She nodded cautiously. ‘On one condition.’
‘What?’
‘We can’t do this one name at a time. Give me the rest of the list, I can be tracking down as many names as I can.’
It was a reasonable request, Nightingale decided, and it might help. ‘Okay. Give me a pen.’
Nightingale wrote down the original eleven names on Wainwright’s list in her notebook, from memory. She took it back and glanced through it, her lips counting them off.
‘Eleven.’ She frowned. ‘But didn’t you say there were thirteen?’
‘I know who the last two are, and where to find them.’
‘And I’m guessing you don’t want me to go looking for them?’
‘You guess right.’
They finished their breakfast, Nightingale paid the bill, and went back to his car as the reporter returned to her office.
Nightingale had a bad feeling about his conversation with Jarvis but it wasn’t until much later that he remembered what was wrong.
CHAPTER 18
Nightingale was back in his hotel room by midday, a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door, and was ready to consult his favourite ‘expert’ in Occult matters. Her name was Alice Steadman, she was a tiny old lady who might have been anywhere between sixty and eighty, white haired and with a trick of holding her head to one side which always reminded Nightingale of a thoughtful bird. As far as most of the world was concerned, she was a harmless good-natured soul whose day-job was running the ‘Wiccan Woman’ store in one of the less fashionable areas of London. Nightingale knew her to be far more than just an old shopkeeper, and had referred to her on more than one occasion as an angel. Whether that was literally true, he had no idea, but he just knew that she had been of immeasurable help to him in his past dealings with Dark Magic. But only if it had suited her purpose to do so, since there had been other times when she had been unwilling, or unable, to offer him any help at all. According to what she had told him, her role was to maintain ‘The Balance’ whatever that might be at any given time. It was yet another concept that Nightingale had never quite grasped.
Still, since Wainwright seemed to have no ideas at the moment, Mrs. Steadman would be Nightingale’s first, and best, and possibly only, hope. For a variety of reasons, he rarely stored important numbers in his mobile phone, but he had quite a few of them written in his own special code on a card in his wallet, so he punched in the number of ‘Wiccan Woman’ and waited for it to ring.
Three minutes later, the number was still ringing and still unanswered. Nightingale checked the time and added six hours. It would be just after 6pm in London, and the shop would only just have shut. He’d always assumed that Mrs. Steadman lived on the premises, but maybe she’d had an appointment. The store was the only number he had for her. If she owned a mobile phone, she’d never spoken about it, or offered him the number.
He checked the store’s website on his phone, and clicked on the ‘contact’ section. Under the address and phone number appeared an e-mail address. He sent a fairly generic message asking Mrs. Steadman to contact him as soon as possible. He didn’t dare add any further information, since he had no idea whether it might be opened by her latest shop assistant.
The trouble was, he had no idea when, or even if, she might receive it, and he had no time to waste. Every minute lost was another minute closer to the death of another child, it seemed.
There was another way of contacting her. But he needed to make a few purchases first.
CHAPTER 19
Dudák stood before the creature and projected the full force of the will into its weak mind. The creature’s own will was now a blank slate on which Dudák could write the necessary instructions. But they had to be precise, to cover any eventuality, so that the creature would have no room for error. Dudák spoke in the creature’s own language for nearly thirty minutes, but it was the silent force of will which would compel obedience, and which ensured the words were engraved firmly on the opened mind.
At the end of that time, Dudák woke the creature from its state of trance and smiled at it. As ever, the pitiful besotted thing looked back with a mixture of worship and lust on its foolish face.
‘Wow,’ it said. ‘Feels like I dropped off for a while there. Been a long day I guess. And still so much to do. Guess I should be going pretty soon. But maybe we might just have time for a little fun before I go? All work and no play, you know?’
Dudák had no need to glance at the clock on the wall to know that the creature was correct. There would be time.
Dudák smiled, said a few words in the creature’s language, then walked to the bedroom door, holding it open for the creature to enter first. Was there perhaps some small, unsuspected grain of kindness in Dudák that was showing itself after all these centuries? Or was it just another opportunity to learn more about these creatures and their strange reactions? Or perhaps Dudák’s own needs and hungers aroused some understanding of the different needs and hungers in others?
