Kathy sat down. ‘She says she has messages for the Prime Minister and the Archbishop of Canterbury and Prince William, from Jesus.’
Fowles rubbed his eyes and cursed under his breath. ‘Is she crazy? Or have her parents put her up to it?’
‘She’s a nine-year-old girl, Bernie.’
‘Nine-year-old girls can be manipulated, and manipulative,’ said Bernie. ‘Remember that kid in the States, wrote that bestseller about going to Heaven. He was only four.’
‘I don’t think they’re planning to write a book, Bernie.’
‘Maybe not now, but if we run a piece saying that she spoke to Jesus then all the big publishers are going to be knocking on their door.’ He stood up and began to pace up and down behind his desk. ‘The pictures are good, right?’
‘Brilliant,’ said Kathy. ‘Lots of stuff around the house and a really great shot of the three of them walking through the park. Sitting next to her dad on the swings, that sort of thing. And some very pretty ones with her rabbit.’
‘Kids and cuddly animals, you can’t go wrong with that,’ said Fowles. ‘And she wants to talk to the PM? Face to face?’
‘She said Jesus gave her messages for the PM, the Archbishop and the Prince.’
‘And you don’t know what those messages are?’
Kathy shook her head. ‘She says the messages are personal.’
Fowles sat down again. ‘So you don’t think the parents put her up to it?’
‘Mum and Dad aren’t particularly religious. They go to church sometimes and they prayed when she was missing, but they’re not religious fanatics. If anything, the mum seemed embarrassed at what Bella was saying.’
‘And the girl’s not deluded?’
‘I’m not a psychiatrist, Bernie. She seems okay, but you’ve got to remember what she’s been through. Kidnapped. Raped. She was pretty much dead when they found her.’
Fowles leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his nose. ‘Tell me about that.’
‘I don’t know much, but one of my police contacts told me that when they first went in they thought she was dead. One of the cops felt for a pulse and couldn’t find one. Then a while later a paramedic realised she was breathing.’
‘So was she dead or not?’
‘Cops aren’t medically trained.’
‘They’re trained enough to spot a corpse,’ said Fowles. ‘Is this maybe some sort of out-of-body experience? Lack of oxygen to the brain bringing on hallucinations?’
‘Sure. That’s possible. Anything’s possible.’
Fowles grimaced. ‘See, I’m worried that we give her coverage on this whole Jesus thing and then it turns out it’s down to brain damage. That’d make us look pretty stupid, wouldn’t it?’
‘She’s a bright kid. Very articulate. Doing well at school, her parents said.’ She leaned forward. ‘You know, she’s at the school where the headmistress killed herself. Threw herself off the roof.’
‘Are you serious?’
Kathy nodded. ‘Bella didn’t see it, but a lot of kids were traumatised. The school was closed for a couple of days. Do I mention that in the story?’
‘It’s an angle, isn’t it? Kidnap girl sees teacher suicide.’
‘She didn’t actually see it.’
‘You don’t want to spoil a good story with the facts. Already in shock from abduction, little Bella faced more heartbreak … hell, you don’t need me to write it.’
‘And what about the intro? Do I go with messages from Jesus or abduction girl back with her family?’
Fowles took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his brow furrowed. It was Sunday and it had been a quiet weekend, news-wise. The story of a child who had come back from the dead would put some energy into what threatened to be a very dull Monday paper. ‘What the hell,’ he said. ‘Who dares, wins. Let’s go with the Jesus angle. Who knows, maybe we can get the PM to drop by to pick up his message.’
70
Nightingale was walking down a long corridor. There were doors to the left and right, heavy doors, the wood aged and cracked. There were bare floorboards running the length of the corridor, worn smooth by generations of feet, and they creaked like old bones as he walked over them. There was a single light bulb hanging from a frayed wire in the middle of the corridor, flickering and hissing. A handful of small moths fluttered around it.
Nightingale found himself being drawn to one of the doors. There was a brass handle, mottled with age, and it was warm to the touch when he grasped it and turned it. The room inside was pure white, a glossy white floor and white walls and a white ceiling. Nightingale stepped inside the room and warm breeze ran across his face. He could smell herbs. Rosemary. And tarragon. And mint.
‘Mr Nightingale?’
It was Mrs Steadman. She was standing in the middle of the room, wearing a long black dress and with a black wool scarf wrapped around her neck. On her right hand was a ring with a large black stone in it.
‘Hello, Mrs Steadman. Am I asleep?’
‘Yes, Mr Nightingale.’
‘And you wanted to talk to me?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So why not just phone me?’
‘I don’t have your number, Mr Nightingale.’
‘I’m in the phone book. Under Nightingale.’
Mrs Steadman giggled girlishly. ‘I didn’t think of that.’
‘Do you do this a lot, Mrs Steadman?’
‘Not a lot, no.’
‘It’s a bit confusing. I’m dreaming, so how can I tell what’s real and what isn’t?’
‘You could try pinching yourself.’
Nightingale pinched himself but didn’t feel anything. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said. He raised his arms to the side and took a deep breath. As he exhaled he rose slowly up into the air. He hovered about six inches above the floorboards. ‘I’m flying,’ he said.
