Stephen Leather - Nightshade - The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller

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?’

‘I hear you.’

Nightingale jabbed the gun into the man’s back again. ‘You wouldn’t be the first person I’d shot, either. Loud noises don’t scare me.’

‘I said I hear you,’ said the man.

‘And first thing tomorrow morning the cops get your details and your name goes in the frame for the murder of Danny McBride. So if I were you I’d run far and I’d run fast.’ He jabbed the man again. ‘Now walk away before I change my mind and put a bullet in your leg for the sheer hell of it.’

The man did as he was told, running down the road as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels. Nightingale slid the gun back into his pocket, glad that he hadn’t had to fire the weapon. At least now Perry Smith would take it back.

85

Nightingale parked his MGB on the second floor of a multi-storey car park close to Camden market. He walked around the market for a while, smoking and thinking before making his way to the Wicca Woman shop. Mrs Steadman was standing behind an old-fashioned cash register and she smiled when she saw it was him. ‘Mr Nightingale, so nice to see you,’ she said. ‘Tea?’

‘Tea would be good, Mrs Steadman. Thank you.’

Mrs Steadman pulled back a beaded curtain behind the counter and called upstairs for her assistant. There was a rapid footfall and a teenage girl appeared, dressed in black with green streaks in her hair. Mrs Steadman patted the girl on the arm. ‘I’m making a cup of tea for Mr Nightingale – would you be a dear and mind the shop?’

‘Of course,’ said the girl.

Mrs Steadman patted her arm again, then took Nightingale through the curtain into the back room. There was a gas fire burning against one wall and the overhead Tiffany lamp was throwing multicoloured blocks of light over the floor. Mrs Steadman waved him to a circular wooden table and busied herself with the kettle and teapot. ‘Is everything okay – you look worried?’ she asked.

Nightingale took off his raincoat and sat down. He pulled the Express from his pocket and put it on the table. ‘Did you see the Express on Monday?’ he asked.

Mrs Steadman laughed. ‘I don’t read any newspapers,’ she said. ‘They’re far too depressing.’ She turned to face him and folded her arms. ‘It’s about the Shade, isn’t it?’

‘She says she wants to speak to the Prime Minister. And the Archbishop of Canterbury. And Prince William.’

‘Of course. It wants to create havoc. That’s what Shades do.’

‘People have died already. A nurse, a teacher, and a journalist. They all spoke to her and then they killed themselves.’

‘It was practising,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Testing itself.’

The kettle boiled and she poured water into a teapot. She opened a green fridge and took out a blue and white striped mug and put it onto a tray, then carried it over to the table. Nightingale moved the paper out of the way.

‘At least now you believe me,’ said Mrs Steadman as she sat down.

‘It was never a question of believing you,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just needed to prove it to myself.’

‘And now you have done?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Is there nothing else that can be done? No other way of handling it?’

Mrs Steadman reached over and put her hand on his arm. It was tiny, not much bigger than a small child’s. ‘I wish there was,’ she said. ‘But there is only one way of dealing with a Shade.’

‘Can’t you find someone else to do it?’

‘It has to be someone of this world,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘And it has to be someone who has a good heart and who believes. Men like you are few and far between, Mr Nightingale.’

Nightingale laughed harshly. ‘A good heart? Is that what you think?’

‘It’s what I know,’ said Mrs Steadman. She poured tea for the two of them and passed him a mug. ‘I realise how difficult this is for you. It’s a terrible thing to ask someone to do, I know that. But if it isn’t done, Mr Nightingale, if the Shade continues on its path, the whole world will suffer in ways that you can only imagine.’

‘What about putting the girl in a place where she can’t speak to anyone?’ said Nightingale, but even as the words left his mouth he realised that he was suggesting the impossible. Put the girl in a dungeon somewhere and throw away the key? They didn’t even do that to terrorists – there was no way it could be done to a nine-year-old girl.

Mrs Steadman didn’t reply, she simply shook her head sadly.

‘Can this Shade thing move around, Mrs Steadman? Say someone talks to Bella, could it move over to that person?’

‘No,’ she said, putting her hands around her mug of tea. ‘A Shade comes from outside and moves into a body at the moment of death. That’s where it stays.’

‘Can it go back to where it came from?’

She nodded. ‘That’s why the eyes must be dealt with first. The Shade enters and leaves through the eyes. Once that avenue is blocked, the Shade dies with the host.’

Nightingale shivered, even though the room was uncomfortably hot. A gas fire hissed and spluttered against one wall.

Mrs Steadman watched him carefully as she sipped her tea. He could feel her weighing up, wondering if he was prepared to do as she asked.