Nightfall: The First Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (29 page)

‘And selling your soul is easy, too?’

Wainwright winced. ‘You’ve got to know what you’re doing, Jack. You’ve got to make sure you’re protected and you have to know how to handle them. They’re not lapdogs, they’re the masters of hell. You make one wrong move and they’ll rip your soul out.’

‘You’ve heard of Proserpine?’

‘Of course. One of the greats. Definitely not amateur material. You wouldn’t want to go calling her up unless you really knew what you were doing.’

‘And what about selling her the soul of an unborn child? Is that doable?’

Wainwright’s eyes were suddenly as hard as flint. ‘What’s going on, Jack?’ he said. ‘What is it you really want to know? You’re dancing around it whatever it is.’

Nightingale smiled tightly. ‘Even saying it sounds crazy,’ he said.

Wainwright’s cigar froze inches from his lips and he narrowed his eyes. ‘Gosling did it, didn’t he?’

Nightingale said nothing. Wainwright’s eyes bored into his and Nightingale had to look away.

‘Ainsley Gosling sold your soul to Proserpine before you were born?’

‘That’s what he told me, yeah,’ said Nightingale. ‘He left me a DVD saying just that.’

‘You’ve got the mark? The pentagram?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Wainwright leaned forward. ‘If there’s no pentagram, there’s no contract,’ he said. ‘That’s an absolute fact.’

‘I’ve looked everywhere,’ said Nightingale.

‘Then you’re okay,’ said Wainwright. ‘What happened to your father?

‘He killed himself.’

‘How?’

‘Shotgun.’

‘But he was inside a protective circle, right? A pentagram.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because that’s the way I’d do it. Something quick and sure.’

‘And the pentagram?’

‘So they can’t get at you before you die. So that you can choose your own time.’

‘But you still go to hell, right?’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether you’ve been naughty or nice. Bit like whether or not you get a gift from Santa.’ He laughed at his own joke.

‘What I mean is, if you’re going to hell and you die within the protective pentagram, do you still go to hell?’

‘Yes, but you’d be going in under your own terms.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Nightingale.

‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ said Wainwright.

‘You see, I can’t work out why my father, my genetic father, went to all the trouble of protecting himself with the pentagram and then he goes and kills himself.’

‘Because he wanted it to be his decision,’ said Wainwright. ‘He wanted to choose the time and place of his passing. That’s not unusual.’

‘And if my soul was sold, what are my options?’

‘Zero. But, like I said, if there’s no mark on you, your soul’s your own.’

Nightingale ran a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. He could feel the tendons there, as taut as steel wires. ‘I need to talk to this Proserpine.’

‘No, you don’t, Jack. She’s a devil. She’d eat you for breakfast.’

A middle-aged man in a crisp white shirt with black-and-yellow epaulettes opened the cockpit door. ‘We’re about to fire up the engines, Mr Wainwright,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to get our wheels off the ground within the next ten minutes or we’ll lose our slot.’

‘Ready when you are, Ed,’ said Wainwright. He smiled at Nightingale. ‘Looks like our time’s up, Jack,’ he said.

The pilot went back into the cockpit and closed the door behind him. Wainwright stood up and held out his hand. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

They shook. ‘Have a safe trip,’ said Nightingale.

‘You too, man,’ said Wainwright. ‘But remember, if there’s no mark there’s no deal and you have nothing to worry about.’

As Nightingale walked away from the plane towards the waiting Mercedes, he heard the stairs retract, the door thump shut and the engines start to whine. The chauffeur already had the door open for him. ‘Shall I put that in the boot, sir?’ asked the chauffeur, indicating the metal suitcase.

‘I think I’ll keep it with me,’ said Nightingale. He climbed into the back and put it on the seat next to him.

63

T
he bank manager rubbed his chin as he stared at the suitcase full of money. ‘Mr Nightingale, this is very, very unorthodox,’ he said.

‘Tell me about it,’ said Nightingale.

‘There are money-laundering regulations, customer-identification protocols, procedures.’

‘I understand that, Mr Collinson, but that’s how the money came to me and that’s how I’m giving it to you.’

‘But no one carries around two million euros in cash,’ said the bank manager, dropping into his high-backed executive chair. ‘My head office is going to be asking all sorts of questions. You’re not even a customer of the bank.’

‘But my father was, and I’m his sole heir. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that I’m responsible for the mortgage on Gosling Manor.’

Collinson pursed his fleshy lips, like a toddler about to burst into tears. ‘Very irregular,’ he said. ‘We’re not even geared up for having this much cash on the premises.’

‘It’s perfectly legitimate,’ said Nightingale. ‘I sold some of the books in my father’s collection.’

‘For cash?’

