Nightmare

by Stephen Leather

  Chalmers arrived just as the driver was running up the steps to the door. He got out of the car and walked over to the MGB, still holding his iPhone. He pulled open the driver’s door and peered inside. ‘Sergeant, over here!’ he shouted. He put away his phone and pulled on a pair of purple latex gloves. He picked the gun off the back seat and took it out just as the sergeant ran up. He sniffed the weapon and wrinkled his nose at the acrid tang of cordite. Chalmers held out the revolver so that the sergeant could see it. ‘If this is his only gun then he’s in there unarmed,’ said Chalmers.

  ‘Understood, sir,’ said the sergeant.

  Chalmers looked up at the upper floor as the driver began to batter the enforcer against the lock. There was a light in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It was flickering.

  Chalmers pointed up at the window. ‘See that, sergeant? Candlelight. That’s where he is.’

  The sergeant stepped back, looked at where Chalmers was pointing, and nodded.

  ‘Go right up there, soon as you’re inside,’ said Chalmers.

  ‘Sir, procedure is to clear the lower floor first.’

  ‘Screw procedure. He’s upstairs. I know it.’

  The sergeant nodded and jogged over to the door. It was made from solid oak but on the fifth strike the wood began to splinter around the lock.

  73

  Nightingale took a deep breath and began to read from the paper. ‘Osurmy delmausan atalsloym charusihoa,’ he said. Then he took another deep breath and continued to read the rest of the words, taking care not to make any mistakes. When he finished he held the parchment over the north-facing candle. As it burned he spoke again, his voice louder this time. ‘Come, Lucifuge Rofocale,’ he said. ‘I summon you.’

  The burning parchment singed his fingers but he ignored the pain. It had to burn completely while he held it. If he dropped it the spell would be broken. Grey smoke began to fill the room, far more than could have been produced by the parchment alone. It began to whirl around in a tight vortex and as Nightingale stared at it he felt himself begin to fall so he quickly closed his eyes and steadied himself. ‘Come, Lucifuge Rofocale!’ he shouted. ‘I command you to appear!’

  When he opened his eyes again what was left of the parchment had crumbled to ash between his fingers and thumb and he rubbed his hands together, blackening them. The room was full of smoke and he could barely make out the walls and ceiling. The vortex was spinning faster and faster and the centre of it had turned black. Nightingale held up his hands. ‘Appear before me, I command you!’ he screamed.

  There was a loud crack as if a tree had split down the middle and a flash of light that was so bright he could feel it burn his flesh. For a few seconds he was blinded and there were tears in his eyes when he blinked. As he put the palms of his hands over his eyes he heard a roar so deep that his stomach vibrated. Nightingale took his hands away from his eyes. There was a large figure standing in the smoke, something reptilian with grey scales and yellow eyes and a forked tongue that flicked out from between razor-sharp teeth. ‘You are Lucifuge Rofocale and I command that you speak the truth!’ shouted Nightingale.

  Grey, leathery wings spread out from its back and waved to and fro, disturbing the smoke, then it threw back its head and roared. Nightingale took a step backwards and almost tripped. The floor began to shake violently and then there was another loud crack and the figure rippled and morphed into a dwarf wearing a red jacket with gold buttons and gleaming black boots. The dwarf waddled towards the pentagram on bow legs, his silver spurs jangling with each step. In his right hand he was carrying a riding crop and he ran his left hand through unkempt curly black hair as he glared up at Nightingale.

  ‘How dare you!’ screamed the dwarf. ‘I’m not some underling to be summoned on a whim!’ He lashed out with his riding crop but Nightingale didn’t flinch. The crop swished back and forth but it didn’t cross over the pentagram. So long as he stayed inside it, Nightingale knew that he couldn’t be harmed. ‘You’ve no idea what I can do to you, Nightingale! The pain I can put you through!’

  ‘I have a deal for you,’ said Nightingale.

  The dwarf snorted contemptuously. ‘You’ve nothing I want or need.’