In any event, thirty minutes were available, and it would be the final time for this one.
CHAPTER 20
Nightingale lay on the bed in his hotel room and tried to relax his body totally, while keeping his mind focused on his destination. It was just after 9pm, so it was the early hours in London and Mrs. Steadman would almost certainly be asleep. So far as he knew, she would have to be sleeping for the connection to be made.
The various herbs that Nightingale had bought from the Spiritual Emporium in Whitten Road were still burning in the small copper dish, and the specially-blended dark-blue candle he’d paid forty dollars for was burning nicely.
The gentle smells combined to help him drift away to sleep, as he concentrated on relaxing his body from toes up to the top of his head, all the time focusing on the image of Alice Steadman in his mind, his lips silently repeating her name.
It still seemed that he was fully awake, but gradually he began to feel himself lift from the bed, towards the ceiling of the room. He turned to look back downwards for a moment, and saw his own naked body still lying on top of the counterpane, the chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. Then he was up and through the ceiling, looking down now at the million lights of Memphis, as he passed upwards towards the uncountable light of the stars, heading for the Astral Plane.
Then the lights were gone, and a light mist surrounded him, and he felt that he had stopped rising. He could feel grass under his bare feet, and a warmth on his back as the mist cleared. He saw that he was walking across a park, towards a figure, dressed in black and sitting on a bench. He looked down, and saw that he was wearing a dark suit, and his trademark Hush Puppies.
He could see her silver hair now, and make out the loose black dress, the ribbed black tights and the black patent shoes with the gold buckles. She put her head on one side, in the familiar way, and patted the bench next to herself. ‘Sit down, Jack,’ she said in her soft, soothing voice. ‘I heard your call, why have you summoned me?’
Nightingale sat at the far end of the bench from her. ‘Long time, no see, Mrs. Steadman. You’re looking well.’
She smiled. ‘Everyone looks well up here, Jack. We can’t bring our ailments up with us. Where are you now?’
‘Tennessee,’ said Nightingale. ‘In trouble again, and in need of your help again.’
She smiled. ‘And you know I’ll always help you. Now, just relax and tell me everything you know.’
Nightingale looked into her eyes and frowned. There were no pupils. No irises, just dark pools of impenetrable blackness. A feeling of dread washed over him. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
She seemed to sense his hesitation and smiled, except it was more of a snarl than a smile and the parting of her thin lips revealed yellow, sharpened teeth. Whoever had joined him on the Astral Plane, it wasn’t Mrs. Steadman.
He started to get up but as he moved his arm was clutched in a grip like steel. He looked down to see a wrinkled claw of a hand fasten
ed on to it, the fingernails long and yellow, like the talons of a raptor. He cried out in pain, trying vainly to break the grip with his left hand. The old woman gave a hideous laugh, and Nightingale stared at her in horror. Mrs. Steadman’s friendly features had disappeared, and in their place were those of an even older woman, her skin paper thin and horribly lined, dark patches under her eyes, and the light of madness shining from them. She wore the same tweed overcoat and purple headscarf that he remembered from the last time he’d seen her. The pursed, bloodless lips parted, and the voice that spoke was little more than a whisper.
‘Edward, Edward,’ rasped the woman. ’Stay with me. Stay with me.’
Despite himself, tears sprung to Nightingale’s eyes at the sight of Rebecca Keeley, the birth-mother he’d never known, and who had thought him dead until the final day of her life. ‘Rebecca...Mum...stop it, let go,’ he stuttered. ‘I can’t stay here.’
‘You must Edward,’ she said, using the name she’d wanted to give to the child she’d been told was stillborn. ‘I lost you for so long, now stay with me. Stay for ever.’ Her grip tightened on his arm.
