‘What time is it?’
‘About two. Sorry about the late hour but I’ve seen Tracey and yes, the stigmata’s real. So’s the whole cancer story. The neighbour, the boy, is fine and dandy. His cancer has completely gone.’
‘That’s good to hear, thanks. Where is she, the girl?’
‘Staying with her uncle in Bromley. South London.’
‘Can you email me a report?’
‘Will do, as soon as I’m on the office. The reason I was calling so late is that they won’t be in London after tonight.’
‘What do you mean?’ Nightingale could hear the tension in the man’s voice.
‘Tomorrow morning the whole family’s leaving London. They wouldn’t say where they’re going. They say it’s because she’s still got the whole stigmata thing and they don’t want it to become a media circus.’
‘And you’ve no idea where there’ll go?’
‘Like I said, they won’t say. I managed to get to see Tracey, but they weren’t happy. Anyway, I just thought you should know.’
‘I appreciate that, Mr Nightingale. Thanks. Do you happen to have the address to hand?’
Nightingale smiled to himself. ‘I do, yes, Do you have a pen?’
* * *
It was just after three o’clock in the morning when Nightingale heard the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen, He was sitting in the hallway on a chair he’d taken from the kitchen, the loaded sawn-off shotgun in his lap. From where he was sitting he had a clear view of the front door and the open kitchen door, and he could see into the living room. He had been fairly sure that Connolly would come in the through the kitchen but he had wanted to keep his options open.
After a few minutes he heard the kitchen door open and a soft footfall across the tiled floor. He stood up and aimed the shotgun at the kitchen doorway. Connolly was dressed all in black and was holding a small torch in his left hand. He stiffened when he saw Nightingale. ‘Surprise!’ said Nightingale.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ asked Connolly. He was wearing a black ski mask but Nightingale knew it was the priest.
‘Take off the mask,’ said Nightingale. ‘And switch off the torch.’
Connolly did as he was told. He was wearing a black polo-neck sweater, black jeans and black trainers. On his back was a black backpack.
‘Drop the torch on the floor. And the mask. Then put your hands behind you neck.’
‘What the hell is going on?’ asked Connolly.
Nightingale gestured with the gun and Connolly followed the instructions that Nightingale had given him.
‘Back into the kitchen,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I end up shooting you it’ll be easier to clean tiles than a carpet.’
‘This is crazy,’ said Connolly. ‘I hired you, remember.’
‘Walk backwards into the kitchen, slowly. Then kneel down.’
Connolly did as he was told. Nightingale kept the shotgun aimed at the priest’s chest. A glass panel in the kitchen door had been shattered. ‘I see you dumped the cassock but then I suppose it’s not the best thing to wear when you’re breaking and entering,’ said Nightingale. ‘I see you stuck with the black, though.’
‘What’s this about, Nightingale? What’s going on?’
‘Kneel down. Then put your hands behind your neck.’
Connolly obeyed. Nightingale switched on the lights.
‘How many are with you?’
‘Two men. They’re in a van outside.’
‘At the front or the back?’
‘In the alley.’
‘Are they priests?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you?’
Connolly nodded. “I’m a priest, yes.’
‘And you work for the Vatican?’
‘I told you all this when I hired you. You seem to have forgotten who’s calling the shots. I’m the client and you’re the hired help.’
Nightingale gestured with the shotgun. ‘So far as calling the shots are concerned, I think the gun says it all. If you’re a priest then what are you doing breaking into this house at this ungodly hour?’
Connolly took a deep breath and then sighed. He didn’t answer.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘What do you want Nightingale? Are you going to call the cops? Are you going to shoot me? Or bore me to death?’
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ said Nightingale. He gestured with his shotgun. ‘Tell me something. If I pull the trigger, do you think God would save you?’
The priest shrugged. ‘Probably not.’
‘So God has saved the little girl but thrown you to the wolves. What does that tell you?’
The priest frowned. ‘How has God saved her? You’re the one with the shotgun.’
‘That’s right,’ said Nightingale. ‘But that depends on whether or not you believe in free will, doesn’t it?’
Connolly raised his hands in surrender. ‘To be honest, Nightingale I’m getting to the stage where I’d rather you pulled the trigger. I really can’t be bothered listening to you any more.’
‘Put your hands behind your neck.’ Nightingale pointed the shotgun at Connolly’s chest and the priest did as he was told. ‘. ‘For God’s sake be careful with that thing,’ he said.
