Midnight: The Second Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (33 page)

79

A
n hour later Nightingale walked out of the hospital. Jenny was waiting for him in her Audi. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

‘She’ll do it.’ He climbed into the car. ‘She doesn’t really believe it’ll work but she said she’ll give it a try.’

Jenny started the engine. ‘Now what?’

Nightingale sighed. ‘Now we wait for New Year’s Eve.’

About twenty minutes after they left the hospital, Jenny drove past a modern brick church with a tall steeple and a sign outside that announced that coffee and biscuits were served every morning at ten.

‘Stop here, will you?’ Nightingale asked Jenny.

‘Here?’ she said, looking over at him.

‘There,’ said Nightingale, jerking a thumb at the church.

‘If you need the toilet, we’ll stop at a filling station.’

‘The church, Jenny. Please.’

Jenny braked, flicked on her indicator and did a quick U-turn. ‘What’s going on, Jack?’ she asked as she drove back to the church.

‘I’m going to give God one last chance,’ he said.

Her jaw dropped. ‘You’re what?’

‘Eyes on the road, kid,’ said Nightingale.

She brought the Audi to a stop next to the entrance to the churchyard. ‘What did you say?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I just want a one-to-one with the big guy upstairs.’

‘You’re worrying me now,’ she said.

‘That’s the crazy thing about all this, don’t you see?’ said Nightingale. ‘Summoning devils is okay, but anyone who talks about having a conversation with God has a screw loose, right?’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘But I’m right, aren’t I? No one really ever has a conversation with God, do they? And if anyone claimed they did, we’d think that they were crazy.’

‘The Pope probably talks to God.’

‘Probably?’

‘You know what I mean. The religious leaders must believe that they hear the voice of God, or they couldn’t do what they do. But I don’t think that you can just walk into church and have a one-to-one. It doesn’t work like that.’

‘There’s prayer.’

‘Yes, there’s prayer. If you said you were going in there to pray then I’d say good on you. But that’s not what you said. Please, Jack, stop messing around. Let’s go back to London.’

‘Just humour me,’ said Nightingale, opening the passenger door. ‘I’ll be ten minutes.’ He climbed out of the Audi and walked towards the church.

There was a sign by the door announcing that the church was St Mary’s and giving the times of the services. A dozen or so candles were burning against one wall and Nightingale lit one and put a one-pound coin into a wooden donation box. It was freezing cold and as he walked towards a large crucifix on the far wall his breath feathered around him. The floor was tiled in grey slate and the pews were oak; there was a large modern stone font in one corner. He looked around but there was no one else in the church.

The crucifix was almost three foot tall and on it was a figure of Jesus, long-haired and dark-eyed, his face tranquil as if being crucified was no big thing. Nightingale knelt down in front of the crucifix and crossed himself.

‘I haven’t been here much, other than for funerals, so this is the first time I’ve been able to have a private chat,’ he said. He smiled amiably. ‘There’s been a lot going on.’

His knees began to ache and he sat back on his heels. ‘This position hurts like hell,’ he said, ‘but I guess yours hurts more. I’m going to stand, if that’s okay with you.’

Nightingale got to his feet and put his hands in his pockets, then shrugged and took them out. ‘I suppose it’s you I have to talk to, right? There are no statues of God, just of Jesus and Mary. I’ve never understood that. It’s God that’s being worshipped but there are no statues of him, no pictures. Why is that?’

He looked at the Jesus figure and nodded expectantly.

‘Oh right, you don’t talk back, do you?’ He folded his arms. ‘Okay, here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘My sister’s behind bars, and I want to get her out. She’s in a hospital not a prison but the doors are locked and no one’ll be giving us a key. She’s inside for killing five kids but she didn’t do it. Now, there’s a devil who’s the bee’s knees for getting people out of prison. Name of Sugart. Nasty piece of work by all accounts but at the moment he’s the only hope I’ve got.’