‘For cash,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was as surprised as you are.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and took out two sheets of paper. He gave them to the bank manager. ‘There’s the receipt that the buyer gave me. And the invoice from the bookstore in Hamburg that sold the book to my father.’

Collinson scrutinised both pieces of paper. ‘A substantial profit.’

‘Especially when you consider how much the euro has risen in value,’ said Nightingale.

‘You do understand that if you lodge these funds with our branch, we’ll be duty-bound to inform the Inland Revenue?’ said Collinson.

‘I didn’t, but I do now.’

‘There will probably be a capital-gains tax liability, and you’ll have to fill out a form explaining where the money came from.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Nightingale.

‘So, tell me, what do you want to do with the money?’ said the bank manager, running the fingers of his right hand along the bundles.

‘I’d like to open an account with you, convert this to pounds and pay it into the account, then use that account to continue paying the mortgage my father took out. Does that make sense?’

Collinson nodded.

‘I’ll get my accountant to give you a call to arrange any paperwork.’

‘We’ll need a copy of your passport, two recent utility bills, and a reference from your current bank,’ said Collinson.

‘Easy peasy,’ said Nightingale.

‘Will you be planning to sell more of your father’s books, Mr Nightingale?’ asked the bank manager.

‘Possibly,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m going to draw up an inventory and see what there is.’

‘They must be very interesting volumes,’ said Collinson. ‘Perhaps you could show me some time.’

‘They’re an acquired taste, Mr Collinson,’ said Nightingale. ‘I wouldn’t have thought they’d be of much interest to you.’

Next door to the bank an optician was offering free eye tests and fifty per cent off all frames. A young woman in a white coat with long black hair tied back in a ponytail was standing behind the counter, showing a range of frames to a housewife with two small children. There was an eye-test chart behind her and Nightingale read the letters all the way down to the bottom line. He’d always had perfect vision. A buzzer sounded as he pushed open the door and went inside.

64

N
ightingale was already at his desk when Jenny walked into the office. He had his feet on the desk, his keyboard on his lap, and was staring intently at his screen. ‘You’re in bright and early,’ she said, then noticed the bottle of whisky next to the overflowing ashtray. ‘Or did you not go home last night?’

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Nightingale. ‘You okay?’

‘I had new locks fitted to the doors and windows and Banhams are putting in a motion-sensor alarm system later this week.’

‘They won’t be back, Jenny. They only wanted the diary.’

‘I’d feel more secure.’ She took off her coat and hung it on the back of the door. Nightingale picked up the whisky and took a long swig. ‘What’s wrong, Jack?’

‘Why should anything be wrong?’

‘It’s half past eight in the morning and you’re drinking whisky.’

‘Do you believe in hell, Jenny?’

‘Of course not.’ She sat down opposite him and moved the whisky out of his reach.

‘Because?’

‘Because how can there be a place called hell? Where would it be? We’re mapping the universe and there’s nowhere that hell could be. It can’t be a planet or a star or a black hole.’

‘So you don’t believe in heaven either?’

‘As a place, of course not. Angels sitting on clouds playing harps. How ridiculous is that?’

‘So when we’re dead, we’re dead, is that it? Just nothingness? The great abyss?’

‘Life will go on, whether I’m here or not, so it’s not blackness. What’s wrong, Jack?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘I guess I want to know what happens when we die, and it’s the one question no one can answer. That’s the paradox, isn’t it? We all die, it’s the one thing we have common, yet no one knows what it really means.’

‘It depends on what you believe, Jack. Some people truly believe that when they die they go to heaven. Others believe they’ll be reborn, that our time here is just part of a process.’

‘Reincarnation?’

‘I guess. Atheists think there’s nothing. We’re born, we live, we die, it’s over.’

‘Which is pretty depressing.’

‘You think hell is a better alternative?’

‘Oh, Jenny, I don’t know. I don’t know what to think any more.’

‘You think it might be true? You’re starting to believe that Ainsley Gosling sold your soul to the devil.’

‘To
a
devil. Proserpine. I’m sure he did, yes. Or, at least, I’m sure he believed he did. The big question is, do I have a soul to sell? Is the soul something tangible that can be traded? It’s nonsense, right? There’s no such thing as a soul.’

‘Are you asking me or telling me, Jack?’

‘That’s the thing, isn’t it? We can talk about it until the cows come home but we’ll never know for sure.’

‘That’s what makes us human,’ said Jenny. ‘We’re the only animal that knows it will die one day. No other creature thinks about death.’

‘But most of us do everything we can not to think about it,’ said Nightingale, ‘because it’s the scariest thing imaginable.’

‘Life is what you should be thinking about,’ said Jenny. ‘Enjoy it while you have it. Relish every moment. Every second.’