‘It’s more levitating,’ she said. ‘But you can fly. You can do anything you want. It’s your dream.’
Nightingale lay back and his feet rose up so that he was parallel to the floor, staring up at the white ceiling. ‘This is so cool.’
‘Dreams can be fun,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘You just have to be careful that they don’t turn into nightmares.’
Nightingale slowly returned to an upright position and then lowered himself to the floor. Mrs Steadman watched him with amused eyes.
‘So what is it that you want, Mrs Steadman? Why are you here?’
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said.
‘I’m all ears,’ said Nightingale.
‘Not here,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘In the real world.’
‘Shall I come to your shop?’
‘Outside would be better,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘There’s a park about half a mile from the shop. Close to the Tube station. I’m sure you can find it. Shall we say eleven o’clock in the morning?’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Nightingale. He rose up off the ground again and turned around slowly, the toes of his Hush Puppies pointing down at the floor. By the time he had done a complete turn, Mrs Steadman had vanished.
‘Mrs Steadman?’
His feet brushed the floor and then the floorboards squeaked as they took his full weight. He looked down. The white floor had gone and in its place were thick oak floorboards. He looked around. Furniture had appeared and now there was red flock wallpaper on the walls. There was a heavy four-poster bed, a chunky dressing table and a shabby armchair. There was a mirror over the bed and he stared at his reflection. There were dark patches under his eyes and his hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days. He ran his hand through it. ‘If it’s a dream, why do I still look like shit?’ he asked his reflection.
He flinched as something slammed against the door. He whirled around, his hands up defensively. His heart pounded as he stared at the door, his hands clenched into tight fists. Something scratched slowly at the wood, and then suddenly stopped. The only sound was that of Nightingale’s breathing.
He walked towards the door and slowly reached for the door handle. But before he could touch it the handle began to turn on its own. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.
There was no answer. The handle clicked to the fully open position and then the door began to slowly creak open.
‘Mrs Steadman?’
His nose wrinkled as it was assaulted by a foul smell, a mixture of sulphur and acid and faeces. His stomach lurched. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open, and that was when he woke up, bathed in sweat, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. Realising he was safe in his own bed, he smiled up at the ceiling. ‘Next time, Mrs Steadman, just use the phone,’ he muttered to himself.
71
Nightingale took the Tube to Camden and walked to the park. He got there at a quarter to eleven but Mrs Steadman was already there, sitting on a bench overlooking a group of children playing on a slide under the watchful eyes of their mothers. She was wearing a thick coat and the same scarf that she’d had on in the dream. She smiled up at him as he sat down next to her. ‘I hope you don’t mind me contacting you like that,’ she said.
‘Can anyone do it?’ he asked.
‘With practice,’ she said. ‘I can lend you a book that will teach you the techniques.’
He nodded. ‘I’d like that.’
‘It’s a lot less useful than it used to be,’ she said. ‘These days we have Skype and email and mobile phones. But when I was younger it was often the quickest way of contacting someone.’
One of the children yelled as he sped down the slide but he fell awkwardly and burst into tears. His mother rushed over and scooped him up, smothering his cries against her chest.
‘Do you have any children, Mrs Steadman?’ Nightingale asked.
She shook her head and smiled wistfully. ‘No,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure if I want them or not,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t think I’d make the best of fathers.’
‘I don’t think anyone really knows what sort of parent they’ll be until the day that the baby arrives,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘They have a way of bringing out the best in people.’ She sighed. ‘And the worst.’
Two little girls sat down behind the swings and began to play pat-a-cake. ‘Why did you want to see me, Mrs Steadman?’ asked Nightingale.
Mrs Steadman watched the little girls play their game. ‘You heard about the girl who was taken in Southampton? Isabella Harper? The paedophile and his girlfriend, remember? They took her to a house outside Southampton and abused her.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘They deserve to be strung up,’ he said. ‘But the way the world works, she’ll walk and he’ll do ten years.’ He shuddered. ‘They almost killed her, didn’t they? If the cops hadn’t got there in time she’d be dead.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that,’ said Mrs Steadman.
‘She’s all right now, isn’t she? She’s back with her parents.’
‘As I said, it’s difficult to explain,’ said Mrs Steadman. She sighed again and lowered her eyes. ‘What I’m about to tell you is going to sound so fantastic that you simply won’t believe me. But I can assure you that it’s the absolute truth.’
‘You’re starting to worry me now, Mrs Steadman.’
She looked up and her coal-black eyes bored into Nightingale’s. ‘You have every reason to be worried,’ she said. ‘We all do. What has happened is so awful, so terrible, that it puts everything at risk. Everything.’
‘Just tell me what’s happened,’ said Nightingale. ‘How bad can it be?’
‘Very bad,’ said Mrs Steadman. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘The police didn’t arrive in time, Mr Nightingale. Little Isabella was dead. She came back to life, but it’s not Isabella. Something came back but it wasn’t her.’
Nightingale felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. And he turned up the collar of his raincoat. ‘She’s possessed? Is that what you mean?’
