Midnight: The Second Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (14 page)

‘Of course you don’t,’ she said. ‘But understand this. I can stand here for a hundred years. A thousand. A million, if necessary. But you? Could you do twenty-four hours in that circle? A week? Could you do a month? Without food or water? And even without food and water how long do you think you can stay there before you lose your mind?’ She grinned. ‘How about we give it a go?’ She dropped her arms to her sides and stared at him impassively.

‘This is ridiculous,’ said Nightingale.

Proserpine said nothing but continued to stare at him. Her eyes were black and featureless, the irises blending perfectly into the pupils; but there was no reflection in them so it seemed as if they absorbed everything. Her face was a blank mask and he couldn’t tell if she was looking at him or through him. He walked around the cardboard box and then faced her again. She hadn’t moved, and neither had the dog. It was as if they had frozen.

‘You’re sulking, is that it?’ he asked.

There was no reaction.

‘You’re just going to stand there and do nothing?’

She stayed where she was, frozen to the spot. Nightingale walked up to her and stared at her across the chalk outline. He held up his right hand and waved it in front of her face. Her eyes continued to stare fixedly ahead and there was no sign that she was even breathing.

He moved his head closer to hers, taking care not to cross the pentagram, but still Proserpine didn’t react. He walked back to the centre of the pentagram and stood there watching her. The seconds ticked by. A minute. Two minutes. Nightingale realised that she was right. Time was crawling by and there was no way he could spend hours in the pentagram, never mind days or weeks. And so long as she was in the room, he couldn’t step outside the pentagram because then it would all be over. The pentagram wasn’t only protection, it was a prison. He looked at the dog. It was completely motionless and the eyes were dull and lifeless. Nightingale stared at the dog, waiting to see if it would blink, but a full minute passed and nothing happened.

He paced slowly around the pentagram. The herbs were still smouldering in the lead crucible. He looked at his watch. Only five minutes had gone by since Proserpine and her dog had stopped moving but it felt like hours. He walked over to her side of the pentagram and took a deep breath. ‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I apologise.’ He put his hand over his heart, fingers splayed. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you and I’ve learned my lesson.’

Proserpine smiled. ‘That’s better,’ she said. The dog woofed quietly and its tongue lolled from the side of its mouth.

‘I just thought that the spell was what you did if you wanted to converse with a devil.’

‘It is, but it’s not to be misused. I’m not a dog to be summoned by the jerking of a chain.’

The dog growled and Proserpine bent down and rubbed it behind the ear. ‘That’s right, honey, no one will ever chain you.’ She looked up at Nightingale and smiled. ‘So we’re done, right?’ she said.

‘Is there anything I can say or do that would persuade you to help me?’

She straightened up and shrugged her shoulders. ‘A deal,’ she said. ‘You could offer me a deal. That’s the only good reason to summon a devil. We’re usually summoned by those with a soul to sell.’ She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘What about it, Jack Nightingale? Do you want to sell your soul?’

‘I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to keep it, thanks,’ he said.

‘An exchange, then?’ she said, her voice a throaty whisper. ‘Your soul for your sister’s?’

‘You could do that? Even though her soul isn’t promised to you?’

‘I can pull strings, Nightingale. So do we have a deal? Your soul for hers? It’s no biggie; it would put you back where we started. Your soul was always mine anyway.’

‘Only because my father sold it to you before I was born,’ he said. ‘I was never given a choice in the matter. Now I do have a choice, and I want to keep it.’

‘So we’re done, then,’ said Proserpine. ‘Say the words to end this and I’ll be on my way.’

‘What about a little help?’ said Nightingale. ‘Some guidance?’

‘I’m not an agony aunt. I take souls. You’re starting to try my patience, Nightingale.’

Nightingale put up his hands. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘How about a deal? What would you want to answer a few questions?’

‘What are you offering?’

‘Proserpine, I have enough trouble buying birthday presents for my secretary, how on earth would I know what you want? I’m guessing that book tokens wouldn’t cut it.’

Proserpine threw back her head and laughed. The room shook and the bottle of consecrated salt water fell out of the cardboard box and shattered. The dog’s tail swished from side to side as it arched its head to look up at its mistress. The herbs flared in the crucible and a shower of sparks rained down on Nightingale’s shoulders. ‘You want to buy information from me?’ she asked. ‘With trinkets?’

