Lastnight (32 page)

‘I’ll be okay.’

‘You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.’

‘I won’t be,’ he said. ‘I’m going to see someone this afternoon.’

‘Well, don’t drink too much. Alcohol won’t help.’

Nightingale laughed. ‘I know,’ he said.

He phoned T-Bone and the call went straight through to voicemail. ‘You need to get back to me right now,’ he said. ‘This is urgent, T-Bone. And keep your back to the wall. Call me.’

He ended the call and paced around his sitting room. He wanted a drink but now was not the right time for alcohol. For what he had to do he needed to be totally sober and focused. He needed help and he knew of only one person who could provide it. Proserpine.

52

N
ightingale straightened up, put his hands on his hips and surveyed his work. He’d spent the best part of an hour scrubbing the floor of his lock-up and it was probably now clean enough to eat off. He’d left his MGB in the Whiteleys car park and told Jenny that he’d be busy all afternoon. He placed his bucket and scrubbing brush next to the wall furthest from the metal door, took a final look around and then headed back to his flat.

He showered twice using a fresh bar of coal tar soap and used a brand-new nailbrush to clean under his finger and toenails. He shampooed his hair twice and then rinsed it for the best part of ten minutes before drying himself with a new towel. He put on clothes that had all been dry-cleaned and a new pair of Adidas trainers that he’d bought the previous day. He’d put everything he needed in two black bags in the kitchen and he collected them and walked back to the lock-up, his hair still damp. He let himself in, switched on the light and pulled the shutter down. He emptied his pockets and put his wallet, watch, cigarettes and lighter next to the bucket. He knew that to take anything that wasn’t scrupulously clean into the protective circle would weaken it and put his life – and his soul – at risk.

He opened the two black bags and carefully placed the contents on to the concrete floor. From a small box he took a piece of white chalk and used it to carefully draw a circle about six feet in diameter then he used a small branch that he’d ripped from a birch tree on Hampstead Heath that morning to gently brush around the outline of the circle. That done he put the branch back into one of the bags and used the chalk to draw a pentagram inside the circle, making sure two of the five points faced north. Finally he drew a triangle around the circle with the apex pointing north and wrote the letters MI, CH and AEL at the three points of the triangle, spelling out the name of Michael, the Archangel.

He stood up and checked that everything was exactly as it should be, then he picked up a small bottle of consecrated salt water, removed the glass stopper and carefully sprinkled water around the circle. He took five large white church candles and placed them at the five points of the pentagram, then used his lighter to light them one at a time in a clockwise direction.

His heart was starting to race and he stood for a minute taking deep breaths to calm himself down before picking up a Ziploc bag containing a mixture of herbs. He moved clockwise around the circle sprinkling the herbs over the candle flames. Once he had done all five he poured the remainder of the herbs into a lead crucible. He set it down on the floor in the middle of the protective circle and used his fingers to mould the herbs into a neat cone before igniting it with his lighter.

The herbs crackled and the air was filled with fumes that stung his eyes and made them water. He stood up, coughing and spluttering, and pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. He had carefully written down the Latin incantation that had to be said perfectly if the spell was to work.

He took a final look around the circle to check that he hadn’t forgotten anything, then slowly and carefully he read out the words on the paper, raising his voice until by the time he reached the end he was shouting. ‘
Bagahi laca bacabe
!’

The fumes from the burning herbs began to spin around him as if he was at the centre of a miniature tornado. There was a strong smell of burning, as if an electric circuit had blown, and the floor was vibrating beneath his feet. The acrid fog swirled around him, faster and faster, and it was already so thick that he couldn’t see the walls or ceiling of the lock-up. The single fluorescent light above his head was just a dull patch of whiteness in the fog. Suddenly lightning flashed and he flinched, but he stood his ground, knowing that it would be all over if he stepped out of the protective circle.

Lightning flashed again and there was a deafening crack of thunder that left his ears ringing. Nightingale’s eyes streamed with tears. He shoved the paper back into his pocket and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. He was finding it hard to breathe; it was as if his lungs were filled with acid and every movement of his chest made him wince. He forced himself to breathe tidally, taking the minimum amount of foul air into his pain-racked lungs.

