Nightfall jn-1

by Stephen Leather

  Nightingale bent down to the speaker. ‘Nice to talk to you too, Sylvia,’ he said. ‘Tell Mr Mitchell it’s important. Tell him I know how to deal with Proserpine. Tell him I have the answer to his problems.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Mr Nightingale. He doesn’t want to see you.’

  ‘Just give him the message, Sylvia.’ The moon was full and dark clouds moved slowly across its face. ‘Nice night for it,’ he muttered to himself. The gates buzzed and began to open. Nightingale climbed back into the MGB.

  When he arrived at the house Sylvia was waiting for him with four of Mitchell’s heavies. Nightingale got out and went to the boot. He opened it and took out the metal suitcase Wainwright had given him.

  ‘We’ll need to check that,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘It’s locked,’ said Nightingale. He handed it to her. ‘You can keep hold of it until I need it.’ He smiled at her look of apprehension. ‘If it was a bomb, sweetie, I’d hardly have been driving it around in an old banger like my MGB, would I?’

  Sylvia turned on her heel and walked up the steps to the entrance. The four heavies moved aside to allow Nightingale to follow her, but he stayed where he was. ‘Which one of you scumbags pointed a gun at my friend?’ he asked.

  The four men stared at him, their eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. One drew back his jacket to reveal a submachine pistol in a nylon sling.

  ‘Cat got your tongues?’ said Nightingale, looking at them one by one. ‘You were very chatty when you were scaring a young woman, but now you’re coy, aren’t you? When this is over, we’re going to have a chat about what you did to her and I’ll explain the error of your ways.’ He smiled brightly. ‘Right, let’s go and put the world to rights, shall we?’ He jogged up the stairs after Sylvia.

  She took him into the hall and pointed at the bathroom door. ‘You know the procedure, Mr Nightingale.’

  71

  When Nightingale walked out of the bathroom in the robe, Sylvia was waiting for him with two of the heavies. They escorted him to Mitchell’s room. He was in exactly the same position as he had been when Nightingale had last visited, though this time he was wearing royal blue silk pyjamas. Sylvia made Nightingale stop ten feet away from the edge of the pentagram. He nodded at Mitchell. ‘You got your diary back, then?’ he said. ‘You only had to ask, you know. I would have given it to you.’

  Mitchell pulled the oxygen mask away from his face. ‘What do you want, Nightingale?’

  ‘I get asked that a lot these days.’

  ‘Haven’t you got better things to do? You’ve got, what, an hour before she comes for you?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do, Nightingale. I told you that already.’ He began to cough and he pressed the mask over his mouth.

  ‘I’ve found a way,’ said Nightingale, ‘to stop Proserpine.’

  Mitchell shook his head, still coughing. He regained his composure and took the mask away from his mouth. ‘She can’t be stopped. She has too much power.’

  ‘Do you know Joshua Wainwright? American guy. I get the feeling he’s embraced the dark side.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘Wainwright owes me a favour.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘I sold him a book he’s wanted for years. My father snatched it from under his nose but I got it back to him.’ Nightingale grinned. ‘I made a tidy profit, but he was still grateful – grateful enough to help me.’

  ‘No one can help you,’ said Mitchell. ‘One minute after midnight and it’s all over for you.’

  ‘Not according to the book Wainwright’s lent me.’

  Mitchell was coughing again. He dabbed at his lips with a tissue, then threw it into the bin by his side. ‘What book?’ he said.

  ‘It was written by an Iranian Satanist back in the eighteenth century, but he only showed it to a few people. When he died it went missing but it turned up in Paris in the 1930s and was translated into French. There are only three copies in English, and Wainwright has one, which he’s lent to me.’

  Mitchell frowned. ‘This book, what’s it called?’

  ‘It has no name, no title,’ said Nightingale, ‘but it has a chapter on killing devils.’

  ‘You can’t kill a devil,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘Not so much kill as destroy,’ said Nightingale. ‘There’s a spell that ends them.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mitchell. He coughed again and spat bloody phlegm into a fresh tissue. ‘Proserpine sits on the left hand of Satan. She’s beyond all attacks.’

