“So, Christine,” he began. “How have you been?”
“Fine thank you, Father.”
She held up her bandaged wrists.
“Except this. I was sleepwalking, and mummy says I fell and cut myself. It hurt a bit at first, but it’s healing up now.”
“Do you often sleepwalk?” asked Nightingale.
“I don’t think so, do I mummy? But I don’t know really, I’d be asleep when it happens. I don’t remember.”
“Sometimes she does,” said her mother. “But she’s never hurt herself before.”
“Do you know anyone called Lydia?” asked Mahoney.
“Lydia?” repeated Christine, wrinkling her face into a puzzled look. “I don’t think so. She’s not in my class.”
The priest opened his briefcase and took out a well-thumbed copy of The Bible, opened it and handed it to the girl. “I wonder if you could read that for me Christine, where it says Twenty Three.”
She smiled.
“Oh yes, I know that one. Mrs Hemmings reads it in assembly quite often. The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want...”
She read confidently and fluently, and Mahoney let her carry on to the end of the psalm before resuming his questions. “Do you believe in Jesus, Christine?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “I really like Bible stories.”
Father Mahoney nodded and took a small vial out of his pocket, took off the top, sprinkled a few drops of liquid on his hands, then drew the sign of the cross on the girl’s forehead. “May God bless you and keep you safe, my child,” he said.
Christine smiled again. “Thank you, Father,” she said. “Do you think if I pray enough, He might stop me sleepwalking?”
“Maybe He will, my dear.”
Father Mahoney looked at her mother and nodded.
“That’s fine, Christine,” said Mrs Warren. “You can run along upstairs and finish your film now.”
“Thanks, Mum,” said the girl. “Nice to see you, Father. And you, Mr Nightingale. Are you a priest too? You don’t dress like one.”
“Not quite,” said Nightingale. “Though today I’m a priest’s assistant, I suppose. Nice to meet you, Christine.”
The girl left the room, and her mother turned her attention to Father Mahoney.
“Was that it?” she asked. “That was the exorcism? Surely there’s more to it than that?”
“That wasn’t an exorcism, Mrs Warren,” said the priest. “And I won’t be performing one. Whatever’s wrong with Christine is nothing to do with demonic possession.”
“But how can you tell?”
“She took the Bible and read it aloud, I crossed her with Holy Water and she accepted Jesus. No demon would ever do any of those things, much less all three. There’s no grounds at all for recommending an exorcism. It’s not a priest you need, but a doctor.”
The woman slumped forward and buried her face in her hands. “But what am I going to do? I’m at my wits’ end. She killed our dog. Killed her and mutilated her. What 11-year-old behaves like that?”
This time it was Nightingale who spoke.
“Why don’t you tell me a little more about what has happened, Mrs Warren. Perhaps I could offer some suggestions. When did these episodes start?”
The woman raised her head and looked over at him as if she’d almost forgotten his presence. She took a deep breath before answering him.
“She’s always been prone to nightmares, ever since she was a toddler. Maybe once a month or so, she’d wake up screaming in the small hours, never anything coherent, just babbling nonsense. Once she woke up properly, she never remembered anything about it. In fact the nightmares got less frequent after about the age of eight. But all of this new stuff started about four months ago.”
“Did anything seem to cause it?” asked Nightingale.
“Not directly. Though, it was around the time of her first... well, when she reached puberty.”
“So what exactly has been happening?” he asked. I’ve heard about the self-harming. And the dog. But what else has happened?”
“Well, about three months ago, she started having nightmares again and would wake up screaming, but this time there was a pattern to it. One of us, Matthew my husband or I, would go into her, and she’d sit bolt upright in the bed and start cursing us. Really foul language, stuff we had no idea she knew. And wishing such awful things on us. That was bad enough, but what really drove her to hysterics was when we used her name. She’d scream torrents of bile at us, and insist we called her ‘Lydia’. Then after half an hour or so, she’d slump back exhausted and sleep through till morning. In the morning she’d have no recollection of anything, and just be her normal self again. As sweet and caring as ever.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“My husband is a doctor...but neither of us want...want to have her labelled. As you can probably tell, she came to us late in life, and she means the world to both of us. We don’t want to involve psychiatrists.”
Nightingale found that a little hard to believe. If a much-loved child was showing evidence of a psychological disorder, then surely the parents would seek professional help?
“But your husband would know specialists, surely? Him being a doctor.”
“Matthew says it wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“But it hasn’t just been nightmares and hysteria, has it?” he asked.
The woman nodded. “That’s right. We were told by a family friend that they’d seen Christine hanging around with a group of older boys on her way back from school. They even thought she was smoking.”
“What did she say to that?”
“Denied it absolutely. Said she didn’t have any friends at school except the ones in her class, and she hated smoking. That part’s true, she nagged Matthew for months until he gave up. But after...after the time she cut herself, we found a packet of cigarettes in her room...and her breath smelled of smoke. It’s just not like her. It makes no sense.”
“And the car? Father Mahoney said she’d damaged a car?”
