Midnight

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said Nightingale, taking out his pack of Marlboro.

  90

  Kerr watched the police car and van drive away from the house. He looked at his watch. It would soon be dark. Nightingale was alone in the house and if he stayed there then that would be where he died. He hoped that Nightingale stayed where he was because it was a lovely old house and Kerr would love to see it burn. Kerr sat down with his back to one of the trees and shook the box of Swan Vestas matches. He felt his groin tighten with every rattle of the matches. He stared at the house and licked his lips. ‘Soon,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Soon.’

  91

  Nightingale took his phone out of his pocket and rang Jenny.

  ‘It’s on the news,’ she said before he could speak. ‘They had her picture and said that she could be dangerous.’

  ‘I know. Chalmers picked me up this afternoon. I’m at the house.’

  ‘What if they find her?’

  ‘They won’t. That was the deal she did. Escape and freedom. They searched my flat and Gosling Manor and they’ll have her red-flagged at the airports and ports but she’s already fled the coop.’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now’s the hard part,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want my help?’

  ‘You can’t help, kid. I have to do it myself. Tonight, at midnight.’

  ‘Be careful, Jack.’

  ‘Always,’ he said, and ended the call.

  He walked downstairs to the hall, switching on the lights as he went. He pulled open the panel that led to the basement. He flicked on those lights too, then went slowly down the wooden stairs.

  He had taken careful notes of what Aleister Crowley had written in his diary about summoning Lucifuge Rofocale. The pentagram was identical to the ones he had used when calling up Proserpine and Frimost, but the mixture of herbs was different, the candles had to be black and not white, and the incantation was longer and more complex. But the crucial part was a parchment that had to be prepared and burned at one of the two north-facing candles at the stroke of midnight.

  The parchment had to be prepared from a virgin goat, and luckily Mrs Steadman at the Wicca Woman shop had been able to supply him with some. On the parchment there had to be a drawing that looked like a pentagram but with various rune-like scrawls in the centre and below it. Nightingale had sketched it from the diary and Crowley had stressed that it had to be copied perfectly onto the parchment on the day that it was required, ideally within an hour of the ceremony. The drawing could be done in the blood of a sea turtle, or the blood of the person summoning the devil. Mrs Steadman had laughed when he’d asked her if she had any sea-turtle blood and told him that there wasn’t much call for it.

  Nightingale sat down at the book-strewn desk, opened one of the drawers and took out a new razor blade and a swan’s feather. He used the razor blade to clip off the end of the feather to make a workable nib, then slowly drew the blade across the tip of his left index finger. He winced as the blood flowed.

  92

  Kerr looked at his watch. It was just before midnight. There were lights on in the downstairs hallway and upstairs at the front of the house and he had waited, hoping that they would go out, but eventually he had walked around to the rear of the building and seen candlelight flickering in one of the upstairs bedrooms, and he figured that was where Nightingale was. He reached for the handle of the front door, turned it and smiled when he realised that it wasn’t locked. He opened the door and slipped inside, his heart racing. The house was bigger than anything he’d ever torched in the past, and he knew that to be sure of killing Nightingale he’d have to go upstairs.

  He eased the door shut behind him. In his left hand was the red petrol can. He’d filled it almost to the top and he heard the liquid slosh around as he headed for the stairs.

  93

  Nightingale took a piece of paper from his pocket. On it were instructions that he’d copied from Aleister Crowley’s diary. He looked around the pentagram to check that everything was in place, then he ignited the mixture of herbs that he’d placed in a brass crucible. They caught fire easily and crackled and hissed as they burned.

  Nightingale began to read from the paper. ‘Osurmy delmausan atalsloym charusihoa,’ he said, trying not to stumble over the unfamiliar words. He spoke for a full minute, taking care over every syllable. When he’d finished, he took a deep breath. ‘Come, Lucifuge Rofocale,’ he said. He held the parchment with its bloody drawing over one of the north-facing candles and watched as it burned. ‘Come, Lucifuge Rofocale,’ he repeated. ‘I summon you.’