As Nightingale began to pace up and down in front of the crucifix he continued talking. ‘I’ve been reading the Bible a bit recently. Trying to get a handle on what’s been happening to me. Came across a story about Peter, when he was thrown into prison by Herod. Herod had James, John’s brother, put to the sword and figured he’d send Peter the same way. So he threw him in prison and had him guarded by sixteen soldiers, night and day, until he could bring him to trial. Every hour of the day and night Peter was chained to two of the guards. Escape-proof, right? Except the night before his trial, an angel of the Lord appeared. The angel shone a light in Peter’s cell and woke him up. As he woke, the chains fell off. All the guards were asleep and the angel led Peter out of prison. He took him to the city’s iron gate, opened it, and Peter was free.’

Nightingale stopped pacing, looked up at the crucifix and held his hands out to his sides, palms up. ‘So how about it? How about doing the same for my sister? She’s an innocent in all this. The guy who set her up is a fan of your opposition. Why not put some balance in the universe? Why not set my sister free? The devil put her behind bars so why can’t you get her out?’

He stared at the crucifix for several seconds, then sighed and put his hands into the pockets of his raincoat. ‘And that’s the thing, isn’t it? You pray for a miracle, and you don’t get one. You ask for a sign, and no sign’s forthcoming. But if I draw a pentagram and say the right words then I get can to talk to devils, and do deals with them. Why can’t I call your guys? Why are there tons of books telling me how to summon devils and not one that tells me how to call up an angel?’

Off in the distance he heard a police siren, and a few seconds later the sound of a helicopter high overhead.

‘How about a sign? How about just a sign that you’re there and listening to me?’ Nightingale took out his packet of Marlboro. ‘I hear smoking’s not allowed in churches, is that right?’ He grinned up at the crucifix. ‘Shall I put that down as “no comment”?’ He tapped out a cigarette and held it out between the first and second fingers of his right hand. ‘How about lighting it with a bolt from above? That’s easy, right? A flash of lightning and I’ve got my proof.’ Nightingale looked at the cigarette. ‘Yes? No?’ He shook his head. ‘Why is it so bloody difficult? Why can I summon devils but not angels? Why are the bad guys so keen to appear but your lot stay in the shadows? Are you scared? Are you not here, is that it? Has God left the building? Did his only son go with him? Are we in such a bloody mess that you’ve washed your hands of us?’

Nightingale took out his lighter and lit the cigarette. He stared at the crucifix as he blew a cloud of smoke. A grey haze spread across the feet of the crucified Jesus, then dispersed.

‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you,’ said Nightingale. ‘We must do this again some time.’ He turned and walked away, his shoes squeaking on the tiled floor.

80

N
ightingale got to Gosling Manor just as it was getting dark on New Year’s Eve. Jenny had wanted to go with him but he had insisted on going alone. He brought with him a black rubbish bag filled with cloths, brushes and bleach, and a box full of supplies from the Wicca Woman store. He spent almost two hours cleaning one of the bedrooms, then he went down into the basement and sat down on one of the sofas, smoking cigarettes and preparing himself for what lay ahead.

At eleven o’clock he went back upstairs and filled a bath with warm water, washed himself thoroughly, emptied and refilled it and washed again. He used a brand new plastic nailbrush to clean under his fingernails and toenails, then climbed out of the bath and brushed his teeth for a full five minutes.

He dried himself on a brand-new towel and dressed in clean clothes. He went to the bedroom, knelt down and then began drawing the protective pentagram on the floorboards.

81

R
obyn stood up and looked at the pentagram and triangle that she’d drawn on the floor. She compared it with the diagram that Nightingale had given her. It looked the same. She looked at her watch. It was five minutes to midnight. On the table by the bed she had placed one of the bottles of Evian water and the salt. She mixed them in a beaker which she took with her as she stepped into the pentagram. She slowly sprinkled the salt-water mixture around the edge of the circle and then used a cigarette lighter to light the five candles that she’d placed at the five points of the pentagram.