“Yes. Matthew’s Jaguar. One night we heard the garage door open, and we found her in there with a front door-key, scratching every panel of it. She just hurled abuse at us when we tried to stop her, she scratched Matthew with her nails when he pulled her away. Again she said she couldn’t remember anything about it in the morning. And then this last thing. Cutting herself.”
“Tell me.”
“We found her in the bath. It looked worse than it was because it doesn’t take much blood to discolour the water. Matthew said the cuts were superficial, across the wrist rather than up. As if she wanted to make us worry. And then she started screaming and swearing at us again while we were bandaging her. In the morning she was crying and wanted to know what happened. We just made up the sleepwalking story to calm her down.”
Nightingale nodded, looked across at Father Mahoney, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He had no idea what was going on.
“Susan,” said the priest. “There really is nothing either of us can do here, it’s out of our area. Honestly, I can only suggest again you seek medical advice for her.”
The woman nodded. Her lower lip quivered and she was clearly close to tears. “I’ll talk to Matthew,” she said. “Thank you both for at least trying.”
“I’ll just pop up and say goodbye to Christine,” said Nightingale. He headed up the stairs. Christine’s door was open. She was sitting on her bed, her hands in her lap. “We’re off now,” he said. “Nice to have met you.”
“Bye,” she said, then looked up at him and frowned. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me, Mr Nightingale?”
“Not really,” he said. “Perhaps you just need some help to sleep better. Anyway, you have a good day, Christine.”
She growled and bared her teeth at him like a feral dog. Her voice dropped an octave and her eyes flashed hatred. “My name is Lydia. And if you or that fucking old fool of a priest come near me again, I’ll rip your fucking throats
out. Now fuck off and leave me alone.”
* * *
As Father Mahoney drove back towards Central London, Nightingale told him what had happened in the bedroom. The priest frowned. “And she wasn’t playing? Pulling your leg?”
“She sounded as if she meant it,” said Nightingale. “It wasn’t the girl we spoke to. Her voice was completely different.”
“It sounds as if she is possessed,” said the priest. “But that isn’t possible.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“No demon could hold a copy of the Bible or not react to holy water,” said Mahoney. “And the way she spoke about Jesus.” He shook his head. “No, possession is out of the question.”
“I have to say that whoever was threatening to kill us seemed a completely different person to the one we spoke to downstairs. But you know way more about possession than I do.”
The priest lit a cigarette and handed his pack to Nightingale who helped himself.
“She can’t be faking it, though. She’s only eleven, for pity’s sake.”
Nightingale lit his cigarette. “The person who spoke to me in her room seemed a lot older than that. And a hell of a lot more dangerous.”
“This is definitely out of my field, Jack. I’m not even sure I believe in demonic possession, but even so this girl shows none of the classic signs.”
“It’s not my field either,” said Nightingale, without committing himself to an opinion on demonic possession. “I really feel they need a psychiatrist or psychologist rather than a priest and a detective. But we told them that. So did you.”
“I suppose so. And you’re right. It’s up to the parents to get the right help. I have to say I’m rather glad I won’t be needing to ask the Bishop to let me do the bell, book and candle casting-out stuff.”
“No problem. Look, Father, no point you driving me all the way, drop me up here at Putney station and I’ll get the train home.” The Kia pulled up outside the station. Nightingale climbed out and gave Father Mahoney a final wave before heading inside.
* * *
Nightingale was sipping coffee and frowning at the Daily Mail’s Sudoku puzzle when the office doorbell rang. Jenny had popped out to get toner for the printer so Nightingale crushed out his cigarette and headed for the door. His visitor was a tallish grey-haired man of around sixty, wearing a dark suit and a rather garish red spotted bow-tie. He studied Nightingale through a pair of gold-rimmed bifocals, before clearing his throat and speaking. “Mr Jack Nightingale?”
“Just like it says on the door. Can I help you?”
“My name is Matthew Warren. I’m Christine’s father. You were at my house yesterday with Father Mahoney.”
Nightingale showed him into his office and sat down. He reached for his pack of cigarettes but dropped them when he saw the look of disapproval that flashed across the doctor’s face.
“My wife told me about your visit yesterday,” said Dr Warren. “I wasn’t aware she’d asked him to see Christine...much less that he was planning anything as ridiculous as an exorcism.”
“He isn’t planning on it. He doesn’t really believe in demonic possession, and Christine has none of the recognised symptoms.”
“So my wife says. She says you recommended psychiatric help.”
“It’s not really my place to recommend anything. I’m a private detective, I’m no doctor. I have to say I’m a little surprised that you didn’t go the psychiatrist route. Presumably you know people, professionals. From the little I’ve seen, it’s as if there are two personalities inside her. I wondered if you’d considered schizophrenia?”
“Christine is not schizophrenic, I’m sure of that. It’s as if she has multiple personality disorder, but outside of cheap novels that’s incredibly rare. Almost non-existent as far as proven cases go.”
“Could Christine be inventing all this?”
“No, I really can’t see that. She’s a normal eleven year old, the ‘other’ personality seems far older, more sophisticated as well as more cunning and malevolent. Did my wife tell you what she did to our dog?”
