My Name Is Lydia (Jack Nightingale short story)

by Stephen Leather

  MY NAME IS LYDIA

  By Stephen Leather

  ***

  Jack Nightingale appears in the full-length novels Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade and Lastnight. He has his own website at www.jacknightingale.com The Jack Nightingale time line is complex, this story is probably set between Midnight and Nightmare.

  She woke up exactly at two a.m. It was always easy to take control while the bitch slept, though in time she would be able to overcome all resistance no matter what the time. Enough moonlight filtered through the thin curtains to allow her to inspect the naked body. The budding breasts were developing nicely, and she cupped each one in turn, feeling the nipples harden. She ran her fingers between the legs, lingering long enough to feel the moisture start to flow. This body would be so much more fun, now that the transition to womanhood had begun. Still, time enough for that later, once she’d started on the process of subjugation. And spread a little more unhappiness. She took a slow, deep breath, enjoying the feel of the warm night air entering and leaving her lungs. It was good to be alive.

  She sat up and stretched. She found the packet of cigarettes in the top drawer of the bedside table, placed one between her lips and lit it with a plastic lighter. It had been easy enough to persuade one of the Year Ten boys at school to buy them for her, especially with the suggestion of a little reward to come. She inhaled deeply and blew a smoke ring up towards the ceiling. The parents might smell the smoke, but that would be the least of their worries. She smiled at the thought of what was to come. She was going to have such fun.

  She crushed the last of the cigarette out on the top of the clock-radio, which read 2.08. She swung her feet onto the floor and stood up, a little unsteadily at first because being in control still took some getting used to. She took a long look at the body in the mirrored door of the wardrobe. Yes, it would do. It would certainly do, and it held the promise of much more to come.

  The room was warm, the window open to the August night air, and she ignored the dressing gown hanging behind the door. She turned the knob and walked out onto the landing, past the door of the parents’ bedroom and on into the bathroom. She closed the door behind her before turning on the light, then opened the medicine cabinet over the basin. What she needed was on the top shelf, and the eleven-year-old body wouldn’t stretch that far, so she pulled over the wicker towel box and stood on it. She pushed aside the mother’s sleeping pills and Prozac to ensure they wouldn’t fall as she reached for the father’s Gillette Fusion razor and the box of spare blade cartridges. She stepped down from the box and pushed it back to its usual place by the wall.

  She slipped off her nightdress and sat on the edge of the bath as she loaded one of the cartridges into the razor, just as she’d seen the father do many times before, as she’d watched through the bitch’s eyes. She carefully ran the blade across the left wrist, pressing just hard enough to open three shallow cuts that ran the whole width of the arm. There was hardly any pain at all. Blood started to seep out, and she transferred the razor to the left hand and repeated the procedure on the right wrist. As the blood started to cover the wrists, she wiped them across the breasts and stomach, leaving ragged red trails.

  She climbed into the bath, leaned forward to put the plug into its hole, placed the lever of the mixer tap into the middle position, then lifted it to start the flow of water into the bath. She lay down in the deepening water and watched as it slowly turned red and waited. She didn’t think it would take long before they heard and the fun would begin.

  She was right. Inside two minutes, she heard the sound of the parents’ door opening and the pad of slippers along the landing. The door knob rattled as the father spoke. “Christine? Are you all right in there, sweetheart?”

  She said nothing, just continued to watch as the reddening water crept slowly around the body.

  “Christine? What are you doing in there? What’s the matter?”

  She heard another set of feet as the mother joined him, and her voice rang out. “Christine? Open the door, darling. Please.”

  The water was covering the stomach now. The head rested against the back of the bath, still well clear of danger. She heard the whispered conversation outside the door, though she couldn’t make out the words. Finally the father spoke again. “Christine, you need to come out now, or we’ll have to come in. Please, darling. You’re worrying us. Please open the door.”