  He narrowed his eyes, not sure what to expect. In the diary Crowley hadn’t been able to describe what Lucifuge Rofocale looked like, saying that he chose one of many forms depending on the circumstances. The burning parchment scorched his fingers but he barely felt the pain.

  The thick smoke rippled and then began to spin in a vortex at right angles to the floor, faster and faster in a motion that was almost hypnotic, and Nightingale found himself leaning towards it. He took an involuntarily step forward and then another, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand still.

  There was a deep booming laugh that echoed around the room and then the vortex folded inside out and a short, squat figure appeared, less than four feet tall. At first Nightingale thought it was a child, but as it moved through the smoke he saw that it was a dwarf, with a large head topped with curly black hair, a thick body and short bow legs. The dwarf thrust his chin square out as he stared up at Nightingale with blood-red eyes. He was wearing a crimson jacket with gold buttons up the front, black jodhpurs and shiny black boots that made Nightingale think of a toy soldier.

  ‘You are Lucifuge Rofocale?’ asked Nightingale. ‘I command that you speak the truth.’ In his diary, Crowley had said that the devil sometimes sent emissaries in his place but an emissary could not lie about his identity.

  There was a blast of heat, so hot that Nightingale gasped. A wall of flame flickered along the edge of the pentagram, red at the bottom, yellow at the top, then the flames leaped higher, sucking the air from the room. Nightingale put his hands over his face and he could feel the heat singeing the hairs on his skin. The flames grew higher until they were as tall as he was, then they began to swirl until they formed an impenetrable mass of fire. Nightingale whirled around but, whichever way he faced, the heat was unbearable.

  ‘I summoned you to talk!’ he screamed, and in an instant the flames vanished.

  The dwarf was glaring at him. ‘You dare to summon me?’ he hissed. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘You are Lucifuge Rofocale and I command that you speak the truth.’

  ‘You command?’ roared the dwarf.

  The ground shook and the walls fell away and then the floor vanished and Nightingale was standing on the pentagram in the middle of darkness. There was nothing above him or below him and the air was ice-cold. There was no sign of the dwarf.

  ‘You are Lucifuge Rofocale and I command that you speak the truth!’ shouted Nightingale. His voice echoed into the distance. Then suddenly the pentagram began to plummet down in free-fall, the air rushing past his face so quickly that he couldn’t pull it into his aching lungs. Nightingale closed his eyes. ‘This isn’t happening,’ he said. ‘I’m in Gosling Manor, inside the pentagram. None of this is real.’

  He opened his eyes again and he was back in the bedroom. The flames had gone. He looked at the back of his hands; the hairs there were singed and the skin blackened.

  The dwarf’s upper lip curled back. ‘Happy now? Or do you want more?’

  There was a flash of light so blinding that it hurt, and Nightingale shaded his eyes with his hands. The dwarf had gone and in its place was a creature so large that its head was against the ceiling and its leathery wings scraped the walls on either side of the pentagram. It had a pointed snout, jagged teeth an
d reptilian eyes, and when it roared the stench was so overpowering that Nightingale almost passed out.

  ‘Do you want more?’ the creature screamed and Nightingale staggered back.

  ‘I want only what is my right: to summon you and for you to speak the truth.’

  ‘Right?’ roared the creature. ‘Who are you to talk of rights?’ The creature opened its mouth and a stream of flame flashed over Nightingale’s head.

  ‘My name is Jack Nightingale and provided I stay within the pentagram you cannot harm me!’ shouted Nightingale.

  The creature roared and there was another flash of light. Now the dwarf was back, scowling up at him. ‘The pentagram is a sanctuary and a prison,’ he hissed.

  ‘I’ve been told that,’ said Nightingale. ‘I want to talk.’ He fought to steady his breathing; he could feel his heart pounding in his chest as if it was about to burst.

  ‘You are either very stupid or very devious,’ said the dwarf. ‘Which is it?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘A lot depends on the way things go over the next few minutes.’

  There was a loud bang and a flash and a foul smell, like a bad drain.

