Jack Nightingale 03 - Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  84

  There was nothing.

  Time seemed to have stopped and yet not stopped.

  Nightingale was there but not there.

  He wasn’t even sure if he was Nightingale.

  There was nothing to see, nothing to hear; he was just there and yet not there.

  All his thoughts were there, and all his memories. But there was no emotion. No feeling.

  Time passed.

  Or maybe it didn’t.

  He had no way of telling.

  85

  ‘Nightingale?’ A voice, but not a voice. He didn’t hear it but someone had spoken. Not spoken, exactly. There weren’t words. More like feelings. Vibrations.

  ‘Who is that?’ said Nightingale, except that he didn’t say it. There were no words.

  ‘How quickly they forget.’ It was Proserpine.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘There is no where,’ she said.

  ‘Why can’t I see you?’

  ‘Because there is nothing to see.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘No where. And no when.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘There is nothing to understand.’

  ‘Am I dead?’

  ‘Yes. And no.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Because you don’t understand. Alive and dead supposes that there is change. And that supposes time, and there is no time. You are alive and dead, born and not born.’

  ‘So I’m imagining this?’

  Proserpine laughed. ‘Would it help if you could see?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.’

  There was a flicker and then everything was white, but not the white of a snow-covered mountain or a cloud in the sky; it was the white of a television screen that was only showing static. There was no up and no down, no feeling of depth or height or any perspective. Nightingale couldn’t see anything, just white. Then she was there in front of him. Except there was no him. Just her. And her dog, on a leash.

  She smiled. She was wearing a long black leather coat that hung straight down past knee-length black boots with stiletto heels. She was wearing black lipstick and black nail varnish and silver upside-down crucifixes dangled from her ears. The dog looked up at Nightingale, its tongue lolling from the side of its mouth. But they weren’t standing on anything. They were just there.

  ‘Where am I?’

  She waved a languid hand. ‘I told you. Nowhere. Nowhen. Outside time. Outside space.’

  ‘Once before you talked about the Elsewhere. You said that’s where you went.’

  ‘This isn’t the Elsewhere,’ she said. ‘This isn’t any place.’

  ‘Limbo? Is that it?’

  ‘It has been called that.’

  ‘And how long do I stay here?’

  ‘There is no long, there is no short; there’s nothing. There’s no you. There’s just . . .’ She shrugged.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I’m not. But you said it would be easier if you could see me. So you can.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Nothing is happening. Everything just is. Or isn’t.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  She laughed. ‘I told you. I’m not.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To see how you are.’

  ‘I don’t know how I am. I don’t know anything. I remember falling. I remember hitting the ground.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ she said. ‘You don’t remember anything. Remembering suggests that there is a past and a present, but there is neither in the Nowhen. There is nothing to remember because there is no passing of time.’

  ‘But I fell.’

  ‘You are still falling. You are still getting ready to jump. And you are dead on the ground. You are all those things, Nightingale. Before, you saw them in an order. You got ready to jump. You fell. You hit the ground. But in the Nowhen there is no sequence. There just is . . .’ She smiled sadly. ‘You will never understand.’

  ‘Do I stay here for ever?’

  ‘You are already here for ever, Nightingale. Time does not exist here. I could go away and come back in ten thousand years but there would be no sense of time passing. How long do you think you have been . . .’ She shrugged. ‘. . . here?’ she finished. ‘For want of a better word.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘An hour? A day? A year? A hundred years?’

  Nightingale tried to remember. But she was right. There had been no sense of time passing.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘No,’ said Nightingale. ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘In the Nowhen nothing happens. The question is, do you stay here or do you go back or do you move on?’

  ‘Move on to where?’

  She laughed again. ‘Nightingale, if you can’t fathom the Nowhen, there’s no way you will ever understand what lies ahead of it.’ Her dog growled and she bent down and rubbed it behind the ear. ‘I know you don’t like it here, but we’ll go soon,’ she said.

  ‘You said there was no soon,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘For you there isn’t,’ she said. ‘But I follow my own rules.’

  ‘Why can’t I see myself ?’

  ‘Because there is nothing to see. We’re going round in circles.’

  ‘This is all your fault,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Fault? You want to blame someone for this?’

  ‘You sent Marcus Fairchild after me, didn’t you?’

  ‘I told you there would be three. He was one of the three.’

  ‘So why did he kill Jenny? What had she ever done to you?’

  ‘That wasn’t my doing, Nightingale. That was Lucifuge Rofocale.’

  ‘So Fairchild went behind your back?’

  ‘Lucifuge Rofocale sits on the left hand of Satan. He does what he wants to do.’ She chuckled. ‘Though you have given him a problem.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You sold your soul. You promised it to the Darkness. And then you gave your life to save another. An innocent. Which made it even worse.’

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Yes, Sophie.’

  ‘Is she okay?’

  Proserpine nodded. ‘She’s fine. Your partner caught her. All’s well with the world.’

  ‘That’s something.’

  ‘Yes, that’s something. A very big thing, as it happens. You saved her by sacrificing your life, so how can they allow you to spend eternity in Hell?’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The Light.’

