‘So where are we going?’
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Nightingale. He fumbled in his pocket and gave his Nokia to her. ‘The postcode’s in this,’ he said. ‘Chalmers sent me a text.’
‘Why don’t you program the SatNav while I drive?’
Nightingale laughed. ‘Yeah, that’ll work. If you don’t want to end up in the Thames you’d be better doing it yourself.’
Jenny fed the details into the SatNav. She sighed as she looked at the digital readout. ‘Ninety minutes? You’re sure you want to do this?’
‘I don’t have a choice,’ said Nightingale. He settled back in his seat and reached for his coffee.
Jenny was a better driver than the SatNav realised and they reached the traveller site in just under an hour and twenty minutes. It was a small site on the outskirts of a shabby council estate, with room for a dozen caravans. The site was surrounded by a wire-mesh fence and in the centre was a toilet block with washing facilities. There were concrete foundations but only three were occupied. Two were prefab buildings without wheels but standing on the third was the mobile home that Nightingale recognised from the video.
‘Home sweet home,’ said Jenny. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘You stay here. I’ll go and have a chat.’
‘He had a knife, you said.’
‘I’m just going to talk, Jenny.’
‘It’ll be safer if there are the two of us.’
‘How does being two targets make us safer?’ said Nightingale. ‘Trust me. It’ll be better if I’m on my own. It’ll be less threatening and all I want to do is talk.’
She nodded slowly but he could see that she wasn’t convinced. He climbed out of the car and walked towards the site entrance. There didn’t seem to be anyone around but chained to the ground were two large black and white bull terriers that began barking furiously as soon as he entered the site.
To the left were half a dozen rusting cars, all on blocks with their wheels removed and their bonnets open like gaping mouths, the engine bays empty. T-shirts and underwear were hanging from a washing line and there was litter everywhere – crumpled-up newspapers, empty soft-drink cans, vegetable peelings and crushed cigarette packets. He saw a Marlboro pack and immediately the nicotine urge kicked in, but he ignored it.
He walked over to the mobile home and knocked on the door. There was no reply so he knocked again. He waited a full thirty seconds and tried the handle. It turned and the door swung open. ‘Hello?’ called Nightingale. There was no reply so he walked slowly up the metal steps. ‘Hello?’ he called again, then stepped across the threshold. If anything, the mobile home looked smaller than it had done on the police video. There was a folding table to the right, with a couple of chairs and a large LCD television that he didn’t remember seeing in the video. There were built-in cupboards and at the far end was the bed where the old woman had been. There was a bump under a quilt but it wasn’t moving. ‘Mrs Smith? Are you there?’ said Nightingale.
He moved carefully towards the bed. Dirty clothes were strewn across the floor. A threadbare pullover. A pair of boxer shorts. A football sock.
He reached the bed. ‘Mrs Smith?’
The quilt was thrown back and the old woman sat up. Her eyes were milky and her face was so deeply wrinkled that it was sexless. Her hair was white and lifeless and so patchy that the thick blue veins threading her scalp were visible. She blinked and Nightingale saw that her eyelashes were virtually translucent and her eyebrows non-existent. She was wearing a faded pink nightgown that barely covered her pancake-flat breasts and as she raised her arms towards him folds of liver-spotted skin flapped back and forth. Her mouth worked soundlessly.
Nightingale took a step back. He heard a car engine outside and through a faded curtain he saw a battered blue Transit van pull up. Nightingale cursed as he saw Smith climb out and walk towards the mobile home.
He flinched as the old woman screamed and then something hit him in the middle of the back. She’d leaped at him, he realised, and he staggered forward, fighting to keep his balance. The woman began howling like a banshee and she clawed at his throat. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she gripped him so tightly that he could hardly walk.
The door to the mobile home was wrenched open and Smith stood in the doorway. ‘Gran!’ he shouted.