‘For God’s sake? You realise the irony in that statement.’ Nightingale lowered the shotgun but kept it pointed at the priest’s groin. ‘You’ve done this before?’
‘Is that a question or a statement?’
‘Both, I guess. I think I know the answer already. It’s what you do, isn’t it?’
Connolly nodded. ‘Someone has to.’
‘To protect the Church?’
‘The Church has been around a lot longer than you or me,’ said Connolly. ‘It’s like a living organism, it fights to stay alive.’
‘And it kills if necessary?’
‘If it has to, yes. There’s no arguing with that. The Catholic Church has killed hundreds of thousands of people over the years. Look at the Crusades.’
‘And because Tracey Spradbery is a threat, you’re here to kill her?’
‘Is that what you think?’ He laughed harshly. ‘It’s not about killing her. It was never about that.’
‘What then?’
‘We’re going to take her to a safe place. Somewhere where she can be looked at by experts. People who understand stigmata.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘A convent in Spain,’ said Connolly.
‘A prison?’
‘If she truly has been blessed by God, we need to know,’ said Connolly. ‘And we can’t do that here.’
‘So you’re planning to kidnap her?’
‘I am to take her to a safe place,’ said Connolly.
‘That’s kidnapping. Pure and simple.’
‘We need to know the truth, and we won’t get the truth here.’
‘I told you the truth. She has the stigmata, that’s a fact. And she believes that she talks to the Virgin Mary. Take your bag off and slide it across to me.’
‘What?’
‘The bag,’ said Nightingale, nodding at Connolly’s backpack. ‘I need to look inside it. Take it off very slowly.’
‘You think I have a gun?’
‘Or a knife. Either way, I’ll know that you’re lying and that you came here to do her harm.’
‘And then what? You’ll shoot me?’
‘I’ll call the cops.’
‘You broke in here as well, remember?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I was invited in by Tracey’s uncle. It’s his house. He gave me the key. Do you have a key? Oh no, of course not. You smashed a window to get in.’’
Connolly nodded at the shotgun in Nightingale’s hands. ‘And you’ve got a licence for that sawn-off shotgun, of course.’
‘Mate, I’ll whack you over the head with it, hide it and then call the cops. Oh, and I used to be a cop so there’s a good chance they’ll listen to me.’ He gestured at the backpack with his gun. ‘
Take it off.’
Connolly scowled, but did as he was told.
‘Push it over here,’ said Nightingale. ‘Not to enthusiastically, I’d hate to pull the trigger accidentally.’
Connolly pushed the bag across the floor. Nightingale pointed the gun at his face. ‘Now put your hands behind your neck again.’
Connolly obeyed the instructions.
‘Now move your right foot over your left.’
Connolly did as he was told. Nightingale nodded his approval. In that position Connolly wouldn’t be able to get the jump on him. He kept the shotgun aimed at Connolly’s chest with his right hand while he used his left to root around the inside of the bag. He pulled out two rolls of duct tape and tossed them on to the kitchen table. Then he took out a small leather wallet with a zip running around the outer edge. Nightingale walked over to the table, put the shotgun down and quickly unzipped the wallet, never taking his eyes off Connolly. He opened it. Inside were two clear plastic boxes, each containing a syringe full of colourless liquid.
Nightingale picked up the shotgun again and levelled it at Connolly’s chest.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Connolly.
‘I’m going to inject this into your arm. Or rather, I’m getting you to do it to yourself.’ A look of fear flashed across Connolly’s face. ‘If you’re right and it’s a tranquiliser then you’ll go to sleep,’ Nightingale continued. ‘If you’re lying and there’s poison in it, then you’ll die. Either way, I’ll go outside and tell your pals to come and collect you.’
‘It’s a tranquiliser,’ said Connolly.
‘Good to know,’ said Nightingale. ‘Good for you, anyway. Frankly I’m easy either way.’ Nightingale placed one of the plastic boxes on the table.
And then what?’
‘Assuming you’re not dead? That depends on you.’ Nightingale reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small digital recorder. A red light glowed on the side. ‘If I ever see you again, this recording goes to the cops. Along with the CCTV footage from my office. And the DNA we took from the cigarette you smoked in my office.’
‘You swabbed my DNA?’
‘Your story sounded fishy even back then,’ said Nightingale. ‘We’ve already had the DNA profiled through a lab we use and we’ve got decent fingerprints off the business card you gave me. And on the cup you drank your coffee from. This tape is more than enough to have you sent to prison for a long, long time.’
