Jack Nightingale 03 - Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  ‘You’ve seen me all right in the past,’ said Nightingale. ‘And I get the feeling that money isn’t a problem for you.’

  Wainwright looked down the rows of display cases. ‘He was one hell of a collector, old man Gosling,’ he said.

  ‘Pretty much everything he had went on what you see down here.’

  ‘And the house, of course? This must have cost a few million.’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘It’s mortgaged to the hilt. That’s why I’m selling the books.’

  ‘Why don’t I buy the lot off you?’ said Wainwright.

  ‘How do we work out a price?’ asked Nightingale.

  The American sat down and leaned across to tap cigar ash into a crystal ashtray. ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘That’s a good question.’ Nightingale sighed as he looked around the basement. ‘But I’ve no idea what they’re worth.’

  ‘They’re difficult to value, that’s for sure,’ said Wainwright. ‘To someone who doesn’t know their significance, they’re just books. But to someone like your father, or me, they’re close to priceless.’ He swung his feet up onto the coffee table. ‘I could buy them by the yard.’

  ‘That might work,’ laughed Nightingale.

  ‘The thing is, a single book could be worth hundreds of thousands or it could be worth nothing. The problem is going to be sorting the wheat from the chaff.’

  ‘Yeah, my assistant’s been helping me catalogue them but it’s slow going. And all we can do is make a note of the title and author.’

  ‘You said you’ve done a couple of hundred?’ He leaned back and blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling.

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Yeah, there’s a list somewhere.’ He pushed himself up off the sofa and went over to a roll-top desk. He picked up a yellow legal pad and gave it to the American.

  Wainwright studied the list and nodded approvingly. ‘Lots of good stuff here,’ he said. He tapped his finger on one of the titles. ‘You were asking about communing with the departed.’

  ‘I was?’

  ‘Talking to the dead. There’s a book here that’ll give you the basics. Written by a guy called Daniel Dunglas Home. He was a Scotch but he made his name in the States in the nineteenth century.’

  ‘Scottish,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Scotch is the drink. The people are Scottish. Or Scots.’

  Wainwright laughed. ‘Sidewalk, pavement, lift, elevator, Scots, Scottish, it never ends, does it?’ He tapped the list again. ‘He wrote a book shortly before he died. It was a very small print run so I’ve never seen a copy but I’m told it’s packed full of info about séances and trance states. He was very well thought of, and they never caught him faking. Have a look at his book. It might answer your questions.’ He looked down at the list, then back at the rows of books. ‘You’ve done what, one per cent? It’s going to take you forever to do the lot.’ He tossed the pad onto the coffee table as Nightingale sat down again.

  ‘Yeah, it’s a pain too. Most of them don’t have titles on the spines. We have to take them down, copy the details, and put them back. And a lot of them aren’t in English.’

  Wainwright leaned forward. ‘How about this?’ he said. ‘You agree to sell me the lot. I’ll send in some of my people to value them, people who know the real value of books like this. You’ll have to trust me, but I can promise you that you won’t be ripped off.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘You’ve played fair with me so far, Joshua,’ he said. ‘I’m okay with that.’

  The American held out his hand and Nightingale shook it. ‘Pleasure doing business with you, Jack,’ he said. He sat back and spread his arms across the back of the sofa. ‘Might take a day or two; the people I’m thinking about are based in New Orleans. I’ll send over my jet. Can they stay here while they’re doing the inventory?’

  ‘There’re plenty of rooms but nothing in the way of furniture,’ said Nightingale. ‘But if they’re okay to rough it I’ll bring in a few camp beds and they can sleep down here. The kitchen’s working and I can put some food in the fridge.’

  Wainwright waved his cigar at the lines of display cases that ran down the centre of the basement. ‘What about the rest of the stuff down here? What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘To be honest, Joshua, I don’t even know what half of it is. There are crystal balls, knives, vials, bones, relics. Weird stuff, but Gosling must have known what he was doing because he spent every penny he had on this collection.’