  Still she waited, and then she smiled as the doorknob turned. She heard the impact of a shoulder against the door. The door itself was strong, but the tiny bolt was held in by shallow screws and burst away from the frame as fifteen stone of the father’s full weight smashed against it. The parents tumbled into the room, stopping in horror when they saw the small figure in the bath.

  “Christine,” screamed the mother. “Oh my God, Christine.”

  She raised the head a little further out of the water and stared malevolently at the two adults, her eyes flashing contempt. The voice was harsh, deep and angry “Don’t you fucking dare to call me that. My name is Lydia.”

  * * *

  Jack Nightingale knew that it was illegal to smoke in a place of business. On the other hand, with a complete absence of cases for the last two weeks, he was beginning to doubt whether his office fitted that description any longer. He decided to open the window before lighting up a Marlboro, which he figured probably let in fumes far more harmful than his cigarette produced. He sat down at his computer and continued checking his emails, most of which seemed to be offering him dates with Russian women and Chinese Viagra pills to make his relations with them last longer. No sign of anything that would top up his bank account. In fact he was starting to wonder why he’d bothered to show up at the office at all today, when the door swung open and Jenny walked in.

  Nightingale just had time to notice her dark blue blazer and light blue jeans before she pointed an accusing finger at him. “Seriously? You promised not to smoke in the office anymore.”

  “Well, to be fair, I think what I actually said was that I wouldn’t let you see me smoke here anymore.”

  “That wasn’t what you said. You promised.”

  “I had my fingers crossed. This is the last one for the day. In here anyway. Now sit down and I’ll make you a coffee.”

  “Coffee isn’t actually an infallible way to get round me, you know.”

  Nightingale raised an eyebrow. “So, you don’t want one?”

  “Well…yes.”

  Nightingale crushed out his cigarette and did the necessary with the coffee maker. By the time he handed Jenny her cup she was sitting at her desk with her computer fired up, checking invoices and payments. Not many of either recently. She sipped her coffee and looked up at him.

  “Jack, I need a favour.”

  “Ask and ye shall receive,” he said. “Unless you need a loan in which case you’re out of luck. My bank balance is under some strain at the moment.”

  “No, it’s not money. I just want you to see a friend of mine, well, more a friend of my mother’s really. He’s in a bit of a quandary apparently, and he says it sounds like your sort of thing. I sort of gathered it’s to do with another friend of mother’s but…”

  “Hold on a minute,” said Nightingale. “You’re losing me already. Why don’t you start from the beginning and take it slowly.”

  She sipped her coffee. “Well, I’m not sure I can really, he didn’t tell me all that much about it. It would be easier if you talked to Maurice yourself. That’s his name, Maurice Mahoney.”

  “So it’s a case?”

  “Not really, he just needs some advice. Pro bono.”

  “You k
now I hate that band, Jenny.”

  “You make the same U2 joke every time I mention Pro Bono.”

  “I have a limited repertoire,” he admitted. “Bit like U2. Sure, bring him in. It’s not as if I’m worked off my feet at the moment.”

  Jenny smiled. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

  “You sneaky madam. Gives you just enough time to nip over to Starbucks and get the muffins in. One for your mate too if he’s the muffin type.”

  * * *

  Nightingale’s detective skills hadn’t been given much exercise in recent weeks, but they were still up to the task of deducing that Maurice Mahoney was a Catholic priest. The long black cassock and dog collar were a dead giveaway. Mahoney looked to be in his mid-fifties, the brown in his hair losing the war to the grey. He was quite a big man still in pretty good shape. Nightingale waved him to a chair. “Sit down, please, Father.”

  Nightingale didn’t miss the quick glance the priest gave to the packet of Marlboro and the ashtray on the desk as he sat down. A lot of Catholic priests seemed to smoke and drink. Nightingale wondered if that was because it helped make up for the vow of chastity thing. “You a smoker, Father Mahoney?” he asked, though the nicotine stains on the fingers of his right hand were a dead giveaway.

  “When I can find a place where it’s still legal. We even have to put up ‘No Smoking’ notices in the church now.”

