Miller nodded at Martin and Ronnie and they extended the first and second fingers of both hands and moved them under Joanne’s body, one under her shoulder, one under her hip.
‘Jack, use two fingers under each leg,’ whispered Miller. ‘See how they’re doing it? First and second finger only.’
Nightingale moved around so that he could put two fingers under each knee.
Miller put his hands under Joanne’s neck and then he nodded again. They all lifted her into the air. She was surprisingly light, Nightingale realised, and with no effort they lifted her three feet off the floor.
‘Sophie Underwood,’ said Miller.
‘Sophie Underwood,’ repeated Martin.
Ronnie said her name and all three men looked at Nightingale. He swallowed. His mouth had gone so dry that it hurt. ‘Sophie Underwood,’ he croaked.
The men slowly lowered Joanne back onto the purple cloth. Miller stood over her, looking down at her face. ‘Sophie Underwood, can you hear me?’ he said.
Joanne took a deep breath.
‘Sophie. Are you there?’
‘Where am I?’ said Joanne. Nightingale froze as he realised that it wasn’t the woman’s voice. It was the voice of a young girl.
‘Sophie?’ he said. Miller flashed him a warning look.
‘What are you doing, Jack? Where are you?’
‘You are Sophie Underwood?’ asked Miller.
‘Who are you?’ said Joanne. Nightingale was now sure that it was Sophie’s voice.
‘We’re here to help you talk to Jack,’ said Miller.
Smoke from the candles was beginning to swirl around Miller and Nightingale was finding it hard to breathe.
‘Jack, you don’t know what you’ve done.’
The smoke was thicker now and all the men were coughing. Martin wiped his eyes.
‘Run, Jack,’ said Sophie, her voice shaking. ‘Run before it’s too late.’
Lightning flashed, even though Nightingale knew that was impossible because they were indoors. It was followed almost immediately by a crash of thunder that shook the house. Dust showered down from the roof. The candles were flickering and the smoke was now whirling around in a grey vortex.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Ronnie. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Miller, his voice trembling.
‘Jack, run!’ screamed Sophie, and then Joanne arched her back and her whole body went into spasm.
There was another bolt of lightning and a loud crack and then something appeared in the vortex, something big, its skin glittering as if it was covered in scales. The figure took a step forward and the floor shuddered.
Martin was backing away, his mouth moving soundlessly. Miller had crouched down next to Joanne and was holding his hands over his face. The woman was still in spasm, her feet and hands drumming on the floor.
The creature, whatever it was, roared and the foul stench made Nightingale gag. Martin took another step back, his arms flailing.
‘Stay in the pentagram!’ shouted Nightingale but Martin wasn’t listening.
Ronnie went down on his knees and buried his face in Joanne’s lap.
Lightning flashed again. Martin stumbled backwards and stepped out of the pentagram. He managed to twist around and regain his footing and then he ran to the hatch. He threw himself to the floor, his hands grasping for the handle.
‘Martin, no!’ shouted Nightingale.
Miller was coughing and spluttering. Joanne’s spasms had stopped and she had opened her eyes. Ronnie was murmuring the Lord’s Prayer, his face still buried in Joanne’s lap.
The smoke was so thick now that all Nightingale could see was a massive shape moving slowly towards Martin. Martin turned, his mouth wide open in panic.
‘Martin, get back here now!’ shouted Nightingale. ‘It can’t cross the pentagram!’
Martin tried to get to his feet but then something flicked through the smoke and struck him across the throat. Blood sprayed across the attic wall and Martin fell back, hitting the floor hard.
‘Stop!’ screamed Nightingale. He pushed the hood back off his head and pointed at the massive shape, now just a dark blur in the choking fog that filled the attic.
There was a deafening roar from within the fog and a wall of heat washed over Nightingale. The floorboards creaked as it moved towards Nightingale and he caught a glimpse of glistening scales and a claw with curved talons.
Ronnie took a look over his shoulder and began to scream the Lord’s Prayer at the top of his voice before burying his head in Joanne’s lap again.
