Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (10 page)

18

N
ightingale hadn’t lied when he’d told Jenny he wasn’t going to drive. And he’d meant what he’d said about wanting some fresh air, even though the first thing he’d done when he’d left the wine bar was light a cigarette. Neither had he been lying when he’d told the girl in the shop doorway that he didn’t know where he was going. So far as he was concerned, he was doing just as he’d said he would: taking a walk while he collected his thoughts. But his subconscious had other plans for him. It took him to his car, and thirty minutes later he was driving through east London, and ten minutes after that he was parking outside the graveyard where his parents were buried and wondering why he had never visited since the funeral.

He climbed out of the MGB and locked the door, then stuck his hands into the pockets of his raincoat and walked towards the ivy-covered stone arch that led into the churchyard. The house where he had been brought up was a mile from the weathered grey stone church but the only time he had been there was for the funeral. His parents had never shown any interest in religion and Nightingale had been surprised to discover that they had bought the twin burial plot just three years before their untimely death. They had been crushed in their car by a petrol-tanker. Later the driver had sworn he hadn’t seen the red traffic-lights or their car. He hadn’t been drinking, he’d tested negative for drugs and his tachometer showed that he’d only been driving for four hours before the accident. The coroner put it down to a fatal lapse in concentration and the driver ended up serving two years in prison for causing death by careless driving. It was just one of those things, everyone had said at the funeral and the reception afterwards – Nightingale’s parents had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

There was a wooden gate set into the arch and it creaked as Nightingale pushed it open. A black-painted sign topped with a cross announced the name of the church, that the vicar was the Reverend T. Smith and that there would be a bring-and-buy sale in aid of the church roof restoration fund the following Wednesday.

It was starting to get dark and there were no lights on inside the church. As Nightingale followed the path to the right of the building a halogen security light clicked on, illuminating the graves to his right. A second light came on as he continued to walk, and elongated shadows writhed over the gravestones. The stained-glass windows were covered with wire mesh and there was anti-climbing paint on the drainpipes. Nightingale suspected that local thieves had more to do with the need to restore the roof than simple wear and tear.

His parents’ graves were at the far end, close to the boundary wall and shaded by a spreading willow tree. There was a single black marble headstone with the names William and Irene Nightingale, their dates of birth and the date they’d died, and above them, optimistically, ‘Living together in eternity’. It was the first time Nightingale had seen it. At the funeral there had just been a hole in the ground, Astroturf strips over the pile of earth ready to be shovelled back in. He had been nineteen and if someone had asked back then whether he believed in God he’d have laughed scornfully and probably refused to answer. If he was asked the same question now, fourteen years later, the laugh would be more ironic and he still probably wouldn’t bother to answer.

He looked down at the grave. ‘Funny old world, innit?’ he said aloud. In the distance an owl hooted. The two security lights clicked off. There was an almost full moon overhead and the sky was clear of clouds so there was enough light to see by. A cold breeze from behind made him shiver so he turned up his coat collar and put his hands back in his pockets. His right hand found his cigarette lighter and he held it like a talisman. ‘Why did you never tell me you weren’t my real parents?’ he said softly, to the gravestone. His breath feathered in the cold night air. ‘I wouldn’t have loved you any less. You’ll always be Mum and Dad to me, no matter what.’

The owl hooted again. Nightingale sighed. What he was doing made no sense to him. He didn’t believe in ghosts, he didn’t believe in an afterlife, and he sure as hell didn’t believe that he could talk to his long-dead parents. ‘This is crazy,’ he said. ‘I’m crazy. The whole thing is crazy.’ He took out his lighter and the packet of Marlboro and lit a cigarette. ‘I know, I smoke too much,’ he said. ‘And I drink. I’m a big boy now.’ He took a deep lungful of smoke, held it, then exhaled slowly, aiming at the marble headstone. ‘Did you know Gosling? Did you know he was my real father? Is that why you never said anything? Is that why you never told me I was adopted?’

High overhead a passenger jet was moving across the night sky, its red and green navigation lights flashing. Nightingale gazed up at it, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand. He could feel the tension in the muscles, the tendons as taut as steel cables.

‘Can I help you?’ asked a voice.

Nightingale started. His left foot slipped on the grass and he stumbled sideways. His arms flailed as he fought to keep his balance and he cursed loudly. He turned to see a middle-aged vicar in a cassock, with a brass cross around his neck. He seemed as shocked as Nightingale was. ‘You almost scared the life out of me,’ said Nightingale, patting his chest.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the vicar. ‘I thought you’d heard me walking along the path. I wasn’t exactly on tiptoe.’ He had the look of an ex-boxer, with a squarish jaw and a slightly flattened nose. While he was a good six inches shorter than Nightingale he was heavy-set and had thick forearms that bulged through his clerical garb. His light grey-brown hair was receding, and while he studied Nightingale with unflinching pale blue eyes, his smile was that of a kindly uncle.

