Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘I’m sure he does.’

‘He thinks there are lots of things wrong with the world and that we need to fix them.’

‘That’s interesting, Bella. Really. But let’s talk about you and what your plans are.’

‘Do you want to know what Jesus told me?’ asked Bella.

Kathy forced a smile. It was the last thing she wanted to know, but she needed to keep the little girl talking. ‘Sure,’ she said.

Bella crooked her little finger and beckoned her to move closer. ‘I have to whisper it,’ she said.

Bernie Fowles screwed up his face. ‘She said what?’ Fowles was the Express ’s features editor. He was in his fifties and was an old school journalist, known to keep a bottle of Bell’s in the bottom drawer of his desk even though alcohol was banned on the premises. His liking for whisky was written on his face — his cheeks were perpetually flushed and his nose was flecked with broken veins.

Kathy sat down. ‘She says she has messages for the Prime Minister and the Archbishop of Canterbury and Prince William, from Jesus.’

Fowles rubbed his eyes and cursed under his breath. ‘Is she crazy? Or have her parents put her up to it?’

‘She’s a nine-year-old girl, Bernie.’

‘Nine-year-old girls can be manipulated, and manipulative,’ said Bernie. ‘Remember that kid in the States, wrote that bestseller about going to Heaven. He was only four.’

‘I don’t think they’re planning to write a book, Bernie.’

‘Maybe not now, but if we run a piece saying that she spoke to Jesus then all the big publishers are going to be knocking on their door.’ He stood up and began to pace up and down behind his desk. ‘The pictures are good, right?’

‘Brilliant,’ said Kathy. ‘Lots of stuff around the house and a really great shot of the three of them walking through the park. Sitting next to her dad on the swings, that sort of thing. And some very pretty ones with her rabbit.’

‘Kids and cuddly animals, you can’t go wrong with that,’ said Fowles. ‘And she wants to talk to the PM? Face to face?’

‘She said Jesus gave her messages for the PM, the Archbishop and the Prince.’

‘And you don’t know what those messages are?’

Kathy shook her head. ‘She says the messages are personal.’

Fowles sat down again. ‘So you don’t think the parents put her up to it?’

‘Mum and Dad aren’t particularly religious. They go to church sometimes and they prayed when she was missing, but they’re not religious fanatics. If anything, the mum seemed embarrassed at what Bella was saying.’

‘And the girl’s not deluded?’

‘I’m not a psychiatrist, Bernie. She seems okay, but you’ve got to remember what she’s been through. Kidnapped. Raped. She was pretty much dead when they found her.’

Fowles leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his nose. ‘Tell me about that.’

‘I don’t know much, but one of my police contacts told me that when they first went in they thought she was dead. One of the cops felt for a pulse and couldn’t find one. Then a while later a paramedic realised she was breathing.’

‘So was she dead or not?’

‘Cops aren’t medically trained.’

‘They’re trained enough to spot a corpse,’ said Fowles. ‘Is this maybe some sort of out-of-body experience? Lack of oxygen to the brain bringing on hallucinations?’

‘Sure. That’s possible. Anything’s possible.’

Fowles grimaced. ‘See, I’m worried that we give her coverage on this whole Jesus thing and then it turns out it’s down to brain damage. That’d make us look pretty stupid, wouldn’t it?’

‘She’s a bright kid. Very articulate. Doing well at school, her parents said.’ She leaned forward. ‘You know, she’s at the school where the headmistress killed herself. Threw herself off the roof.’

‘Are you serious?’

Kathy nodded. ‘Bella didn’t see it, but a lot of kids were traumatised. The school was closed for a couple of days. Do I mention that in the story?’

‘It’s an angle, isn’t it? Kidnap girl sees teacher suicide.’

‘She didn’t actually see it.’

‘You don’t want to spoil a good story with the facts. Already in shock from abduction, little Bella faced more heartbreak … hell, you don’t need me to write it.’

‘And what about the intro? Do I go with messages from Jesus or abduction girl back with her family?’

Fowles took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his brow furrowed. It was Sunday and it had been a quiet weekend, news-wise. The story of a child who had come back from the dead would put some energy into what threatened to be a very dull Monday paper. ‘What the hell,’ he said. ‘Who dares, wins. Let’s go with the Jesus angle. Who knows, maybe we can get the PM to drop by to pick up his message.’

Nightingale was walking down a long corridor. There were doors to the left and right, heavy doors, the wood aged and cracked. There were bare floorboards running the length of the corridor, worn smooth by generations of feet, and they creaked like old bones as he walked over them. There was a single light bulb hanging from a frayed wire in the middle of the corridor, flickering and hissing. A handful of small moths fluttered around it.

Nightingale found himself being drawn to one of the doors. There was a brass handle, mottled with age, and it was warm to the touch when he grasped it and turned it. The room inside was pure white, a glossy white floor and white walls and a white ceiling. Nightingale stepped inside the room and warm breeze ran across his face. He could smell herbs. Rosemary. And tarragon. And mint.

‘Mr Nightingale?’

It was Mrs Steadman. She was standing in the middle of the room, wearing a long black dress and with a black wool scarf wrapped around her neck. On her right hand was a ring with a large black stone in it.

‘Hello, Mrs Steadman. Am I asleep?’

‘Yes, Mr Nightingale.’

‘And you wanted to talk to me?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So why not just phone me?’

‘I don’t have your number, Mr Nightingale.’

‘I’m in the phone book. Under Nightingale.’

Mrs Steadman giggled girlishly. ‘I didn’t think of that.’

‘Do you do this a lot, Mrs Steadman?’

‘Not a lot, no.’

‘It’s a bit confusing. I’m dreaming, so how can I tell what’s real and what isn’t?’

‘You could try pinching yourself.’

Nightingale pinched himself but didn’t feel anything. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said. He raised his arms to the side and took a deep breath. As he exhaled he rose slowly up into the air. He hovered about six inches above the floorboards. ‘I’m flying,’ he said.

‘It’s more levitating,’ she said. ‘But you can fly. You can do anything you want. It’s your dream.’

Nightingale lay back and his feet rose up so that he was parallel to the floor, staring up at the white ceiling. ‘This is so cool.’

‘Dreams can be fun,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘You just have to be careful that they don’t turn into nightmares.’

Nightingale slowly returned to an upright position and then lowered himself to the floor. Mrs Steadman watched him with amused eyes.

‘So what is it that you want, Mrs Steadman? Why are you here?’

‘I need to talk to you,’ she said.

‘I’m all ears,’ said Nightingale.

‘Not here,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘In the real world.’

‘Shall I come to your shop?’

‘Outside would be better,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘There’s a park about half a mile from the shop. Close to the Tube station. I’m sure you can find it. Shall we say eleven o’clock in the morning?’