Nightingale nodded. “She did.”
“Christine loved that dog. I mean really, really loved it.”
“So you are sure there is a different personality at work?”
Doctor Warren’s eyes seemed not to want to meet Nightingale’s, focusing on different parts of the scantily furnished office as he spoke. Nightingale recognised the signs. The man was hiding something.
“I think you have a theory, Doctor,” said Nightingale. “Why not tell me? I’m a good listener.”
Doctor Warren clenched his fists, took a deep breath before speaking. “Christine was...is a very special child. My wife and I had tried to conceive for over twenty years without success. Finally we tried IVF. Three courses on the NHS and then three more that we paid for ourselves. We decided to give up after the last one seemed not to work. Then, suddenly, almost later than seemed possible, the final try worked, and Christine was the result. I couldn’t begin to describe how thrilled we were, especially since she seemed so happy and healthy. Never any of the childhood illnesses, I can’t remember her ever even having a cold. And now this. It’s devastating.”
Nightingale nodded, but didn’t interrupt.
“What I am going to tell you is in strict confidence, Mr Nightingale.”
“Of course,” said Nightingale.
Dr Warren took another deep breath before continuing. “Last week I wanted to rule out anything physical, so I took a blood sample from Christine and had it analysed. I did it without telling my wife.”
“And was there anything wrong?”
“No sign of any physical problem. She’s perfectly healthy. Except that her blood contains two different groups, and she has two separate sets of DNA.”
Nightingale gaped at him. “But that’s not possible. Everyone has unique DNA...don’t they?”
“Apparently it isn’t impossible, but almost unheard of. Do you know what a Chimera is, Mr Nightingale?”
Nightingale frowned.
“Rings a bell. Wasn’t it some monster in Greek myths?”
“Originally. Made out of parts of different beasts, a lion, dragon, snake and a goat. Well a human Chimera is much the same. One person made up of parts of two different people.”
“That’s surely not possible, it sounds like something out of Frankenstein.”
Warren grimaced. “It’s actually not as dramatic as it sounds. Apparently it’s more common in IVF pregnancies than any other. What happens is that the pregnancy starts off as twins, but one zygote fails to develop properly and is absorbed into the other.”
“Zygote?” repeated Nightingale. “You’ll have to explain that, I’m afraid.”
“A zygote is the first stage between fertilisation and a foetus. When the weaker zygote is absorbed into the stronger, often some evidence of its cells remains. Hence the twin blood groups and DNA. It is rare, but it’s a recognised medical phenomenon.”
Nightingale was struggling to get his head around the idea. It still sounded like some mad scientist’s experiment gone wrong. “You can’t mean that two separate people have been developing inside Christine? Like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde?”
The Doctor sighed. “No, that’s not what I mean,” he replied. “I just wonder whether there may be some sort of conflict within Christine, but I can’t see how that could happen. I’m clutching at straws.”
“But, if she is a Chimera, could the other cells be removed?”
“Quite impossible. They’ll be spread throughout her body, and impossible to localise. Besides, they can’t possibly be causing these episodes.”
“So what’s your plan, Dr Warren? What are you going to do?”
Dr Warren stared out the window and blinked. Nightingale thought the man was on the verge of tears. “I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do,” he said eventually.
“So what do you plan to do?” asked Nightingale.
Warren sighed. �
��What we should have done when it started, I suppose. Seek professional help. The medical profession I mean.” He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, I have a surgery at the hospital. I’m late already.” He stood up and forced a smile. “Thank you for listening, Mr Nightingale. I’d like to pay you for your time. Yesterday and today.”
Nightingale shook his head. “Pro Bono,” he said. “I was doing a favour for Father Mahoney. And, truth be told, it’s not as if I did anything.”
He showed Dr Warren out and lit a Marlboro, only to stub it out when Jenny arrived back less than a minute later.
“Jack, what was Matthew Warren doing here?”
“A chat about Christine. He’s at his wit’s end. Did you know they used IVF to conceive?”
Jenny nodded head. She went over to the printer and installed the new cartridge. “They tried so hard to get pregnant. That’s what makes this all so horrible.”
“IVF does cause problems sometimes.”
“You’re an expert on children now?”
“I had a case a year or so back. An unfaithful husband who was threatening to throw his wife and kid on the streets. The kid had autism and I spent a lot of time with the wife. They’d used IVF to conceive and she always blamed the autism on the IVF.”
“What does Matthew think?”
Nightingale shrugged. “He doesn’t know what to think.”
“It’s so unfair,” said Jenny. “I remember talking to her ages ago, when I was at university, I think. I’d come back for Christmas. She and Matthew were at my parents house, one of their shooting weekends. I remember her hugging me so tightly and saying that she’d sell her soul to have a child like me. I thought it was a bit scary, actually.” She finished installing the printer cartridge and turned around to face Nightingale. She saw the look on his face and her eyes widened. “Please don’t tell me you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“Those were her exact words?”
My Name Is Lydia (Jack Nightingale short story) Page 2