  Lucifuge Rofocale folded his arms. ‘You tricked Sugart and he is not happy.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. My sister summoned him. My sister sold her soul in exchange for escape.’

  ‘While you distracted Frimost, who had first claim on her soul.’

  ‘It’s hardly my fault if Frimost took his eye off the ball, is it?’

  Lucifuge Rofocale glared at Nightingale. ‘You planned this. You planned it all.’

  Nightingale wrinkled his nose. ‘It’s not my problem, is it? They’re both your subordinates. All you have to do is choose which one gets my sister’s soul.’ He put his hands in his pockets. ‘Of course, whoever loses out is going to be pretty pissed off, right? And I reckon no boss wants a pissed-off subordinate, even in Hell.’

  ‘You know nothing of Hell, Nightingale,’ said Lucifuge Rofocale. ‘Yet. But your day will come.’

  ‘This isn’t about me,’ said Nightingale. ‘This is about my sister. Her father sold her soul to Frimost thirty-one years ago. She has now sold it in good faith to Sugart. It seems to me that they both a have good claim on it. Both can make a good case and neither is going to take kindly to being told that he’s lost out.’ Nightingale grinned. ‘So you’re going to have to decide, right? And I’m guessing that souls are indivisible, which means that there’s no judgement of Solomon.’

  Lucifuge Rofocale said nothing. He stared up at Nightingale, his lips set in a tight line.

  ‘So here’s the thing,’ Nightingale continued, taking his hands out of his pockets. ‘They both have a claim on her soul, no question about that. And neither will accept the other taking it from him. The way I see it, there’s only one thing you can do.’

  ‘Neither of them gets her soul,’ said the dwarf.

  ‘It’s the only way to keep the peace,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s the only decision that they’ll both accept.’

  ‘You’re a clever man, Nightingale.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I’ve been involved in a few negotiations over the years. So we’re agreed? My sister gets her soul back?’

  ‘This won’t win you any friends, you know.’

  ‘I can live with that,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Sugart and Frimost will blame you. They will want revenge.’

  ‘They know where to find me,’ said Nightingale.

  Lucifuge Rofocale nodded slowly. ‘So you have what you want. Your sister has her soul back. You must be feeling very pleased with yourself.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just want this to end. I want this threat lifted from her so that she can get on with her life.’

  He took a piece of paper from his pocket and began to read.

  ‘Wait!’ said Lucifuge Rofocale.

  Nightingale frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘We haven’t finished,’ said Lucifuge Rofocale.

  ‘I have,’ said Nightingale. ‘There’s nothing else I want from you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘What about Sophie?’ Nightingale shivered as if an icy finger had been drawn down his spine. ‘Don’t you wonder what happened to her?’

  94

  Kerr shuffled backwards down the corridor in a low crouch, gently pouring petrol over the bare floorboards. The wood would burn quickly, he knew, but not as quickly as carpet. Someone had stripped out all the floor coverings, along with the furniture and pictures that had once lined the walls. It was a nice house, thought Kerr, as he shuffled and poured, and it would make a lovely fire.

  The petrol fumes were making him a little light-headed. He loved the smell of petrol almost as much as he loved the smell of burning matches, but petrol fumes came with a price: a searing headache that sometimes hung around for days.

  He reached the bedroom where he’d seen the candlelight through the window. Kerr could hear voices inside and that confused him because he’d thought that Nightingale was alone in the house. He couldn’t hear what was being said but it didn’t matter anyway. He continued backing down the corridor towards the stairs.

  Kerr had calculated it perfectly and as he reached the top of the stairs he poured the last of the petrol onto the floorboards. He took a step back, put down the can and took out his box of Swan Vestas. He shook the box, then slid it open and selected a match. He sniffed the match and felt the muscles in his groin contract. He took a deep breath and gasped as the petrol fumes filled his lungs. He took another step back, struck the match and flicked it down the corridor. It span through the air, and as it hit the floor the petrol ignited with a whooshing sound like a train rushing down a tunnel.

