Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story)

by Stephen Leather

  STILL BLEEDING

  By Stephen Leather

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Jack Nightingale had never been a fan of Fridays. They always seemed to get in the way of a perfectly good weekend. Friday was always a bad day to start a case and finishing one on a Friday meant the bill wouldn’t go out until the following week. All in all, he found it hard to drum up any enthusiasm for Fridays. There were the odd exceptions. Bank Holiday Fridays were always a pleasant surprise, and every now and again New Years Eve and Christmas Day fell on a Friday. This particular Friday was different, though. As soon as he stepped into his office, his assistant Jenny McLean told him that he had a client waiting for him.

  ‘There was nothing in the diary,’ said Nightingale, hanging his raincoat by the door.

  ‘I never put anything in the diary because you never open it,’ said Jenny. ‘He’s a priest from the Vatican.’ She was wearing a blue dress that looked expensive and had tied her blonde hair back into a ponytail.

  ‘The Vatican?’

  ‘Yes, where the Pope lives.’

  ‘Italy?’

  ‘Well, strictly speaking it’s a separate independent city-state, but yes, that’s the one.’ She pointed at the door to the office. ‘He’s waiting for you in there.’

  ‘What does a priest want with a private eye?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe you could ask him.’ She shrugged. ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘You’re in a sarcastic mood today. Coffee?’

  ‘I’d love one.’

  Nightingale grinned and shook his head. ‘I meant would you bring me one in. And one for the client.’

  ‘I hear and obey,’ she said.

  ‘How are we off for chocolate biscuits?’

  ‘Did you buy any?’

  ‘No.’

  She smiled sweetly and turned back to her computer monitor. ‘Then we haven’t got any,’ she said.

  She went over to their coffee maker as Nightingale headed into his office. A tall dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes was sitting on the chair opposite Nightingale’s desk. He was wearing a clerical collar and a floor-length black cassock. He stood up and offered his hand. ‘Jonah Connolly,’ he said. His accent was difficult to place but it certainly wasn’t Italian.

  Nightingale shook hands. ‘You’re from the Vatican, my assistant tells me.’

  Connolly smiled. ‘I am indeed.’ His hand disappeared inside his cassock and reappeared holding a slim black leather wallet.

  ‘But you don’t sound Italian.’

  The priest gave him a business card and slid the wallet back inside his cassock. ‘Not everyone who works at the Vatican is Italian, Mr Nightingale.’

  Nightingale studied the card. The name on it read ‘Jonah Connolly’ and underneath it was a Post Office Box number in Vatican City. And a phone number. A mobile.

  ‘Connolly? So you’re Irish?’

  ‘Do I sound Irish?’ asked the priest.

  ‘No,’ said Nightingale. There was a flatness about the man’s accent, not Irish and not English but not American either, somewhere in between. Nightingale walked around his desk and sat down.

  ‘There you go then,’ said Connolly as he sat and smoothed the cassock around his legs.

  Nightingale tapped the card on the desk. ‘And what do you do for the Holy See?’

  The priest smiled amiably. ‘I’m sort of a middle man.’

  ‘But you are a priest?’

  Connolly gestured at the white collar around his neck. ‘I’m not wearing this as a fashion statement,’ he said.

  Nightingale held up the card. ‘It doesn’t say priest on this.’

  ‘No, that’s true. Would it help if I recited the Lord’s Prayer? Would that convince you?’

  Nightingale smiled thinly. ‘How about you tell me what’s in Luke Chapter Eleven, Verse Nine.’

  The priest raised one eyebrow. ‘Are you serious? You want to test me?’

  Nightingale said nothing.

  Connolly sighed. ‘Fine. And I tell you, ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.’

  ‘Close enough.’

  ‘Perhaps you should also consider Deuteronomy Chapter Six Verse Sixteen. You shall not put the Lord your God to the test, as you tested him at Massah.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’m not testing God, am I? I’m testing his representative, which seems fair enough. Isn’t that what John said?’

  Connolly frowned. ‘John?’

  ‘John Chapter Four, Verse One.’

  Connolly’s frown deepened, then he nodded slowly. ‘Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, for many false prophets have gone out into the world.’ The priest smiled. ‘You know your Bible, Mr Nightingale. Are you by any chance a Catholic?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘But clearly a believer?’

  ‘I read the Bible every now and again. Do I need to be a believer to get the job?’ He put the card down on his desk.

  ‘It wouldn’t make any difference either way,’ said Connolly. ‘I came to you because your website makes it clear that you have some expertise in supernatural matters.’

  ‘I’ve had my moments,’ said Nightingale. ‘What is it you want doing?’

  The priest bent down and Nightingale realized there was a battered leather briefcase at his feet. Connolly picked it up, opened it, and took out a newspaper. He passed it over to Nightingale. ‘Page three,’ he said.