  ‘My soul,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m offering you my soul.’

  The dwarf’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Do you take me for a fool?’

  ‘That’s the last thing I’d take you for,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said the dwarf.

  ‘That’s why I’ve summoned you.’

  ‘You’ve done nothing but fight to keep your sad little soul,’ said the dwarf. ‘Why are you so keen to surrender it now?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Downstairs there was a loud thump, the sound of an enforcer being slammed against the front door. The door was solid oak and it would hold for a while. ‘Because there’s something I want more than my soul,’ he finished.

  There was another loud thump and the dwarf turned towards the bedroom door. ‘What is that?’ he asked.

  ‘The police,’ said Nightingale.

  The dwarf turned back to look at him. ‘You think they can help you? Against me?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘They’re not here to help; they’re here to arrest me.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Murder.’

  The dwarf chuckled. ‘So who did you kill, Nightingale?’

  There were two more loud thumps from the enforcer.

  ‘It’s a long story and we don’t really have time for it now.’ His eyes were watering from all the smoke and a tear rolled down his cheek. ‘Do you want my soul, or not?’

  ‘That depends on what you want in exchange.’

  There was a much louder thump followed by the sound of splintering wood.

  The dwarf chuckled. ‘You want to escape, is that it? Like your sister?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘Sort of,’ he said.

  ‘That’s the deal, then? I get you out of whatever predicament you’ve got yourself into, and in return I get your soul?’

  ‘I want more than that,’ said Nightingale.

  There was another loud bang downstairs followed by shouts outside and the crackle of radios. And in the distance, the siren of an ambulance. The police were anticipating casualties, Nightingale realised.

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Lucifuge Rofocale.

  ‘I want to go back.’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘Back to that day when Sophie died. Everything that’s happened to me stems from that day. If Sophie hadn’t died then I’d still be a cop and Jenny would still be alive.’

  ‘And you think you can change that?’

  ‘I can try.’

  The dwarf laughed again, then looked at Nightingale with narrowed eyes. ‘That’s your deal? You go back to that day and I get your soul?’

  ‘That’s what I want.’

  The dwarf jutted his chin up. ‘Then it is agreed,’ he said. ‘The deal is done.’ He grinned triumphantly and folded his arms.

  Nightingale stared at him in silence for several seconds. ‘You planned this, didn’t you? Right from the start.’

  The dwarf tilted back his oversized head and laughed. The walls of the room vibrated and dust showered down from the ceiling.

  ‘This has been all your doing, hasn’t it? You’ve been letting Sophie contact me because you wanted my soul. You were using her to get to me.’

  ‘You’re flattering yourself, Nightingale. You think I care about you? You think you occupy my thoughts for even one millisecond?’

  Nightingale nodded slowly. ‘I think you’re a vindictive, nasty little shit. I think you did whatever you had to do to get one over on me. You wanted my soul and you didn’t care who you had to destroy to get it.’

  The dwarf grinned. ‘Maybe you’re not as stupid as you look,’ he said.

  ‘You used Fairchild, didn’t you? Maybe it was Proserpine who pulled his strings but she works for you. And everything that happened was to get me
here, wasn’t it? So that you could get my soul?’

  ‘And now I have it,’ said the dwarf. He pointed at Nightingale with his right index finger. The nail was long and yellow and as sharp as a knife. ‘I have a special place for you in Hell, Nightingale. Ready and waiting.’

  74

  ‘For God’s sake put your back into it!’ shouted Chalmers. ‘If you can’t put some weight behind it then give it to someone who can.’

  The man with the enforcer turned to glare at the superintendent. ‘With the greatest of respect, sir, this isn’t some jerry-built council house. This door is a couple of inches thick and built to last.’

  Chalmers pointed his finger at the officer. ‘Don’t bloody stop, man!’ he shouted.

  An ambulance turned into the driveway, its siren blaring.

