He walked slowly up to the font and looked down at the water. It was holy water, blessed by the priest. Nightingale smiled to himself. Holy water was supposed to hurt vampires, and he wondered what it would do to a man whose soul had been promised to a devil. Would it burn his flesh, like it did in the movies? If he stuck in his hand, would it strip it to the bone and would he run from the church, screaming in pain? He rolled up his sleeve and held his hand just above the surface of the water. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven,’ he whispered. He plunged his hand into the water. It was cold, colder than he had expected, and he gasped. He flexed his fingers. At least he could touch holy water, which must mean something.
‘Can I help you?’ said a voice behind him.
Nightingale jerked as if he’d been stung. He swung around to find a young priest watching him with unabashed amusement. ‘I was…’ he began, but he wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. What exactly was he doing? Checking the potency of holy water?
‘There’s a washroom at the back,’ said the priest. He was in his late twenties with a shock of red hair and freckles across his nose and cheeks. ‘You’re welcome to use that if you want to wash your hands.’
‘I wasn’t washing my hands,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just wanted to… To be honest, and I know it makes no sense, I just wanted to touch some holy water, that’s all.’ He shook the drops off his hand and rolled down his shirt sleeve.
‘You look distressed,’ said the priest.
‘It’s been a funny old day,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve just found out that my mother has killed herself, and I narrowly missed wrapping myself around a tree.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said the priest. ‘Was she a Catholic, your mother?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘She wore a crucifix, if that counts for anything.’ He took out his packet of Marlboro and tapped out a cigarette, but the priest wagged a finger at him.
‘I’m afraid smoking isn’t allowed on the premises,’ he said.
Nightingale grinned. ‘You can see the irony in that, can’t you, what with all the candles and incense you burn in here?’
‘Just one of the many regulations that make our lives so much more complicated than they used to be,’ said the priest. ‘Don’t get me started on refuse collections from our church. Would you class unused communion wafers as a foodstuff? Because our local council does. And heaven forbid they find their way into the recycling bin by mistake.’
‘Actually, I’d have thought communion wafers would have been the ultimate in recycling, from bread to the Body of Christ.’
The priest chuckled. ‘I wish I’d thought of that,’ he said. ‘They weren’t consecrated, of course. Once they’ve been consecrated they have to be consumed. These had gone mouldy so they had to be thrown away. But because they were edible they were classed as food so they were in the wrong bin and some jobsworth decided I had to pay a penalty or be taken to court.’ He waved at the door. ‘You can smoke outside and we can carry on our conversation there.’
They walked together out of the church and over to a wooden bench at the edge of the graveyard. A small brass plaque was fixed to the back: ‘In memory of Mary, 1921-98, my soul-mate’. They sat on the bench and Nightingale lit a cigarette.
‘Again, I’m so sorry for your loss,’ said the priest. ‘It’s always difficult to lose a loved one, but the bond between a mother and son is the strongest of all, I think.’
‘Thank you,’ said Nightingale. The truth was that he didn’t feel any sense of loss at the death of Rebecca Keeley, even though she had been his biological mother. She had given birth to him but that was all, and he had no more feeling for her than for a total stranger. But he knew that the priest meant well so he tried to look as if his mother’s death meant something.
‘You’re not a churchgoer?’ said the priest.
‘No,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do you mind me asking how old you are, Father?’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ said the priest. ‘I’m twenty-seven, so you can drop the “father” if that makes you uncomfortable. My name’s Peter.’
‘I’m Jack. That’s young to be a priest, isn’t it?’
‘It is, these days, that’s for sure.’
Nightingale offered him a cigarette but he shook his head. ‘I’ve never smoked,’ he said.
‘Do you drink?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the priest. ‘Definitely.’
‘But no sex?’
The priest’s eyes narrowed as if he suspected Nightingale was being provocative. ‘That door is firmly closed,’ he said.
‘I didn’t meant to pry, it’s just that I can’t imagine why anyone would become a Catholic priest,’ said Nightingale. ‘You have to give up so much.’ He blew smoke, taking care to keep it away from the other man.
‘But we get so much more back,’ he said.
‘But wasn’t it a hard decision to make, to turn your back on everything to enter the Church?’
The priest smiled. ‘You’re looking at it the wrong way. I was turning to God, and that gives me everything I could ever want or need. There is no better way to love one’s life than in the service of the Lord.’
‘And you have no doubts?’
‘I doubt the sanity of the idiots who run our local council, but no doubts at all about God.’
‘And you talk to God?’
‘Of course, all the time. That’s what prayer is.’
‘But does He talk back?’ Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette.
The priest chuckled. It was an old man’s laugh, and he put up his hand to cover his mouth as if he realised that it was at odds with his appearance. ‘I don’t hear voices, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. ‘It’s not like Joan of Arc.’
Nightingale exhaled smoke slowly. ‘But you have a conversation with God, and that’s why you believe in Him?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘But He answers your prayers?’
‘Of course.’
