Stephen Leather: Nightmare

She was wearing a white sweatshirt, a blue cotton skirt and silver trainers with blue stars on them. She was sitting on the wall of the balcony, her legs under the metal rail, her arms on top of it. Her name was Sophie Underwood, she was nine years old, and Jack Nightingale was the only person in the world who could stop her falling to her death.

He took his pack of Marlboro and lighter from his pocket. He was on the balcony of the adjoining flat and there was a gap of about six feet between the terrace where he was standing and the one where Sophie was sitting, whispering to her Barbie doll.

Nightingale lit a cigarette and inhaled as he tried to work out what he should say to the little girl. There had to be something, some combination of words said in the right way that would change her mind. He blew smoke and tried not to look at her. The words that would save her were just out of reach, at the edge of his consciousness. If he could just focus he’d come up with the right words and then everything would be okay.

He was alone on the balcony and he knew that was wrong. Negotiators always worked in threes. Always. So why was he alone? He couldn’t remember how he’d got onto the balcony or why he didn’t have any back-up, all he knew was that he needed to find the right words to say to stop Sophie Underwood from falling to her death. Nightingale was on the balcony which meant that he was the Primary. Number One. It was the Primary’s job to communicate with the subject. That was what Sophie was. The subject. The person in crisis. The little girl who was about to fall thirteen storeys to her death unless Nightingale came up with the words that would stop her. Nightingale looked over his shoulder at the room behind him. That was where the Number Two would be, if he had a Number Two. The Secondary. It was the Secondary’s job to monitor the situation, keep notes and offer advice. The Primary was often caught up in the moment and had to think on his feet but the Secondary was able to supply a dispassionate perspective. The third member of the team was the Intelligence Negotiator. Number Three. He would be down on the ground talking to anyone who knew the person in crisis, friends and relatives, anyone who might be able to provide information that could be useful for the Primary. That information would be relayed to the Number Two who would pass it on to the Number One. Except that there was no Number Two and no Number Three. There was just Nightingale and the nine-year-old girl who was sitting on the balcony swinging her legs and whispering to her doll and preparing to fall to her death.

Nightingale looked across at the balcony where the girl was. She was still whispering to her doll. She had long blonde hair that she’d tucked behind her ears and skin as white and smooth as porcelain. He could see dark patches under her eyes as if she had trouble sleeping. He took another long drag on his cigarette. He had to find some way of initiating a conversation because so long as she was talking she wasn’t falling. He couldn’t talk about her family because it was her father who was abusing her and her mother knew but wasn’t doing anything to stop him. School, maybe. Maybe she was happier at school so if they talked about that then she’d realise that there were people who loved her and wanted to protect her. He didn’t know if she had a pet. Pets were good because pets loved unconditionally. She lived in an apartment so that probably meant she didn’t have a dog but there could be a cat or a gerbil, something that depended on her. That was always a good way of reaching a person in crisis: appeal to their caring side, show that the world was a better place because they were in it. That’s why he needed a Number Two and Number Three because then he’d know for sure and he wouldn’t say anything that would provoke a negative response. All the responses had to be positive because she was sitting on the edge of a wall with nothing other than a rail between her and the ground thirteen storeys below. He looked over his shoulder again but there was no one there. No back-up. No support. Just Jack Nightingale and a nine-year-old girl. And for the life of him he had no idea what to say.

He took a quick look to his right. She had stopped whispering to the doll and was staring out over the Thames. Seagulls were gliding over the river, searching out the updrafts so that they didn’t have to flap their wings. Nightingale smiled. The birds. He could talk about the birds. All kids liked birds and she must have seen them every day from her apartment. Perfect. He took a final pull on his cigarette and flicked it away, watching it spin through the air, sparks scattering from the lit end as it fell. He flinched, realising that had been a mistake.

He turned to look at her, smiling to show that he was on her side, but just as he opened his mouth to speak she slid off the balcony, her eyes tightly closed, the doll clutched to her chest.

Nightingale screamed and that was when he woke up, bathed in sweat. His heart was pounding. He padded to the kitchen and took a bottle of Russian vodka from the icebox of his fridge, where it had been since the Christmas before last. He unscrewed the top and drank from the bottle. The warmth spread across his chest but it didn’t make him feel any better. He paced up and down as he drank, trying to blot out the image of Sophie falling to her death, her blonde hair whipping around in the wind, the doll in her arms. He shivered as he remembered the dull wet sound she’d made as she hit the ground. He took another drink and wiped his mouth with his arm, then went through to his sitting room and sat down on the sofa.

He looked at his watch. It was three o’clock. He knew that it wasn’t a good idea to be drinking vodka at that time of the morning but he didn’t care. He just wanted to stop thinking about Sophie and the way that she’d died. And the fact that he hadn’t stopped her. He lay back on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. Tears welled in his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, Sophie,’ he said. ‘I’m so, so, sorry.’

Nightingale woke up with a thumping headache and a bad taste in his mouth as if something had crawled in there and died. He turned on his side and squinted at the clock on the bedside table. It was just after nine thirty. Next to the clock was an empty bottle of vodka that he only half-remembered finishing. He rolled out of bed, staggered to the bathroom and drank from the cold tap. He walked unsteadily back to his bed, sat down and lit a cigarette, then lay back and blew smoke up at the ceiling.

He heard his mobile phone ringing in the sitting room. Nightingale groaned before pushing himself off the bed, stubbing out the remains of his cigarette in a glass ashtray and retrieving the phone from the pocket of his raincoat. It was Jenny.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

Nightingale sat down and ran his hand through his hair. His stomach lurched and he had to fight the urge to vomit.

‘Jack?’

‘Yeah, I’m okay. What’s up?’

‘I was just checking to see if you were going to be in the office this morning,’ said Jenny. ‘There’re papers here that need signing.’

‘Can’t you do it?’

‘Your accountant sent them. Inland Revenue. I’m not putting my signature on anything that could get me put behind bars.’

‘I’m up to date with my taxes.’

‘Not with VAT you’re not,’ said Jenny. ‘And I found these forms in your desk. You got them well before Christmas and your accountant called me to say he really needed them before the year end.’

‘You know the last few weeks have been crazy, kid.’

‘Yes, well, I don’t think that the Revenue accept that as a valid excuse.’

‘I’m on my way in,’ said Nightingale. His stomach lurched again and he lay back and concentrated on not throwing up.