Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller jn-4

by Stephen Leather

  The girl stopped thrashing around and her eyes narrowed. They were less human now, totally black and featureless.

  Nightingale put the earplugs into his pocket and took out the leather roll that Mrs Steadman had given him. The girl began to thrash around as she realised what was happening. Nightingale ignored her and concentrated on undoing the braided strap. He flipped open the flap and pulled out the two shorter knives, one in each hand. He deftly swivelled them around so that the mesh spheres were in the palms of his hands and the blades were pointing down.

  His heart was racing and his breath was coming in ragged gasps. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then raised his hands above his head. His felt a searing pain at the back of his head, as if someone had stuck a burning needle into his skull. He could hear words, not through his ears but from somewhere inside his head. ‘No, no, no, no!’

  He ignored the voice in his head, steeled himself for a second, and then drove the knives down into the girl’s eyes. The blades had to be forced through and there were simultaneous loud pops as the eyeballs burst. Grey fluid squirted out and dribbled around the blades and down the girl’s cheeks. The body went into convulsions beneath him and he gripped tightly with his knees so that she couldn’t throw him off. He leaned forward and pushed down, wincing at the tearing sound that the knives made as they pushed through the skull behind the eyes and on into the brain.

  Blood gushed out of the wounds as Nightingale used his full weight to drive the knives all the way in. He stopped when the mesh spheres were flush against the eyeballs and sat back, wiping his bloody hands on the duvet.

  The Shade wasn’t screaming any more, it was making a whimpering moan muffled by the gag. Nightingale tried not to think about what he was doing. He fumbled for the third knife. The big one. He took it in both hands, the small figure of Christ protruding from the V formed by his crossed thumbs.

  He looked down, trying to work out where the heart was. The angle was wrong, so he shuffled back, keeping his knees tight against her legs.

  The moaning intensified and Nightingale wished that he’d left the earplugs in because the sound was painful, but it was too late to remedy that now. The headache had intensified and his brain felt as if it was expanding and pressing against his skull. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the killing thrust.

  The girl began to lift herself up, then she fell back, still moaning. She did it again and again, as if she was doing abdominal crunches, up and down, faster and faster. Her hair was sticky with blood and the grey stuff that had oozed from her ruptured eyeballs, and the gooey mess trickled down her face and over the duct tape. Nightingale forced himself to ignore the fact that it was a girl he was about to kill. Bella Harper was already dead. The being below him wasn’t a nine-year-old girl, it was an evil entity bent on destruction.

  He raised the knife above his head, mentally rehearsed the Latin phrase that Mrs Steadman had given him, then brought the knife down, hard and fast. It pierced her skin and slid easily between the second and third rib, and then he felt resistance as it touched the heart. He spat out the words as he pushed the knife down, and he felt it pop through the heart muscle and blood squirted around the blade and soaked into the Hello Kitty nightdress. He pushed harder, still repeating the Latin incantation, then changed his grip and pushed down with the palms of his hands, driving the knife down as far as it would go.

  As he finished the incantation, the girl went suddenly still. As Nightingale watched, her hands unclenched and an audible sigh escaped from between her lips. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It was done. The Shade was dead. And so, finally, was Bella Harper.

  94

  Nightingale let himself into his flat and hurried down the hallway to the kitchen. He knew that the best thing for stress was hot sweet tea, but what he wanted was alcohol to dull the pain, the purer the better. He had several bottles of Corona in his fridge but that wasn’t strong enough for what he wanted. There was a bottle of Russian vodka in the icebox and he took it out, unscrewed the top and drank from it. He took three gulps before it began to burn his throat and he gasped.

  He half filled a tumbler with vodka then popped the tab of a can of Coke and poured that in. He took the tumbler, the Coke can and the vodka bottle into his sitting room and put them on the table by the window. The Ouija board was still there, surrounded by the five candles.

  He took a long drink of vodka and Coke and began pacing around the room. His mind was whirling and he found it impossible to concentrate. All he could think about was the knives going into Bella’s eyes and the way her body had gone into convulsions when he’d thrust the final knife into her heart.

  He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and then took another gulp of vodka and Coke. He wanted to get drunk, so drunk that he wouldn’t remember what he’d done. His stomach lurched and he fought the urge to vomit.

  He pulled his mobile phone from his raincoat pocket. He wanted to talk to somebody. Jenny maybe. Or Robbie. But what he could tell them? And if he told them the truth, what would they say? He tossed the phone onto the sofa, then took off his raincoat and draped it over the back of a chair. He drained his glass and grabbed the vodka bottle for a refill.

  As he sloshed vodka into the glass he noticed movement on the Ouija board. He frowned and stared down at the planchette. It was vibrating. He shook his head, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. But there was no doubt, the planchette was juddering. As he watched it began to move slowly across the board. Nightingale held his breath, the vodka bottle and glass forgotten. The planchette moved slowly but surely in a smooth motion until it reached the word GOODBYE. Then it stopped dead. Nightingale felt a cold breeze on the back of his neck and he shivered. ‘Goodbye, Bella,’ he whispered, then drained his glass in one.