  The paper was the Bromley Times, and the story was headlined ‘MIRACLE GIRL HEALS CANCER SCHOOLBOY’. Nightingale quickly read through the story. A twelve-year-old girl had begun to bleed from her hands and feet and from a wound in her side. Stigmata. The wounds corresponded to the wounds of Christ on the cross. The girl’s name was Tracey Spradbery and according to the newspaper the Virgin Mary had appeared to her in a vision. Living next door to Tracey and her family was a ten-year-old boy who had leukemia. According to the boy’s parents, the disease had gone into remission the day after he had gone around to play with Tracey and after a week doctors had pronounced him fully cured.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Nightingale. He looked at the date of the cutting. It had been published a month earlier. ‘This is a big story, why haven’t I seen this in the nationals? Or on TV?’

  ‘Because as soon as that appeared in the local paper the family shut the doors. The girl hasn’t been seen s
ince and they don’t allow visitors. You’ll see in the article that no one from the Spradbery family spoke to the journalist and there’s no photograph of Tracey.’

  ‘So she hasn’t healed anyone else?’

  ‘There’s no evidence that she healed anyone,’ said Connolly. ‘The entire story is based on an interview with the next door family.’

  Jenny knocked on the door and brought in a tray with two mugs of coffee. She put it on Nightingale’s desk. ‘There’s creamer and sugar on the tray,’ she said to the priest and he thanked her.

  Nightingale looked back at the newspaper. There was one photograph of Ben Miller, the boy who had beaten leukemia, standing with his parents ‘So how did they know the little girl has stigmata?’

  ‘Good question,’ said the priest. ‘The little boy saw the bandages on the girl’s hands. And he said she told him about seeing the Virgin Mary. But we’ve made our own enquiries and from what we have discovered, the wounds are genuine and she is still bleeding from her hands and feet and from a wound in the side. The stigmata sites.’

  ‘And what’s your interest? Why is the Vatican so concerned?’

  ‘Because it could well be a miracle,’ said the priest. ‘And we investigate all miracles. Especially those that involve the appearance of the Virgin Mary.’ He stood up, took one of the coffee mugs, and sat down again.

  ‘And for that you hire a private detective?’

  The priest smiled. ‘Generally we do the research ourselves. But this case is unusual in that the family are refusing to speak with us.’

  ‘Sounds as if they don’t want any publicity,’ said Nightingale. ‘Who can blame them?’

  The priest held up his hands. ‘Absolutely, it’s perfectly understandable. But we would still like to know if this is a genuine miracle, or something else. In a case like this it’s sometimes more advantageous if we use outside help.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘You said you’d made enquiries?’

  ‘We’ve managed to get a look at her medical report. She sees a doctor on a daily basis. The doctor changes her dressings and takes a blood sample. We’ve managed to get a look at her blood tests and everything is fine. Liver function, cholesterol, blood sugar. She’s a fit and healthy twelve-year-old girl. Except for the fact that she’s bleeding.’

  ‘So it’s a miracle?’

  The priest chuckled. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  Nightingale pulled a pack of Marlboro from his pocket. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said the priest. ‘It’s one of the few vices we’re allowed.’

  ‘You smoke?’

  The priest grinned. ‘Like a chimney.’

  Nightingale took a cigarette for himself and offered the pack to the priest. The priest took one and Nightingale walked around the desk to light it for him.

  ‘She has the stigmata,’ Nightingale said as he dropped back down into his seat. ‘That’s a sign of Christ, right? The marks left from the nails when Jesus was crucified and the wound in the side where he was stabbed with a spear.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how many cases of stigmata the Vatican investigates every year, Mr Nightingale?’

  Nightingale shook his head.

  ‘Well over a hundred. All around the world. And then we have sightings of the Virgin Mary, angels appearing, vegetables that look like Christ, the face of Jesus in damp patches on ceilings. Do you know how many of them turn out to be miracles?’

  ‘I’m going to guess that the answer is none.’

  The priest smiled tightly. ‘And your guess would be right. None. There are no miracles, Mr Nightingale, at least not involving civilians. That is now how the Lord God demonstrates his presence in the world. In every case we have ever investigated, the stigmata has had another explanation.’

  ‘So you think she’s faking it?’

  The priest shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. It could be psychosomatic. The brain is a very powerful organ and can affect the body in ways that we barely understand. Or it could be the parents doing something to her while she is asleep. Or forcing her to wound herself.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘In the past we’ve had parents who want money, or fame, or just to be noticed. But usually in these cases the parents are keen to get as much publicity as possible. These parents won’t let journalists near the little girl.’

  ‘Which means what?’