There were two flashes of lightning that were virtually instantaneous and then time folded in on itself and there were a dozen or so quick flashes as if a paparazzo’s flash gun had gone off and then she was there, standing in a space between the tip of the north-facing point of the triangle and the edge of the circle.

53

N
ightingale’s eyes were watering from the fumes of the burning herbs and he blinked away the tears. His heart was racing but he knew he had nothing to fear. According to the spell, Proserpine had to stay where she was until he released her. And providing he stayed within the protective circle, she could do nothing to harm him. That was the theory, anyway.

She was wearing a long leather coat, open at the front, with large lapels that flapped in the swirling fog. The lapels were dotted with silver symbols – an ankh, an upside-down cross, a pentagram, and various others that made no sense so him. Her jet-black hair was longer than the last time he’d seen her, and cut with a fringe that almost obscured her eyes. Her lipstick was as black as her hair and her face was deathly white, as pure and untainted as porcelain.

Under her coat she wore a cropped black T-shirt that revealed a navel pierced with a small silver crucifix. The navel always confused Nightingale because Proserpine was a demon from the bowels of hell, which meant that she didn’t have a mother, which meant no umbilical cord.

‘It’s a fashion statement,’ said Proserpine.

‘Did you just read my mind?’

‘You were staring,’ she said. In her right hand she was holding a steel chain leash attached to the collar of her black and white collie. The dog was staring at Nightingale with a look that said it would like nothing more than to leap into the pentagram and rip him apart but Nightingale knew the protective circle would prevent it from doing that. Hopefully. Proserpine jerked the chain and the dog sat down obediently, its eyes still fixed on Nightingale.

‘I’ve told you before, Nightingale, I can’t abide being summoned.’ Her eyes were black pools of emptiness and though her voice was dull and flat it still echoed off the garage walls.

‘It’s important,’ he said.

‘Not to me, it’s not.’ She pointed down at the pentagram. ‘You can summon a demon if you wish to make a deal; we are not to be called just because you have a question you want answering. That’s what Google is for.’

‘Things are happening to me and I need to know if you’re behind it.’

She laughed and the ceiling vibrated, sending a shower of dust down through the swirling fog. ‘You’re not the centre of my universe, Nightingale. You think too highly of yourself.’

‘People around me are dying,’ he said. ‘And I’m getting messages saying that I’m next.’

‘Life is hard, Nightingale. Deal with it.’

‘If it’s you, then tell me to my face. And tell me why. Is it because I won back my soul? Are you playing some sort of sick game with me?’

‘You think I’d waste my time playing games?’

‘I think that people who answer a question with a question often have something to hide.’

Proserpine threw back her head and roared with laughter. The entire lock-up vibrated and Nightingale almost lost his balance. The sound was deafening and he put up his hands to block out the sound. The dog got to its feet and began barking.

Proserpine stopped laughing and jerked the dog’s chain to quieten it. ‘Hush, baby,’ she said. The dog sat obediently but continued to stare at Nightingale with undisguised hatred.

‘I’m normally good with dogs,’ he said.

‘And not so good with people,’ said Proserpine.

‘My friend Robbie died two days ago,’ said Nightingale. ‘It was a hit and run. And from the sound of it, the van was involved in the murders of a group of South London drug dealers that I’d been involved with.’

‘You should be more careful of the company you keep.’

Nightingale ignored her. ‘Whoever killed the drug dealers wrote a message on the mirror. In blood. Saying that they were coming for me.’

Proserpine shrugged. ‘I’m not a big fan of messages on mirrors,’ she said.

‘So it’s not you?’

‘If it was, Nightingale, if I did want to make your life a misery, what would you do about it?’

‘Ask you to stop.’

‘And you think that would work?’

‘Look, if it’s not you, who is it?’

Proserpine shook her head. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Nightingale. I’m not the phone-a-friend option to be used whenever you’re in trouble.’

‘I have to offer you a deal before you’ll tell me anything, is that it?’