  ‘God?’

  ‘Don’t go there, Nightingale. Think of it as the opposite of the Darkness. Good rather than Evil, if you like, but those labels never work, not in the grand scheme of things. But you were promised to us and now there’s doubt.’

  ‘Doubt?’

  ‘No one is sure what to do with you, Nightingale. And until a decision is reached, you stay here.’ She smiled. ‘Except there is no here. And no when.’ The dog growled. ‘Catch you later,’ she said, and disappeared. Then the whiteness vanished and there was nothing.

  86

  ‘Mr Nightingale?’ A woman’s voice. A voice that Nightingale recognised but couldn’t place. ‘Mr Nightingale? It’s me.’

  There was no remembering because Nightingale had no memory. There was nothing to remember because everything was. Or is. He was in the Nowhen, which meant there was no past and no present so there was nothing to remember. But he knew who it was. Alice Steadman.

  ‘Are you there, Mr Nightingale?’

  ‘I’m here. But I don’t know where here is.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I don’t know. How long have I been here?’

  ‘No time at all, really,’ said Mrs Steadman.

  ‘It feels like for ever.’

  ‘It is. In the Nowhen everything is for ever.’

  ‘What’s happening to me?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing can happen i
n the Nowhen.’

  ‘I don’t understand any of this. Am I dead?’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘What?’

  Reality, or what passed for reality in the Nowhen, flickered. Nightingale was sitting at a table and Mrs Steadman sat across from him, holding a teapot.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ She was dressed in black: a glossy silk shirt over black knitted tights and a string of black pearls around her neck. She smiled at him and nodded like a pecking bird. ‘It’s still hot. The tea.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nightingale. He looked around. They were in the room behind her shop in Camden. Except he knew that was impossible.

  ‘This isn’t real, is it?’ he said.

  Mrs Steadman smiled benignly. ‘Is anything real?’ she said.

  ‘Where am I? Where is this place?’

  ‘You’re asking me to describe something that can’t be described,’ she said. ‘You don’t have the terms of reference.’

  ‘But I’m dead?’

  ‘There is no dead, Mr Nightingale. When you hit the ground, you died. Then. But you are still alive before you fell.’

  ‘I didn’t fall. I jumped.’

  She smiled. ‘That’s right. You jumped.’

  ‘And now I’m – what? A ghost?’

  ‘No. You’re not a ghost.’

  ‘I’m not really here, am I?’

  Mrs Steadman looked around the room. ‘Here? No, you’re not here. But I am. I just thought this might be easier for you.’

  ‘What’s happening, Mrs Steadman?’

  ‘What’s happening? Well, your future is being discussed. Of course in the Nowhen there is no future as there is no past and no present, so the choice is either to leave you where you are or to come to a mutually acceptable decision. You see, you’re an anomaly, Mr Nightingale, and the universe really doesn’t like anomalies.’

  ‘How am I an anomaly?’

  ‘Because you sold your soul, Mr Nightingale. Even though I warned you about getting involved with the Darkness, you went and sold your soul.’ She wagged an admonishing finger at him. ‘You should have listened to me.’

  ‘Why are you talking to me? Who sent you?’

  ‘Someone has to explain to you what’s happening, and it was felt that any explanation was better coming from someone you know. And hopefully someone you can trust.’

  ‘And who decides what happens to me?’

  ‘Negotiations are taking place,’ she said.

  ‘Between who?’

  ‘Between those who want you to burn in Hell for eternity, and those who think you deserve a second chance.’

  ‘And is that possible? A second chance?’

  She smiled and nodded. ‘It has happened before, yes.’

  ‘And when will I know?’

  Mrs Steadman shrugged. ‘You’ll know when I know,’ she said.

  Reality, or what passed for reality in the Nowhen, flickered again.

  Nightingale was alone.

  Time passed.

  Or didn’t.

  He had no way of telling.

  87

  ‘Are you happy now, Nightingale? Is that what you wanted? An eternity of nothingness?’

  Nightingale didn’t recognise the voice, but then strictly speaking there was no voice to recognise. He didn’t actually hear the words; they were simply there.

  ‘Who is that?’ said Nightingale, except that he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t even a thought, truth be told. Just a feeling, a vibration in the nothingness that was the Nowhen.

  There was a flash of light and then he was standing on a windswept cliff looking out over an ocean; the waves were flecked with white froth and dark storm clouds were gathering overhead.

  ‘Your soul was supposed to be mine, Nightingale. Mine to do with as I want.’

  Nightingale turned round. It was Lucifuge Rofocale, wearing his crimson jacket with gold buttons and gleaming black jodhpurs. He was holding a black riding crop and he swished it from side to side as he glared up at Nightingale with blood-red eyes.

  ‘I know that,’ said Nightingale. ‘We had a deal. This has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You never said you were going to kill yourself for the girl.’

  ‘That’s not what happened,’ said Nightingale. ‘I wanted to save her. And I did.’

  Lucifuge Rofocale stamped his foot. ‘You sacrificed yourself for her and now look what’s happened.’ He raised the riding crop as if he was about to strike Nightingale across the face and sneered when he saw Nightingale flinch.