Nightingale tried to speak but she had a vice-like grip on his throat, her nails digging into his flesh like talons. He shook his shoulders from side to side and tried to force her hands away. She was screaming into his ear but Nightingale couldn’t make out what she was saying.
Smith took a step towards Nightingale. He had a thick leather belt around his waist, with a buckle in the shape of an eagle with outspread wings. Smith grabbed at one of the wings and it came away in his hand, revealing a two-inch blade. Nightingale managed to prise the old woman’s fingers from his throat but as she fell backwards Nightingale lost his balance and they both fell back on the bed. Smith roared and charged forward, holding the knife in front of him.
Nightingale lashed out with his foot and managed to knock the knife to the side but Smith’s momentum carried him forward and he fell on top of Nightingale. The whole mobile home lurched under the weight of the three of them on the bed. Smith pushed himself up and brought the knife down hard, aiming for Nightingale’s chest. Nightingale managed to get his left hand under Smith’s wrist to block the blow and then he reached over with his right hand and grabbed the wrist and twisted. Smith roared in pain but he kept a grip on the knife. Nightingale brought his right leg up, put his foot against Smith’s groin and pushed with all his might. Smith staggered backwards and his arm wrenched free from Nightingale’s grasp.
Smith raised the knife again but Nightingale sprang off the bed and kicked Smith’s left knee. As Smith’s leg buckled Nightingale grabbed at Smith’s right hand.
‘Jack!’
Nightingale realised that Jenny was standing in the doorway.
‘Jenny, get away!’ he shouted. He twisted Smith around and pushed him towards the bed, then ran down the mobile home and out through the door.
He turned just as Smith burst out of the mobile home, swearing and waving the knife. The dogs went wild, barking and throwing themselves against their chains.
‘I’m going to cut you!’ Smith roared slashing the blade from side to side.
‘Leave him alone, you bastard!’ shouted Jenny. She was holding a small black cylinder in her right hand and as she pressed a trigger on the side a liquid sprayed out and splattered over Smith’s face. Smith yelled in pain and staggered back.
Nightingale rushed forward, grabbed Smith’s wrist and twisted it, then pulled the knife from his hand. Smith tried to grab the knife back but the blade ripped through the flesh of his palm and he screamed.
Jenny kept spraying the liquid onto Smith’s face. He staggered against the mobile home, turned around and groped around for the door handle.
Jenny looked over to Nightingale. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale. He watched as Smith clawed the door open and stumbled up the steps into the mobile home. ‘What is that? Mace?’
‘Pepper spray,’ said Jenny. ‘My dad gave it to me years ago. First time I’ve had to use it.’
‘And you always carry it with you?’
‘My dad made me promise,’ said Jenny, putting the spray back into her bag. She looked at the knife in his hand and grimaced at the blood on the blade. ‘Did he cut you?’
Nightingale smiled thinly ‘He cut himself. At least I found the knife. He must have shoved it back into his belt when the cops had him on the floor. Have you got a handkerchief or something?’ Jenny pulled a handkerchief out of her bag and Nightingale used it to wrap the knife before slipping it into his raincoat pocket. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
They walked back to the Audi. ‘Do you want to call the police?’ asked Jenny as she climbed into the driving seat.
‘There’s no point,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’d be my wor
d against his. And I was in his home. And he’s the one who got cut. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘And the curse? Did you get anywhere?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, no.’
Jenny leaned over and stared at Nightingale’s neck. ‘What happened?’
‘She grabbed me,’ he said. ‘The old woman.’
‘Look at your neck, Jack.’
Nightingale pulled down the sun-visor and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He pulled his tie down and loosened his collar. There were four red patches on either side of his neck. Marks left by the old woman’s fingers. ‘They’re just bruises,’ he said. ‘She was pretty rough.’
‘They’re not bruises,’ said Jenny.
‘By the time we get back to the office, they’ll have gone,’ said Nightingale. ‘Trust me.’
The marks on Nightingale’s neck hadn’t gone by the time they got back to his office. If anything they were worse.
