. ‘I’m here and I’m not here. You’re never going to understand it, Nightingale. Energy, matter, light, it’s all connected. You’re human, you only see a small part of it. I see everything. If I try to explain it to you, it would be like you explaining nuclear physics to an earthworm.’

‘And why my soul?’

‘Because it was offered to me by your father.’

‘But that’s not fair. It’s my soul, what right did he have to trade it?’

Proserpine laughed, her voice louder and deeper than any sound Nightingale had ever heard. ‘Fair?’ she said. ‘You want fairness? Nothing in life is fair. Haven’t you learned that yet?’

‘So anyone can sell a soul, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Your soul was promised to me by your father before you were born. Before it was yours.’

‘And there’s nothing I can do to stop you taking it?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Mitchell seems to think you can be beaten.’

‘Mitchell is wrong.’

‘He says that so long as he stays within his pentagram, he walks into hell on his own terms.’

Proserpine smiled. ‘Yeah, well, the fat lady hasn’t sung on that one yet.’ She nodded at the packet of Marlboro. ‘Maybe I will have a cigarette.’

Nightingale threw the packet to her and she caught it one-handed. She tapped out a cigarette, tossed it high in the air and caught it between her lips. ‘Got a light, mister?’ she asked, in a sing-song little-girl voice. She winked and held out her right hand. It burst into flames and she lit the cigarette. She blew smoke at the ceiling, shook her hand and the flames vanished.

‘I saw a conjuror do that once,’ said Nightingale.

‘I shall miss your sense of humour,’ she said.

‘When I’m in hell?’

‘When your soul is in hell,’ she said. ‘You’ll be dead.’

‘I’ve a question for you,’ said Nightingale.

‘This isn’t phone-a-friend, Nightingale. You can’t summon devils simply to question them.’

‘Actually, I’m pretty sure I can,’ said Nightingale. ‘The spell means that you have to appear and that you have to stay between the circle and the triangle. And you have to stay until I release you.’

‘So that’s your plan, is it? You think you can keep me trapped here? Well, that may be right, Nightingale, but you’re trapped too. And I reckon I can go a lot longer than you without food or water. And it won’t make any difference anyway, because at midnight your soul is mine, pentagram or no pentagram.’

‘I didn’t do this to trap you,’ he said, ‘and what I have in mind won’t take long. I just want to ask you a question. Why is Sebastian Mitchell so scared of you?’

‘He said that? He said he was scared of me?’

‘He’s sitting in a magic circle waiting to die because he knows that if he sets foot outside it you’ll drag him down to hell, so I sort of inferred it. What did he do?’

‘He cheated me,’ said Proserpine.

‘How?’

‘It doesn’t matter how.’

‘Just humour me,’ said Nightingale. He looked at his watch. ‘In a few hours you’re supposed to be condemning me to eternal damnation. The least you can do is satisfy my curiosity.’

‘I don’t owe you anything, Nightingale.’

‘I know that,’ he said. ‘What did he do that’s got you so riled?’

Proserpine glared at him, then smiled. ‘Are you planning to write a book? I have to point out that you probably don’t have enough time.’

‘I just want to understand the situation I’m in,’ he said.

‘Mitchell promised me four souls,’ she said. ‘Young girls. Virgins. They were novices at a coven of his. He promised me their souls but then he went behind my back and gave them to someone else.’