Nightfall

31

The Hillingdon Home sounded grand but it wasn’t. It was a sixties-built concrete block with rusted metal-framed windows and graffiti spray-painted across the doors. As Nightingale finished his cigarette, he peered up at the top floors. Blank faces stared from some of the windows, white smudges behind the glass. It was a local-authority home on the outskirts of Basingstoke, about fifty miles south of London. The car park was full so he had left the MGB in the street, a short walk away. In his left hand he held a bunch of flowers. He had decided he ought to bring something and that flowers were the best bet. He dropped the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and pushed open the double doors that led to the reception area.

He’d phoned ahead to let the home know he was coming and an overweight West Indian woman in a floral dress took him to the office. The administrator was stick-thin with dyed chestnut hair and thick-lensed spectacles perched on her nose. She sat behind a large desk that bore an old-fashioned computer and a plastic nameplate – Elizabeth Fraser. ‘I have to say, it was a bolt from the blue when you called,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘Miss Keeley hasn’t had a visitor in the ten years she’s been here.’

‘We lost touch,’ said Nightingale.

‘I’ll say,’ said Mrs Fraser. She tapped on her keyboard and frowned. ‘We don’t have anyone down as her next of kin.’

‘As I said, we’ve been out of touch.’

She peered at him through her glasses. ‘And the different surname is a concern,’ she said.

‘I think she gave me up for adoption when I was born.’

‘I see,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘Would you have any paperwork to substantiate that?’

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m afraid not, it was a private adoption.’

‘I have to say, Mr Nightingale, I’m a little reluctant to allow you access to Miss Keeley without some sort of evidence that you’re a family member.’

Nightingale took out his wallet and removed his driving licence. He gave it to the administrator. ‘This proves who I am, Mrs Fraser,’ he said. ‘As to proving that I’m her son, well, short of a DNA test, I’m not sure how I’d go about doing that. But I’m guessing that if she’s in a local-authority home she doesn’t have any money so it’s not as if I’m here to rip her off. I don’t have any proof that she’s my mother but I was hoping that if I talked to her… I don’t know, Mrs Fraser. My life’s been pretty much turned upside-down over the last week and I just want some answers. I’m hoping I might get them from Miss Keeley.’

Mrs Fraser smiled. ‘You’re correct about the money,’ she said. ‘Miss Keeley doesn’t have a penny to her name.’ She fed Nightingale’s details into the computer, then gave him back his driving licence. ‘I must warn you not to expect too much,’ she said. ‘Miss Keeley was in a psychiatric hospital before she came here, and while she isn’t what we’d classify as mentally ill now, she is uncommunicative. In fact, she hasn’t said a word since she was brought here. From what we were told, she didn’t speak in her last institution either. Not a word. The reason she was moved here was because there was no suitable medical treatment available and she was no longer considered a danger to herself or others.’

‘How long has she been in care?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Well, as I said, she’s been with us for around ten years, and in the hospital for six years, but prior to that her records are patchy. Apparently there was a fire in the home where she lived before she went into the hospital.’

‘So she might have been institutionalised all her life,’ said Nightingale.

‘That’s a definite possibility,’ said Mrs Fraser. She stood up. ‘I think you’ll understand once you’ve seen her.’

She led Nightingale out of her office and down a corridor to a flight of stairs and walked up to the third floor where a male nurse was sitting at a desk reading the Daily Express. He nodded at Mrs Fraser.

‘Everything okay, Darren?’ she asked.

‘No worries, Mrs Fraser,’ he said. He had an Australian accent. He was in his late twenties, well over six feet tall, with wavy blond hair, a fading tan and a small diamond earring in his right lobe.

‘We’re here to see Miss Keeley. Is she okay?’

The man smiled. ‘She never changes,’ he said. ‘I wish they were all as amenable.’

Mrs Fraser took Nightingale along the corridor and stopped outside a door on which a clear plastic box contained a white card. She took it out and looked at it, then put it back and knocked on the door. She opened it. ‘It’s only me, Miss Keeley,’ she said. ‘I have a visitor for you.’

As she opened the door wide, Nightingale saw a hospital bed, neatly made, and a bedside table with a water glass and a paperback book. It was the New English Bible, he realised, and it was well thumbed.

‘This is Jack Nightingale,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘He’s come to have a chat with you. That’s nice, isn’t it?’