‘Do you want to try some moisturiser on it?’ asked Jenny.
‘How bad does it look?’
Jenny fished a small mirror out of her handbag and gave it to him so that he could see for himself. The skin where the old woman had touched him had a waxy look to it. But the skin around the marks had reddened, and there was another patch of dry skin closer to his right shoulder.
‘Do you want to see a doctor?’
‘A doctor isn’t going to help, not if it’s what Roach has got.’
‘Did she curse you?’
‘She screamed at me, and she spat at me. How do I know if it was a curse or not? She wasn’t a happy bunny, that’s for sure.’ He gave her back the mirror. ‘It’ll be fine.’
‘How can you be so calm?’
Nightingale grinned. ‘Because I’ve got one of Mrs Steadman’s marvellous potions,’ he said.
‘And what if that doesn’t work?’
‘That’s okay – there’s a money-back guarantee.’ He stood up and went over to the coffee-maker. ‘Coffee?’
Nightingale got back to his flat just after half past six in the evening. He went straight to the bathroom and took off his tie and shirt. The marks had grown and were each the size of a fifty-pence piece. The skin marks were turning from red to a dark brown. There were other patches of hard skin on his shoulders and a mark the size of a fried egg in the middle of his chest. His heart pounded as he gingerly prodded and probed the blemishes. The skin felt waxy and it was definitely hardening.
He fetched white candles from the kitchen and ran a bath, poured in the powder and followed Mrs Steadman’s instructions to the letter. He waited until the candles had burned down and the water drained away before examining himself in the mirror. The marks were still there. He checked again every ten minutes until midnight, but there was no change. At midnight he went to bed but he still got up every hour or so to examine the marks. If anything, they seemed to be growing larger.
Nightingale’s whole body itched as if it was on fire and he tossed and turned on the bed. He rubbed his stomach and felt the hard rasp of scales, and when he touched his face there was no feeling – he could have been stroking metal. Every breath hurt because he could barely move his chest. It was as if he was slowly turning to stone, cell by cell.
He tried to roll onto his side but he couldn’t move. He turned his head but it was an effort and each small movement was accompanied by an audible click, the sound of a snapping twig. There was a mirrored wardrobe to his left and he forced his eyes open. Slanted lizard eyes stared back at him, yellow with oval pupils. His face was covered in green scales and all he could see of his nose were two black holes which flared in and out in time with his tortured breathing.
As he gasped his thin black lips parted and a red forked tongue flicked out. He was about to scream but just as the sound began to build in his throat he woke up with a start. He lay staring up at the ceiling, his body bathed in sweat. He swallowed but his mouth was dry. It was still dark outside so he padded across to the bathroom and switched on the light. He blinked several times then took a step towards the sink. His eyes were still adjusting to the light so he could barely see his reflection. He ran a hand across his throat, expecting to feel hard scales there, but his skin felt smooth and soft. He leaned closer to the mirror and blinked again. The marks had gone. Gone completely, as if they had never been there. He sighed with relief and then took a deep breath before smiling at his reflection. ‘Mrs Steadman, you’re a marvel,’ he said. He looked at his wristwatch. It was six o’clock. He’d fixed his own gypsy curse. Now it was time to do the same for Simon Roach.
Nightingale got to the hospital just after seven-thirty in the morning. He figured that Joyce was working the day shift all week and probably started sometime between eight and ten. He paced up and down for half an hour and then a coffee shop opposite the hospital opened up so he ordered a cappuccino, sat down at an outside table and took out his cigarettes. It was just before nine and he was on his fourth cigarette when Joyce appeared.
She was wearing a beige trench coat and carrying a large canvas shopping bag. He put out his cigarette and hurried across the road to her. She smiled when she saw him. ‘You’re not stalking me, are you, Jack?’
‘Only in a good way, Joyce. How’s Mr Roach?’
