Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘I’ll be there,’ said Nightingale. He rose up off the ground again and turned around slowly, the toes of his Hush Puppies pointing down at the floor. By the time he had done a complete turn, Mrs Steadman had vanished.

‘Mrs Steadman?’

His feet brushed the floor and then the floorboards squeaked as they took his full weight. He looked down. The white floor had gone and in its place were thick oak floorboards. He looked around. Furniture had appeared and now there was red flock wallpaper on the walls. There was a heavy four-poster bed, a chunky dressing table and a shabby armchair. There was a mirror over the bed and he stared at his reflection. There were dark patches under his eyes and his hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days. He ran his hand through it. ‘If it’s a dream, why do I still look like shit?’ he asked his reflection.

He flinched as something slammed against the door. He whirled around, his hands up defensively. His heart pounded as he stared at the door, his hands clenched into tight fists. Something scratched slowly at the wood, and then suddenly stopped. The only sound was that of Nightingale’s breathing.

He walked towards the door and slowly reached for the door handle. But before he could touch it the handle began to turn on its own. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.

There was no answer. The handle clicked to the fully open position and then the door began to slowly creak open.

‘Mrs Steadman?’

His nose wrinkled as it was assaulted by a foul smell, a mixture of sulphur and acid and faeces. His stomach lurched. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open, and that was when he woke up, bathed in sweat, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. Realising he was safe in his own bed, he smiled up at the ceiling. ‘Next time, Mrs Steadman, just use the phone,’ he muttered to himself.

Nightingale took the Tube to Camden and walked to the park. He got there at a quarter to eleven but Mrs Steadman was already there, sitting on a bench overlooking a group of children playing on a slide under the watchful eyes of their mothers. She was wearing a thick coat and the same scarf that she’d had on in the dream. She smiled up at him as he sat down next to her. ‘I hope you don’t mind me contacting you like that,’ she said.

‘Can anyone do it?’ he asked.

‘With practice,’ she said. ‘I can lend you a book that will teach you the techniques.’

He nodded. ‘I’d like that.’

‘It’s a lot less useful than it used to be,’ she said. ‘These days we have Skype and email and mobile phones. But when I was younger it was often the quickest way of contacting someone.’

One of the children yelled as he sped down the slide but he fell awkwardly and burst into tears. His mother rushed over and scooped him up, smothering his cries against her chest.

‘Do you have any children, Mrs Steadman?’ Nightingale asked.

She shook her head and smiled wistfully. ‘No,’ she said.

‘I’m not sure if I want them or not,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t think I’d make the best of fathers.’

‘I don’t think anyone really knows what sort of parent they’ll be until the day that the baby arrives,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘They have a way of bringing out the best in people.’ She sighed. ‘And the worst.’

Two little girls sat down behind the swings and began to play pat-a-cake. ‘Why did you want to see me, Mrs Steadman?’ asked Nightingale.

Mrs Steadman watched the little girls play their game. ‘You heard about the girl who was taken in Southampton? Isabella Harper? The paedophile and his girlfriend, remember? They took her to a house outside Southampton and abused her.’

Nightingale nodded. ‘They deserve to be strung up,’ he said. ‘But the way the world works, she’ll walk and he’ll do ten years.’ He shuddered. ‘They almost killed her, didn’t they? If the cops hadn’t got there in time she’d be dead.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that,’ said Mrs Steadman.

‘She’s all right now, isn’t she? She’s back with her parents.’

‘As I said, it’s difficult to explain,’ said Mrs Steadman. She sighed again and lowered her eyes. ‘What I’m about to tell you is going to sound so fantastic that you simply won’t believe me. But I can assure you that it’s the absolute truth.’

‘You’re starting to worry me now, Mrs Steadman.’

She looked up and her coal-black eyes bored into Nightingale’s. ‘You have every reason to be worried,’ she said. ‘We all do. What has happened is so awful, so terrible, that it puts everything at risk. Everything.’

‘Just tell me what’s happened,’ said Nightingale. ‘How bad can it be?’

‘Very bad,’ said Mrs Steadman. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘The police didn’t arrive in time, Mr Nightingale. Little Isabella was dead. She came back to life, but it’s not Isabella. Something came back but it wasn’t her.’

Nightingale felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. And he turned up the collar of his raincoat. ‘She’s possessed? Is that what you mean?’

‘There is no she,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Isabella is dead. But something has taken the place of her soul, something evil, something that is determined to cause havoc and misery.’

‘But I’ve seen her on television. She’s a happy, smiley little girl. Wouldn’t her parents have seen something?’

‘Whatever it is has learned to hide its true identity. They see what they want to see, their dear darling daughter. They don’t see what lies within.’

Nightingale pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket but when he saw a look of disdain flash across Mrs Steadman’s face he put them away hastily. ‘So what is it you want from me?’ he asked. ‘Please don’t tell me you want me to organise some sort of exorcism.’

Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘An exorcism wouldn’t help,’ she said. ‘An exorcism is called for when a demon takes temporary possession of a body. Once the demon is exorcised, the person can go about their life again. That’s not what’s happened in this case. Isabella is dead. Nothing we do will bring her back. She has been possessed by a Shade. And Shades cannot be exorcised.’

‘Shade? Is that what it’s called?’

‘I’m not a great one for labels,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘But they have been called that and it’s as good a label as any.’

‘So what is it you want me to do with this Shade?’ asked Nightingale.

Mrs Steadman smiled thinly. ‘Let’s walk, shall we?’ she said. She stood up and they walked down the path together. ‘You trust me, don’t you, Mr Nightingale?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you know that I’m a good person.’

‘One of the best, Mrs Steadman. What’s wrong? There’s something you don’t want to tell me, isn’t there?’

‘I have to tell you,’ she said. ‘What’s worrying me is how you’ll react.’ She stopped and looked up at him. She really was tiny, Nightingale realised. She barely reached the middle of his chest. Her jet-black eyes bored into his. ‘The Shade is using Isabella’s body as a vessel. A container. If you kill the vessel then the Shade will die with it. Providing you do it in a particular way.’

Nightingale frowned. ‘What are you saying, Mrs Steadman?’

‘You have to kill the demon, and the way to do that is to kill the body it’s inhabiting.’

‘You’re asking me to kill a nine-year-old girl?’

Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘Isabella is dead already. Nothing will change that. But the empty shell that is left has to be destroyed. That is the only way to stop the Shade.’

‘And I do this how?’

‘You have to use knives that have been blessed by a priest. Knives made from pure copper. Three of them. In the heart and in both eyes.’