Nightfall

76

Nightingale stood looking down at the body, his ears ringing from the thunderclaps. The knife dropped from his nerveless fingers. His body was drenched in sweat and the strength had drained from his legs. Lightning flashed and the earth shook with another rumble of thunder.

He heard the french windows open behind him, but he didn’t look around. ‘You did it, man!’ shouted Mitchell.

He heard Mitchell step out onto the terrace, and only then did Nightingale turn. He was standing there, his blue silk pyjamas rippling in the wind, with Sylvia behind him, her hands clasped as if she was in prayer, and four heavies, guns at the ready.

‘I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,’ said Mitchell. He walked unsteadily across the flagstones and grabbed Nightingale’s arm, his fingers digging into him like talons. ‘You killed her. How did you do it? How in God’s name did you do it?’

‘God had nothing to do with it.’ The voice was a deep growl that came from behind Nightingale.

Mitchell stiffened, and Nightingale stepped away from him, leaving him standing alone with his arms outstretched. They both stared down at Proserpine. She was smiling. As they watched, she pivoted upright, the wounds on her chest vanishing.

Mitchell took a step backwards, his mouth working soundlessly, his hands clutched to his chest.

‘Nice to see you, Sebastian,’ said Proserpine, in her little-girl voice. ‘It’s been a long time. But not as long as you’re going to burn in hell.’

Mitchell threw up his hands to cover his face. ‘You set me up,’ he hissed at Nightingale.

Nightingale shrugged. ‘I did a deal,’ he said. ‘Your soul for mine.’

‘You bastard!’ screamed Mitchell.

‘Sticks and stones,’ said Nightingale.

Mitchell started to turn. Proserpine laughed and waved her hand. Mitchell’s feet sank into the stone slab he was standing on. He swayed unsteadily. ‘Where do you think you’re going, Sebastian?’ she asked.

‘Shoot her!’ screamed Sylvia. The four heavies fanned out across the terrace. The one on the left, holding a machine pistol, was the first to fire. Bullets smacked into Proserpine but she smiled. She made a motion with her left hand and a bolt of lightning hit the man in the chest. He fell back, smoke belching from a gaping wound.

The other three fired their weapons. Nightingale heard a growl and turned to see the collie running across the grass out of the mist towards the terrace. It leaped into the air, and as it did so it rippled and doubled in size. It was as big as a tiger, and its fur had become hard and scaly. Its four massive paws hit the terrace and it sprang into the air again, passing so close to Nightingale that he felt the rush of wind as it went by. It had three heads now, dog-like but with massive fangs and forked tongues, and there were bony spikes down its spine. It hit the flagstones and now it was the size of a large car. Two of the heads bit into one of the men and the third ripped an arm off the other. The last turned to run, but the dog, or whatever it had turned into, jumped onto his back and ripped him into a dozen bloody pieces.

Sylvia screamed, but Proserpine made another motion with her hand and the woman fell silent. ‘Am I going to have a problem with you, Sylvia?’ she asked.

Sylvia shook her head.

‘What do you think, Nightingale? Does she live or die?’

‘It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘None of them means anything to me.’

Proserpine looked at him suspiciously. ‘Are you trying to play me, Nightingale? You think if you pretend not to care then I’ll spare her?’

‘I’m not that devious,’ he said.

‘Where’s your chivalry, then? She’s a woman. You don’t care if she lives or dies?’

‘I think you’ve made up your mind already,’ Nightingale said quietly. ‘I think that nothing I do or say matters any more. I’m just a spectator. Do what you have to do and be done with it.’

‘Die, then,’ said Proserpine flatly. She made another motion with her left hand and Sylvia burst into flames. She screamed and ran off the terrace towards the garden but barely made half a dozen steps before she fell onto the grass in a smouldering heap.

The dog had reverted to a collie and was sitting at Proserpine’s feet, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

Proserpine walked towards Mitchell, hands swinging, head up. ‘I have a deal,’ said Mitchell, his voice a raspy croak. ‘I can get you whatever you want.’

‘I have what I want,’ said Proserpine. ‘I have you.’

‘I can get souls for you, all the souls you want.’ He coughed and bloody spittle frothed between his lips. ‘Just listen to-’

Proserpine waved her hand and Mitchell fell silent. His mouth worked but he made no sound. Proserpine smiled. ‘Go to hell, Mitchell,’ she said.

There was a ripping sound and the air behind the old man split and folded in on itself. Figures moved about him, rippling like dark mirages. Mitchell screamed and coughed more blood, and things with scales and red eyes, tails and claws reached for him, things that smelled of decay and death, sweat and fear, things that hissed and growled and grunted. Mitchell was dragged away, screaming and crying, and the air folded again and it was as if he had never been there. Proserpine turned to Nightingale. She smiled. ‘I do hate long goodbyes,’ she said.

‘This was planned from the start, wasn’t it?’

She shrugged carelessly. ‘It worked out all right in the end, didn’t it?’

‘You got what you wanted.’

‘And you got your soul back. So all’s well that ends well.’ The collie made a soft woofing sound. ‘Yes, baby, soon,’ Proserpine whispered to him. She patted his head as she continued to smile at Nightingale.

‘You used me to get Mitchell,’ said Nightingale.

‘It was your idea, Nightingale. Remember? You summoned me. You negotiated.’

‘Which is what you intended, right from the start. All those people telling me I was going to hell, it was to put the frighteners on me. Then anyone who might be able to help me, they died. Except Tyler. Because he pointed the way to Mitchell, and Mitchell was who you wanted all along.’

‘I’m just glad you’re a better negotiator than you are an interrogator,’ she said.

‘The key to a good interrogation is only to ask questions to which you know the answers.’

‘But doesn’t that rather defeat the point?’

‘All those people dead,’ said Nightingale. ‘My aunt. My uncle. Robbie. What about my parents? Did you kill them?’

‘Do you want to deal, Nightingale? How about you offer me your soul and I’ll tell you everything?’

Nightingale stared at her but didn’t say anything.

‘Many happy returns, Nightingale.’ She blew him a kiss and turned to go.

‘Wait!’

She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. The dog growled, hackles rising. ‘Do not try my patience, Nightingale,’ said Proserpine, her voice deeper now and more menacing.

‘My sister?’

Proserpine shook her head. ‘Not my problem.’

‘My father sold her soul, too.’

‘Not to me.’

‘To whom, then?’

Proserpine laughed. It was a deep, booming sound that echoed off the house and reverberated around the garden. Nightingale shivered. ‘Who gets my sister’s soul?’ he shouted.

Proserpine winked at him. ‘Unless you want to put your eternal soul on the table, you’ve got nothing left to bargain with, Nightingale. We’re done. Catch you later.’

She walked away, the dog following in her footsteps. She waved without looking back. Then reality shimmered, bent in on itself, and they vanished. The wind gradually died down and the trees stopped whispering. The mist had cleared and he could see the gardens again. Two of Mitchell’s heavies were standing by a willow tree close to the perimeter wall, scratching their heads. One was holding a leash but there was no sign of his dog.

Nightingale took out his packet of Marlboro and lit a cigarette. He held the smoke deep in his lungs and relished the feel of the nicotine entering his bloodstream, letting him know that he was still alive. He blew a smoke-ring towards the moon, and smiled to himself. ‘That went well,’ he muttered. ‘All things considered.’