The air was so thick and acrid that every breath burned Nightingale’s lungs and tears were running down his cheeks.
Hot foul-smelling air blasted across his face again and whatever it was roared so loudly that the sound seemed to push against his chest and force him back. His right foot caught against Joanne’s hip and he struggled to regain his balance.
Nightingale took a deep breath and then screamed at the shape in the fog. ‘Reverto per pacis quod per totus festinatio ex unde venit!’ The shape froze, then what passed for a head turned towards him. Nightingale felt another blast of heat across his face and he threw up his hands up to protect his eyes. The shape growled and moved closer to the pentagram. Nightingale pointed at the shape and screamed again. ‘Reverto per pacis quod per totus festinatio ex unde venit!’
The creature, or whatever it was, threw back its head and roared, then space folded in on itself and it was gone. Nightingale went down on one knee, gasping for breath. His ears were ringing and his eyes were filled with tears. His lungs were burning and he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. The smoke was already starting to clear.
Martin was lying against the wall near the hatch, his hands clutched to his throat. Blood was trickling between his fingers. He tried to speak but frothy blood spewed down his chin. Nightingale hurried over to him and knelt down by his side.
Miller appeared at Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘Get me a piece of cloth,’ Nightingale said to him as he gently pulled Martin’s hands away from his neck. Blood immediately began to spurt and Nightingale pressed the hands back to stem the flow.
‘Keep your hands there until we get a dressing,’ Nightingale said to him. Martin didn’t appear to hear him but did as he was told.
Joanne got up on her hands and knees and began crawling towards them.
Nightingale knew that they needed an ambulance but his self-preservation instincts kicked in and he realised that it would be a bad idea to make the 999 call on his own mobile.
‘Does anyone have a mobile?’ he shouted.
‘Downstairs,’ said Miller.
Nightingale turned around to talk to Joanne. ‘Joanne, are you okay?’
She nodded and pushed herself up, using the wall to steady herself.
‘Get downstairs now and phone an ambulance. Tell them it’s a throat wound with heavy bleeding.’
Joanne hesitated and looked over at Miller.
‘Joanne, go!’ shouted Nightingale.
As she moved by them and pulled up the hatch, Miller ripped a piece from the bottom of his robe and thrust it at Nightingale. ‘Will this do?’
Nightingale took it and folded the material into a pad. He looked at Martin. ‘Listen to me, Martin. I’m going to need you to take your hands away, just for a second.’ He held the wad of material in front of the man’s face. ‘Then I’m going to press this against the wound. It’ll do a better job of stemming the blood flow.’
Joanne pushed the ladder down and lowered herself out of the attic. Nightingale gave her a quick look. She was scared and she was in shock but she was in control of herself. The last thing he needed was for her to run out of the house without calling for an ambulance. She caught his look and flashed him a nervous smile and he realised she was okay.
Nightingale looked back at Martin. His eyes were glassy and he was breathing quickly and shallowly, like a cornered animal. His hands were drenched in blood and there
was bloody froth pulsing from between his lips. ‘Swallow, Martin,’ said Nightingale. ‘Get the blood out of your mouth.’
Martin did as he was told.
‘Good man,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now, I’m going to count to three. When I get to three I need you to take your hands away. I’ll press this dressing against the wound and then you can put your hands back and hold it. Do you understand?’
Martin nodded fearfully.
‘Good man. One, two, three.’ When he said ‘three’ Nightingale used his left hand to loosen Martin’s grip, and as the hands moved away Nightingale slapped the wad of material against the wound. Martin’s hands scrabbled to hold the cloth in place. ‘It’s okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘Just stay calm.’
Ronnie crawled over. ‘Is he okay?’ He was breathing heavily and his face was florid.
‘We think so,’ said Miller.
‘Can I help?’
‘Can you go down and make sure that Joanne’s called the ambulance?’ said Nightingale.
Ronnie grunted, crawled over to the hatch and climbed down the ladder.
Nightingale looked over at Miller. ‘That thing that appeared,’ he said. ‘Has that ever happened before?’
