Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller

by Stephen Leather

  Nightingale transferred the gun to his left hand and jabbed the barrel at the base of the man’s spine. He slid his right hand into the man’s trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flicked it open and saw that there was a driving licence among the credit cards. Nightingale slid the wallet into the pocket of his raincoat. ‘Now I know who you are and where you live,’ said Nightingale. ‘If you or anyone else comes near me again, I’ll hold you responsible, you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  Nightingale jabbed the gun into the man’s back again. ‘You wouldn’t be the first person I’d shot, either. Loud noises don’t scare me.’

  ‘I said I hear you,’ said the man.

  ‘And first thing tomorrow morning the cops get your details and your name goes in the frame for the murder of Danny McBride. So if I were you I’d run far and I’d run fast.’ He jabbed the man again. ‘Now walk away before I change my mind and put a bullet in your leg for the sheer hell of it.’

  The man did as he was told, running down the road as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels. Nightingale slid the gun back into his pocket, glad that he hadn’t had to fire the weapon. At least now Perry Smith would take it back.

  85

  Nightingale parked his MGB on the second floor of a multi-storey car park close to Camden market. He walked around the market for a while, smoking and thinking before making his way to the Wicca Woman shop. Mrs Steadman was standing behind an old-fashioned cash register and she smiled when she saw it was him. ‘Mr Nightingale, so nice to see you,’ she said. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Tea would be good, Mrs Steadman. Thank you.’

  Mrs Steadman pulled back a beaded curtain behind the counter and called upstairs for her assistant. There was a rapid footfall and a teenage girl appeared, dressed in black with green streaks in her hair. Mrs Steadman patted the girl on the arm. ‘I’m making a cup of tea for Mr Nightingale – would you be a dear and mind the shop?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the girl.

  Mrs Steadman patted her arm again, then took Nightingale through the curtain into the back room. There was a gas fire burning against one wall and the overhead Tiffany lamp was throwing multicoloured blocks of light over the floor. Mrs Steadman waved him to a circular wooden table and busied herself with the kettle and teapot. ‘Is everything okay – you look worried?’ she asked.

  Nightingale took off his raincoat and sat down. He pulled the Express from his pocket and put it on the table. ‘Did you see the Express on Monday?’ he asked.

  Mrs Steadman laughed. ‘I don’t read any newspapers,’ she said. ‘They’re far too depressing.’ She turned to face him and folded her arms. ‘It’s about the Shade, isn’t it?’

  ‘She says she wants to speak to the Prime Minister. And the Archbishop of Canterbury. And Prince William.’

  ‘Of course. It wants to create havoc. That’s what Shades do.’

  ‘People have died already. A nurse, a teacher, and a journalist. They all spoke to her and then they killed themselves.’

  ‘It was practising,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Testing itself.’

  The kettle boiled and she poured water into a teapot. She opened a green fridge and took out a blue and white striped mug and put it onto a tray, then carried it over to the table. Nightingale moved the paper out of the way.

  ‘At least now you believe me,’ said Mrs Steadman as she sat down.

  ‘It was never a question of believing you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just needed to prove it to myself.’

  ‘And now you have done?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Is there nothing else that can be done? No other way of handling it?’

  Mrs Steadman reached over and put her hand on his arm. It was tiny, not much bigger than a small child’s. ‘I wish there was,’ she said. ‘But there is only one way of dealing with a Shade.’

  ‘Can’t you find someone else to do it?’

  ‘It has to be someone of this world,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘And it has to be someone who has a good heart and who believes. Men like you are few and far between, Mr Nightingale.’

  Nightingale laughed harshly. ‘A good heart? Is that what you think?’

  ‘It’s what I know,’ said Mrs Steadman. She poured tea for the two of them and passed him a mug. ‘I realise how difficult this is for you. It’s a terrible thing to ask someone to do, I know that. But if it isn’t done, Mr Nightingale, if the Shade continues on its path, the whole world will suffer in ways that you can only imagine.’

