Stephen Leather - Nightshade

Nightingale stopped and looked down at her. She smiled up at him. Her hair was spikier than the last time he’d seen her, and she was wearing more black mascara than before, making her face appear even paler. She was wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket with silver studs in the form of small crosses and there was a heavy silver inverted cross hanging from a thick chain around her neck.

‘Penny for your soul, mister,’ she said, and winked.

‘Are you here for me or is this just one of those awkward coincidences?’

‘It’s all about you, Nightingale,’ she said. ‘It always is. So is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?’

‘What do you want, Proserpine?’

‘I sense hostility in your voice, Nightingale. Aren’t we friends any more?’ The dog growled and she rubbed it behind the ear and made a shushing sound.

Nightingale took out his pack of cigarettes and tapped one out.

‘Those things will kill you,’ said Proserpine.

‘Everybody dies,’ said Nightingale. He lit the cigarette and took a long pull on it.

‘That’s not strictly speaking true,’ said Proserpine. ‘But there are different ways of dying, and lung cancer isn’t a pleasant way to go.’

‘Death is death,’ said Nightingale.

‘True, but there’s a big difference between death and dying. Wouldn’t you rather die happily in your sleep, dreaming of fluffy clouds and puppy dog tails or whatever floats your boat?’

‘What do you want, Proserpine?’

‘A cigarette for a start.’

‘Not scared of cancer, then?’

‘Not much scares me.’ She reached out her hand. There were thick silver rings on her fingers, studded with what looked like runes.

Nightingale gave her a cigarette. He was about to take his lighter out of his pocket but she smiled up at him. ‘No need,’ she said. She glanced at the cigarette and the end glowed redly and began to smoke.

‘Nice trick,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s not a trick,’ she said. ‘You sound stressed. In a rush? Somewhere to be? And you still haven’t answered my first question. That is a gun in your pocket, isn’t it?’

‘You know it is, don’t you?’ he said, putting the cigarette pack back into his coat pocket.

She smiled. ‘Not much gets by me, Nightingale.’

‘So you know where I’m going and what I’m going to do.’

‘You’re going to kill Marcus Fairchild.’ It was a flat statement and not a question.

‘He deserves it.’

‘People don’t always get what they deserve, do they?’

Nightingale kept his eyes on Proserpine as he took another long pull on his cigarette and held the smoke deep in his lungs.

‘Cat got your tongue?’

Nightingale blew smoke up into the air. ‘I’m waiting for you to tell me what it is you want.’

‘We have a deal, remember?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, now it’s time for you to pay the piper. You’re not to go near Marcus Fairchild.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. You’re not to go near him. You’re not to speak to him, you’re not to contact him in any way. And you’re most definitely not to kill him.’

Nightingale’s eyes hardened. ‘He’s one of yours.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘That’s nothing to do with you. The deal we have is that I ask you to do something and you do it. Or you forfeit your soul.’

‘He’s an evil bastard.’

Proserpine smiled and shrugged. ‘And?’ She smoked her cigarette as she stared at him.

‘Ask me for something else,’ said Nightingale eventually.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t want anything else.’

‘You set me up,’ said Nightingale.

‘You contacted me, remember? You opened the door.’

‘But you knew I’d be after Fairchild. And you wanted to stop me.’

‘Again, you offered me the deal. I didn’t twist your arm. You wanted information about the Shades, and I gave it to you. Now you need to keep your end of the bargain. Or give me your soul. It’s your choice.’

‘He kills children. He sacrifices them.’

‘Yes, I know. But you make it sound as if that’s a bad thing.’

Nightingale took another long pull on his cigarette as his mind raced. She was right, he’d entered into the deal willingly and yes, it had been his idea. And complaining that it wasn’t fair wasn’t going to change the mind of a demon from the bowels of Hell. The choice was his and his alone. He could agree to leave Marcus Fairchild alone, or he could kill Fairchild and hand his soul over to Proserpine. He blew smoke at the pavement and nodded slowly. ‘You win,’ he said.

‘I usually do,’ said Proserpine.

Nightingale flicked his cigarette into the gutter, turned and walked away.

‘Hey, Nightingale.’ Nightingale turned to look at her. ‘Word to the wise,’ she said. ‘Beware of men in white vans.’

Nightingale flashed her a cold smile and walked away.

‘Be lucky!’ Proserpine called after him.

Nightingale’s head was whirling as he walked slowly back to his Bayswater flat. Proserpine had tricked him, he was sure of that, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he couldn’t stop Marcus Fairchild and within the next twenty-four hours he’d be in London with Jenny. He had to do something to stop the man, but what? If he interfered, he would forfeit his soul. But if he did nothing, Fairchild would continue to abuse Jenny in ways that Nightingale could only imagine.

The rear doors of a white Transit van ahead of him opened and two men climbed out. They were already walking towards him when Nightingale realised who they were. They were the two men who had broken into his house. This time they weren’t wearing ski masks and both were holding knives.

Their faces were set hard as they walked purposefully towards Nightingale. They were in a quiet side street, and while Nightingale could hear traffic off in the distance, the road they were in was quiet and the pavements were empty.

The smaller of the two men was also holding a sack. Nightingale could see how this was supposed to go down. The bag over his head, into the van, and off. There was another man in the back of the van, looking at him. Waiting.

Nightingale waited until the men were two paces away from him before pulling out the gun. The two men stopped immediately and looked at each other and then back to Nightingale. ‘Surprise!’ said Nightingale.

The man with the sack put up his hands. ‘There’s no need to do anything stupid,’ he said. He had a Scottish accent.

‘Doesn’t feel that stupid to me,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now sod off back to your van before I put a bullet in your nuts.’

Both men turned to go but Nightingale waggled the gun at the big man. ‘Not you,’ he said. ‘You can stay for a chat.’

The smaller man hurried away and climbed into the back of the Transit van.

‘Who sent you?’ hissed Nightingale.

‘Fuck you,’ replied the man.

‘Turn around,’ said Nightingale.

The man didn’t move and continued to glare at Nightingale, breathing heavily like a bull at stud.

Nightingale lowered the gun so that it was pointing at the man’s groin. ‘I’ll shoot you in the nuts and walk away,’ he said. ‘No skin off my nose.’

The man slowly turned around. The rear doors of the van slammed shut and the van pulled away from the kerb with a squeal.

‘Looks like your friends have left you in the lurch,’ said Nightingale. ‘I guess they weren’t expecting me to bring a gun to a knife fight.’

Nightingale transferred the gun to his left hand and jabbed the barrel at the base of the man’s spine. He slid his right hand into the man’s trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flicked it open and saw that there was a driving licence among the credit cards. Nightingale slid the wallet into the pocket of his raincoat. ‘Now I know who you are and where you live,’ said Nightingale. ‘If you or anyone else comes near me again, I’ll hold you responsible, you hear me?’