  ‘The book tells of a spell that weakens a devil’s power. Then you can use a dagger. A dagger that has been given but not thanked for.’

  ‘And where did you get the dagger?’ asked Mitchell.

  ‘Have you heard of the Order of the Nine Angles? Nasty little group that goes in for human sacrifice? My father was a member.’

  ‘The Order gave you a dagger?’

  ‘And I didn’t say thank you. How rude was that?’

  ‘So why are you here? Why not just do it?’

  ‘I need your help,’ said Nightingale.

  Mitchell shook his head. ‘I’m not leaving the circle,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ said Nightingale.

  Mitchell put the mask over his mouth. He continued to stare at Nightingale with unblinking eyes as his chest heaved.

  ‘Here’s the thing,’ said Nightingale. ‘I can’t summon Proserpine to do this. That won’t work. For the spell to be effective, she has to come of her own accord and she has to be in human form. And at midnight, she’ll come for me.’

  ‘How do you know she’ll be in human form?’

  ‘Because I’ve already summoned her.’

  ‘And she came?’

  ‘My assistant, the girl your heavies terrorised, made notes from your diary, including the section on summoning Proserpine.’

  Mitchell chuckled. ‘And you performed the spell?’

  ‘Couldn’t find a magic sword, but we made do with a birch branch.’

  ‘And when she came, what form did she take?’

  ‘A girl. With a dog.’

  Mitchell nodded. ‘He’s always with her. Her protector.’

  ‘Seemed like a regular sheepdog to me.’

  ‘They choose their appearances, Nightingale. But she came to you the same way that she appeared to me.’

  ‘But don’t you see? That’s her weakness. She appears as a human, and when she’s in human form, she can be killed. With the dagger.’

  ‘So why are you here, Nightingale? Why don’t you just do it?’

  ‘Because when she comes, she’ll be focused on me, which means I won’t get the chance to get close to her. But you’ll be a distraction. And when she’s distracted, I can get to her.’

  ‘I’m not leaving the circle,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘I already told you, you don’t have to,’ said Nightingale. He pointed at the terrace outside the french windows. ‘I’ll do it there. She’ll come at midnight. You keep the lights off until you see me reading the spell from the book. As soon as I close the book, you turn on the lights. She’ll see you, and that’s when I’ll do it.’

  Mitchell coughed. ‘You’re mad,’ he wheezed.

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘No, I’m not mad,’ he said. ‘I’m desperate.’

  72

  Nightingale walked out of the bathroom. He had changed back into his suit and had on his raincoat. Sylvia was waiting for him with the metal suitcase. Two of Mitchell’s heavies were standing behind her. ‘If you do anything to compromise Mr Mitchell’s security, you will be dealt with immediately,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sylvia, I’ve his best interests at heart,’ said Nightingale. ‘Once I’ve dealt with Proserpine, he can go back to living a normal life.’

  Sylvia flashed him a cold smile. ‘Mr Mitchell’s life has never been normal,’ she said. ‘We will walk around th
e house to the patio,’ she said. ‘Mr Mitchell says that I am to give you anything you need.’

  Nightingale patted the suitcase. ‘I’ve got everything I need right here.’

  They went outside and around the house, flanked by the two heavies. The gardens were illuminated by floodlights and beside the wall Nightingale saw another heavy walking with a Rottweiler on a leash.

  When they reached the terrace, he put down the case and lit a cigarette. Sylvia looked at her watch. ‘It’s half an hour until midnight,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I figure that the condemned man deserves a last cigarette.’

  73

  Sebastian Mitchell kept the oxygen mask over his mouth as he took deep breaths, his eyes on Nightingale, who was slowly chalking a pentagram on the stone slabs. There was a clock on the wall and he squinted at it. Eleven forty. Twenty minutes before Proserpine would come to take Nightingale’s soul.

  Sylvia walked into the room, her high heels clicking on the wooden floor. ‘I’ve stationed extra men around the house, and we have three dogs in the garden now, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Sylvia,’ wheezed Mitchell. ‘But there’s no danger for us. It’s Nightingale she wants.’