Nightingale closed his eyes, trying desperately to focus on some kind of reality. Whatever this thing was, it couldn’t be Mrs. Steadman, or Rebecca Keeley, but its purpose was clear. To keep him here, until... Until what? Nightingale had no idea how long a person could remain on the Astral Plane with his body empty of its essence and consciousness. He assumed it wasn’t possible indefinitely, he needed to get back. He opened his eyes wide and stared into the old, wrinkled face. ‘You are not my mother,’ he said, stressing every word. ‘Let me go.’
He tore frantically at the clawed hand holding his arm and stood up. The figure of Rebecca Keeley shimmered and lost focus as he managed to pull his arm away. He ran back in what seemed to be the direction he’d come from. Behind him he could hear the old woman start to scream, as if she was being burned at the stake, the same anguished screaming he remembered from the first time he’d met her, a wrecked and ruined figure in a Basingstoke care home.
Nightingale kept running, though he had no idea where he was heading. He just knew he needed to get away.
‘Where you off to in such a hurry, Bird-man?’
Nightingale stopped running and looked up at the huge shaven-headed black man who stood in his path. He was dressed in a blue Nike track-suit, with a grey padded jacket on top. He was also holding a Glock pistol, pointed unwaveringly at Nightingale’s chest.
‘T-Bone,’ said Nightingale.
‘In person, Bird-man. Or as much in person as anyone could be who had his guts ripped out on your account.’ He grinned showing a gold tooth.
‘You know that wasn’t me. It was the Nine Angles, payback for their guy that you shot.’
T-Bone shook his massive head. ‘That’s not the way I see it, Bird-man. And let’s face it, it’s not the way you see it either, or I wouldn’t be here. It’s pay-back time.’ His huge finger tightened on the trigger.
‘Wait, T-Bone,’ shouted Nightingale, ‘this won’t work, it’s a dream, you can’t shoot me up here.’
The big man smiled, but his gun hand was rock-steady. ‘You don’t think so? Maybe depends what you believe. Maybe I kill you up here, maybe you die down there. Let’s give it a shot, pardon the pun, Bird-man. Bye.’
Nightingale hurled himself sideways and heard the explosion of the gun, then he was off and running to his left, if directions had any meaning on the Astral Plane. He heard no pounding feet behind him, it seemed T-Bone had gone, for the moment at least. He stopped running. He needed to focus, and get himself off the Astral Plane before it was too late. He’d been in contact with Mrs. Steadman before on the Astral Plane but she had summoned him and she had sent him back. Now he was trapped and it seemed, someone had a strong interest in seeing that he never made it back to the sleeping shell of his body in his hotel room. He racked his memory to try to think of something, anything, he’d read or heard which could help him get back.
‘You’re not going back, Jack,’ said Robbie Hoyle, and Nightingale spun round to face him.
‘You’re not Robbie,’ said Nightingale, as he gazed into the pale, sad face of his dead best friend. ‘You can’t be.’
The figure smiled wistfully. ‘Why can’t I be, Jack? We’re in your dream now, and you know it’s your fault I’m dead.’
‘Robbie, don’t say that. I never meant for that to happen, you have to believe that.’
‘What difference does it make what you wanted? If it hadn’t been for you playing silly games with things you didn’t understand, Anna wouldn’t be a widow, and my kids would still have a father. It’s all your fault, Jack. Why is that? Why do your family and friends always end up suffering because of you?’
Nightingale tried desperately to think of something to say, but he knew that Robbie – or whatever was pretending to be Robbie - was right. So many people close to him had died, how could it not be his fault? Sure, he hadn’t intended it, and hadn’t killed anyone, but the responsibility hung so heavily on him that it couldn’t be pushed away.
‘Robbie, I...’
‘And what about us?’ said a horribly familiar voice behind him.
Nightingale couldn’t help himself, he had to turn round again, though he knew what he’d see.
His Uncle Tommy and Aunt Linda stood there, the way he remembered them in life, not horribly mutilated as they’d been when he’d discovered their bodies. They gazed at him, and both shook their heads reproachfully. ‘It’s your fault we’re dead too, Jack,’ said Aunt Linda. ‘Torn to pieces, just so you could save your miserable soul.’
‘That wasn’t how it happened,’ said Nightingale. ‘I never even knew about my soul being pledged when I found you dead. It wasn’t my fault, I couldn’t have stopped it.’