Miller shook his head. ‘Never.’
‘Any idea what it was?’
‘A demon,’ said Miller. ‘No doubt about it. But it wasn’t anything to do with what we did. We don’t summon devils, we talk to spirits.’ He put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. ‘He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?’
Nightingale could hear the desperation in Miller’s voice. ‘He’ll be fine,’ he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. He looked at Martin. The man was in shock, his eyes wide and staring. Nightingale put his face closer to the injured man’s. ‘Listen to me: you’re going to be all right. If a major vessel had been cut you’d be dead already. Breathe slowly, swallow what blood you can and be calm. You can get through this. Don’t try to speak, just blink twice if you understand.’
The man blinked twice, a look of fear in his eyes.
‘There’s an ambulance on the way. Just don’t panic. It looks and feels a lot worse than it is. That cloth is stemming the blood flow, so just concentrate on not choking and you’ll be okay. Understand?’
Martin blinked twice.
‘Make sure that he keeps the pressure on, firm but not too firm,’ Nightingale said to Miller. ‘The ambulance won’t be long.’
‘You’re sure he’s going to be okay?’
‘If you keep the pressure on, he’ll be all right. He’s lost a pint or so of blood, but he can spare that. I’ve seen worse.’
Miller nodded but Nightingale could see that he didn’t believe him.
‘How did you do that?’ asked Miller. ‘How did you get that thing to go away?’
‘I’ve had some experience of dealing with them,’ said Nightingale. ‘The words I used are what you say to send back a devil that you’ve summoned, so I just hoped it would work for an unwanted visitor. I was lucky.’
Miller nodded. ‘We all were.’ He shuddered.
The ladder rattled and Ronnie appeared. He’d taken off his mask and robe. ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ he said. He pulled himself up into the attic.
Nightingale stood up. ‘I’m off,’ he said.
‘You’re not staying?’ said Miller.
‘The cops and I aren’t on good terms at the moment. It’s best they don’t know I was here.’ He clapped Miller on the shoulder. ‘Sorry about this.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Miller.
Nightingale left them to it, knowing that Miller was wrong. It almost certainly was his fault. He lit a cigarette as he left the house and walked towards his MGB. As he climbed into the car he heard a siren, heading his way.
48
Nightingale drove back to Bayswater, parked his car in his lock-up and was heading back to his flat when he remembered that he didn’t have any beer left in his fridge. He walked along to the Prince Alfred pub and ordered a Corona. The barmaid was just putting the bottle down in front of him when his mobile rang. It was Duggan.
‘Colin, did you get it?’ he asked before Duggan had the chance to speak.
‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks for asking,’ said the policeman. ‘Where are you?’
‘In the gym, lifting weights.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Nah, I’m in the pub. The Prince Alfred in Queensway. Opposite Whiteleys.’
‘Don’t go anywhere.’
‘You’ve got it?’
‘Trust me, it won’t be a social call.’
‘I’ll have a pint waiting for you,’ said Nightingale.
‘Yeah, make it a latte, skimmed milk if they’ve got it.’
Duggan arrived half an hour later, as Nightingale was finishing his lager. He waved over at a pretty Australian barmaid who was wearing one of her national rugby team’s shirts. ‘Another Corona and a milky coffee,’ he said.
‘Latte,’ growled Duggan. ‘Skimmed milk.’ He was wearing a heavy overcoat and a red wool scarf, and both were flecked with rain. ‘Bloody weather.’ He took off his scarf, shook it, and undid the buttons of his coat. He frowned as he looked at Nightingale. ‘You look like shit, Jack. Seriously.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘If I didn’t know you better I’d think you were using.’
‘Using? Drugs?’
‘You’ve got the eyes of a smack-head. Really.’
There was a mirror behind the gantry and Nightingale bent down and peered at his reflection. Duggan wasn’t exaggerating. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week.
‘Yeah, much better,’ sneered Duggan.
The barmaid returned with their drinks. She looked expectantly at Duggan and he pointed at Nightingale. ‘He’s paying.’