  Nightingale placed the metal suitcase in the centre of the pentagram. He took out an ornate gold dagger and held it up. It glinted in the spotlights covering the terrace. He waved the knife over the five points of the pentagram, then slid it into the inside pocket of his raincoat. ‘You’re wasting your time, Nightingale,’ Mitchell muttered. ‘Knives are useless against devils.’

  Nightingale took a piece of a branch from the case and slowly went over the chalk outline with it. Then he sprinkled water from a small bottle around the perimeter. ‘Consecrated salt water,’ Mitchell wheezed, ‘but it will do you no good. It will keep her out but you will still lose your soul.’

  Nightingale put the branch and the bottle back into the case and took out a small leather-bound book. Mitchell frowned. ‘What’s that? Sylvia, can you see what book he’s holding?’

  Sylvia walked over to the french windows and peered through the glass. ‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘There doesn’t appear to be a title but it looks old.’

  ‘What are you up to, Nightingale?’ muttered Mitchell.

  Nightingale sat cross-legged in the centre of the pentagram with the book in his lap, staring out over the garden.

  ‘Now what’s he doing?’ said Sylvia.

  Mitchell looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘He’s waiting,’ he said. He looked back at Sylvia. ‘Turn the lights off,’ he said. ‘We might as well give him a chance.’

  74

  Nightingale could feel his pulse racing and kept his breathing slow and even. Behind him, the lights in the drawing room went out. The spotlights around the terrace were still on and he was bathed in a clinical white light. There were lights around the perimeter wall, too, casting long shadows from the trees that dotted the garden.

  He didn’t have to look at his watch to know that there were still ten minutes to go. There was nothing he could do to speed up the process. Proserpine would come exactly at midnight because that was when his soul would be forfeit. There was no point in trying to summon her. All he could do was wait until she showed up of her own accord.

  An owl flew overhead, its wings beating silently in the still air. Then it swooped down to a patch of grass under an oak tree, grabbed something small and furry in its claws and flew up towards the roof.

  Nightingale closed his eyes. He could hear a far-off rumble of traffic but other than that the night was silent. There was no sound from the house behind him but he was sure that Mitchell was watching. He tried to visualise him sitting in his chair, the oxygen mask pressed to his mouth, staring out of the window. Sylvia would be there, too, close to Mitchell’s protective pentagram, watching and wondering.

  The seconds ticked by. Then the minutes. A breeze blew from the north, ruffling Nightingale’s hair. He opened his eyes. The trees were swaying in the wind, their shadows writhing on the grass like living things.

  His knees cracked as he got to his feet. He held the book to his chest and licked his lips. He wanted a cigarette desperately but that was impossible.

  A mist had gathered around the lawn, patchy at first but soon thickening, and the security lights around the walls became glowing balls that grew dimmer with each second that passed. A dog barked in the distance but the sound was cut short as if its leash had been pulled harshly.

  Nightingale stared ahead. He could no longer see the wall surrounding the garden, or the trees. He could see the terrace but only a few dozen yards of lawn before it was swallowed in the mist. Then the air in front of him cleaved apart, folded in on itself, shimmered – and she was there, standing about twelve feet from the pentagram, a sly smile on her face. Her eyes were dark pits, her lips black and glossy. She was wearing the same black skirt and boots as before but a different T-shirt, black with a gold ankh cross on it. Her collie circled her, his eyes continually watching Nightingale, tail twitching from side to side. Proserpine grinned. ‘Time to pay the piper, Nightingale,’ she said.

  He ignored her. He had already marked the page he was to read. He opened the book and read the Latin words slowly and precisely, his eyes fixed on the page. The wind was getting stronger now and he held on to the book tightly, fearful it would be whipped out of his grasp.

  ‘You’re wasting your breath,’ said Proserpine. She took a step towards the pentagram. ‘It’s midnight. Time for me to take what is mine.’

