Nightmare

23

The Marylebone Spiritualist Association met in a community centre not far from Madame Tussauds waxwork museum. Three Asian youths in baggy jeans and hoodies were standing outside smoking and Nightingale caught a whiff of cannabis as he and Jenny walked past them. The double doors opened into a reception area where an elderly black man in a shabby blue suit was sitting at a desk. Near him there was an easel supporting a board on which white plastic letters had been stuck to announce ‘Marylebone Spiritualist Association — Guest Medium Neil Morgan. Starts 7.30 p.m.’

‘We’re here for the MSA meeting,’ Nightingale told the man.

‘Five pounds each,’ he said and smiled, revealing a mouthful of broken and stained teeth. Nightingale handed him a ten-pound note. The man took it and pushed a clipboard towards him. Nightingale picked up a pen and added their names to the list, then the man nodded at a door to the left. As Nightingale and Jenny headed in that direction two middle-aged women in long coats and black hats came in from outside, deep in conversation. Nightingale opened the door and let Jenny go in first. The room was kitted out for sports with a wooden floor, basketball hoops at either end and two table-tennis tables that had been pushed against one wall. Orange plastic chairs had been lined up in the middle of the room, ten rows wide and five rows deep, facing a wooden lectern. There were blue screens on either side of the lectern. There were no religious symbols to be seen, though there was a vase of plastic flowers on a small table in front of the lectern.

‘I thought it would be more like a church,’ said Nightingale. ‘I thought there’d be crosses and stuff.’

‘Clearly not,’ said Jenny. ‘Anyway, I thought the Church frowned on things like this.’

‘Things like what?’

‘Talking to the dead,’ whispered Jenny. ‘Because that’s what we’re here to do, aren’t we?’

There were more than a dozen people sitting on the chairs, mostly pensioners by the look of them. Nightingale looked at his watch. It was seven twenty. ‘Front or back?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘I’m guessing at school you were always sitting at the front, right?’

‘While you were at the back with the rest of the troublemakers?’

‘Let’s compromise and sit in the middle,’ he said.

‘I thought the idea was to see if we could contact Sophie. Wouldn’t it be better to sit at the front? Aren’t you more likely to be noticed that way?’

‘Excuse me,’ said a voice behind them. Nightingale and Jenny moved apart to allow a short man in a dark green anorak to squeeze between them. He sat in the back row.

‘He’d be a troublemaker, then, would he?’ Nightingale asked Jenny.

‘Behave,’ said Jenny. She shuffled along the third row of seats and sat close to the middle.

An elderly woman in a fur coat came through the door, followed by two middle-aged men wearing suits. The men sat at the front, with an empty seat between them, while the woman went to stand at the lectern.

Over the next five minutes another couple of dozen people arrived, most of them elderly but there was a sprinkling of teenagers and also a young couple, the woman holding a baby that couldn’t have been more than six months old.

At seven thirty the woman in the fur coat went outside and returned a few minutes later with a young man in his late twenties. He was wearing a green corduroy jacket, black trousers that were an inch too short and scuffed brown shoes. One of the men in suits picked up a chair and placed it next to the lectern and the young man sat down. He kept his head lowered and every few seconds flicked his hair away from his eyes. He had his hands clasped together but Nightingale could see that his nails were bitten to the quick.

There was a buzz of excitement among the audience, but it disappeared as the woman in the fur coat walked over to the lectern again. She had far too much make-up on, Nightingale realised, and her bright red lipstick had slipped over the outline of her lips. She smiled at the audience. There was a smear of lipstick across her left canine tooth. ‘We are very fortunate today to have one of England’s most skilled mediums with us,’ she said. She had a soft, regal voice that made Nightingale think of cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off and croquet on the lawn. ‘Neil Morgan is from Leicester and has stopped off to address us on his way over to America, where he will be touring a dozen cities. We’re very lucky to have him.’ She nodded at the man sitting on her left. He was staring at the floor by his feet. ‘Neil has told me that he is feeling a little tired this evening but nevertheless he is happy to give us the benefit of his talent.’

The audience clapped politely. Jenny clapped along with them but Nightingale sat with his arms folded. Jenny flashed him a withering look and he reluctantly clapped his hands a few times.

The woman waited for the applause to die down, then said a short prayer. Everyone bowed their head and when she finished there were several ‘Amens’ from the audience.

‘So, with no further ado, I’ll leave it to Neil,’ said the woman. She smiled at Morgan. He stood up, avoiding eye contact with her as she took her place at the front of the audience.

The medium took a deep breath, still staring at the floor. He hadn’t looked up since he’d taken his place behind the lectern, and Nightingale was starting to wonder if he’d been struck dumb with stage fright, but then he suddenly shuddered and straightened up. He cocked his head on one side like an inquisitive budgerigar and then pointed at an elderly woman sitting on the left of the room with a large handbag perched on her lap. ‘I’m seeing a man. He’s bald and he keeps rubbing his head as if he has a headache.’

