‘What are you saying, Ricky? Are you saying they’ll kill her?’
‘I’m saying that when non-Catholics start to report miracles, it doesn’t end well.’
‘But if the miracle proves the existence of God, the Church would welcome that, surely.’
Ricky sipped his lager. ‘Do you believe in God, Nightingale?’
‘That’s a tough question.’
‘It’s actually a very simple question.’
‘Doesn’t make it any less tough.’ Nightingale picked at the label of his bottle with his thumb. ‘I believe in devils,’ he said. ‘And angels. ‘And I believe in The Devil. If I believe in The Devil then I have to believe in God. You can’t have one without the other, can you?’
‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ said Ricky. ‘I’m an atheist. Have been for years.’
‘Seriously? After what Tracey’s been through?’
‘Our mum was a Catholic and Carla and I were both baptised. When we were not much older than Tracey, she got cancer. We prayed, Carla and I, we prayed for hours on end, begging God to save our mum. He didn’t of course. I became an atheist at her funeral. Carla did the same.’
‘Understandable,’ said Nightingale.
‘There’s no such thing as a God,’ said Ricky. ‘Not as an individual entity. It’s impossible, how could one being control everything? The universe is huge and scientists can explain pretty much everything. God is a matter of faith, pure and simple.’
‘But Tracey’s stigmata?’
Ricky shrugged. ‘Psychosomatic.’
‘And the Virgin Mary?’
‘Only Tracey sees her. No one else has.’
‘You think she’s making it up?’
‘I don’t know. And I don’t know where she’s getting it from. Her dad Dave’s a confirmed atheist as well. There’s no religion in the house. And none at the school, obviously.’
‘I think that Tracey truly believes that she is talking to the mother of Christ,’ said Ricky. ‘I think somehow her belief is somehow manifesting itself in the stigmata. And while I can’t even come close to understanding or explaining it, she can somehow cure people who are sick. But whatever she’s doing, and however she’s doing it, I don’t think for one minute that God has anything to do with it.’ He took another pull on his lager and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is that she has the stigmata, she can work miracles, and she’s not been baptised. That makes her a threat to the Catholic Church. So I’m going to ask you one last time, Nightingale. Is the Vatican your client?’
Nightingale said nothing.
‘Because if the Vatican have hired you to find Tracey then you’ve put her life in danger.’ He stared at Nightingale, his hand tightening around the bottle in front of him. ‘You hear what I’m saying?’
Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘I hear you.’
‘Well?’
Nightingale took a deep breath and nodded slowly. ‘I need a cigarette,’ he said.
* * *
‘He was definitely a priest?’ asked Ricky. He and Nightingale were standing outside the pub, the collars of their coats turned up against the winter wind. There were two other smokers on the other side of the pub, young women with dyed blond hair and toddlers in matching McLaren pushchairs.
‘He had the cassock and everything,’ said Nightingale.
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ said Ricky. ‘They do a lot of outsourcing.’
‘You mean he might have been pretending to be a priest?’
‘Don’t look so outraged, Nightingale. It wasn’t that long ago that you were claiming to be a journalist.’ He blew smoke up at the darkening sky. ‘Have you told this Connolly where Tracey is?’
Nightingale shook his head.
‘That’s something, at least. The problem is, if you found her, so could anyone else.’
‘It wasn’t difficult,’ said Nightingale. ‘You should have used a different doctor.’
‘We didn’t have much choice. We can’t just pop into any A&E without questions being asked. And there’s always some NHS employee wanting to make a few quid by tipping off a newspaper or Sky News.’ He drew on his cigarette and blew smoke. ‘The thing is, if you found her, others can, too.’
Nightingale flicked away what was left of his cigarette. ‘I need a favour.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Can I talk to Tracey?’
* * *
Dr McKenzie had finished changing Tracey’s dressing and had left the house by the time Ricky and Nightingale got back. They had picked up Jenny from the Audi. Ricky let himself into the house and asked Nightingale and Jenny to wait on the doorstep while he spoke to Tracey’s parents.
‘He seems nice,’ said Jenny.
