Stephen Leather - Nightfall

He picked up Jenny’s notebook and began to read the Latin words she’d shown him, stumbling over the strange language. A wind blew through the room, even though the windows and door were firmly closed. The candle flames flickered and the smoke pouring up from the crucible began to form a circle. Nightingale coughed and continued to read, running his finger beneath the words so that he wouldn’t lose his place. When he finished, he coughed again and said out loud,‘Bagahi laca bacabe.’ He closed the notepad.

The room was thick with smoke, as dense as a pea-souper fog, sickeningly sweet but acrid enough to make his eyes water.

What happened next, Nightingale was never able to explain to anyone, not even to himself. He wasn’t sure that he remembered it properly. The only way his mind could come close to interpreting what he’d seen was to picture it as space folding into itself, a series of flickering flashes. Then the air blurred and she was standing within the apex of the triangle. It was a girl, in her late teens or early twenties, white-faced, with heavy mascara, a black T-shirt with a white skull on it, a black leather skirt, black boots and a studded collar around her neck. She looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Jack Nightingale,’ she said, her voice a throaty whisper. ‘Are you in such a hurry to join me? You have only six hours left. Why are you wasting them?’

Now Nightingale saw that a second figure had folded out of the air. A dog, a black-and-white collie, that sat at the feet of his mistress. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘We’ve met before.’

‘Our paths have crossed from time to time,’ she said. Her eyes were black and featureless, the irises so dark that they merged seamlessly into the pupils. ‘I have an investment in you and I watch over my investments.’

‘Are you Proserpine? Princess of hell?’

‘So formal,’ she said. She laughed and the floor shook. The dog at her side growled menacingly. She reached down and stroked it behind the ears. ‘Do you want to see my ID, Nightingale?’ She laughed again, and this time the whole building vibrated. ‘You expected what? Horns? A forked tail? The stench of brimstone? I can give you that, if that’s what you want.’

‘But you’re a girl,’ said Nightingale.

‘I am what I am,’ she said. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at his neck. ‘Nice crucifix,’ she said.

‘It belonged to my mother.’

‘I know,’ said Proserpine. She smiled. ‘I’m not a vampire. Crucifixes are only good against the Undead.’

‘That’s not why I’m wearing it,’ said Nightingale. ‘Did you kill her? My mother?’

‘She killed herself.’

‘And my uncle? And Barry O’Brien? And George Harrison?’

‘I always thought he was the weakest member of the band,’ said Proserpine. ‘I mean, “My Sweet Lord”. What the hell was that about?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Nightingale. ‘Did you kill them?’

‘They killed themselves.’

‘What about Robbie?’

Proserpine shook her head solemnly. ‘A tragic accident.’

‘Uncle Tommy? Auntie Linda?’

‘You have been unlucky on the relatives front, haven’t you?’

‘You killed them all, didn’t you?’

‘Is this how you used to interrogate suspects when you were a cop?’ she said. ‘It’s not very subtle, is it?’

‘Did you kill them?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Ask them yourself,’ said Proserpine. She waved a languid hand and four figures appeared behind her, flickering at first, then becoming solid. Rebecca Keeley was on the right, wearing a long grey nightdress, blood dripping from her wrists, her eyes wide and staring. Next to her, Barry O’Brien was naked and soaking wet, his arms cut open to the bone. Blood and water dripped to the floor. Uncle Tommy stood next to O’Brien, his neck at a grotesque angle, his lips drawn back in a snarl. Just behind them Auntie Linda was crawling along the floor, her skull in pieces, blood and brain matter trailing behind her.

Proserpine’s hand moved again, forming a gnarled fist. Harrison appeared, the left side of his body mashed and bloody, one eyeball hanging from its socket. And next to him was Robbie, blood trickling from between his lips, a white bone sticking out from his left elbow, his right leg buckled and twisted. He was staring at Nightingale, his shattered jaw moving soundlessly.

All six figures moved slowly towards him.

Proserpine looked over her shoulder and frowned. ‘We’re missing someone,’ she said. ‘Who are we missing? Ah, of course…’ She waved again and Sophie Underwood appeared. Unlike the others, she didn’t bear the marks of her death but was exactly as Nightingale had seen her on the balcony of her apartment, her blonde hair tucked behind her ears, the Barbie doll clutched to her white sweatshirt. She looked at Nightingale, her lower lip trembling. ‘I don’t like it here,’ she said. ‘I want to go home.’ She took a step towards the protective circle. ‘Please help me, Jack.’

Nightingale forced himself to look away. He knew she wasn’t really there. Sophie was dead and buried and there was no way she could be standing in the bedroom at Gosling Manor. ‘I want to go home, Jack,’ said Sophie, and began to sob.

Nightingale glared at Proserpine. ‘Don’t do that,’ he said.

‘Don’t do what?’ asked Proserpine. She put a finger up to the side of her mouth and smiled girlishly. ‘Am I being bad? Do you want to punish me?’

‘Don’t use others to get to me,’ said Nightingale. ‘Fight your own battles.’

Proserpine’s eyes hardened and she waved her hand again. The figures vanished. She crouched and put a hand towards the chalk circle. ‘Consecrated salt water,’ she said, and nodded approvingly.

‘What are you? A devil? A demon? Are you here or am I imagining all this?’

‘I am what I am, Nightingale,’ she said, as she straightened.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’

‘With respect, you’re no Stephen Hawking, are you? Now, there was a book. How can you write about the creation of the universe without discussing heaven or hell? And how can you get away with telling people that one moment there’s nothing but the void and the next there’s an expanding universe heading out to infinity?’

‘I couldn’t finish it,’ said Nightingale. ‘If there is a hell, then where is it?’

‘Hell is everywhere – you just can’t see it.’

‘And heaven?’

‘The same.’

‘The same place?’ Nightingale shook his head. ‘Maybe you’re not even here. Maybe this is some sort of stupid delusion, brought on by the crap I burned in the crucible.’ He took out his pack of Marlboro. ‘Do you want a cigarette? I’m guessing cancer isn’t one of your worries.’ He took out a cigarette and slipped one between his lips. He held his lighter to the end and was just about to flick it, but hesitated. He looked at Proserpine with narrowed eyes. ‘Cigarette smoke’s an impurity, isn’t it? It’ll weaken the pentagram.’

Proserpine shrugged carelessly. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Try it and see.’

Nightingale slid the cigarette back into the packet.

Proserpine studied the pentagram, the candles and the still-smouldering crucible. ‘Where did you learn this?’ she said.

‘I read a diary written by Sebastian Mitchell.’

Proserpine’s black eyes snapped. ‘And how did you come across it?’

‘My father had it,’ said Nightingale.

‘It won’t do you any good,’ she said, putting her hands on her hips. ‘It didn’t do your father any good, it didn’t do Mitchell any good, and it won’t do you any good either. Your father sold your soul to me on the day you were born. The contract is inviolable, written in his blood. And you bear the mark.’