‘I was . . . deep in thought,’ said Nightingale. ‘Miles away.’

‘I saw the lights go on and we’ve had a lot of problems recently,’ said the vicar. ‘When times are good, we have vandalism most weekends, but when they’re bad it’s all we can do to keep the lead on the roof.’

‘I’m sorry, I guess I shouldn’t be here,’ said Nightingale. He pointed at the grave. ‘My parents. I wanted to . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Actually, I’m not sure what I wanted.’

‘You’re not a regular at my church, are you?’

‘I’m afraid not. Sorry. A lost sheep.’

‘No one is ever truly lost,’ said the vicar. ‘The shepherd will always welcome you back.’ He extended his hand. ‘Timothy Smith.’

Nightingale shook it. ‘Jack Nightingale.’

The vicar looked at the headstone. ‘Fourteen years ago,’ he said. ‘How time passes.’

Nightingale peered at the man, but his face wasn’t familiar. He didn’t remember much about the funeral. He’d sat on a hard pew next to his aunt and uncle and after the service, when they were outside, Uncle Tommy had shown him how to drop a handful of earth into the grave. It had been muddy and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to clean his shoes for at least a month. But he couldn’t summon the face of the man who had conducted the funeral, or recall anything he’d said. ‘You knew my parents?’

‘Of course,’ said the vicar. ‘They were regular churchgoers.’

‘Not while I was at home,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t remember them taking me.’

The vicar nodded. ‘They’d been coming for about a year before they died.’

‘I would have been at university,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s funny, I never knew they were religious.’

‘People tend to turn more to the Church as they get older,’ said the vicar. ‘As they become aware of their own mortality, they start looking for solutions.’

‘Lifelines?’ said Nightingale.

‘Perhaps,’ said the vicar. ‘We take our converts where we can.’

Nightingale held up his cigarette. ‘Is it okay to smoke?’

The vicar smiled. ‘Of course.’ He gestured at the church. ‘But not inside, we’re covered by health and safety regulations these days.’ He looked wistfully at the cigarette in Nightingale’s hand.

‘You smoke?’ asked Nightingale.

‘I try not to,’ said the vicar, ‘and every year I give it up for Lent.’ Nightingale offered him the packet and he took one. Nightingale lit it for him. ‘Marlboro always make me feel like a cowboy’ he said.

‘It was the packet that got me started on them,’ said Nightingale. ‘Took me a while to get used to the smoke.’

The two men exhaled.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ said Nightingale.

‘Of course,’ said the vicar. ‘Anything but geography – I was always bad at it. How’s anyone supposed to remember all those capital cities?’

Nightingale chuckled. ‘It’s a bit more esoteric than that,’ he said. ‘I wanted to ask you if you believed in the devil.’

The vicar frowned. ‘If one believes in the Lord, one has to believe in the devil. The two come as a package deal, if you like.’

‘Horns, a forked tail and a pitchfork?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said the vicar. ‘But who can doubt that there’s evil in the world?’

‘I believe in evil. But is evil within men or is it an outside force that corrupts?’

‘When there was only Adam and Eve there was no evil. Evil came from without.’

‘Because Satan introduced the serpent into Paradise? You believe in all that?’

‘It’s not my faith that needs examining, is it? What’s troubling you, Jack?’

Nightingale smiled ruefully. ‘You don’t want to go there.’

‘Try me,’ said the vicar. ‘One smoker to another.’

Nightingale sighed. ‘I’m not sure I know what’s going on, what’s real and what’s an irrational fear.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Is it possible to sell your soul?’

‘To the devil?’

Nightingale nodded.

‘Tough question,’ he said. ‘Tougher than geography.’

‘Is that your way of saying you don’t have an answer?’

‘I’ll have a stab at it,’ said the vicar, flicking ash on the path. He took a deep breath. ‘We talk of giving our lives to Christ, so there must also be misguided individuals who give themselves over to evil.’

‘And would such a deal be irrevocable?’

‘A person can always change his mind. The history of the Church is filled with conversions.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Looks like I’m a smoker again.’

‘Once a smoker, always a smoker,’ said Nightingale. ‘What if there was a contract with the devil?’

The vicar looked pained. ‘It’s more a case of coming to believe that Jesus Christ is our Lord and Saviour.’

‘I understand that, but I’m not talking about a contract with Christ. I’m talking about doing a deal with the other side. The dark side. What if your soul is promised to the devil?’

‘I think you’re being too literal, Jack,’ said the vicar. ‘One no more makes a contract with the devil than one does with Jesus. It’s not a matter of signing on the dotted line. It’s a matter of belief.’ He dropped his cigarette butt and squashed it with his foot.