‘He is. Just very protective of his niece.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘He said the Vatican wants to hurt Tracey.’
Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘What? Why?’
Before Nightingale could answer the door opened and Ricky ushered them in. ‘Before you see Tracey, there’s something I need to show you,’ he said. He headed up the stairs and Nightingale and Jenny followed him. Ricky opened a door and showed them a small study. There was a desk and a computer and printer, and above it two bookshelves filled with reference books. There was a corkboard on the wall opposite the desk and there were several dozen newspaper cuttings pinned on it. Paragraphs and pictures had been circled in red ink and in the top right hand corner of the board was a map dotted with coloured pins. ‘Once Carla told me what had happened to Tracey, I started doing some research on stigmata. And time and time again I discovered that within months of a stigmata case being reported one of three things happened. More often than not the person involved was shown to be a fake. That happens in more than ninety per cent of cases. Sometimes the Church sends an investigator and they prove fakery, sometimes the media exposes the fake. But it’s the remaining ten per cent that concern me. I looked at fifty cases in all. Of the five that weren’t proven to be fake, two died and three have vanished.’
‘Vanished?’
‘They just disappeared. Along with their families. Now you might assume that they had just moved to avoid press attention, but trust me Nightingale, I’m good at tracing people. They vanished from the face of the earth.’
‘And the two that died?’
‘A teenage girl in France. She fell asleep in the bath and drowned. And a sixty-year-old man in Spain. Died in a car accident.’
‘Accident’s happen,’ said Jenny.
Ricky smiled thinly. ‘He had a spotless driving record and crashed into a tree on a perfectly clear day with zero alcohol in his blood. Like I said, one of three things happens: the case is shown to be a fake, the person with the stigmata vanishes, or they die. No one with stigmata lives happily ever after, and I think it’s the Vatican that’s behind it.’
‘Ricky, are you absolutely one hundred per cent sure that Tracey isn’t faking this, either deliberately or…’ He left the sentence unfinished.
‘You think Dave and Carla might be doing it?’ Ricky shook his head. ‘Definitely not. When a kid is shown to be faking stigmata it’s usually because there’s religion in the family. That’s not the case here. There isn’t a Bible in the house and Tracey has never set foot in a church.’ He waved at the cuttings. ‘Not a single one of the fake cases occurred in an aethiest household. Not one.’ He took them downstairs to the kitchen. Tracey’s mother was sitting at the kitchen table with the girl. They both looked worried as Ricky introduced them to Nightingale and Jenny.
‘Would you like tea?’ asked Mrs Spradbery.
‘We’re fine,’ said Jenny.
Ricky pulled out chairs for Nightingale and Jenny and they sat down. Ricky stood by the door, his arms folded.
Nightingale smiled at Tracey. ‘Your uncle says that you talk to the Virgin Mary. Is that right?’
The girl nodded solemnly.
‘Who told you she was
the Virgin Mary?’
‘She did. At first I thought she was an angel but she isn’t, she’s the mother of Jesus.’
‘But no one else can see her, is that right?’
‘She doesn’t let everyone see her. That’s what she told me. Only special people.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Can I talk to her?’
‘Only if you can see her. Can you see her?’
‘Is she here now?’
‘Of course,’ said Tracey. ‘She came in with you. She’s over there, by the fridge.’
Nightingale and Jenny looked at the fridge, then at each other. Jenny shrugged.
‘She’s smiling,’ said Tracey.
‘I bet she is,’ said Nightingale.
Tracey looked at the fridge and cocked her head on one side. She seemed to be listening intently, a worried frown on her face. Eventually she nodded. ‘I’ll tell him,’ she said. She looked at Nightingale.
‘She says you have to help.’
‘She said that?’
Tracey nodded earnestly.
‘Did she say why?’
‘She said you know why. She says it’s important.’
‘Tracey, can she tell me herself?’ asked Nightingale.
Tracey looked towards the fridge. ‘Is that okay?’ she asked, then stared into space for half a minute. She frowned. ‘Can you say that again?’ she said and stared at the fridge for several seconds before looking back at Nightingale. ‘She said you need to think about Astronomy Chapter Six Verse Sixteen.’