‘So if you prayed to win the lottery, He’d give you the winning numbers?’
‘I wouldn’t pray for that,’ he said.
‘What about world peace? I’m sure Christians everywhere pray for that but the world is still a very dangerous place.’
‘You’re asking why God doesn’t stop all wars, why He doesn’t create heaven here on earth?’
‘I’m asking what makes you believe in God when all the evidence is to the contrary.’
‘Every day I see the evidence of God’s hand, in the beauty of the world, in the people I meet.’
‘Yeah, well, I was a police officer and I tended to see less of the beauty and more of the dark side. And a read through any newspaper will prove that bad things happen to good people all the time.’
‘Again, it’s perception. Maybe you should try talking to God. When was the last time you prayed?’
Nightingale dropped his cigarette butt onto the ground and stepped on it. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘You should try it again,’ said the priest. ‘You don’t even have to go to a church. Just find yourself a quiet place and pray.’
‘Our Father who art in heaven?’
‘Not necessarily the Lord’s Prayer. Just tell Him what’s troubling you.’
‘And He’ll talk to me? I don’t think so.’
‘You won’t know unless you try,’ said the priest.
Nightingale folded his arms and sat back. ‘Here’s what I don’t get,’ he said. ‘God wants us to obey Him, worship Him and all that stuff. And church attendances are down because fewer people believe He exists. So why doesn’t He provide definitive proof? Why doesn’t He let us know once and for all that He exists? If He did that, the whole world would believe, right?’
‘But He did that, didn’t He?’ said the priest. ‘He sent His son, and we killed Him on the cross, and God brought Him back to life. That was definitive proof at the time, and it still is.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ sai
d Nightingale.
‘A little over two thousand years,’ said the priest, ‘which in human terms is the twinkling of an eye. We can’t keep asking for proof every twenty minutes. He gave us proof, and we have the Bible to remind us of that.’
‘But it’s not enough,’ said Nightingale.
‘For you, perhaps. But have you read the Bible?’
‘No,’ admitted Nightingale.
‘And you’re not a churchgoer, so how can you expect to hear God’s message?’
Nightingale sighed and stretched out his legs. ‘You’re so sure, aren’t you? You’re sure that God exists, you’re sure you did the right thing in becoming a priest.’
‘I am,’ said the priest. ‘Tell me, Jack, can you say the same about the decisions you’ve made in your life?’
Nightingale grinned ruefully. ‘Fair point,’ he said. ‘What about the devil? You believe in the devil?’
‘Without a doubt,’ said the priest. ‘And if it’s proof you want, I’d have thought you were spoilt for choice so far as evidence of the devil’s concerned.’
‘You believe that bad things are the result of the devil’s work?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘In my experience, bad people do bad things,’ said Nightingale.
‘But what makes people go bad? You don’t think there could be some influence at work?’
‘And that influence is the devil? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘The devil. Satan. The Antichrist. Yes, I really do believe that. I believe that Satan wants people to act one way and God wants them to behave in another. We have free will, so it’s up to us to choose whom we serve.’
‘How are you on geography, Peter?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Geography?’
‘I was talking with a vicar a few days ago, asking him about hell.’
‘Church of England?’
‘I guess so,’ said Nightingale.
‘Then you were asking the wrong guy,’ said the priest. ‘The Church of England isn’t great on heaven and hell – they’re more interested in race relations, gay marriages and women bishops. You want to know about hell, you talk to the Catholics.’
‘So you believe in hell?’
‘Absolutely,’ said the priest. ‘And I believe that if you break God’s rules you’ll be punished.’
‘In hell?’
‘In hell,’ repeated the priest.
‘Fire, brimstone, devils with pitchforks?’
‘Not necessarily, but a place where souls would be in eternal torment. The complete opposite of heaven.’
‘And Satan presides over hell and everything that happens there?’
‘That’s what the Bible says.’
‘And where is hell, Peter?’
The priest chuckled. ‘The geography question,’ he said. ‘Hand on heart, I don’t know where hell is. But that’s not important. What’s important is that you don’t get sent there.’
48
Nightingale was making himself a coffee when his doorbell rang. He checked the intercom in the hallway and saw that Jenny was outside in the street, standing next to a brunette in a trench coat. He pressed the intercom button. ‘Not today, thank you,’ he said. ‘I gave at the office.’
‘Open this door, Jack Nightingale, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.’
‘You swear by the hair on your chinny chin chin, do you?’
‘Jack, it’s bloody cold out here. Let us in, will you?’
Nightingale chuckled and pressed the button to open the door, then nipped into the kitchen to prepare two more mugs. When the inner door buzzed he went to open it. The girl with Jenny was in her late twenties, pretty with dark green eyes and long lashes.
‘This is Barbara, a friend from uni,’ said Jenny. ‘We’re going to stay with my folks for the weekend but I wanted to see if you were okay first.’