  ‘And you’re not thinking of following in his footsteps?’

  Nightingale laughed but it came out more as a harsh bark that echoed around the basement like a pistol shot. ‘Me taking up devil-worship? After everything I’ve been through?’

  ‘You’re not tempted?’

  ‘Tempted to do what? To sell my soul for money and power?’ He held up his cigarette. ‘Give me a pack of Marlboro, a bottle of Corona and a United game on TV and I’m a happy bunny.’

  ‘No doubt, but what if you could own United? And watch the game from the director’s box? What if it gave you the freedom to do whatever you want, whenever you want?’

  ‘Are you trying to tempt me, Joshua?’ said Nightingale, narrowing his eyes. ‘Is that what’s going on here?’

  The American chuckled and shook his head. ‘You choose your own path, Jack. There has to be free will. I’m just saying, with all this at hand, you’d be a master of the dark arts in no time.’

  Nightingale raised an eyebrow. ‘The dark arts? Are you taking the piss?’

  Wainwright waved his cigar above his head. ‘I just want you to be sure about what you’re doing here. Your father spent a lifetime assembling this collection and I wouldn’t want you regretting anything down the line.’

  ‘I just want to get back to my life,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was happy before I got this house and all this crap. Okay, I’m not exactly living the high life but I have enough to get by and enjoy my job.’

  ‘You enjoy being a gumshoe? Following two-timing husbands and going through trash cans?’

  ‘There’s more to it than that,’ said Nightingale. ‘But yeah, I enjoy doing what I do. I was happier being a cop, but as a private eye I still get to bring down the occasional bad guy.’

  ‘Is that what you’re worried about? You think that being a Satanist means you can’t be one of the good guys?’

  Nightingale stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I kind of figured that was the case, yeah.’

  ‘It’s not about choosing sides. It’s about acquiring power. Power and knowledge. It’s what you do with it that counts. And that’s your choice. Free will, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, someone else said something similar to me a while back. She said that there was no black magic or white magic, that it was all like electricity and it was up to you whether you used it for good or bad.’

  ‘She knew what she was talking about,’ said Wainwright.

  ‘Yeah, but she wasn’t talking about doing deals with devils,’ said Nightingale. ‘In fact, she was totally against that.’

  Wainwright waved at the books behind him. ‘The books you’ve got there aren’t all about devils and demons. That’s only a small fraction of what the black arts are about.’

  ‘Joshua, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Nightingale leaned forward. ‘Have you done a deal? With a devil?’

  Wainwright threw back his head and roared with laughter. Nightingale lit another cigarette as he waited for the American to stop laughing. ‘First of all, if I had done I couldn’t tell you,’ said Wainwright eventually. ‘There’s a little thing called a non-disclosure agreement that means my lips would be sealed. And second of all, it’s none of your darn business.’

  Nightingale held up his hands. ‘No offence,’ he said.

  Wainwright laughed again. ‘None taken,’ he said. ‘You’re new to this so I’ll cut you some slack. But asking who’s done what deal with who just isn�
��t done.’

  Nightingale took a long pull on his cigarette.

  ‘So do you want to sell all the artefacts too?’ asked Wainwright.

  ‘Sure. They’re no use to me.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying, Jack. Maybe it could be of use to you.’ He stood up and went over to one of the display cases. It was full of earthenware pots, each one with strange markings on it. Wainwright nodded at the pots. ‘Can I . . .?’

  ‘Sure, knock yourself out,’ said Nightingale.

  Wainwright opened the cabinet door and took out a dark brown urn. He eased off the top, sniffed it cautiously and then frowned.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Nightingale.

  Wainwright studied the markings on the side of the urn. ‘No idea, but these are runes, so I’m guessing it’s some herb used in Druid magic.’ He put the urn back and took out another one. ‘These pots are hundreds of years old, by the look of them.’ He sniffed the contents of the second urn and then put it back. He walked over to the next display case, which was full of crystal balls of different sizes and colours. Wainwright peered at the balls.