  75

  Mitchell took the oxygen mask away from his face. ‘What’s he doing?’ he croaked. ‘No spell can stop her – she’s too strong.’

  ‘What’s going to happen, sir?’ asked Sylvia.

  ‘She’ll take his soul,’ said Mitchell. ‘Nightingale’s got balls all right, but he’s as good as dead.’

  He pushed himself out of his seat to get a better look at what was happening on the terrace. Proserpine was moving closer to Nightingale. She was saying something to him but Mitchell couldn’t make out what it was. Nightingale was being buffeted by a strong wind, his hair in disarray, his coat whipping around his legs like a living thing, but Proserpine was totally unaffected by it.

  Nightingale was reading from the book, his head down as he concentrated, ignoring the devil that was now only feet away from the pentagram.

  ‘He’s wasting his time,’ muttered Mitchell. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘The lights, sir,’ said Sylvia. ‘Nightingale said we should turn on the lights.’

  ‘It won’t make any difference,’ he said. He dropped the oxygen mask onto the chair. Proserpine was next to the pentagram now, her black eyes glaring at Nightingale, her fingers curved into talons, bent forward at the waist like a wild animal preparing to spring.

  Nightingale stopped reading and closed the book. He held it out to Proserpine.

  ‘No, never allow contact!’ said Mitchell.

  ‘The lights, sir,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Yes, okay,’ snapped Mitchell. ‘Put the lights on, but it won’t make any difference.’ He stared at Nightingale, who was still holding out the leather-bound book to Proserpine.

  Sylvia’s heels clicked on the wooden floor as she hurried to the switches. She placed her hand against the panel and flicked the three together. The room was flooded with light.

  Proserpine’s head jerked and she stared at the french window, snarling when she saw Mitchell standing there. ‘Mitchell!’ she screamed, so loudly that the glass rattled. Mitchell took a step back and his leg banged against the chair behind him.

  Nightingale dropped the book and the dagger was in his right hand. He brought it down in an arc towards Proserpine’s chest. There was a flash of lightning, then another, and a howl from Proserpine as she staggered backwards. Black blood gushed from the centre of the golden ankh, pulsing out in a stream that splashed over Nightingale’s legs. The lightning flashed again and there was a clap of thunder so loud that the
ground shook.

  Nightingale stepped out of the pentagram and stuck the knife into her chest again and again, his face contorted. He was screaming at her but the wind was tearing the words from his mouth and ripping them away.

  ‘No…’ said Mitchell, clutching the chair for support. ‘It can’t be.’

  Proserpine’s dog ran away, tail between his legs, ears flat against his head, keeping low to the ground as if he hoped to escape unnoticed.

  Proserpine fell back, arms flailing. Lightning flashed again and again, with simultaneous booms of thunder. Nightingale straddled her and used both hands to slam the knife down into her chest.

  She bucked and kicked, and then lay still.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ whispered Mitchell. ‘He’s done it.’ He glanced at the clock. It was barely two minutes after midnight. He looked back at the terrace. Nightingale was standing up, the dagger in his right hand, the wind tugging at his coat. ‘Sixty years I’ve studied, and I couldn’t have accomplished that.’ He looked at Sylvia, who was still standing at the door, her hand on the light switches. ‘Nightingale’s worked a miracle. Did you see that, Sylvia? Did you see what he did?’

  ‘I saw, Mr Mitchell.’

  ‘He killed a demon. He killed a demon from Hell.’ He stood with one hand on the armchair, shaking his head in bewilderment.

  76

  Nightingale stood looking down at the body, his ears ringing from the thunderclaps. The knife dropped from his nerveless fingers. His body was drenched in sweat and the strength had drained from his legs. Lightning flashed and the earth shook with another rumble of thunder.

  He heard the french windows open behind him, but he didn’t look around. ‘You did it, man!’ shouted Mitchell.

  He heard Mitchell step out onto the terrace, and only then did Nightingale turn. He was standing there, his blue silk pyjamas rippling in the wind, with Sylvia behind him, her hands clasped as if she was in prayer, and four heavies, guns at the ready.