  95

  Nightingale came awake instantly from a dreamless sleep. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his own breathing. He heard a police siren far off in the distance, but that wasn’t what had woken him. Then he realised he wasn’t alone in the room.

  He sat up and peered into the dark corner furthest away from the window. Proserpine was standing there, her black and white collie at her side. She was wearing a long black leather coat that almost brushed the carpet and knee-length black boots with stiletto heels. Her hair was loose around her face and she had a fringe that almost covered her eyes. She glared at Nightingale malevolently. ‘You lied to me, Nightingale,’ she said, her voice a low rasping whisper.

  ‘Not really,’ he said.

  The dog growled menacingly and Proserpine jerked the chain to silence it. ‘I told you that you weren’t to go near Fairchild.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘I told you that you weren’t to kill him.’

  ‘And I didn’t.’

  There was a deep growling sound and Nightingale couldn’t tell if it was her or the dog. ‘You think you can play games with me, Nightingale?’

  Nightingale reached for his cigarettes and lit one before answering. ‘I think you choose your words carefully,’ he said. ‘And so did I. I didn’t go near Fairchild. I didn’t talk to him. And I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘You had him killed,’ she said quietly.

  ‘And that right there is why the choice of words is so darn important,’ he said. He tried to blow a smoke ring but failed miserably. ‘I had him killed. That’s not the same as killing him. So all bets are off.’

  Proserpine glared at him. ‘You paid to have him killed, that’s the same as killing him.’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘I didn’t pay a penny. In fact I didn’t even ask for it to be done. I just talked to someone who hates nonces even more than I do.’

  ‘Perry Smith?’

  ‘Gangster of this parish. He gave me the gun that I was carrying that night you stopped me. I gave him the gun back and he asked why. I told him that I couldn’t kill Fairchild. Perry said that he’d do it in a heartbeat. His kid sister was abused when sh
e was in a care home, so he’s got personal reasons for hating paedophiles.’

  ‘You told Smith that Fairchild was a paedophile?’

  ‘Which he was,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t tell him about the Order of Nine Angles, of course. Or the whole devil-worship thing. That would have muddied the water, I figured. But like I said, he offered to kill Fairchild and I didn’t try to dissuade him. So it doesn’t affect our deal and I get to keep my soul.’

  Proserpine and her dog stared at Nightingale for several seconds. ‘You think you’ve beaten me, do you?’ she said eventually.

  ‘I don’t think there are any winners or losers in this,’ said Nightingale. ‘The whole thing is a mess. But Fairchild can rot in Hell for all I care.’

  ‘He’ll be in Hell, but he won’t be rotting,’ said Proserpine. ‘He has earned his place in Hades.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Nightingale. ‘I hope you’ll all live happily ever after. Now can I get back to sleep, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me?’

  ‘You’re very sharp, Nightingale. You want to be careful you don’t end up cutting yourself.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You think you can trust Mrs Steadman, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know who I can trust these days,’ he said.

  ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ she said. She looked down at her dog and smiled. ‘Come on, let’s go play catch.’ She jerked his chain and then the room folded in on itself and there was a deafening cracking sound and the smell of burned leather and she was gone. Nightingale stubbed out what was left of his cigarette and lay down. He stared up at the ceiling for the rest of the night, unable to sleep.

  96

  Nightingale was in the shower when his mobile rang. He wrapped a towel around himself and padded into the bedroom. It was Robbie. ‘Bloody hell, mate, the bodies are piling up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Colin Stevenson has topped himself and Marcus Fairchild was killed yesterday.’

  Nightingale sat down on the bed. The roll of knives was on his dressing table. He looked at his watch. He was supposed to return them to Mrs Steadman before noon. ‘You’re sure Stevenson killed himself?’

  ‘Tablets and whisky and he left a note. He typed it, but as they found him dead on the keyboard they’re pretty sure it was him.’

  ‘Bastard,’ said Nightingale. ‘I won’t be shedding any tears over him.’

  ‘Yeah. According to what he wrote, he was just misunderstood. No one understands the love between a man and a child is the purest kind of love, all the crap that paedophiles spout to justify what they do. But there was some hard info in there. For a start, Stevenson says he was the one who got McBride to kill the kids.’

  ‘How did he manage that?’

  ‘McBride’s farmhouse is where a lot of the abuse took place, so McBride’s life would be pretty much over however it went. But Stevenson threatened him, too, said that he’d kill McBride’s nephews if he didn’t do it. Stevenson says that McBride was talking about killing himself anyway once he knew that the cops were onto them. It just took a bit of manipulation to get him to shoot the kids first.’

  ‘How did they know the cops were on to them?’