  “Well, I’ve got one of those notices too, but I’m the boss so I think I have some leeway.” He pushed the packet and lighter across the desk despite the angry look from Jenny.

  “I won’t say no,” said Mahoney. “My nerves need a little soothing at the moment.” The priest lit a Marlboro, blew smoke at the ceiling, and sighed. “Jenny’s talked about you a little, so I know I can rely on your discretion. This has to stay between us, Jack. This concerns a friend of hers, or at least her parents, and it couldn’t be more personal. My friend’s name is Susan Warren.”

  Nightingale nodded, though the name meant nothing to him. He had met Jenny’s parents but only knew a few of their friends.

  The priest continued. “She’s quite a prominent solicitor, works for a firm in London, though she lives in Twickenham. I met her at one of Jenny’s parents’ dinner parties.”

  “Married?” asked Nightingale.

  “Oh, yes. Matthew’s a doctor. Very nice chap. Devoted to each other. And to their daughter, Christine. She’s eleven now. And that seems to be where the problem lies.”

  He flicked ash into the one ashtray on Nightingale’s desk. “It seems that Christine has been displaying some …rather…unfortunate behaviour lately.”

  “Teenagers can be difficult, I’m told.”

  “Yes, I’ve been told that too. But this seems to go a little further than sullenness and defiance. If the Warrens are to be believed, it seems that Christine has developed a complete alternate personality, and an extremely dangerous and unpleasant one at that.”

  “For example?”

  “For example, she’s started to associate with much older boys, to smoke, swear and abuse her parents, she damaged her father’s car and the most recent incident involved her cutting her own wrists.”

  “A suicide attempt?”

  “Not a serious one, apparently. More a gesture. As her mother puts it, her new personality seems determined to make their lives a misery.”

  “So she’s changed completely?”

  “No, that’s the strange thing. Most of the time she’s her normal self, a lovely girl. The new and nasty persona only takes over occasionally. When it does, she even refuses to answer to her own name. Insists on being called Lydia.”

  “So what has all this got to do with me?” asked Nightingale. “Or, come to that, with you? Sounds like a job for a child psychologist, rather than a priest and a private detective.”

  Father Mahoney closed his eyes and shook his head. He opened his eyes after a few seconds and took a long pull on his cigarette. “The parents sent her to a psychiatrist but he said there was nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing. He gave her a completely clean bill of health. That was the day before she cut her wrists.”

  “She fooled the psychiatrist? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  “Or maybe when she went to see the psychiatrist there wasn’t a problem. The girl the psychiatrist saw was perfectly well-adjusted. But maybe the psychiatrist didn’t get to see Lydia.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” said Nightingale.

  “Susan wants me to perform an exorcism.”

  “A what?” said Nightingale incredulously. “You can’t be serious. A few behavioural problems and the mother thinks she’s possessed by the Devil? What century is she living in?”

  The priest gave a wry smile.

  “It’s not quite as medieval as you might think, Mr Nightingale. You might be surprised to learn that the Roman Catholic Church introduced a modernised Rite of Exorcism in 1999. There is even an International Association of Exorcists within the Church which has over two hundred members.”

  “Fair enough, but it still seems pretty drastic for an eleven year old girl’s behaviour problems.”

  “I entirely agree,” said Mahoney. “Which is where you come in. Jenny says you’re something of an expert in supernatural matters.”

  “I’ve seen more than my share of odd stuff,” said Nightingale. “Though I wouldn’t claim expert status.”

  “I’d like you to come with me to see the girl.”

  Nightingale shook his head. “I’m not interested in watching an exorcism. I don’t believe in them.”

  “No, no. And I certainly can’t contemplate carrying out an exorcism without the express authority of the Bishop. I’d be hoping that together we could persuade the parents to abandon the idea, and perhaps seek more conventional help.”

  “Well, as it happens, I do have a few holes in my current schedule,” said Nightingale. “When were you thinking?”