The woman was sitting in an armchair. Her hair was grey and tied back in a ponytail. She was wearing a shapeless pale blue dress and fluffy pink slippers. Her hands were clasped in her lap and she was staring out of the window, her lips pursed as if she was about to blow a kiss.

Nightingale stepped into the room and Mrs Fraser closed the door. ‘He’s just come to say hello, and he’s brought you some flowers,’ said Mrs Fraser.

Nightingale held them out but the woman didn’t react. Her face was lined, there were dark patches under her eyes and her hands were wrinkled and hooked, like claws. ‘She’s only fifty, right?’ said Nightingale.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Fraser.

‘But she looks so… so old.’

‘The drugs can have that effect, I’m afraid.’

‘Drugs?’

‘She’s had a lifetime of tranquillisers, anti-depressants and anti-schizophrenia medication.’

‘But she’s not on medication now?’

‘She’s still on anti-depressants, and she has developed diabetes so she has to have regular insulin injections. There’s also a high-cholesterol problem and she takes medication for low blood pressure.’ She patted the woman’s arm. ‘I’ll leave you alone with Jack for a while, Miss Keeley,’ she said. She smiled at Nightingale. ‘I did warn you not to expect too much,’ she said. ‘They’ll bring her a meal at four o’clock, and you’re welcome to stay until then. Just let Darren know that you’re leaving.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nightingale. Mrs Fraser let herself out and he sat on the bed, the flowers beside him, facing the woman. She continued to gaze out of the window, across the road to the discount carpet warehouse opposite. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked quietly.

The woman showed no sign that she had heard him.

‘My name’s Jack – Jack Nightingale.’ He smiled. ‘Though my name probably won’t mean anything to you.’

She continued to stare outside, as if she was alone.

‘Rebecca, did you have a baby thirty-three years ago? Because if you did, I’m your son. I’m the baby you gave away.’ Nightingale smiled again, but this time it was more of a grimace. ‘Or sold. Did you sell me, Rebecca? Did you sell me for twenty thousand pounds?

The woman’s hands moved. She scratched her left wrist with the yellowed fingernail of her right index finger. Nightingale could hear the sound, a dry rasp like two sticks being rubbed together.

Nightingale tried to see in her some sort of resemblance to himself. She had a tight, pinched face and a sharp, almost pointed nose. She was nothing like him.

‘Are you my mother?’ he asked. ‘Just answer me that. Did you give birth to me thirty-three years ago?’ He smiled. ‘It’s Friday,’ he said. ‘Friday the thirteenth. That’s funny, isn’t it? Of all the days I should come to see you, it’s Friday the thirteenth. And two weeks today I’ll be thirty-three years old. Do you know what’s supposed to happen to me on my thirty-third birthday, Rebecca? Do you?’

He couldn’t tell if she’d heard a single word he’d said to her. He stood up and walked to the door. He grabbed the handle, but before he pulled it open he turned to look at her.

‘Can’t you even say goodbye to me?’ he said.

The woman didn’t move.

‘Mum?’ The word felt strange on his lips. ‘If you are my mum, can’t you even say goodbye? This will be the last time you see me.’ He thought he detected a slight movement of her head, but then she was perfectly still again. He went to her chair and squatted so that his head was level with hers. He noticed she was wearing a small gold crucifix around her neck on a fine gold chain. ‘Mum, can you hear me?’

Her eyes were glistening with tears but her cheeks were dry, as dry and wrinkled as old parchment.

‘Why did you do it? Why did you sell me to Ainsley Gosling? I know he gave you twenty thousand pounds. Did he buy me from you?’

The woman’s right hand twitched and her eyes widened. It was the first reaction she’d shown since he’d walked into the room. Her mouth opened and he saw she had no teeth, just ulcerated gums.

‘Ainsley Gosling, you know that name, don’t you?’

The woman’s mouth opened wider. Her tongue was coated with white fur and he could smell her breath, sour and vinegary, like stale vomit.

‘Ainsley Gosling,’ repeated Nightingale. ‘He was the man you sold me to, wasn’t he? Tell me.’

The woman’s hands bunched into arthritic fists and she stared at Nightingale, seeing him for the first time. She took a deep breath, opened her mouth and began to scream as if she was being burned at the stake.