‘But one day it’ll be over.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’ echoed Nightingale.

Jenny shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Jack – I don’t know any better than you. But I have a gut feeling there’s more. That’s all it is, a gut feeling. Jack, what’s brought this on? Has something happened?’

‘You’re not religious, are you?’

Jenny smiled. ‘No, but religion has nothing to do with life after death, has it? You can believe in that without believing in God. Maybe we just move on to something else.’

‘Like what?’

Jenny sighed. ‘I have no idea, Jack. Nobody does.’

‘That’s the point, though, isn’t it? If there was something else, wouldn’t those who have passed on come back and tell us what lies ahead? Why didn’t my mum and dad? The last time I saw them they were on the doorstep, waving me off to university. Then, bang, they’re killed in a car crash. If there was life after death, wouldn’t they have come back to say goodbye? Just to let me know that everything was okay?’

‘Sometimes people do get messages from beyond, don’t they? And lots of people say they’ve seen ghosts.’

‘Have you?’

‘No,’ admitted Jenny.

‘And neither have I. And my parents died suddenly and violently, and so did my aunt and uncle, and if you believe what you read, those are the most likely circumstances to produce a ghost. I got nothing from them, Jenny. Not from my mother and father and not from my aunt and uncle. They died and that was the end of it.’ He sighed. ‘You know, when I buried my mum and dad, I expected to feel their presence at the funeral but there was nothing. Just the coffins.’ He reached for the whisky but didn’t make it.

‘Maybe they couldn’t come back. Maybe that’s not how it works,’ said Jenny, picking up the bottle. ‘I’ll make you a coffee.’

‘And what about my so-called genetic father? He died violently but I haven’t seen him floating around. He left me a DVD apologising for what he’d done, and you’d think he might have come back and apologised in person. Or in spirit. And if there is life after death, don’t you think he’d get in contact and tell me what to do? And what about Robbie? Remember the message he left on my phone? He had something to tell me, something important.’

Maybe it’s a one-way journey with no coming back. Like caterpillars.’

‘Caterpillars?’

‘Caterpillars spend their lives crawling over leaves until one day they turn into a chrysalis and then the chrysalis bursts open and there’s a butterfly. Now, does the caterpillar know that one day it’ll be a butterfly? I doubt it. So far as the caterpillar is concerned, the chrysalis is death. The end of the caterpillar. And does the butterfly remember being a caterpillar?’

‘Who knows?’ said Nightingale.

‘Exactly,’ said Jenny. ‘Who knows. But do you ever see butterflies hanging out with caterpillars? No, you don’t. They’ve nothing in common. Maybe that’s what happens when we die. Part of us moves on and there’s no looking back.’

‘Our spirit, is that what you mean?’

‘They say that when you die, you lose twenty-one grams. It just goes. You weigh a person before they die and you weigh them afterwards and twenty-one grams have disappeared.’

‘Says who?’ asked Nightingale.

‘I did a philosophy course in my final year,’ said Jenny. ‘It was an American doctor who did the experiment, back in the nineteen hundreds. Duncan MacDougall, his name was. He designed a special bed that was built on a set of scales and he had six dying patients who agreed to help him. By weighing the entire bed he was able to take into account sweat and urine loss, everything physical. With all six patients there was an immediate weight loss of twenty-one grams at the moment of death.’

Nightingale narrowed his eyes. ‘And that’s the weight of a human soul, is it? Twenty-one grams?’

‘The weight of a humming-bird, give or take,’ said Jenny. ‘That was MacDougall’s theory. He repeated the experiment with fifteen dogs. Tied them to the bed and put them to sleep. With the dogs, there was no change in weight as they died. His theory was that people had souls and dogs didn’t.’

‘And why has no one done the experiment since?’

‘Weigh dying people? I’m not sure you’d get away with it these days.’ Jenny put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. ‘What’s wrong, Jack? What’s brought all this on?’

‘Give me the whisky and I’ll tell you.’

‘Jack . . .’

Nightingale held out his hand. Jenny gave him the bottle.

‘You know there’s supposed to be a pentagram mark?’

‘If your soul is sold to the devil, yes. But you haven’t got a mark, remember?’

‘There was an optician next to the bank in Brighton. I went there to deposit the money and the optician was offering free eye tests.’

‘You don’t need glasses,’ she said. ‘Eyes like a hawk’s.’

‘I went to get my retinas scanned,’ he said quietly. ‘I figured it was one of the parts of the body you never get to see.’

‘And?’

Nightingale slid a manila envelope across the desk. She opened it with trembling hands and slid out the photograph inside. There were two images on it, retinal scans of his right and left eyes. On the left eye, down at the four o’clock position, there was a small black pentagram.