  ‘There’s a leak in the Paedophile Unit. Stevenson got a call from a phone box not far from the unit’s London base a few hours before he topped himself. They reckon the same mole tipped Stevenson off about the first investigation. All they had at the time was the name of one of the kids, but they were coming up to do interviews across the school. Stevenson and the rest figured if they could make it look like the kids had been killed by a lone disturbed gunman, the abuse investigation would die with it. And with the number of cops who seem to be involved, they might have been right. This goes right across the UK, Jack. It’s bloody huge. And by the look of it, it’s been going on for years.’

  ‘And what about Danny McBride? Did Stevenson say anything about that so-called suicide?’

  ‘Nope. Like I said, most of it was rambling self-justification. And it wasn’t helped by the fact that he’d washed the sleeping tablets down with a bottle of whisky.’

  ‘Yeah, well, like I said, good riddance to bad rubbish.’

  ‘And I’m assuming that sentiment goes for Marcus Fairchild too?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Nightingale, running a hand through his wet hair.

  ‘It’s been put down as a gangland killing,’ said Robbie.

  ‘Yeah, well, there’s a lot of that about.’

  ‘You don’t mess about, do you, Jack?’

  ‘He had it coming, Robbie. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘How did the Bella Harper thing go?’

  Nightingale didn’t say anything for a while. ‘What have you heard?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘There’s a news clampdown until the press office gets its act together. SOCO are in the house as we speak. She’s dead, right?’

  ‘She died three weeks ago,’ said Nightingale flatly.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Nightingale. ‘It wasn’t pleasant.’

  ‘And what happened? When you did it?’

  ‘It died. End of.’

  ‘And Bella died too?’

  ‘I keep telling you, she was dead already. She died in that bath and she was never coming back, no matter what I did. Robbie, you need to forget about it. Seriously.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I can do that.’

  ‘Well, you’re going to have to. I don’t want to talk about it again. Ever.’

  ‘You are sure, right?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the whole business. That whole Ouija board thing. Bella asking you to kill her. That was real, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was real, Robbie. Now please, just forget about it. Like it never happened.’

  ‘I’ll try, mate.’

  Nightingale ended the call and reached for his cigarettes. Forgetting what had happened was going to be a lot easier said than done.

  97

  Nightingale shivered as he walked into the church. Mrs Steadman was in the front pew, her head bent forward. As he sat down next to her he realised that her eyes were closed and her hands were clasped together in her lap. He sat with her in silence, looking up at the figure of Jesus in the stained-glass window. He’d smoked a cigarette in the alley outside the church but he already craved another. He tried to remember how many Marlboro he’d smoked during the night as he’d finished drinking the bottle of vodka. Ten? Twenty? He’d gone out just after midnight and bought two packs from an all-night supermarket in Queensway.

  Mrs Steadman sat back and opened her eyes. ‘It is done,’ she said, and it sounded more like a statement than a question.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s something that deserves to be thanked.’ He slid his hand into his raincoat pocket and pulled out the leather roll. He weighed it in his hand, then passed it to her.

  ‘You did a good thing, Mr Nightingale. You saved a lot of lives.’

  Nightingale shivered again. ‘I need to know something, Mrs Steadman. When the Shade died, would Bella’s soul still be around?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand you,’ she said. She slid the roll of knives into a shapeless black bag on the floor between her legs.

  ‘I was in my flat, afterwards. There was an Ouija board on the table and the planchette moved. It went to GOODBYE. I wondered …’ He shrugged, not wanting to finish the sentence. His head ached. It had been a long time since he’d suffered from a hangover, but then it had been a long time since he’d last demolished a whole bottle of vodka.

  Mrs Steadman smiled and patted him on the arm. ‘She would be moving on from the Nowhen. She must have stopped by to let you know that everything was okay. You helped her, Mr Nightingale. And she would have been grateful for that.
’

  Nightingale sighed. He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the altar. ‘I’m not sure that I can live with what I’ve done, Mrs Steadman.’

  ‘You did the right thing, Mr Nightingale.’

  ‘Even so.’ Nightingale shrugged.

  ‘I might be able to help.’

  ‘Help?’

  ‘I could make you forget. It would be as if it never happened.’

  ‘But it did happen.’

  Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘Yes, it did. And because it happened the world is a better place. But I can take away the memory.’

  Nightingale forced a smile. ‘You can do that?’

  ‘I can do pretty much anything I want,’ she said. ‘Providing my motives are pure.’

  ‘And my friend Robbie. Robbie Hoyle. He’s a detective. He knows what I did and he’s a cop so it puts him in a very difficult position. And Jenny. I think it’s best that she doesn’t remember, either.’

  Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘I can do that, too. I can remove the memory of what happened for you and for your friends.’

  ‘Then I think I’d like you to do that,’ he said.

  She tilted her head on one side. ‘It’s done,’ she said.

  ‘You’re an angel, Mrs Steadman.’

  ‘So they say, Mr Nightingale. So they say.’

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  Stephen Leather

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