‘I’m fine.’ He shook hands with Barbara and took their coats. ‘Coffee’s on in the kitchen,’ he said, as he hung them in the cupboard where he kept the ironing-board and Hoover. He showed Barbara through to the sitting room and switched off the television. ‘So, was Jenny a swot at university?’
Barbara sat down on Nightingale’s sofa and shook her head. ‘Actually she was one of those annoying students who never studied. She soaked up information like a sponge.’
‘That’s so not true,’ said Jenny, carrying a tray of mugs in. She put it on the coffee-table and sat down next to Barbara. ‘I studied, I just did it on my own. How did it go at the home? Did they say how she died?’
Barbara and Jenny looked at him expectantly and Nightingale realised that Jenny must have told her friend about his mother’s death. He wondered what else she had told her.
‘Everyone’s in a state of shock. She was eating her dinner and just started slashing her wrists.’
Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘She killed herself? You didn’t tell me that.’
‘I didn’t know until I got there.’
‘Jack, you should have called me.’
‘There wasn’t anything you could do,’ said Nightingale.
She glared at him. ‘That’s not the point,’ she said. ‘You should have told me. For God’s sake, Jack, your mother killed herself. That’s not the sort of thing you should keep to yourself.’
‘I’m sorry. She doesn’t feel like my mother, she was just-’
‘The woman who gave birth to you,’ she finished for him. ‘Which is what a mother is, actually.’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘Irene Nightingale was my mother,’ he said. ‘The woman who killed herself was… I don’t know what she was. Yes, she gave birth to me, but there’s more to being a mother than that. She gave me away, Jenny, on the day I was born.’
‘But still…’
‘Jenny, it meant nothing to me. I mean, I’m sorry she’s dead, but I did my grieving when my mother died. My real mother.’
‘Did they say why she killed herself?’
‘She’d been on medication for years.’
‘At least you got a chance to talk to her before she passed away,’ said Barbara.
‘I guess so,’ said Nightingale.
‘Barbara’s a psychiatrist,’ said Jenny. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I did give her some idea of what you’ve been through recently.’
‘What I’ve been through?’
‘Finding out you were adopted, meeting the woman who gave birth to you and then her dying. Your aunt and uncle. Robbie’s death.’
‘I’m not denying it’s been an eventful few days,’ said Nightingale, ‘but I’m dealing with it as best I can. This is just a social call, right, because I hope you don’t expect me to lie on my couch and unburden myself.’
‘Would that be such a bad thing, Jack?’ said Barbara.
Nightingale grinned at her. ‘With the greatest of respect, I don’t know you, and while any friend of Jenny’s is a friend of mine I’m certainly not going to strip myself bare in front of a stranger.’
‘Please, God,’ said Jenny.
‘Now, you see, you wouldn’t say that if you’d ever seen me naked,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of in that department.’
Jenny gave Barbara a knowing look. ‘Told you,’ she said.
‘Told you what?’ said Nightingale.
‘Jenny mentioned that you might be a tad defensive,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s understandable.’
‘We just popped around to see if you were okay, after what happened and all,’ said Jenny.
‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale. ‘There’ll be an inquest, obviously, and you’re both invited to the funeral.’
‘Jack!’ said Jenny.
‘It seems that you’re more worried about her than I am.’
‘You felt no bond when you met?’ asked Barbara.
‘How could I?’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m almost thirty-three and this week I met her for the first time.’
‘Sometimes when parents and children are
reunited there’s an immediate connection, as if the genes kick in and you recognise each other subconsciously.’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘Didn’t happen,’ he said.
‘Did you tell her how you felt?’ asked Barbara.
‘I wasn’t there for an exchange of emotion,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was there because I wanted to know why she gave me away.’
‘You wanted closure?’
‘Barbara, please stop trying to psychoanalyse me. I didn’t want closure, I wanted facts. Cold, hard facts.’
‘And did you get them?’
‘Not really.’
‘And how do you feel now that she’s dead?’
‘That’s such a psychiatrist’s question.’
Barbara laughed and sipped her coffee.
‘And that’s an interrogator’s trick,’ said Nightingale. ‘Leaving a silence and hoping the subject will fill it.’
‘You’re not a subject, Jack, or a patient. You’re just a friend of a friend. We can talk about the weather if you’d prefer. Or sport. You’re a Manchester United fan, aren’t you?’
Nightingale smiled. She was good, all right. She had barely glanced at the photographs on his sideboard but had obviously spotted the one of him with his father and uncle outside the Old Trafford stadium, all wearing team scarves. ‘I am indeed.’
‘I’ve always followed Liverpool. That’s where I was born.’
‘You’ve lost the accent,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’d have placed you as home counties.’
‘Well, an expensive private education does that for you,’ said Barbara. ‘Can I ask you about your memory loss?’
‘My what?’
‘Jenny said you were having problems remembering things from your past.’
Nightingale flashed Jenny a warning look. ‘And what else did she tell you?’
‘Just that,’ said Jenny, and licked her lips anxiously. ‘That’s all I said, Jack. I thought maybe Barbara might have some thoughts.’
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