  ‘Be careful with them,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘They’re only crystal balls,’ said Wainwright.

  ‘Friend of mine looked in one and saw his own death.’

  Wainwright straightened up and looked over at Nightingale. ‘Which one?’

  ‘It smashed,’ said Nightingale. ‘He saw himself being run over by a cab. He dropped it and it broke.’

  ‘They shouldn’t smash. They’re solid crystal.’

  ‘This one did. Smashed to smithereens, it was.’

  ‘And you’re saying what? He saw his own death?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s what happened.’

  ‘That’s unusual,’ said the American, rubbing his chin.

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘No, I mean that’s not how crystals work. Not normally. They’re tools for mediums or fortune tellers; if you don’t have the skills you’re just staring into glass.’

  ‘I’m just telling you what happened.’

  ‘He was a good friend?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘We were cops together. My best mate.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack. Is it him you want to talk to?’

  ‘No. He was the one I tried the Ouija board with but that didn’t work out. It’s a young girl I want to talk to now. Actually, I think she’s been trying to communicate with me but she can’t quite manage it. I thought there was maybe something I could do that might make it easier for her.’

  Next to the cabinet containing the crystal balls was something that had been covered with a black velvet cloth. It was a few inches taller than the American. Wainwright pointed at it with his cigar. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Go ahead. I’ve no idea what it is.’

  Wainwright pulled the cloth away. It was a mirror framed with old wood that had gone black with age. The frame was made up of dozens of carved animals, but animals the like of which Nightingale had never seen.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Wainwright, peering around the back of the mirror. ‘Do you have any idea what this is, Jack?’

  ‘A mirror?’

  ‘Not just any mirror. A black mirror. Some call it a dark mirror. And this is a beauty.’ He draped the cloth over a cabinet then took a long drag on his cigar and blew a cloud of bluish smoke up at the ceiling.

  Nightingale walked over to the American. ‘What’s so special about it?’

  Wainwright gripped the sides of the mirror. It was heavy and he grunted as he turned it around. The back of the mirror was a single piece of aged oak, held in place with brass screws. The American rapped the wood with his knuckles. ‘The difference is behind here,’ he said. ‘In a regular mirror, the back is silvered. But for a dark mirror you use black paint, or black tape. Either will do the job. But for a real Satanic dark mirror they use paint containing blood. Human blood.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In England they used to use the blood from a corpse taken from the gallows, the fresher the better.’ He rapped the back of the mirror again. ‘The age of this, I’d guess that’s what was used here.’

  ‘A dead man’s blood?’

  ‘Not just any dead man, Jack. To work it has to be blood taken from a criminal who’s been executed. And the worse the criminal, the better. Child-killers and serial rapists would be top of the list, pretty much.’

  ‘And what would you use it for?’

  ‘A regular dark mirror is used for scrying.’

  ‘Scrying?’

  Wainwright grinned. ‘I keep forgetting what an innocent you are in all this,’ he said. ‘Scrying is all about using your inner eye to perceive or to discern what’s normally hidden.’ He laughed. ‘Sounds like mumbo-jumbo, but it’s not. It’s almost a science and anyone can do it with practice. Witches tend to use crystal balls or dark mirrors, Druids stare at pools of dark water, and I know of some Tibetan monks who stare at a wet fingernail.’

  Nightingale looked at the American, trying to work out if he was joking or not but he seemed to be serious.

  ‘The thing you look at is almost irrelevant. Scrying is about opening up the inner eye. It’s all about gazing without focusing. Allowing the inner eye to see.’

  ‘Like fortune telling?’

  ‘You can look forward or back. See something that has already happened or predict the future. But a dark mirror like this is more for communing with spirits.’

  ‘The dead, you mean?’

  ‘Spirits that have passed on. Sure.’ He ran his hand over the intricate carving. ‘How much do you want for this?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I suppose I could put it on eBay and see what the going rate is for a dark mirror.’