  Kerr wanted to stay and watch the flames but he forced himself to pick up the can and walk down the stairs.

  95

  Nightingale tensed and relaxed his fingers as he stared at the dwarf. Lucifuge Rofocale grinned up at him, showing yellowed, pointed teeth.

  ‘Sophie’s dead,’ whispered Nightingale.

  Lucifuge Rofocale laughed. ‘And dead’s dead, is that it?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘You really don’t understand anything, do you?’

  ‘Apparently not.’ He fiddled with the piece of paper he was holding. ‘What does she have to do with any of this?’

  ‘Everything,’ said Lucifuge Rofocale. ‘Haven’t you realised that yet? Everything changed on the day she died, didn’t it? Your life was heading in one direction, but after she jumped from that balcony everything changed, didn’t it?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it was a pivotal moment. And she was a pivotal person. If she hadn’t died, you would never have left the police, never become a private detective. So many things would have been different.’

  ‘But we would still be standing here, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘Maybe. And maybe not.’

  He waved his hand lazily and time folded in on itself, then Sophie Underwood was standing next to him, dressed exactly as she had been when she jumped off the balcony, her Barbie doll dangling from her right hand. She had her head down and her long blonde hair covered her face.

  The dwarf leered up at her. ‘Pretty little thing, isn’t she?’ He reached out to stroke her dress with a hand that was festooned with jewelled rings.

  ‘Jack,’ she moaned. ‘Help me. I don’t like it here.’

  ‘That’s not her,’ whispered Nightingale. ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ said the dwarf, running his hand along her hair.

  ‘Because she fell thirteen stories,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Is that how you’d rather see her?’ said Lucifuge Rofocale. He waved his hand again.

  Time folded and Sophie’s dress was drenched in blood. ‘Jack . . .’ moaned Sophie. ‘Jack, it hurts.’ She turned to look up at Lucifuge Rofocale. Nightingale saw that the left
side of her face was crushed and her eyeball was half out of its socket. Her jaw had been shattered and her teeth broken.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ said Nightingale quietly.

  Lucifuge Rofocale smiled. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Use her to hurt me. Anyway, that’s not really her.’

  Sophie turned to look at him. ‘It is me, Jack,’ she said.

  Nightingale forced himself not to look at her. He glared at Lucifuge Rofocale. ‘Make her go away.’

  ‘Jack, please, you have to help me,’ sobbed Sophie. She reached out her left hand and took a step towards him.

  ‘We’re done,’ Nightingale said to the dwarf. ‘You can go.’

  ‘We’re done when I say we’re done, Nightingale,’ said Lucifuge Rofocale, his voice a throbbing roar that hurt Nightingale’s ears. He waved his hand and Sophie went limp, her arms at her sides, her hair hanging down over her face.

  It went suddenly quiet and Nightingale could hear his own breathing. He was panting like a horse that had been ridden hard and he fought to steady himself.

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ said Lucifuge Rofocale. ‘About your sister.’

  ‘We agreed what you’d do,’ said Nightingale. He felt as if all the strength had drained from his upper body and his legs were shaking. ‘Neither can claim her soul so it remains unclaimed.’

  ‘Yes, you are right,’ said Lucifuge Rofocale. ‘Her soul will not be claimed by either party. But nobody gets something for nothing. Your sister is getting back her soul, so there is a price that will have to be paid.’

  ‘By whom?’

  Lucifuge Rofocale’s lips curled back into a snarl. ‘By your sister, of course.’

  96

  Kerr jogged towards the clump of trees from where he’d first watched Gosling Manor. He put down his empty can and took out his box of matches. He lit one and smelled the smoke as he looked at the house. There was no sign of smoke yet, no flames flickering at the windows. The corridor would burn first, he knew. The wooden floorboards would catch, and then the doors, and then it would spread up through the ceiling and into the attic and sideways into the bedrooms. It would be at least ten minutes before the fire really took hold. The match went out and Kerr lit another. He felt himself grow hard between his legs and he reached down with his left hand to touch himself as he stared at the house.