  The officer began to pound the enforcer against the door again. Each time he hit it the wood around the lock splintered a little more, and after half a dozen more blows the lock gave way.

  ‘Finally,’ said Chalmers.

  ‘Sir, you need to stay outside until we’ve secured the house,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Just get upstairs and get the bastard,’ said Chalmers.

  The ambulance pulled up behind the armed response vehicle and Chalmers turned and flashed them a cut-throat gesture, telling them to kill the siren.

  With one final blow from the enforcer the door crashed open and the three armed officers piled into the mud-splattered hallway, led by the sergeant. Chalmers followed them inside and watched as they moved carefully up the charred stairs, their MP5s against their shoulders.

  The sergeant took them to the door of the room where they’d seen the candlelight. He pointed at the door, then gingerly tried the handle. ‘Locked,’ he mouthed. The door was fire-damaged but in one piece.

  Chalmers came down the landing and the sergeant motioned for him to go back but the superintendent ignored him.

  The officer with the enforcer pushed past Chalmers and joined the sergeant. The armed cops had their MP5s pointing at the door. The officer swung the enforcer and he grunted as it made contact. The door was nowhere near as strong as the one at the entrance to the house; it buckled with the first blow and sagged on its hinges with the second. The sergeant kicked the door out of the way and stormed into the bedroom. ‘Armed police! Drop your weapon!’ he shouted.

  The two other armed officers followed him inside, one moving to the right, the other to the left, both shouting at the top of their voices. ‘Armed police! Armed police!’

  Then there was just silence. Chalmers walked quickly into the room but stopped when he saw the three officers standing around a pentagram drawn in chalk on the floor. There were five black candles burning, one at each of the points of the pentagram.

  ‘Where is he?’ said Chalmers, looking around.

  ‘There’s no one here, sir,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Nonsense. The room was locked from the inside. We all saw that.’

  The sergeant shrugged.

  ‘You checked the bathroom?’

  ‘Sir, there’s no one here,’ said the sergeant testily.

  ‘If there’s no one here then who lit the candles?’ asked Chalmers.

  The sergeant looked away and didn’t answer.

  Chalmers snorted and stormed into the bathroom. There was a white towel hanging on a chrome rail and he grabbed it. It was wet. And so was the bath. He threw the towel into the tub and picked up the shirt left on the toilet. It was soaked in blood, as was the raincoat underneath it. Chalmers went back into the bedroom. The four policemen were looking around the room, trying to avoid eye contact with the superintendent.

  ‘Find him,’ shouted Chalmers. ‘Tear this bloody house apart. He has to be hiding somewhere.’

  75

  Nightingale kept his foot down hard on the accelerator and he pounded on his horn as he ran a red light, swerving around the back of a bus and narrowly missing a black cab. His mobile rang and he fished it out of his pocket. It was the coordinator of the Metropolitan Police’s negotiating team.

  ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ said Nightingale. ‘What about Robbie? Have you reached him?’

  ‘He’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘Keep trying. I need him there.’

  ‘I’ve got other officers on the way, Jack. We’re covered.’

  ‘I need Robbie Hoyle. No one else will do.’ He braked to avoid a woman who had pushed a buggy into the road and was glaring at him as if daring him to run her and the child over. ‘Are you stupid?’ he screamed at her. She swore at him and gave him the finger, her face contorted with hatred.

  ‘What’s up with you, Jack?’ asked the coordinator.

  ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t at you,’ said Nightingale. ‘Look, Robbie will make it, but you just have to tell him to get a move on, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Jack. And you drive carefully, do you hear?’

  ‘Driving’s the least of my worries,’ said Nightingale, and he ended the call. He put the phone back into his pocket and concentrated on the road ahead.

  His heart was racing and he took slow, deep breaths as he tried to calm himself down. There was no point in rushing, he told himself. Nothing would happen until he reached Sophie. And he wouldn’t be doing anything until Robbie Hoyle had arrived.