  ‘What about putting the girl in a place where she can’t speak to anyone?’ said Nightingale, but even as the words left his mouth he realised that he was suggesting the impossible. Put the girl in a dungeon somewhere and throw away the key? They didn’t even do that to terrorists – there was no way it could be done to a nine-year-old girl.

  Mrs Steadman didn’t reply, she simply shook her head sadly.

  ‘Can this Shade thing move around, Mrs Steadman? Say someone talks to Bella, could it move over to that person?’

  ‘No,’ she said, putting her hands around her mug of tea. ‘A Shade comes from outside and moves into a body at the moment of death. That’s where it stays.’

  ‘Can it go back to where it came from?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s why the eyes must be dealt with first. The Shade enters and leaves through the eyes. Once that avenue is blocked, the Shade dies with the host.’

  Nightingale shivered, even though the room was uncomfortably hot. A gas fire hissed and spluttered against one wall.

  Mrs Steadman watched him carefully as she sipped her tea. He could feel her weighing up, wondering if he was prepared to do as she asked.

  ‘I don’t know if I can do it,’ he whispered.

  ‘Somebody has to,’ she said. ‘And there is no one else.’

  Nightingale closed his eyes and shivered again.

  ‘If you don’t, a lot of people will die. Many of them children. Remember the nurse? He smothered his own sons.’

  Nightingale opened his eyes. ‘I thought you said you didn’t read the papers?’

  ‘Just because I don’t read newspapers doesn’t mean I’m not aware of what’s going on,’ she said. ‘And what has happened so far will pale into insignificance once the Shade hits its stride.’

  ‘She’s a child,’ whispered Nightingale.

  Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘She was a child, but that child has gone. Her shell is now inhabited by an entity that is pure evil. You will be killing the evil, not the child. Bella Harper is already dead, her soul is no longer in the body.’

  ‘So where is her soul? Heaven?’

  Mrs Steadman looked uncomfortable. ‘So long as the Shade remains in the body, Bella’s soul remains trapped in the Nowhen. She cannot move on.’

  ‘Can she come back? If I kill the Shade, can her soul come back?’

  ‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid. Bella Harper is dead.’

  ‘But in limbo?’

  ‘Until this is resolved, yes.’

  ‘Then I know what I need to do,’ said Nightingale. ‘I need to talk to her.’

  Mrs Steadman’s eyes widened. ‘Mr Nightingale, talking to the dead is never a good idea.’

  Nightingale flashed her a thin smile. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Steadman. I’ve done it before.’

  86

  Colin Stevenson’s hand tightened on the receiver, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turned white. ‘Did you hear what I said, Colin?’ The caller was a detective sergeant in the Met, a long-time friend of Stevenson’s who worked in the Paedophile Unit.

  ‘Yeah, I heard you,’ said Stevenson. ‘Basically I’m fucked.’

  ‘With a capital F,’ said the sergeant. ‘Look, the investigation is going into overdrive, the shit is well and truly going to hit the fan.’

  ‘I understand. Is there any way out?’

  ‘You can run, but there’s already a stop on you at the ports and airports and they’re coming for you first thing tomorrow morning. They don’t tr
ust the locals.’

  ‘What about a deal? Can I cut a deal?’

  ‘They’ve got stuff off your hard drive, Colin. It got emailed to them. That’s all they need.’

  ‘Who the hell did that?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it came from your computer. That’s what I’m told.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Impossible or not, it happened. Look, I don’t see there’s anything you can do. They’ve got you bang to rights and they’ve got your mailing list. The only reason I’m tipping you off is that my name isn’t on that bloody list.’

  ‘Shit.’ Stevenson banged the receiver against his head.

  ‘I need to know you haven’t got my name anywhere they can find it.’

  ‘You’re okay,’ said Stevenson.

  ‘No number on your mobile? Nothing written down?’

  ‘You’re fine.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake keep it that way, Colin.’

  ‘I said, you’re fine,’ said Stevenson.

