Stephen Leather - Nightfall

‘And that influence is the devil? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘The devil. Satan. The Antichrist. Yes, I really do believe that. I believe that Satan wants people to act one way and God wants them to behave in another. We have free will, so it’s up to us to choose whom we serve.’

‘How are you on geography, Peter?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Geography?’

‘I was talking with a vicar a few days ago, asking him about hell.’

‘Church of England?’

‘I guess so,’ said Nightingale.

‘Then you were asking the wrong guy,’ said the priest. ‘The Church of England isn’t great on heaven and hell – they’re more interested in race relations, gay marriages and women bishops. You want to know about hell, you talk to the Catholics.’

‘So you believe in hell?’

‘Absolutely,’ said the priest. ‘And I believe that if you break God’s rules you’ll be punished.’

‘In hell?’

‘In hell,’ repeated the priest.

‘Fire, brimstone, devils with pitchforks?’

‘Not necessarily, but a place where souls would be in eternal torment. The complete opposite of heaven.’

‘And Satan presides over hell and everything that happens there?’

‘That’s what the Bible says.’

‘And where is hell, Peter?’

The priest chuckled. ‘The geography question,’ he said. ‘Hand on heart, I don’t know where hell is. But that’s not important. What’s important is that you don’t get sent there.’

Nightingale was making himself a coffee when his doorbell rang. He checked the intercom in the hallway and saw that Jenny was outside in the street, standing next to a brunette in a trench coat. He pressed the intercom button. ‘Not today, thank you,’ he said. ‘I gave at the office.’

‘Open this door, Jack Nightingale, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.’

‘You swear by the hair on your chinny chin chin, do you?’

‘Jack, it’s bloody cold out here. Let us in, will you?’

Nightingale chuckled and pressed the button to open the door, then nipped into the kitchen to prepare two more mugs. When the inner door buzzed he went to open it. The girl with Jenny was in her late twenties, pretty with dark green eyes and long lashes.

‘This is Barbara, a friend from uni,’ said Jenny. ‘We’re going to stay with my folks for the weekend but I wanted to see if you were okay first.’

‘I’m fine.’ He shook hands with Barbara and took their coats. ‘Coffee’s on in the kitchen,’ he said, as he hung them in the cupboard where he kept the ironing-board and Hoover. He showed Barbara through to the sitting room and switched off the television. ‘So, was Jenny a swot at university?’

Barbara sat down on Nightingale’s sofa and shook her head. ‘Actually she was one of those annoying students who never studied. She soaked up information like a sponge.’

‘That’s so not true,’ said Jenny, carrying a tray of mugs in. She put it on the coffee-table and sat down next to Barbara. ‘I studied, I just did it on my own. How did it go at the home? Did they say how she died?’

Barbara and Jenny looked at him expectantly and Nightingale realised that Jenny must have told her friend about his mother’s death. He wondered what else she had told her.

‘Everyone’s in a state of shock. She was eating her dinner and just started slashing her wrists.’

Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘She killed herself? You didn’t tell me that.’

‘I didn’t know until I got there.’

‘Jack, you should have called me.’

‘There wasn’t anything you could do,’ said Nightingale.

She glared at him. ‘That’s not the point,’ she said. ‘You should have told me. For God’s sake, Jack, your mother killed herself. That’s not the sort of thing you should keep to yourself.’

‘I’m sorry. She doesn’t feel like my mother, she was just-’

‘The woman who gave birth to you,’ she finished for him. ‘Which is what a mother is, actually.’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘Irene Nightingale was my mother,’ he said. ‘The woman who killed herself was… I don’t know what she was. Yes, she gave birth to me, but there’s more to being a mother than that. She gave me away, Jenny, on the day I was born.’

‘But still…’

‘Jenny, it meant nothing to me. I mean, I’m sorry she’s dead, but I did my grieving when my mother died. My real mother.’

‘Did they say why she killed herself?’

‘She’d been on medication for years.’

‘At least you got a chance to talk to her before she passed away,’ said Barbara.

‘I guess so,’ said Nightingale.

‘Barbara’s a psychiatrist,’ said Jenny. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I did give her some idea of what you’ve been through recently.’

‘What I’ve been through?’

‘Finding out you were adopted, meeting the woman who gave birth to you and then her dying. Your aunt and uncle. Robbie’s death.’

‘I’m not denying it’s been an eventful few days,’ said Nightingale, ‘but I’m dealing with it as best I can. This is just a social call, right, because I hope you don’t expect me to lie on my couch and unburden myself.’

‘Would that be such a bad thing, Jack?’ said Barbara.

Nightingale grinned at her. ‘With the greatest of respect, I don’t know you, and while any friend of Jenny’s is a friend of mine I’m certainly not going to strip myself bare in front of a stranger.’

‘Please, God,’ said Jenny.

‘Now, you see, you wouldn’t say that if you’d ever seen me naked,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of in that department.’

Jenny gave Barbara a knowing look. ‘Told you,’ she said.

‘Told you what?’ said Nightingale.

‘Jenny mentioned that you might be a tad defensive,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s understandable.’

‘We just popped around to see if you were okay, after what happened and all,’ said Jenny.

‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale. ‘There’ll be an inquest, obviously, and you’re both invited to the funeral.’

‘Jack!’ said Jenny.

‘It seems that you’re more worried about her than I am.’

‘You felt no bond when you met?’ asked Barbara.

‘How could I?’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m almost thirty-three and this week I met her for the first time.’

‘Sometimes when parents and children are reunited there’s an immediate connection, as if the genes kick in and you recognise each other subconsciously.’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘Didn’t happen,’ he said.

‘Did you tell her how you felt?’ asked Barbara.

‘I wasn’t there for an exchange of emotion,’ said Nightingale. ‘I was there because I wanted to know why she gave me away.’

‘You wanted closure?’

‘Barbara, please stop trying to psychoanalyse me. I didn’t want closure, I wanted facts. Cold, hard facts.’

‘And did you get them?’

‘Not really.’

‘And how do you feel now that she’s dead?’

‘That’s such a psychiatrist’s question.’

Barbara laughed and sipped her coffee.

‘And that’s an interrogator’s trick,’ said Nightingale. ‘Leaving a silence and hoping the subject will fill it.’

‘You’re not a subject, Jack, or a patient. You’re just a friend of a friend. We can talk about the weather if you’d prefer. Or sport. You’re a Manchester United fan, aren’t you?’

Nightingale smiled. She was good, all right. She had barely glanced at the photographs on his sideboard but had obviously spotted the one of him with his father and uncle outside the Old Trafford stadium, all wearing team scarves. ‘I am indeed.’