  A set of lights ahead turned red and he pulled up next to a bus. He took out his cigarettes and lit one. As he blew smoke he looked up to see a young schoolgirl staring at him from the bus. She was in a green uniform with a beret and couldn’t have been more than six years old; she had curly red hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her snub nose. Nightingale smiled at her and waggled his eyebrows but she looked at him with unseeing eyes. Nightingale took another long drag on his cigarette.

  The girl’s mother was sitting next to her, talking on a BlackBerry. The mother, in her thirties, with similar hair and freckles, turned to look at her daughter, then glared through the window at Nightingale. Nightingale smiled, but neither of them reacted. Then their lips began to move. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but it was easy enough to read their lips: ‘You are going to Hell, Jack Nightingale.’

  Nightingale flinched and the cigarette fell from his hand into his lap. He cursed and grabbed for it and when he looked up again the mother and daughter were talking to each other. A horn blared and Nightingale realised that the traffic light had turned green. He put the MGB in gear and drove off.

  His mobile rang as he drove along the King’s Road. It was the coordinator. Nightingale fumbled for his phone and pressed the button to take the call.

  ‘Robbie’s on his way. He was in the area so he should get there about the same time as you.’

  ‘I’ll wait for him,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I don’t have any details yet, just that it’s a person in crisis,’ said the coordinator.

  ‘That’s okay; I know who it is,’ said Nightingale. He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.

  The traffic ahead had slowed to a crawl and he tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. On the far side of the road a West Indian traffic warden was writing out a ticket for a white BMW sports car. A blonde woman with half a dozen carrier bags came out of a boutique and began pleading with him. Nightingale smiled to himself, but the smile froze when the woman and the traffic warden both turned to look at him. ‘You’re going to Hell, Jack Nightingale,’ they mouthed, sending a shudder down Nightingale’s spine.

  A young woman pushing a pram stopped behind the traffic warden, and so did two pensioners, women with headscarves and matching overcoats. They all turned to stare at Nightingale, their eyes blank and their faces impassive. Then their mouths began to work in unison. ‘You are going to Hell, Jack Nightingale.’

  The traffic started to move and Nightingale accelerated down the road. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw more than a dozen people standing still on the pavement, staring after him.

  He drove into Chelsea Harbour. Ah
ead of him he could see the tower block. Sophie was on the far side, he knew. Sitting on the balcony. With her doll.

  There was a police car pulled across the road to stop traffic and two Community Support Officers in police-type uniforms and yellow fluorescent jackets held up their hands, telling him to stop. One of them was about to tell Nightingale to turn his car around but he wound down the window and showed them his warrant card.

  ‘Inspector Nightingale,’ he said. ‘I’m the negotiator.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said the CSO. He pointed over at a parked ambulance but Nightingale had already put the car in gear and was driving towards it. The two CSOs jumped out of the way.

  As Nightingale climbed out of the MGB, Colin Duggan hurried over. He was wearing his inspector’s uniform and holding a transceiver.

  ‘Robbie’s on his way,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Yeah, he’ll be here in five minutes,’ said Duggan. ‘He just called.’

  Nightingale took his pack of Marlboro from his pocket and held it out to Duggan. The inspector took a cigarette and Nightingale lit it for him, then lit one for himself.

  ‘It’s a kid, Jack,’ said Duggan, scratching his fleshy neck.

  ‘I know,’ said Nightingale. ‘Nine years old.’

  ‘Her name’s Sophie. She’s locked herself on the thirteenth-floor balcony and she’s sitting there talking to her doll. Father’s at work, mother’s shopping, and the girl was left in the care of the au pair.’ Duggan gestured with his cigarette at an anorexic blonde who was sitting on a bench, sobbing, as a uniformed WPC tried to comfort her. ‘Polish girl. She was ironing, then saw Sophie on the balcony. She banged on the window but Sophie had locked it from the outside.’ Duggan frowned. ‘How do you know how old she is?’

  Nightingale looked at his watch. ‘Where the hell is Robbie?’ he muttered.