‘And do you believe in hell?’

‘As a concept?’

‘As a place.’

The vicar laughed. ‘There! I told you not to go asking me about geography.’

‘You’ve very good at avoiding questions,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’d be a nightmare to interrogate.’

‘You’re a police officer?’ asked the vicar.

‘In a previous life,’ said Nightingale. ‘So, is there a hell, or not? And if there is, where is it?’

‘Scripture doesn’t give us an exact location,’ said the vicar. ‘It’s a place of real torment that may or may not have a physical location in this universe. A black hole, maybe. Or it might be in another dimension, a place we move to after death.’

‘You believe that?’

‘I believe in God, of course. It’d be difficult to do this job if I didn’t. And I believe that we go from this life to be with God.’

‘But where?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Where do we go?’

‘Heaven,’ said the vicar. ‘That’s what the Bible says.’

‘But where is heaven?’

The vicar smiled. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Geography again.’ He put a hand on Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry I can’t answer all your questions. I know how frustrating that can be. So far as I’m concerned, as a Christian, it’s less important where heaven is than to know that one day I’ll be there.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Nightingale.

‘The Church doesn’t have all the answers,’ said the vicar. ‘There has to be faith. Belief is about faith.’

‘And that’s the problem,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m a bit short of both at the moment.’

19

N
ightingale lit a cigarette as he steered the MGB with one hand. The vicar hadn’t been much help but, then, Nightingale hadn’t expected he would be. He hadn’t gone to the graveyard for spiritual guidance. Truth be told, he had no idea why he’d felt the need to be there. His questions could only be answered by his parents, and they were dead. Dead and buried.

He wound down his window and blew smoke as he drove. There was no proof that he was adopted. It might turn out to be some perverse mistake, that Ainsley Gosling had simply been wrong, or that he had chosen Nightingale as the victim of some beyond-the-grave hoax. Fathers didn’t sell the souls of their children to the devil, not in the twentieth or twenty-first century. Not in any century. But until Hoyle came back with the results of the DNA analysis, Nightingale had no way of knowing whether Gosling really had been his biological father.

A blue light flashed in his rear-view mirror and Nightingale swore. He hadn’t been speeding but the car had woven a little while he was lighting the cigarette. The siren blipped and Nightingale swore again. He indicated, pulled over and switched off the engine. The police car pulled up behind him and two constables got out. Nightingale gritted his teeth and stubbed out his cigarette. They’d smell the alcohol on his breath. He leaned over, flicked open the glove compartment and groped for the packet of Wrigley’s chewing gum he always kept there. He unwrapped two sticks and slotted them into his mouth, then opened the door and climbed out, keeping his hands where the officers could see them. ‘Sorry, guys, I wasn’t speeding, was I?’

The younger of the two was in his mid-twenties and holding a breathalyser machine. The older man did the talking. ‘Have you been drinking, sir?’ he asked.

‘A few beers, a few hours ago,’ said Nightingale. Even with the spearmint gum he knew he wouldn’t get away with a complete denial. He took out his wallet and showed them his private-investigator identification. ‘Guys, I know this won’t cut me any slack, but I used to be in the job.’

‘If you were in the job, you’d know there’s no slack to be cut,’ said the policeman. ‘We’re going to need a sample of your breath to ascertain if you’ve been drinking. If you’re unable or unwilling to provide such a sample we’ll take you to the station where you’ll have to give a blood or urine sample.’

Nightingale raised his hands in surrender. He knew there was no point in arguing. ‘No problem,’ he said.

The younger policeman handed him the breathalyser unit and showed him what to do. Nightingale took a deep breath, then blew slowly into the tube. A red light winked on accusingly and the officer grinned triumphantly.

The older man told Nightingale he was being arrested but Nightingale wasn’t listening. It was his own fault, no one had forced him to drink and drive, and now he was going to have to pay the penalty for his stupidity.

‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said the younger policeman, putting a hand on his shoulder. His voice was cold and flat, devoid of emotion.

‘What?’ said Nightingale.

‘I said we’ll secure your car and drive you to the station, sir. Please give me the keys.’ His voice had returned to normal.

Nightingale shook his head. ‘What did you say just then?’

The younger constable looked at his colleague. ‘Drunk as a skunk,’ he said.

‘I’m not drunk,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve been drinking but I’m not drunk. What did you say about me going to hell?’

‘There’s no need for offensive language, sir,’ said the older policeman, taking hold of Nightingale’s left arm.

‘I wasn’t being offensive,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just want to know what he said.’

‘He said we’re going to have to secure your vehicle. You can come back and get it once we’ve done the paperwork at the station and you’re fit to drive. Now, please don’t give us any more trouble.’ He tightened his grip.

Nightingale said nothing. He handed over his keys and let them lead him to their car.