She sneered at him and shook her head scornfully. ‘The only thing I want is your soul, Nightingale. And I know you’ll never risk that again.’

‘I thought we had a – I don’t know – a special relationship? After what we’ve been through.’

‘Then you thought wrong, Nightingale. I barely give you a moment’s thought. Now are we done?’

‘What if I say please?’

‘What?’

‘Pretty please. I need your help.’

‘That’s the best you’ve got?’

‘It’s all I’ve got. My back’s up against a wall here. You’re my only chance at …’ He couldn’t find the words to finish the sentence.

‘What do you think is happening here, Nightingale?’

‘To me?’ He threw up his hands in frustration. ‘Everyone close to me is dying. Robbie, my aunt, my uncle. It looks as if they’re not going to stop until everyone I care about is dead. And then they’ll finish me off.’

‘And you think it’s me doing it?’

‘It’s the Order of Nine Angles who are doing the killing, but someone has to have wound them up. They have a hotline to you and yours, right?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Are you asking or telling?’

‘They’re devil worshippers. You’re a devil. I need to know, Proserpine, did you set them on me?’

‘You don’t think that you’ve done enough to piss them off on your own?’

Nightingale folded his arms. ‘Yes, I got Perry Smith to shoot Marcus Fairchild. But there’s no way anyone could have known that.’

‘What, criminals don’t grass each other up? What planet are you living on?’

‘No one knows that I knew Fairchild’s dirty little secret.’

‘Perry Smith knew. At least he knew that Fairchild was a child-killer. You neglected to tell him that he was also a Satanist, and a very powerful one at that.’

‘Proserpine, is it you winding them up? Did you set the Order on me?’

She stared at him and he felt her eyes pulling him towards her. His right foot twitched and moved towards her as if it had a life of its own. The dog growled men-acingly and she flicked its chain.

‘Has someone accused me?’

‘What if they have?’

She smiled slyly. ‘Now who’s the one answering a question with a question?’

‘I just want a straight answer to a simple question. My life is falling apart and I want to know why.’

‘And you thought I’d be able to point you in the right direction?’

‘Sounds stupid, right?’ Nightingale coughed. The herbs were still smouldering in the crucible, adding to the thick fog that swirled around them. ‘One of the killers had a tattoo, the logo of the Order superimposed on a horned goat’s head.’

‘Sounds lovely. Why do I care?’

‘He says that you gave it to him.’

‘Did he, now? That’s interesting.’

‘Do you do that? Do you tattoo your followers?’

‘I prefer to think of it as a brand,’ said Proserpine.

‘Did you brand him?’

Proserpine smiled thinly. ‘Despite what you seem to think, I’m not psychic,’ she said. ‘Who are we talking about?’

‘Barnett. Tony Barnett.’

She shook her head. ‘The name doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry.’

54

T
he fog was still swirling around them but Nightingale’s eyes had stopped watering. ‘You’re just screwing with me, aren’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘If it’s you screwing with me, at least have the balls to tell me to my face.’

‘Why should I? What do I have to gain by telling you anything?’

‘My gratitude?’

Proserpine threw back her head and laughed again. The walls and ceiling throbbed as if they had a life of their own and another shower of dust fell from the ceiling.

Nightingale waited until Proserpine stopped laughing. ‘You understand what’s happening to me, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘You thought you could change the past? How naive are you?’

‘Are you saying that there’s nothing I can do? That everything I’ve done has been a waste of time?’

‘Nightingale, I had your soul in the palm of my hand. Your father, your real father, traded it to me for riches and power. You got your soul back by giving me something I wanted even more. That was a fair trade, I have no problem with that. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You wanted to save that little girl so you did a deal with Lucifuge Rofocale and basically screwed him over. You died to save the innocent and that meant your soul was out of play.’ She nodded slowly. ‘It was a clever move, Nightingale. But you can’t have expected Lucifuge Rofocale to have been happy about what you did.’

‘I didn’t plan it that way,’ said Nightingale. ‘I just wanted to save Sophie.’

‘That might be true, but you made Lucifuge Rofocale look foolish and he’ll never forgive you for that.’