‘What do you want?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Tell me what you want and maybe we can do a deal.’

‘Is this how you worked when you were a police negotiator, Nightingale? Promise them anything so long as they come along quietly?’

‘If you find out what a person in crisis wants, then more often than not you can offer them something that will make their life easier.’

Proserpine’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not in crisis, Nightingale.’

‘No, but I am. Look, I don’t know where my sister is – hell, I don’t even know who she is. But I’ll do whatever I have to do to find her.’

‘I’ve already told you, I can’t help you with that.’

‘No, but you can help me get her soul back. Assuming that I can find her. But I need intel. Intel that you can supply me with.’

Proserpine studied him with her unblinking black eyes for several seconds, and then she slowly nodded. ‘You want questions answered?’

‘I need to know how to help my sister.’

‘From what you’ve said it sounds as if she’s beyond help.’

‘That’s what everyone said about me, but I did okay.’

Proserpine smiled slyly. ‘Maybe you did. And maybe you didn’t.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s not over until the fat lady sings,’ said Proserpine. ‘So how about this? For every question of yours that I answer, you give up ten years of your life.’

Nightingale’s jaw dropped. ‘What do you mean by “give up”? You mean I go to prison?’

‘I mean you die ten years earlier than you would have done.’

Nightingale’s mouth had gone suddenly dry but he tried not to show his discomfort. ‘I’m not keen on that, frankly,’ he said.

‘Are you sure you want to do this, Nightingale?’

Nightingale ran a hand through his hair. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Are you really sure?’ pressed Proserpine. ‘You don’t even know this person. Why does her welfare concern you so much?’

‘She’s my sister.’

‘So?’

‘So she’s the only family I have. She’s blood.’

‘And blood isn’t worth ten years?’ she asked.

‘It’s a bit steep. What else have you got?’

Proserpine sighed and folded her arms, then cocked her head like a hawk scrutinising potential prey. ‘How about this?’ she said. ‘You want “intel” as you call it. Fine. But for every question of yours that I answer, I’ll send someone to kill you.’

Nightingale’s brow furrowed. ‘Someone or something?’

Proserpine smiled. ‘Now you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, they’ll be human. Genetically anyway.’

‘And they’ll try to kill me?’

‘Oh they’ll be professionals, Nightingale. They won’t be playing with you.’

‘And what do you get out of it?’ he asked. The nicotine craving had returned with a vengeance and he gritted his teeth.

‘Entertainment,’ she said. ‘Amusement. Plus I can use you as a reward.’

‘Reward?’

‘A treat. Something to show my minions that I care for them. They do so love to serve me. Do you want the deal or not, Nightingale? If not, say the words and I’ll be on my way.’

‘It’s a deal,’ he said. ‘And you’ll answer any question that I ask you?’

A cruel smile spread across her face. ‘Yes, Nightingale, I will.’ She bit down on her lower lip and watched him.

Nightingale wondered why she was smiling, then realisation hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. He’d asked his first question and she’d answered it. And that stupid slip was going to cost him an attempt on his life. ‘Okay,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘I see how it works.’ He stopped speaking as his mind whirled. He was going to have to be very, very careful because the next words out of his mouth would be a matter of life or death.

31

T
here was a white VW Golf parked next to Jenny’s Audi when Nightingale arrived at her house at eight o’clock the following morning. As he climbed out of his MGB, a middle-aged lady in a fur coat, walking two Yorkshire terriers on leads, wished him a good morning. Nightingale resisted the urge to tug his forelock. He rang Jenny’s buzzer and a female voice he didn’t recognise said, ‘Who is it?’ through the speakerphone.

‘It’s Jack,’ he said. ‘Jack Nightingale. Is Jenny okay?’

The speakerphone clicked and went quiet. Nightingale heard footsteps and then the door opened. It took him a couple of seconds to recognise the brunette standing in the doorway. Barbara McEvoy was an old friend from Jenny’s student days, the psychiatrist that Jenny had taken to Gosling Manor. She smiled at him but her eyes were wary as she stepped back and let Nightingale across the threshold.