Uncle Tommy shook his head again and held up a reproachful finger. ‘Now you know you don’t believe that, Jack. You know you blame yourself, and so you should. But now the time’s come to make amends. You’re to stay here, and join us. You’re not going back.’
‘Yes, stay with us here.’
Again Nightingale turned round and saw a young, small, Chinese woman, wagging her finger reproachfully at him.
‘Amy, Amy Chen. You can’t be here, you’re not dead.’
She frowned at him. ‘Can’t I? How would you know, Nightingale? You left me behind to sort out the mess you forced me into. How was I supposed to stand alone against a coven of Satanists? And look at these children.’
There were six children standing around her now, all shaking their heads at Nightingale.
‘Six of them, so far,’ said Amy Chen. ‘Six children, dead because of you. You need to stay with us here, you need to suffer with us.’
‘No,’ said Nightingale, ‘I never meant...’
‘Mr. Nightingale. Look at me.’
Uncle Tommy and Aunt Linda were gone, there was no sign of Robbie Hoyle, Amy Chen or the children either. Just a tiny, white haired old lady, wearing a knee-length black dress over dark leggings and buttoned boots. Alice Steadman. Nightingale shook his head at her. ‘You won’t fool me again, whatever you are,’ he said.
The old woman frowned in exasperation. ‘Listen to me, Mr. Nightingale, you’re in terrible danger, and you must get back to your body. You should never have tried to come here by yourself, it’s far too advanced and dangerous. There are people here who want to harm you, and who are using your own dreams and memories against you. They are trying to stop you from returning. Your body cannot survive for very much longer without you.’
‘Why should I believe you? You’re just another one of them, another ghost from my past. If you’re real, send me back.’
She shook her head sharply. ‘I can’t do that, since I didn’t summon you. Only you can do it.’
‘How? Why should I trust you?’
‘You have to. You need to wake. Focus on something mundane, this will sound ridiculous but...’
A mist had grown up from nowhe
re between Nightingale and the figure of the old woman, blocking her from his sight, and stopping him from hearing her final words clearly. All that seemed to come to him was, ‘Toe...big toe.’
But that couldn’t be it.
‘Mrs. Steadman,’ shouted Nightingale. ‘Come back, help me.’
He heard the sound of a dog barking in the distance, getting rapidly closer. It didn’t sound at all a friendly noise, but it was impossible to tell from which direction it came, until the animal came into view, directly ahead of him, and what seemed like fifty feet away. It was a black and white collie, and Nightingale recognised it at once, though there was no sign of its owner.
‘Oh no,’ he said, aloud. ‘Not you. Not now.’
The animal raced towards him, seeming to grow bigger as it approached, until it was almost the size of a bull. As Nightingale watched in horror, its outline shimmered, and all resemblance to a sheepdog was gone. In its place stood a creature straight from Hell, with three gigantic heads roaring threats from the huge red mouths, the long, pointed fangs ready to tear and disembowel their victim. The giant front paws reared up and the razor-sharp claws were unsheathed, as the powerful hind legs tensed to spring at him. Nightingale’s skin started to burn as the creature’s hot breath fell on it.
Could it have been true? Could she be trusted? Had he heard it right? Big toe? Nightingale closed his eyes, and focused all his attention on the big toe of his right foot, desperately trying to move it, just an inch or two,
The animal roared, and pounced.
CHAPTER 21
Charmaine turned off her tablet, put it back in the desk, checked that everything was ready and set off. She didn’t have any trouble in sneaking out of the apartment. It was long after dark and her mother had fallen asleep on the sitting room sofa after the second bottle of wine. Mom hadn’t always been this way, thought Charmaine, as she walked down the stairs, but ever since Dad had walked out on them for a younger model, she had struggled to cope, money had gotten tighter, and the pills and the wine had provided a way to numb the pain, and shorten the hours in the day when it had to be endured. Soon Mom wouldn’t need to worry about having a daughter to feed, clothe and get to school.
Tennessee Night (The 8th Jack Nightingale Novel) Page 8