‘There is no she,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Isabella is dead. But something has taken the place of her soul, something evil, something that is determined to cause havoc and misery.’
‘But I’ve seen her on television. She’s a happy, smiley little girl. Wouldn’t her parents have seen something?’
‘Whatever it is has learned to hide its true identity. They see what they want to see, their dear darling daughter. They don’t see what lies within.’
Nightingale pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket but when he saw a look of disdain flash across Mrs Steadman’s face he put them away hastily. ‘So what is it you want from me?’ he asked. ‘Please don’t tell me you want me to organise some sort of exorcism.’
Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘An exorcism wouldn’t help,’ she said. ‘An exorcism is called for when a demon takes temporary possession of a body. Once the demon is exorcised, the person can go about their life again. That’s not what’s happened in this case. Isabella is dead. Nothing we do will bring her back. She has been possessed by a Shade. And Shades cannot be exorcised.’
‘Shade? Is that what it’s called?’
‘I’m not a great one for labels,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘But they have been called that and it’s as good a label as any.’
‘So what is it you want me to do with this Shade?’ asked Nightingale.
Mrs Steadman smiled thinly. ‘Let’s walk, shall we?’ she said. She stood up and they walked down the path together. ‘You trust me, don’t you, Mr Nightingale?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you know that I’m a good person.’
‘One of the best, Mrs Steadman. What’s wrong? There’s something you don’t want to tell me, isn’t there?’
‘I have to tell you,’ she said. ‘What’s worrying me is how you’ll react.’ She stopped and looked up at him. She really was tiny, Nightingale realised. She barely reached the middle of his chest. Her jet-black eyes bored into his. ‘The Shade is using Isabella’s body as a vessel. A container. If you kill the vessel then the Shade will die with it. Providing you do it in a particular way.’
Nightingale frowned. ‘What are you saying, Mrs Steadman?’
‘You have to kill the demon, and the way to do that is to kill the body it’s inhabiting.’
‘You’re asking me to kill a nine-year-old girl?’
Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘Isabella is dead already. Nothing will change that. But the empty shell that is left has to be destroyed. That is the only way to stop the Shade.’
‘And I do this how?’
‘You have to use knives that have been blessed by a priest. Knives made from pure copper. Three of them. In the heart and in both eyes.’
Nightingale took a step back. ‘Are you insane?’
Mrs Steadman shook her head sadly. ‘I almost wish that I was,’ she said.
‘You’re asking me to shove knives into the eyes and heart of a nine-year-old girl?’
‘No, I’m asking you to kill a Shade. The girl is already dead. The Shade does not exist outside the girl. It is only when the Shade is in possession of the girl that it can be killed. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘I understand, but that doesn’t mean I can do it.’
‘Somebody has to, Mr Nightingale.’
‘Have you ever killed a Shade?’
‘That I can’t do,’ she said. ‘It has to be …’ She paused and then grimaced. ‘It has to be someone like you.’
‘But before, you found someone to do it?’
She nodded slowly. ‘Yes. It was difficult, but yes.’
Nightingale rubbed his face with both hands.
‘I realise it puts you in a terrible position,’ she said.
Nightingale lowered his hands and looked at her. ‘How can you ask me to do something like this?’
‘I have no choice,’ she said. She reached over and gently touched him on the arm. ‘I am sorry, Mr Nightingale. Truly.’
72
Nightingale waved at the barman, pointed at his empty b
ottle of Corona and mouthed ‘One more’. The barman nodded and went off to get a bottle from the fridge. Nightingale’s phone rang. He fished it out of his raincoat pocket and looked at the screen. It was Jenny.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘The pub?”
‘Doing what?’
‘Well, gosh, Jenny, what do people usually do in the pub?’
‘Are you working?’
‘Not as such.’ The barman put a Corona down in front of Nightingale, a slice of lime sticking out of the neck.
‘You said you were going to see Mrs Steadman.’
‘I did.’
‘And you said you’d be right back.’
‘There’s been a change of plan.’
‘What’s going on, Jack?’
‘Hell, Jenny, can’t I have a beer in peace?’
‘You know that Mrs Hawthorne is here? About her husband.’
Nightingale swore under his breath. Mrs Hawthorne was a housewife with four children who suspected that her husband was playing fast and loose with his secretary. Nightingale’s initial enquiries suggested that she was probably right, but to prove it she was going to have pay another couple of grand. He’d forgotten that he’d arranged for her to come into the office.
‘Jack, are you there?’
‘I’m sorry, it slipped my mind. Can you tell her I’m on a case and that I’ll call her this evening?’
‘She’s not going to be happy, Jack. She’s come in all the way from Gravesend.’
‘What do you want me to do, Jenny? Open a vein? I fucked up. I’m sorry.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I told you. The pub.’
‘Which pub?’
‘The Swan.’
‘Bayswater Road?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Don’t go anywhere.’
‘I wasn’t planning to,’ said Nightingale.
‘I’m serious, Jack. Stay put.’ She ended the call.
The barman was watching him with a sly smile on his face. ‘Wife giving you grief?’ he said.
Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller jn-4 Page 23