  “No time like the present,” said Mahoney with a smile. “Shall we take my car?”

  * * *

  It took just over an hour for Father Mahone’s grey Kia to get to the Warrens’ house in Strawberry Hill. Nightingale took in the double frontage, the large garage, the immaculately tended front lawn and flower beds, and decided that the family definitely weren’t short of money. Father Mahoney parked on the drive, the two men got out and headed for the front door, where the priest rang the bell.

  The woman who answered the door was tall and slim, wearing a neat pink suit that looked as if was probably Chanel. Her hair was an immaculate golden-blond, but it didn’t disguise the fact that she was in her mid-fifties. Christine must have been a very late arrival in her life. She smiled at Mahoney, and offered her hand. They shook, formally, as if she was thanking him for a stirring sermon. “This is Mr Nightingale,” said the priest by way of introduction. “I mentioned him. He’s very experienced in matters like this.”

  She nodded and flashed Nightingale a worried smile. “Susan Warren, Mr Nightingale.”

  “Call me Jack, please.”

  Another nod, but she made no attempt to use his first name, just showed them into the hall. Nightingale took a look around. The hall seemed bigger than his whole flat in Bayswater. The Warrens definitely had money. A lot of it.

  “Father Mahoney said you have had some experience in possession,” said the woman.

  “Susan, we’re not sure that Christine is possessed,” said the priest.

  “How else can you explain what’s happening to her,” said Mrs Warren.

  “That’s why Jack is here,” said Mahoney. “Let’s let him tall to her and we can see what he thinks.”

  “She’s in her bedroom.”

  “She didn’t go to school?”

  “We’re keeping her at home until this is resolved,” said Mrs Warren. “Last night she…” She shuddered and didn’t finish the sentence. She led the way upstairs, past three closed doors, then opened the fourth with a key which she took f
rom her jacket pocket.

  “You keep her locked in her room?” said Nightingale.

  Mrs Warren flinched as if he’d struck her. “Christine is my daughter and I love her with all my heart, but you don’t understand what she’s like.”

  “What happened last night?” asked Nightingale.

  Mrs Warren continued to stare at the door, the key in her hand. “We have a dog. A small dog. A Jack Russell. Lovely little thing. So loyal. Loved Christine to bits.” She shuddered. “She killed it last night. We’re not sure how. But at some point she used a kitchen knife. She cut Poppy up and spread her insides around the kitchen.” She shuddered again, then took a deep breath and composed herself before opening the door. “Christine, some people to see you,” she said. “You remember Father Mahoney, and this is Mr Nightingale.”

  The girl lay on the bed, watching ‘Frozen’ on a wide-screen TV on the opposite wall. She clicked the mute button as they entered, then stood up to meet them, shaking her long, blond hair over her shoulders and straightening her skirt. “Hello, Father Mahoney,” she said. “Hello Mr Nightingale.”

  Nightingale’s eyes were drawn to the bandages wrapped round both of her wrists, but, apart from them, she looked a normal, cheerful eleven year-old, her smile showing perfect teeth and her blue eyes lively and intelligent.

  “Why have they come to see me?” Christine asked her mother.

  “They’ll explain,” said Susan Warren. “I’ll leave you with her, gentlemen.”

  “Mummy, I want to go outside and play.”

  “Maybe later,” said Mrs Warren.

  “And where’s Poppy. I keep calling her but she won’t come.”

  She opened the door to leave but Father Mahoney held up his hand. “No, no, Susan, we shouldn’t be alone with Christine without a parent present, please stay.”

  “Well, it’ll be rather crowded,” she said. “Perhaps we should go downstairs?”

  “Fine,” said Mahoney, and Mrs Warren led them all down to a large drawing room which looked out onto the rear garden. Christine and the priest sat on the long dark-green leather Chesterfield sofa, with Nightingale and the girl’s mother in the matching armchairs facing them. Mrs Warren looked at Father Mahoney and nodded.