  ‘I fucking hope so,’ said the sergeant. ‘This is huge, Colin. You know the names that are on the list.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘What the hell were you doing keeping them on your computer?’

  ‘It’s a bit late to be crying about spilt milk,’ said Stevenson. ‘Do you have any idea who screwed me over?’

  ‘It came out of the blue, I’m told. And like I said, it came from your computer.’

  ‘I don’t see how that can have happened,’ said Stevenson. ‘No one else has access to my place.’

  ‘Yeah, well, seriously, I’m sorry it’s worked out this way,’ said the sergeant. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Stevenson didn’t say anything.

  ‘Colin? Are you okay?’

  Stevenson laughed harshly. ‘No, I’m not bloody okay. But I’ll sort it. And don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.’

  87

  ‘You are stark raving mad,’ said Robbie, staring down at the Ouija board that Nightingale had placed on the table. ‘That’s for kids.’

  ‘It’s more than a kids’ game,’ said Nightingale, lighting three white candles on the mantelpiece. He went over to the window and pulled the blinds down.

  ‘If you wanted a romantic evening in, you should have had Jenny round,’ said Robbie.

  ‘First of all I don’t fool around with the staff, and second of all I wouldn’t want her near this.’

  ‘But I’m okay, right? What’s going on, Jack? I can see why you wouldn’t tell me over the phone, because I wouldn’t have come round if I’d known you were going to be messing around with spooky stuff.’

  Robbie bent over the table and examined the Ouija board. It was made of cardboard that had frayed at the edges. The words YES and NO were printed in old-fashioned letters in the top corners, and below them were the letters of the alphabet in two rows, and below them the numbers zero to nine.

  At the bottom of the board, in capital letters, was the word GOODBYE.

  ‘Where did you get this from?’ asked Robbie.

  ‘A junk shop in Portobello Road. It’s from the sixties.’

  ‘What’s the plan? Chat with Jim Morrison?’

  Nightingale walked around the room lighting another half a dozen candles.

  ‘Bella Harper.’

  Robbie’s jaw dropped. ‘Tell me that’s a sick joke.’

  ‘If she’s dead then there’s a chance I can communicate with her.’

  Robbie picked up the grubby white planchette. ‘With a piece of cheap plastic? You don’t believe in this nonsense, do you?’

  ‘The Ouija board works,’ said Nightingale. ‘Plastic, wood or twenty-four-carat gold, none of that makes any difference. It’s about channelling. And believing.’

  ‘But I don’t believe, Jack.’

  ‘No, but I do. You’re here for balance.’

  ‘Balance?’

  ‘There have to be at least two people on the planchette. It won’t work with one.’ He finished lighting the candles and went through to the kitchen, returning with a crystal vase of fresh flowers and a crystal glass of distilled water. He put them on the coffee table, above the board. Then he went over to his bookcase and picked up a Hamleys carrier bag. He took out a small Paddington bear and placed it between the flowers and the glass of water. He grinned at the look of confusion on Robbie’s face. ‘Spirits generally like fresh flowers, and I figured that as Bella’s a kid she might like the bear.’

  Robbie sat down on the sofa, shaking his head. ‘You’re mad,’ he said.

  ‘Sit down at the table, mate,’ said Nightingale, gesturing at one of the two wooden chairs he’d put there. He went back to the kitchen and came back with a tray on which were three small brass bowls containing sage, lavender and consecrated salt, courtesy of Mrs Steadman.

  Robbie was sitting at the table, toying with the planchette. Nightingale put the bowls on the table, then lit five large white church candles and placed them around the board. He took the planchette from Robbie and put it on the board, between YES and NO.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started.’ He sprinkled liberal amounts of sage over the burning candles. The herb flared and sizzled and gave off a sweet aroma. Then he rubbed some of the herb over the planchette and around the edge of the board.

  ‘You’re a right Jamie Oliver, aren’t you?’ joked Robbie, but Nightingale flashed him a warning look. He sprinkled salt and lavender over the board, then put the brass bowls on a bookshelf.