Nightingale frowned. ‘Astronomy? You mean Deuteronomy?’
She nodded. ‘That’s right. That’s what she said. Deuteronomy’
‘What is it?’ asked Jenny.
Nightingale smiled at her. ‘You shall not put the Lord your God to the test, as you tested him at Massah.’
Jenny frowned. ‘What?’
‘It’s a quote from the Bible. Deuteronomy Chapter Six Verse Sixteen. That priest said the same thing to me in my office. There’s no way Tracey could have known that.’
Jenny leaned towards him. ‘Are you saying she’s really here? The Virgin Mary? She’s in the room now?’
‘She’s there,’ said Tracey. ‘It’s just that you can’t see her.’
‘Really Mr Nightingale, it’s way past Tracey’s bedtime,’ said Mrs Spradbery.
‘That’s okay,’ said Nightingale, standing up. ‘I think we’re done.’
‘I’ll show you out,’ said Ricky. He took Nightingale and Jenny down the hall to the front door. ‘You need to take her somewhere,’ said Nightingale. ‘You need to get her well away from here.’
Ricky nodded. ‘I could do that,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a cottage on the edge of Dartmoor. It’s a bit of a smallholding, I grow vegetables and stuff.’
‘Bit of a farmer?’
‘It’s an eco-thing,’ said Ricky. ‘I use it as a bolt-hole when I’m working on a book. Tracey can stay with me. I’m pretty sure I can look after her wounds. It’s mainly just a matter of keeping them clean.’ He opened the front door.
‘No one else knows about the cottage?’ asked Nightingale.
‘No one outside the family.’
‘What about Tracey’s parents? Can they go with you? I could do with the house to myself for a day or two. If that’s okay with you?’
‘What are you planning?’
‘I’m going to try to get the Vatican off your back. So it would be best if you take Tracey and her parents and hole up in Devon for a few days until we see how it pans out. Okay?’
Ricky nodded. ‘I guess so,’ he said.
* * *
Jenny drove Nightingale to his flat in Bayswater. He went inside only to pick up his car keys and then he collected his MGB and drove to Clapham. He parked down a side street, turned up the collar of his raincoat and lit a cigarette as he walked to Perry Smith’s house. He was halfway through the cigarette when he reached Smith’s two-storey terraced house. Standing in front of the black railings around the steps that led down to the basement were two large black men and Nightingale grinned as he recognised the larger of the two. ‘Bloody hell, T-Bone, doesn’t Perry ever let you have a day off?’
The man grinned and opened his arms, inviting a hug. He was close to seven feet tall and despite the fact it was almost midnight he had on wraparound Oakley sunglasses. Like his companion he was wearing a black Puffa jacket over a dark tracksuit and had gleaming white Nikes on his feet. He hugged Nightingale hard and patted him on the back with shovel-sized gloved hands. ‘The proverbial bad penny,’ said T-Bone. ‘Always turning up when you need something.’ He released his grip on Nightingale and introduced him to his companion. ‘Jack Nightingale, private dick,’ he said. He waggled his little finger. ‘He doesn’t charge much because his dick isn’t that big.’
‘How are ya doing?’ said the man, nodding at Nightingale, his blank eyes suggesting that he wasn’t expecting an answer to his question.
‘I need a favour from Perry,’ said Nightingale, gesturing at the front door with his chin.
‘Of course you do, that’s the only time we ever see you. What do you need, Birdman?’
‘Something from your lock-up in Streatham.’
T-Bone grinned and shook his head sadly. ‘You treat us like bloody hardware store, you know that?’
‘I don’t know many people who have what you have,’ said Nightingale. He flicked his cigarette butt into the gutter and it sparked as it hit the tarmac. ‘Is he in?’
‘Yeah but he’s busy. Busy in a way that we don’t want to go interrupting him, if you get my drift.’
‘I can wait,’ said Nightingale.