Nightingale took a handful of coins from his pocket and paid her, then reached for his lager.
‘So what’s wrong?’ asked Duggan, scratching his fleshy neck.
‘I’m under a lot of pressure. And I’m not sleeping well.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve had a few rough nights, that’s all. And today hasn’t been a bundle of laughs either.’
‘What happened?
‘You really don’t want to know,’ said Nightingale. He pushed the slice of lemon down the neck of the bottle, put his thumb on the top and then turned it upside down.
‘Why do you do that?’ asked Duggan.
‘Mixes the lemon through the lager.’ He turned the bottle the right way up and drank.
‘Has Sophie Underwood got anything to do with the way you’re behaving?’ Duggan leaned closer to Nightingale and lowered his voice. ‘It wasn’t your fault. What happened two years ago, it would have happened no matter who’d turned up. It could have been anyone on that balcony with her.’
‘Yeah, well, it wasn’t; it was me.’
‘Luck of the draw, Jack. And no one would have done anything any different.’ He didn’t add sugar but he stirred his coffee anyway.
‘You can’t say that, Colin.’ Nightingale drank his lager. ‘I went out with no back-up and totally unprepared. I started talking with no game plan, no idea what I was going to say.’
‘She was getting ready to go; even if you hadn’t gone out onto the balcony she would have jumped.’
‘Again, you don’t know that. If I’d said the right thing, maybe I’d have turned it around.’
‘What’s done is done,’ said Duggan, shrugging.
‘Don’t you dare say that there’s no use crying over spilt milk,’ said Nightingale.
Duggan’s face tightened. ‘A little girl died, I know that. I was there, remember? And what you seem to forget is that you left me to deal with the aftermath. You went off to see the father and I had to wait with the body.’
Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘I’m sorry, mate. You’re right. I’m behaving like a prick.’
Duggan grinned. ‘Nothing new there, then.’ He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a package wrapped in a Tesco
carrier bag.
Nightingale took it and slipped it inside his coat. ‘I owe you, mate.’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Duggan. ‘Can’t you at least tell me what it’s for?’
Nightingale sighed. ‘Best you don’t know,’ he said.
‘When can I have it back? You can tell me that much.’ He sipped his coffee. It left him with a white milky moustache on his upper lip and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
‘A day or two,’ said Nightingale. ‘Did you have any grief getting it out?’
‘I chose my moment, let’s just say that,’ said Duggan. ‘No one knows it’s missing and providing I get it back soonish then no one will.’
‘I won’t let you down. Cross my heart.’
‘Yeah, well, that and twenty pence will get me a piss at Paddington Station,’ said Duggan. ‘If anything goes wrong and you get caught with it, you’d better not drop me in it.’
‘Not a problem.’
‘I’m serious, Jack. If anyone finds out that I took it from the evidence room then I’ll be in so much shit you’ll need a submarine to find me.’
‘Colin, I won’t let you down.’ He watched Duggan drinking his coffee and grimacing. ‘You sure you don’t want a whisky in that?’ he asked.
‘You really are the devil, aren’t you?’
‘You’re off the booze because of diabetes; it’s not as if you’re an alcoholic.’
‘It’s all about calories. And alcohol’s full of calories.’
‘So have one less slice of toast tomorrow.’
Duggan chuckled. ‘Toast? I wish. Muesli, with skimmed milk and a banana.’
‘Actually, that sounds okay. But to be fair, my coffee and a fag has fewer calories.’
‘Yeah, it’s the cigarettes I miss the most but the doc said they had to go,’ Duggan said, smiling sadly.
‘I’ve told you before, mate, the cigs help keep the weight off. I tell you what, why not just forget about the diabetes for one night, have a single malt and we’ll go outside for a cigarette?’
Duggan looked at the coffee he was holding and pulled a face, then he grinned at Nightingale. ‘Sod it. Go on, get me a Laphroaig. And make it a double. In for a penny, in for a pound.’
Nightmare Page 26