Barbara pointed to a door at the end of the hallway. ‘Jenny’s in the kitchen,’ she said, closing the front door as Nightingale headed down the corridor.

Jenny was sitting at a breakfast bar in a pink bathrobe, toying with a bowl of cornflakes. ‘You’re up early,’ she said. Her hair was tied back in a red scrunchy.

Barbara came into the kitchen behind him. ‘Ouija boards aren’t toys, Jack,’ she said. ‘They can do a lot of damage.’

‘Is that a professional opinion?’ asked Nightingale. Barbara was a psychiatrist at one of the larger London hospitals.

‘I’m serious, Jack. I’ve known patients develop all sorts of problems after playing with them.’

‘Problems like what?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Depression. Hallucinations. Schizophrenia, in one case.’

‘Come on, Barbara, you’re not suggesting that a Ouija board can cause schizophrenia.’

‘Of course not, but if someone already has mental-health issues, messing around with the spirit world isn’t likely to help.’ Barbara poured tea into a mug and handed it to him.

‘I’m surprised that you’re not accusing us of imagining things.’

Barbara frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

Nightingale sipped his tea. ‘Because you’re a psychiatrist. I didn’t think you’d believe in spirits.’

‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t mean that I think Ouija boards aren’t dangerous.’

‘But Jenny told you what happened?’

‘She said that you were playing with the board in the basement and that you got upset and the candles went out. And that you then forced her to go back to finish the séance.’

‘The session had to be finished; the spirit had to be banished.’

‘Jack, come on, you don’t believe in spirits, do you? You don’t really think that you were talking to someone who’d died, do you?’

Nightingale folded his arms and looked across at Jenny. She flashed him a warning look and he realised that she hadn’t told her friend everything. She certainly hadn’t told Barbara that Nightingale had negotiated with a demon from Hell to save his soul from eternal damnation. ‘What do you think happened, Barbara?’ he asked quietly.

‘I think you let your imaginations get the better of you. I think the game went a bit too far and Jenny paid the price.’ She put her hands around her mug. ‘Ouija boards are a way of getting in touch with thoughts and emotions that are usually suppressed. Most people assume that someone is consciously pushing the glass or the pointer or whatever, but in fact that’s often not the case. You might have three or four people around the board and all of them would swear blind that they weren’t trying to influence what was happening. And the thing is, they’d probably all be telling the truth.’

‘You mean they might be doing it subconsciously?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Exactly.’

‘And why would they do that?’

Barbara shrugged. ‘There’s a host of reasons,’ she said. ‘You have to remember that a lot of times people use the Ouija board to try to contact a loved one who’s died. So they’re under a lot of stress to start with. And often there’s something they want to say to that loved one, and something that they want to hear back. So there’s an element of wish-fulfilment. That might be as simple as wanting to hear that they’re still loved. Plus there’s the fear of death, of course.’

‘Fear of death?’ repeated Nightingale.

‘Most people want to believe that death isn’t the end,’ said Barbara. ‘They want to get a message from beyond the grave so the subconscious kicks in and gives them what they want. It’s not a harmless game, Jack. Even for consenting adults. Jenny said that you were trying to contact your partner. Robbie?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘He died a few weeks ago.’

‘And I’m guessing you had unresolved issues with him?’

‘Sure,’ said Nightingale. Jenny was still keeping her head down, unwilling to look at him. ‘I know it was stupid.’

‘And the basement of an empty house wasn’t the best venue. I mean, the house is lovely, but there is some seriously disturbing stuff in the basement.’

‘No argument here,’ said Nightingale. Jenny looked up at him and smiled. ‘You don’t have to come in today,’ he said. ‘You can hang out here with Barbara.’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve got lots to do,’ she said. ‘I’ll get changed.’

‘Jack’s right,’ said Barbara. ‘We can try some retail therapy. Karen Millen’s got a pre-Christmas sale.’

‘Really, I’d rather work.’

‘Work rather than shop?’ Barbara looked at Nightingale, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘You’ve done some magic thing on her, haven’t you? Bent her to your will?’

‘I wish,’ laughed Nightingale.