Connolly nodded slowly. ‘And I’m guessing there’s a reason you haven’t already called in the cops?’
‘You read my mind,’ said Nightingale. ‘Can you figure it out for yourself?’
‘You want to take the pressure off the girl.’
‘She has a name.’
Connolly nodded. ‘You want the dogs called off Tracey. And you need me to do that. Right?’
‘Got it in one,’ said Nightingale. ‘You tell your bosses that she’s faking it. She made up the whole thing to attract attention to herself. Most of the cases you look at are fakes, right?’
‘That’s true.’
‘So that’s what they’ll be expecting to hear,’ said Nightingale. ‘You tell them that it’s over. You do that and this recording stays in a safety deposit box along with the CCTV footage and the DNA profile, and a full statement from me just in case something happens to me. Can you do that for me, Jonah?’
Connolly said nothing for several seconds, then he forced a smile. ‘It doesn’t look like I have much choice, does it?’
‘My Plan B is to call the cops now and have you and your pals charged with conspiracy to murder and to go public with as many TV and newspaper interviews as I can give over the next few days. There’s a fair bit of hysteria out there about what’s being happening to kids recently, and I think we can both agree that the Catholic Church has had more than its fair share of bad publicity.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Nightingale.’
‘And we have a deal?’
Connolly nodded slowly. ‘We have a deal.’
‘Get up slowly. And sit down at the table.’
Connolly did as he was told.
Nightingale grinned. ‘Cool. Now inject that into your arm and we can all go our separate ways.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly serious,’ said Nightingale. ‘But if you don’t want to do it, we’ve still got Plan B.’
Connolly stared at the plastic box and then slowly opened it. He took out the syringe, put the box on the bed and carefully pulled off the small orange plastic cap off the needle. ‘You don’t have to do this. It’s a sedative.’
‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about.’ He gestured with the shotgun. ‘Don’t spill any. And Jonah, maybe you should think about another line of work.’
‘Offering career guidance now, are you?’
‘You need to ask yourself why the Virgin Mary would appear to a little girl and not someone like you. And then you have to ask yourself what side of the fence your actions have put you on, and what the repercussions to that might be.’ He wagged the shotgun at the priest. ‘I have to say that the Virgin Mary is one lady I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m just saying, that’s all.’
Connolly pulled up his left sleeve, then tapped on his arm to expose a vein. He opened his mouth to say something but Nightingale shook his head and pointed the shotgun at his face. Connolly sighed, inserted the needle into a vein and gently pushed the plunger and slowly injected the contents of the syringe into his arm. When he’d finished he removed the needle, replaced the orange cap, and put the syringe back into its box. Just as he closed the box his eyelids fluttered and he slumped forward. A few seconds later he was snoring softly.
Nightingale left the house through the front door, hiding the shotgun under his raincoat. He waited until he was back in his MGB before he phoned Ricky Hamilton. ‘Where are you?’
‘Almost at the cottage,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long drive.’
‘It’s over,’ said Nightingale.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Ricky.
‘As sure as I can be,’ said Nightingale. ‘But you have to keep her away from South London. For a while, at least.’
‘That’s not a problem,’ said Ricky. ‘She can stay with me for as long as needs be.’
‘No one can see her, you know that?’ said Nightingale. ‘The Vatican will be told that her stigmata was a fake. If she attracts attention again they might send someone else. So no healings, no Press, no nothing.’
‘Will they send someone else?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Nightingale. ‘I put the frighteners on the guy, and he knows that if anyone else threatens Tracey I have more than enough evidence to go to the police.’
‘Evidence?’
‘I have him on tape, but I also span him a line about CCTV, DNA and fingerprints. He’ll run off with his tail between his legs and he won’t be back. And the deal we’ve done is that he’ll tell his bosses that the girl is a fake.’
‘And they’ll believe him?’
‘Ninety-nine per cent of stigmata cases are fake, that’s what they expect to hear,’ said Nightingale. ‘But you have to keep her under the radar from now on.’
‘I hear you,’ said Ricky. ‘I’ll take care of her.’
‘I hope so,’ said Nightingale. ‘And Tracey? How is she?’
‘Still bleeding,’ said Ricky.
THE END
Jack Nightingale appears in the full-length novels Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade and Lastnight. He has his own website at www.jacknightingale.com
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Table of Contents
Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story)
Midpoint
Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) Page 5