Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘That’s funny,’ said Jenny. ‘Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’

The waitress brought over Nightingale’s beer. Jenny’s wine glass was still half full.

‘Some people want to kill themselves and do it in private,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s easy enough – you swallow a bottle of sleeping tablets, hang yourself or jump off a very tall building when no one’s looking. But sometimes they want a reaction so they’ll throw themselves in front of a train or stand on a ledge and wait for a crowd to gather. They’re the really sick ones.’

‘You’ve seen a lot of people commit suicide?’

Nightingale grimaced. ‘Not too many, but enough,’ he said. ‘The one thing they had in common was the look in their eyes. Once you’ve seen it, you never forget it. And I can see it in Gosling’s eyes when I look at that DVD – I can see it, Jenny.’

‘Jack…’

Nightingale stood up. ‘Jack, are you okay?’

‘I need some fresh air.’

‘You mean you need a cigarette, right?’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’ve got to walk for a while, clear my head.’

‘Do you want company?’

‘Thanks, but I’d rather be on my own for a bit. Can you keep a hold of that diary for me, see if you can turn up anything else I should know?’

‘You’re not going to drive, are you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You’ve been drinking, Jack.’

‘I know I’ve been drinking. And I’m not going to drive. I just need some air.’

Nightingale lit a cigarette as he walked down the street. He passed a dozen or so shops, three of which had gone out of business while the rest were trying desperately to drum up trade by offering sales of up to ninety per cent off and free credit. The only ones that seemed to be thriving were the charity outlets offering second-hand clothes, household goods and toys. A cold wind blew at his back and he raised the collar of his raincoat.

‘Hey, Mister, got a cigarette?’

A girl was sitting in the doorway of an Oxfam shop, a sleeping-bag wrapped around her legs. She was dressed in Goth black, with thick mascara and black eye-shadow. Her dyed black hair was unkempt and there were chunky silver rings on all of her fingers. A black-and-white Border collie lay on the ground next to her. She mimed smoking just in case he’d missed the question.

Nightingale held up his burning cigarette. ‘You know these things’ll give you cancer?’ he said.

‘Everybody dies,’ said the girl. She can’t be more than twenty-five, thought Nightingale. ‘Sooner or later.’

‘But some sooner than others.’ Nightingale took out his pack of Marlboro and offered her one. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

She helped herself and smiled up at him. ‘Got a light?’

Nightingale flicked a flame. She cupped it with her left hand as she inhaled. One of her rings was a strange cross, curved into a loop at the top.

‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said the girl, her hand touching his.

Nightingale jerked it away. The dog flinched, then looked at Nightingale mournfully, his tail twitching from side to side. ‘What did you say?’

‘It opens the gates of hell,’ she said. ‘The ring. It’s an ankh. The symbol of eternal life. Do you want to buy it? You can give it to your girlfriend.’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Boyfriend, then.’

‘I’m not gay.’

‘Just lonely?’

Nightingale straightened and took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘I’m not so lonely that I need a dog for company,’ he said.

The girl stroked the collie. ‘He’s not company, he’s protection,’ she said.

‘He doesn’t look that fierce,’ said Nightingale.

‘You’d be surprised,’ she said. ‘Things aren’t always the way they seem. Where are you going?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t know, or won’t tell?’

Nightingale flicked ash on the pavement. ‘I’ve a lot on my mind,’ he said.

‘You can think too much, you know,’ she said. ‘Sometimes you’ve just got to go with the flow. Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.’

Nightingale took out his wallet. ‘You sleep rough?’ he asked.

‘I don’t sleep much, really,’ she said. Nightingale handed her a twenty-pound note, but she refused it. ‘I’m not begging,’ she said.

‘Buy the dog something. A bone. Whatever.’

The collie’s tail twitched again as if he understood what Nightingale was saying. ‘He’s not begging, either.’ The girl flashed him a grin and evidently changed her mind. She grabbed the note. ‘But there’s no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth, is there?’ It disappeared into her leather jacket.

‘I never understood that saying,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s about checking teeth, to see if the horse you’ve been given is a good one or not. It’d be like me checking that the money you’ve just given me isn’t fake. That’d be looking a gift horse in the mouth.’ She stroked the dog as she talked. Her fingernails were painted black – they were long and pointed, almost talons. She saw him looking at them and held up her right hand. ‘You like?’

‘They’re distinctive.’

She curled her fingertips and admired them. ‘Do you want me to scratch you?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘That’s what guys say when they see my nails. They wonder what it would be like to have their backs scratched with them. Is that what you were thinking?’

It was exactly what Nightingale had been thinking, but he shook his head.

‘Why is it, do you think, that guys really want girls to hurt them?’

‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ said Nightingale.

‘It is, believe me,’ said the girl. She was stroking the dog again. ‘I think guys like to be treated like dogs. You stroke them, feed them and exercise them, but you have to punish them every now and again to show them who’s boss.’

Nightingale chuckled. ‘Well, good luck with philosophy,’ he said, and walked on.

‘You take care,’ she called after him.

‘You too,’ said Nightingale. He smoked as he walked, deep in thought. That was twice now that he’d heard someone tell him he was going to hell. The constable at Gosling Manor, and now the girl with the dog. Was he imagining it? It was what Simon Underwood had screamed in the dream, just before he went through the window. But that had been a dream, or a nightmare, and now he was wide awake, albeit a bit drunk. ‘Maybe I’m just going crazy,’ he muttered to himself.

‘We’re all crazy,’ said a gruff voice.

Nightingale jumped. A homeless man was sitting in the doorway of a hardware shop, nursing a bottle of cider. He was in his sixties with long grey hair, a straggly beard dotted with crumbs, and wads of newspaper tied around his legs with string.

‘The whole world’s gone crazy,’ he said, waving the bottle at Nightingale. ‘God’s abandoned us and the Lord Jesus doesn’t care any more. They’re letting us wallow in our sins until the end of days.’

‘Sounds about right,’ said Nightingale. He took out his wallet, gave the man ten pounds and carried on down the road.

Nightingale hadn’t lied when he’d told Jenny he wasn’t going to drive. And he’d meant what he’d said about wanting some fresh air, even though the first thing he’d done when he’d left the wine bar was light a cigarette. Neither had he been lying when he’d told the girl in the shop doorway that he didn’t know where he was going. So far as he was concerned, he was doing just as he’d said he would: taking a walk while he collected his thoughts. But his subconscious had other plans for him. It took him to his car, and thirty minutes later he was driving through east London, and ten minutes after that he was parking outside the graveyard where his parents were buried and wondering why he had never visited since the funeral.