  Nightingale raised his hands to protect his face. ‘It wasn’t planned,’ he said.

  ‘Planned or not you’ve screwed everything up.’

  ‘So take my soul and have done with it,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t care any more.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? It’s not my decision any longer. It’s out of my hands.’

  ‘This isn’t my fault,’ said Nightingale. ‘We had a deal. You kept your end of the bargain and I did what I had to do. I had no idea it was going to end up like this.’ He looked out across the sea. ‘Whatever “this” is. I still don’t understand what’s happening.’

  Lucifuge Rofocale glared at Nightingale. ‘This was what you intended all along,’ he growled. ‘You tricked me.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You knew that if you went back and died to save the girl then all bets would be off.’

  ‘I’m not as smart as that. I just did what I had to do.’ He patted his pockets, looking for his pack of Marlboro.

  Lucifuge Rofocale cackled and waved his crop, and a lit cigarette appeared between the index and second fingers of Nightingale’s right hand.

  Nightingale stared at the cigarette in disbelief, then raised it to his mouth and inhaled gratefully.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, Nightingale. I don’t know who’s going to get your soul. But I know one thing as surely as if it was carved in stone. I will make your life, or what passes for your life, a misery for all eternity.’

  Nightingale blew smoke. ‘Sticks and stones,’ he said.

  Lucifuge Rofocale roared and shimmered and there was a loud crack and a rancid stench, then something huge and scaly loomed over Nightingale. A massive claw whipped out, just missing his stomach but ripping through his sleeve. The monster’s jaws opened and Nightingale saw rows of sharp teeth and a forked tongue covered in purple scales, and then a wave of foul-smelling smoke washed over him.

  ‘Like I said, sticks and stones,’ said Nightingale. ‘This place doesn’t exist. I’m in the Nowhen. Neither here nor there. So there’s nothing you can do to hurt me.’ He stared up at the monster, his eyes watering from its sulphurous breath. ‘If I’m wrong, do whatever you want and do it now because I’m past caring.’

  The monster roared and a cloud of yellow smoke engulfed Nightingale. The giant claw lashed out again, missing his face by inches, but Nightingale grinned because he knew he was right.

  ‘Screw you,’ he said, and turned his back on Lucifuge Rofocale. ‘I’ll see you in Hell. Or not.’

  Everything went white again and Nightingale was alone.

  Time passed.

  Or didn’t.

  88

  ‘Mr Nightingale?’

  ‘Yes?’

  There was nothing to see. Just white. Or an absence of white. Then Mrs Steadman was standing in front of him, smiling benignly and dressed in black.

  ‘A decision has been reached.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You are to go back.’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘To where you were before.’

  ‘And then what happens?’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  ‘And who has my soul?’

  ‘You do.’ She smiled. ‘Take better care of it this time.’

  ‘Mrs Steadman?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There’s no need to thank me, Mr
Nightingale. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Steadman.’

  89

  Nightingale was falling. The wind whipped at his hair and roared past his ears and he saw Sophie and he saw Hoyle, one foot on a large plant pot, just about to launch himself from the next-door terrace. Time seemed to have stopped. Hoyle’s eyes were wide and staring, his right hand stretched out in front of him, his fingers splayed. Directly below Nightingale, Sophie was kissing the top of her doll’s head, her legs sticking under the balcony railing.

  He twisted in the air and reached out with his right hand.

  Hoyle scrambled across the terrace, his arms outstretched.

  Nightingale pushed Sophie back with his right hand just as Hoyle reached her and she fell backwards into his arms.

  Nightingale hit the railing so hard that it knocked the breath from his lungs but he managed to hang on with both hands.

  Hoyle put Sophie on the ground and rushed over to the railing. He reached down, grabbed Nightingale’s collar and hauled him up. Nightingale’s Hush Puppies scraped against the wall and then he fell over the railing and collapsed onto the terrace, gasping for breath.

  Sophie was sitting with her back to the wall. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ croaked Nightingale. ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Jack, don’t ever try a stunt like that again,’ said Hoyle.

  ‘It was a one-off,’ said Nightingale, rolling onto his back. He ruffled Sophie’s hair. ‘Are you all right, Sophie?’

  Sophie nodded but didn’t say anything. She began to sob quietly.

  ‘It’s okay now,’ said Nightingale.

  Hoyle picked her up and hugged her.

  ‘No,’ she sobbed into Hoyle’s chest. ‘It’s not okay.’

  Nightingale got to his feet and brushed himself down. Hoyle looked at him over the top of Sophie’s head. ‘Social Services,’ mouthed Nightingale, and Hoyle nodded.

  While Hoyle took care of Sophie, Nightingale took the stairs down to the ground floor. He lit a cigarette as soon as he was outside.

  Colin Duggan was standing by a patrol car talking into his radio. He finished the call as Nightingale walked over. ‘Please tell me that wasn’t you playing Batman up there,’ he said.

  Nightingale offered him his pack of Marlboro and Duggan took one. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ said Nightingale, lighting the cigarette for him.

  ‘The girl’s okay?’