  ‘How about I give you fifty grand?’

  ‘Dollars?’

  ‘Is that you bargaining?’

  Nightingale laughed. ‘Fifty grand is fine,’ he said. ‘I guess you don’t want to take it with you?’

  ‘I’ll have it collected.’ He went over to a display case that was full of ceremonial knives, some of them with dried blood on the blades. Wainwright bent down and peered at the knives on one of the lower shelves. ‘He had an eye for quality, your father.’

  Nightingale stroked the carvings down the side of the mirror. There was a snake, a lizard, and something with six legs and menacing claws. The wood was cold to the touch, as if it was sucking the heat from his flesh. The mirror was as dark as a pool of oil, still wreathed in the smoke from Wainwright’s cigar. As Nightingale stared into the mirror, he realised that the smoke was on the other side of the glass. He reached out and realised with a jolt that there was no reflection: he was just reaching towards darkness and smoke.

  ‘Jack!’

  Nightingale jumped as Wainwright’s hand fell on his shoulder. Wainwright pulled him away from the mirror.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Don’t go touching the surface.’

  ‘It’s only a mirror.’

  Wainwright snorted. ‘It’s more than that, Jack. And you don’t go touching the glass.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because a dark mirror is a delicate balance of the past, the present and the future. The glass is the interface, and if you touch it you can ruin it.’ He picked up the cloth and carefully draped it over the mirror.

  ‘How would I go about using it?’

  ‘To do what, specifically?’

  ‘What you said. Talk to the dead.’

  Wainwright’s eyes narrowed. ‘This isn’t a toy, Jack.’

  ‘I know it’s not a toy. I was just thinking that maybe I could use it to contact that girl. The girl I was talking about.’

  ‘Scrying is one thing; contacting the dead is a whole different ball game.’

  ‘I’m a big boy, Joshua. I can take care of myself.’

  ‘Don’t get cocky. Just because you’ve called up a couple of demons doesn’t mean you’re an expert in t
he black arts. A black mirror like this is more than just a scrying tool. Under the right circumstances it can be a portal.’

  ‘A portal?’

  ‘Jack, this is way above your pay grade.’ He gestured at the mirror. ‘You don’t want to be messing with it unless you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘I’m just curious,’ said Nightingale. ‘You made it sound like something I could use.’

  ‘Not if you don’t know what you’re doing. It’s like the Ouija board. In the right hands it’s a useful tool, but treat it like a toy and you’re asking for trouble.’

  ‘Been there, done that,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Yeah, well, the Ouija board is one thing; a dark mirror like this is way more dangerous. Spirits might be able to manifest themselves through a Ouija board and cause mischief, but if they can get to a dark mirror and the person using it doesn’t know what he’s doing, they can use it to gain access to this world.’

  ‘Pass through it, you mean?’

  ‘It has been known. A mirror like this isn’t for amateurs, Jack.’

  ‘So tell me about scrying.’

  Wainwright shook his head. ‘Don’t even think about using it to scry,’ he said. He went back to the sofas and sat down. He stubbed out what was left of his cigar in the ashtray there.

  Nightingale sat down on the other sofa. ‘When my friend picked up the crystal ball, he saw himself being hit by a car.’

  ‘That’s plain weird,’ said Wainwright. ‘Like I said, that’s not how crystal balls work. They don’t push out information like that. They’re a means to an end, that’s all. A way of focusing your concentration.’ He grinned. ‘You want a master class in the crystal ball, do you?’ He waved at the display cabinets. ‘Go and get one and I’ll show you how it works.’

  Nightingale got up and went over to the cabinet containing the balls. He opened the door and took out a medium-sized one, about the size of a large apple. It was sitting on a silver filigree stand and he took the ball and the stand over to the seating area. He sat down and put the ball on its stand, then looked expectantly at Wainwright.

  ‘Good choice,’ said Wainwright. He looked around the basement. ‘Is there any way of dimming the lights?’