  The priest shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re in for the long haul. They live in a council house, maybe they could spin this into them getting a better house. Or a book deal. A reality TV show. Who knows? There are lots of ways of benefiting from a kid who can perform miracles.’

  ‘You’d think that if this was a genuine stigmata they’d want someone from the church involved.’

  ‘The family’s not religious,’ said the priest. ‘The father’s a confirmed atheist, that’s what I’ve heard. The mum is a very lapsed Catholic, which might be what’s behind this.’

  ‘How come?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Maybe the mother has suppressed her belief to be with her husband. And the stigmata is her way of getting it out in the open.’

  ‘So you think the mother is deliberately harming the child?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, yes.’

  Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘You believe in God, right?’

  ‘Of course. There’s be no pointing being a priest if I didn’t.’

  ‘And Jesus?’

  The priest nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why can’t you consider the possibility that this is a genuine stigmata, that this is Jesus proving his existence?’

  The priest shrugged carelessly. ‘It might be,’ he said. ‘But the simple fact is that stigmata events like this always turn out to be something else. Jesus Christ does not make his presence felt in this way. Why would he?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But then I’m not a priest.’

  The priest flicked ash into an ashtray. ‘It wouldn’t make any sense. God makes his presence felt in countless ways, he doesn’t need cheap parlour tricks.’

  ‘That’s what you think this is, a trick?’

  ‘Any of the TV magicians like Derren Brown or David Blain could put together a very convincing stigmata show. It’s not difficult.’

  ‘But suppose it was real? Suppose this really was Jesus showing the world that he exists.’

  ‘Jesus doesn’t work that way,’ said the priest. ‘Neither does God. We have no right to ask them to prove their existence. We need to have faith. We are the ones who need to prove that we are worthy of his love, not vice versa.’

  Nightingale nodded thoughtfully. ‘So specifically what is it you want me to do?’

  ‘Visit the family. Meet the girl. Find out what’s going on there.’

  ‘And if I find out that it’s a real miracle. What then?’

  The priest’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Suppose it’s genuine. Suppose Jesus has given this girl a real stigmata. What does that do to your Church? Aren’t people going to wonder why Jesus is talking to the people and not to the Pope?’

  ‘God talks to us all,’ said the priest. ‘The question is whether we are prepared to listen.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t want to suppress the fact that there had been a genuine miracle?’

  ‘The church welcomes true miracles. That is how we choose our saints. But occurrences like these are without exception not miracles. I am confident that will be what your investigation shows.’ He reached into his cassock and brought out his wallet again. ‘Can I pay in advance, with a credit card?’

  ‘The church has a credit card?’

  ‘We use Visa,’ said the priest, holding out the card.

  Nightingale took it. ‘That’ll do nicely,’ he said.

  * * *

  ‘So he’s never had sex?’ asked Jenny, as the priest headed downstairs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Catholic priests are celibate.’
<
br />   ‘It didn’t come up,’ said Nightingale. ‘No pun intended.’

  ‘So did you confess?’ asked Jenny.

  Nightingale tossed her the newspaper that the priest had given him. ‘Stigmata in Beckenham,’ he said.

  Jenny quickly scanned the story. ‘And they want you to do what?’

  ‘Check it out. See if she’s genuine.’

  ‘Because you’re a world authority on stigmata? I sort of thought the Catholic Church would be the experts.’

  ‘The family aren’t talking.’ He grinned. ‘Fancy a drive?’

  ‘You mean the MGB’s playing up again?’

  ‘You know me so well.’

  * * *

  ‘So what do you know about stigmata?’ Jenny asked Nightingale as they drove south over the River Thames towards Beckenham.

  ‘Probably not much more than you,’ he said. ‘Marks or wounds on the body in places that correspond to the crucifixion wounds of Christ. The nails in his hands and feet and the wound in the side.’

  ‘Did you know that eight per cent of stigmatics are women?’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Well they are. Quite a few are nuns. But the most famous was a man – St Francis of Assisi. These days they almost always turn out to be fakes.’

  Nightingale turned to look at her, surprised. ‘How come you know so much about it?’

  ‘I Googled it while you were in the loo,’ she said, braking to avoid a black cab that had suddenly decided to do a U-turn in front of them. ‘They’re usually in poor Catholic countries and it’s usually a way that the families can make money. They start selling souvenirs or charging for interviews.’

  ‘That’s not what’s happening here,’ said Nightingale. ‘They won’t speak to the priest, or to the Press.’

  She grinned over at him. ‘But they will talk to Jack Nightingale, private eye?’

  ‘I was hoping they’d be more open to his pretty young assistant.’

  Jenny sighed. ‘So I’m not just the designated driver, I’m actually doing the legwork, too.’

  ‘Just knock on the door, play it by ear,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘And what to I tell them exactly?’