‘No need, Birdman,’ said T-Bone. ‘Perry says I can sort you out whenever you need sorting out.’ He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘He’s taken a shine to you. Dunno why, but he has.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ said Nightingale. There was a black Porsche SUV parked across the road and he gestured at it. ‘Can you fix me up now?’
‘Where’s that piece of shit Noddy car you drive?’
‘My classic MGB? Parked up.’
‘I’m not a taxi service, Birdman.’ He grinned. ‘But what the hell. You’re practically family.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ve got money, right, because Perry’s all out of freebies.’
Nightingale patted his pocket. ‘I’ve got money.’
The two men walked over to the SUV and climbed in. ‘Are you going to drive in them?’ asked Nightingale, pointing at T-Bone’s shades.
‘You criticising my eye-wear, Birdman?’
‘I’m just surprised that you can see anything at night.’
‘I can see just fine. I wear them all the time.’
‘Even during sex?’
T-Bone laughed. ‘Especially during sex,’ he said. It was short drive to the Streatham lock-up, in a row of six, tucked away in an alley between two rows of houses. It was brick-built with a metal door and a corrugated iron roof. T-Bone switched off the engine. ‘What do you need?’ he asked.
‘You know what I need,’ said Nightingale. ‘A gun.’
‘Calibre? Revolver or automatic? Silenced or not? Birdman, you’re like a guy walking into Carphone Warehouse and saying he wants a phone.’
‘Something threatening.’
T-Bone grinned. ‘Threatening?’
‘I want someone to know that I mean business.’
‘Does it have to be concealed?’
‘Not really,’ said Nightingale. ‘I plan to be indoors.’
‘I think I’ve got just what you need,’ he said. He took a Magnalite torch from the glove box, climbed out of the SUV and unlocked the door to the lock-up and pushed it up. He switched on the torch and motioned for Nightingale to follow him inside. There were a dozen or so wooden boxes on the concrete floor, and two rusting metal filing cabinets. ‘Shut the door,’ said T-Bone. ‘We don’t want anyone walking by and eyeballing us.’
Nightingale did as he was told. T-Bone tucked the torch under his
arm then opened one of the wooden crates, pushed aside the Styrofoam packing and pulled out a bubble-wrapped package. He unwrapped it and handed it to Nightingale. ‘That’s as threatening as they come,’ he said, shining the torch at the weapon.
It took Nightingale several seconds to realise what it was – a sawn-off shotgun. He grinned. ‘Perfect,’ he said, picking it up. ‘Cartridges?’
‘How many do you need? A box?’
‘I won’t be going duck-shooting, T-Bone. Just a half dozen.’ He checked the action. It was a 12-bore with the twin barrels side by side. That meant it only held two cartridges but two would be more than enough. ‘So how much?’
‘Shall we say a monkey?’
‘Five hundred quid for a sawn-off. How about we say a marmoset?’
T-Bone frowned. ‘What’s a marmoset?’
‘It’s a very small monkey. About a quarter the size of a regular monkey. So I’m thinking a hundred and twenty-five, a hundred and fifty at most.’
T-Bone laughed and held out his hand for the weapon. ‘If you don’t want it, Bird-man, just say so.’
‘I want it, T-Bone, but I want to pay a fair price. I’m not getting expenses on this job, it’s pro-bono.’
‘Pro-bone? What the hell’s pro-bone.’
‘Pro-bono. A freebie. For the public good.’
‘Yeah, well I ain’t in the mood for freebies. Let’s call it two-fifty.’
‘Including the cartridges?’
‘Go on then,’ said T-Bone. ‘But next time you should go to Aldi or Lidl. I hear they’re real cheap.’
‘You’re a star, T-Bone. A prince among men. Now have you got a holdall or something I can use to keep this away from prying eyes?’
* * *
Nightingale let himself into Ricky Hamilton’s house. He locked the front door and slid a bolt across. The lights were all off and he left them that way, his eyes were already used to the darkness. He took out his mobile phone and called the number on Jonah Connolly’s card. When the priest answered he sounded groggy. ‘Did I wake you up?’ asked Nightingale.
Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) Page 4