She looked at her watch again. Three minutes to go. Her heart was pounding and she took a deep breath. Her face was bathed in sweat and she wiped her forehead with her sleeve. What she was doing made no sense, but she had promised Nightingale that she would go through with it. She didn’t believe in devils, or angels, or God. So far as Robyn was concerned, people were born, they lived and they died. There was no Heaven and no Hell, just life, and in her heart of hearts she was sure that what she was doing was a waste of time. But Jack Nightingale clearly cared about her, and as he was the only relative she had she would do it for him.

The minute hand on her watch clicked towards twelve. ‘Happy New Year,’ she muttered, and knelt down to pick up a handful of herbs that she’d taken from the pillow Nightingale had given her. She held it over the candle in front of her and let the herbs trickle through her fingers. They spluttered and sparked and the air was filled with cloying smoke that made her eyes sting. Nightingale had warned her about the smoke and she had covered the smoke detector in the middle of the ceiling with a plastic bag. She dropped a lighted match into a bowl of herbs in the centre of the pentagram and coughed as thick grey smoke mushroomed around her.

She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and took out the piece of paper that contained the phrases she had to read out. Nightingale had said that they were in Latin and it didn’t matter what the words meant; all that mattered was that she said the words out loud. She began to speak, syllable by syllable. Her words echoed around the room. The smoke grew thicker and she held the piece of paper closer to her face and blinked. She fought the urge to cough and said the last three words at the top of her voice: ‘
Bagahi laca bacabe!
’

The smoke began to whirl around her, spinning faster and faster as if she was at the centre of a tornado. The candle flames bent over and her hair whipped around her head. Faster and faster went the smoke, whistling by her ears. She felt the wind tug at her clothes and for a second she almost lost her balance, but she held her arms out to her sides and steadied herself.

Something dark began to form in the smoke, something big, something that swayed from side to side as it solidified, something that wasn’t human. Robyn was gripped by an almost irresistible urge to turn to her bed and hide under the covers but Nightingale’s warning rang in her ears. No matter what happened, no matter what she heard or saw, she had to stay within the pentagram.

82

N
ightingale finished speaking and he stared through the acrid smoke wondering what form Frimost would take. He hadn’t been able to find any descriptions of what the devil looked like, never mind a drawing or illustration. And he hadn’t wanted to ask Proserpine because every question meant another attack on his life. She had told him about Sugart and how to summon Sugart and Frimost, and that was all.

There was a blinding flash of light and a deep rumbling sound, the air shimmered, folded in on itself and crackled, and then Frimost was standing outside the pentagram. He was black and massively obese, just five feet tall but twice as wide, with a dozen or so chins, thick tubes of fat around his midriff and rolls of fat around his ankles.

Frimost was wearing a brightly coloured man-dress, red and green with splashes of gold, and a pillbox hat of the same material. Around his neck was a gold chain from which hung half a dozen small skulls that looked like the skulls of monkeys or small children. Nightingale tried not to look at them. Frimost was holding a wooden stick with a gold tip on the bottom and a handle that appeared to have been formed from a human shoulder blade. He grunted and banged the stick on the floor, three times. The walls of the room juddered with each blow.

‘Who has summoned me?’ he asked, in a deep, booming voice.

‘My name is Nightingale. You are Frimost? The devil who gives men power over women?’

‘What is it you want?’ asked Frimost icily. ‘Why have you summoned me?’

‘To do a deal.’

Frimost looked at him with contempt. ‘So you want what I have to offer,’ he said. ‘You want sex; you want women to desire you. Like all men, you yearn to have your urges satisfied.’ He laughed and his body rippled like jelly. ‘I can help you, Nightingale. I can give you what you seek. For a price, of course.’

‘That’s not why I summoned you,’ said Nightingale.

‘Then what? Do not waste my time, Nightingale. I bore easily.’

‘What I have to say won’t take long,’ said Nightingale. ‘I want to do a deal for my sister’s soul.’