  He sat down next to Robbie. ‘Seriously mate, don’t screw around. I realise you don’t believe in it, but any negative energy will spoil it. So only think positive thoughts.’

  Robbie nodded. ‘Okay.’

  Nightingale held out his hands. ‘Hold my hands and close your eyes.’

  Robbie opened his mouth to say something but then changed his mind and did as he’d been told. Nightingale squeezed Robbie’s hands, closed his eyes and began to speak in a loud, authoritative voice. ‘In the name of God, of Jesus Christ, of the Great Brotherhood of Light, of the Archangels Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel and Ariel, please protect us from the forces of evil during this session. Let there be nothing but light surrounding this board and its participants and let us only communicate with powers and entities of the light. Protect us, protect this house, the people in this house, and let there only be light and nothing but light, amen.’

  He waited for Robbie to say ‘Amen’ but when he didn’t he squeezed his hands.

  Robbie got the message. ‘Amen,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, you can open your eyes now,’ said Nightingale. Robbie did as he was told. ‘Okay, now you have to imagine that the table is protected with a bright white light. First you imagine it coming down through the top of your head and completely surrounding your body. Then push it out as far as you can go. Do you understand?’

  ‘A white light?’

  ‘As bright as you can imagine. Like a white fluorescent light. Try to picture it coming from the ceiling, down through the top of your head and then dispersing through your body. And as you do that, we both put our right hands on the planchette.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Robbie, but Nightingale could hear the uncertainty in his friend’s voice.

  ‘One thing. If anything goes wrong we slide the planchette to GOODBYE and we both say “Goodbye” in a loud, firm voice and then I’ll say a closing prayer.’

  ‘Do you want to spell out what you mean by “go wrong” or shall I just leave that to my imagination?’

  ‘The Ouija board is a conduit to the other side,’ said Nightingale. ‘Just because I’m asking to talk with Bella doesn’t mean that she’ll come through. And there are evil and mischievous spirits out there. But don’t worry, they can’t do any harm through the board.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Okay, so start to visualize the light and put your hand on the planchette.’

  The two men concentrated and reached out to touch the plas
tic planchette.

  Nightingale took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. ‘We’re here to talk to Bella Harper,’ he said. ‘Bella Harper, please come forward. We are here in the light, safe from the dark.’

  The candle flames flickered, casting shadows on the walls.

  ‘Bella, my name is Jack Nightingale. I need to talk to you. Please come forward.’

  A car alarm went off outside and both men jumped. Robbie grinned and shook his head.

  ‘Bella, this is a safe place, a place protected by the purest of lights,’ said Nightingale. ‘Please come forward.’

  The alarm stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

  ‘Bella, Bella Harper, please come into the light.’

  The planchette began to vibrate and Nightingale looked over at Robbie. It was clear from the look of surprise on his friend’s face that he wasn’t responsible for it.

  ‘Bella, is that you?’

  The vibrations intensified and then the planchette began to move. It slid slowly across the board, the pointed end towards the word YES.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Robbie.

  Nightingale flashed him a warning look.

  The planchette stopped, a couple of inches from YES.

  ‘Bella, this is a safe place. My name is Jack Nightingale, I just want to talk to you. Please let me know that you can hear me.’

  The planchette began to vibrate again, then resumed its slide across the board. It came to a halt with the tip just over the letter E.

  ‘That’s a good girl, Bella. I won’t keep you long. Hello.’

  The planchette backed away from YES and then moved slowly towards HELLO. It stopped over the H.

  Robbie’s mouth was wide open as he stared at the planchette.

  ‘Bella, where are you?’

  The planchette twitched back and forth as if it wasn’t sure which way to go, then it scraped slowly across the board and stopped at the letter D. Then it moved down to O. Then left to N.

  ‘D-O-N,’ whispered Robbie. He spelled out the letters as the planchette moved to them. ‘T-K-N-O-W. Don’t know.’