Joyce looked pained. ‘He wasn’t good when I left last night,’ she said. ‘I’m worried that when I get in . . .’ She shuddered. ‘The doctors are doing their best but every day he keeps getting worse.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to lift the curse from him. The gypsy curse.’
‘Dr Patel won’t let you near the ICU again, you know that.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘I know. That’s not what I had in mind. I need your help, Joyce.’
‘Me? What can I do?’
‘You can talk to me about voodoo. That’s what you can do.’
Nightingale banged on the door of the mobile home.
‘Who is it?’ shouted a voice. A man’s voice. Sampson Smith.
‘The bogeyman,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now get your fat arse out here.’
The mobile home vibrated as Smith walked from the rear and Nightingale took a step back just as the door was flung open. ‘What do you want?’ snarled Smith. He winced and rubbed the side of his head.
‘I want a word,’ said Nightingale. ‘Outside. I don’t want Old Mother Riley making another grab for me.’
Smith chuckled. ‘How’s your neck?’ he asked.
‘Fine and dandy,’ said Nightingale. He pulled down his shirt and tilted his head to give Smith a good view of his neck.
Smith frowned in confusion, then winced and rubbed his temple again.
Nightingale readjusted his tie. ‘Tell her better luck next time,’ he said. ‘Except there won’t be a next time.’
Smith looked over Nightingale’s shoulder and squinted at the Audi parked near the entrance. Jenny was sitting behind the wheel. ‘If that bitch comes near me I’m calling the cops,’ he snarled.
‘Of course you are,’ said Nightingale. ‘You always do when it suits you, don’t you? But when the law’s against you it’s all about your human rights and persecution of gypsies, isn’t it?’
‘She squirted mace in my eyes.’
‘It was pepper. And you were trying to stick a knife in me, remember?’
Smith grinned and then winced once again and rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands.
‘I’ve still got your knife, don’t forget that,’ said Nightingale.
‘How’s that bad news for me?’ asked Smith, folding his arms and leaning against the door frame. ‘I’m not the one carrying it. That’s the offence – carrying the blade. Owning it in the past isn’t an offence.’
‘There’s blood on it.’
‘Yeah, there’s blood on it.’ He held up his hand and waved the still-healing cut in front of Nightingale. ‘And it’s my blood. How does my blood on a knife you’re carrying cause me any grief? You’re full of shit.’
Nightingale grinned and reached into his raincoat pocket. Smith flinched and Nightingale chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not a gun.’ His hand reappeared holding a phone. ‘It’s one of those smartphone thingies. Borrowed it off my assistant. Mine doesn’t do pictures.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘No need for bad language,’ said Nightingale. ‘How’re the headaches, by the way?’
‘Headaches?’
‘The migraines. You keep getting them, right? That’s why you’re rubbing your temples.’
‘What the fuck are you playing at? What’s this about?’
‘I’m just asking after your health, that’s all. They’re bad, though, aren’t they? The headaches. Like something stabbing right into your brain?’
A curtain twitched at the rear of the mobile home and Nightingale caught a glimpse of the toothless crone peering out at him. He pointed at her and the curtain fell back into place.
Nightingale tapped the screen of the smartphone. ‘I can never get these bloody things to work,’ he said. A picture filled the screen. ‘There we go.’ He held it out so that Smith could see it. It was a cloth doll with a crude face drawn on it and Smith’s knife tied to its waist with white string. ‘You know what that is, right?’
Smith said nothing but the colour drained from his face.
‘That’s right: a voodoo doll. And it’s not one that I threw together myself. This is the real thing. Done by an old man who really knows his stuff. A Juju Man, who lives down in Brixton. He doesn’t like gypsies much, I can tell you.’ He pushed the screen closer to Smith’s face. ‘If you look really closely you can see the blood on the blade. Powerful stuff, blood. You can use hair or a bit of clothing but what we’ve used is as good as it gets. A personal possession and blood.’
‘You piece of shit,’ said Smith.
Cursed_A Jack Nightingale Short Story Page 4