‘My father — is it my father?’ she asked. ‘He passed away from a stroke.’

‘A long time ago, yes?’ said the medium.

The woman nodded. ‘Forty years ago.’ She frowned as she did the calculation in her head. ‘Forty-three years ago.’

The medium nodded encouragingly. ‘Yes, he said he passed over a long time ago and that he’s happy now with his wife. Your mother passed over too?’

Nightingale leaned towards Jenny. ‘If she didn’t she’d be more than a hundred by now,’ he whispered.

Jenny frowned at him and pressed her finger to her lips.

The old lady was nodding.

‘Your father says he loves you and he says he and your mother are watching over you. He says your health isn’t good at the moment but you’re not to worry about him.’ He smiled. ‘He says you need to eat more fresh fruit. Can you take that?’

The old lady smiled gratefully. ‘Yes, I can take that,’ she said.

‘He says you’ve not been feeling well, that your energy levels are low, so eat fruit. Apples and oranges. Can you take that?’

The woman dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Bless you,’ she said.

Nightingale looked over at Jenny. ‘What does that mean? They keep saying “take”. I don’t get it.’

She put her lips close to his ear. ‘I think the idea is that the spirit is giving you the information or advice. You either take it or you don’t. I guess that’s what it means.’

Morgan looked across at the young couple holding the baby. ‘I see a woman looking at your baby. I think it’s the baby’s grandmother. Would that be right?’

‘My mother,’ said the woman.

‘She passed recently?’ asked the medium.

‘Two years ago,’ said the woman.

‘That’s right, before she even knew that you were pregnant,’ said the medium.

Nightingale leaned over to Jenny. ‘That’s just maths,’ he said. ‘The baby’s not even a year old so of course she died before the girl got pregnant.’

‘Jack, stop taking the piss, will you?’ hissed Jenny. ‘You’re the one who wanted to come.’

‘I didn’t realise it was going to be a snake-oil salesman we were going to see,’ whispered Nightingale. ‘He’s just telling them what they want to hear.’

The medium finished talking to the young couple. The woman was crying and her husband put his arm around her and said something to her as she hugged the baby tightly.

The medium pointed at Jenny. ‘I’m seeing a man near you, an old man. With a beard.’

Jenny swallowed nervously.

‘Does he sound familiar to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘He passed over recently, this man. And it was sudden.’

Jenny nodded. She was staring at the medium, her fingers interlinked in her lap.

‘He’s saying his name is Larry. Would it be Larry?’

Jenny shook her head.

‘No, not Larry,’ said the medium. ‘But something beginning with an L.’

‘Lachie,’ said Jenny and Nightingale winced. It was a big jump from Larry to Lachie.

The medium was smiling enthusiastically. ‘Lachie, yes, that’s it. Would he be your father or grandfather?’

‘No.’

‘But he knew your father?’

‘Yes.’

The medium smiled at Jenny. ‘He says he’s okay and that you’re not to worry about him. He’s at peace now.’

‘Can I ask him a question?’ asked Jenny.

Nightingale muttered under his breath that she was being conned but she didn’t hear him.

‘We can try,’ said the medium.

‘Can you ask him why he did it?’

The medium suddenly cocked his head to one side, his eyes focused several feet to Jenny’s right. Then he smiled and looked back at Jenny. ‘He was unhappy, he says. But he’s happy now. Lachie doesn’t want you to worry about him. He’s with his loved ones and he’s at peace.’ He rubbed his hands together as if he was feeling cold. ‘He took his own life, didn’t he?’

Jenny nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘When a spirit has passed over under those circumstances there’s sometimes a reluctance to discuss what happened,’ he said. ‘Can I ask you this: were you the one that found the body?’

Jenny looked over at Nightingale, and then back at the medium. ‘Sort of,’ she said.

‘And the gentleman sitting next to you, he was with you?’

Jenny nodded again.

The medium cocked his head again and stared off to Jenny’s right. He made several murmuring noises and then looked back at Jenny. ‘Lachie says that he’s sorry for any distress he caused you, and he doesn’t want you to feel any guilt about what happened. He takes full responsibility for what he did.’ He frowned, muttered to himself, then looked at Jack. ‘Lachie wants you to know that the problem you’re facing will be resolved shortly. Does that make sense to you?’

Nightingale didn’t answer. He felt that the medium was manipulating him, trying to get him to play a part, but he found himself wanting to agree with the man. Morgan was staring at him earnestly, nodding slowly. ‘I suppose so,’ said Nightingale reluctantly.

The medium opened his mouth to speak but before he could say anything the James Bond theme echoed around the room. People twisted in their seats to see where the noise was coming from. Nightingale reached into his raincoat and took out his mobile phone. ‘Sorry,’ he said, to no one in particular. He switched off the phone and put it back into his pocket.

‘God bless,’ said the medium. He smiled benevolently at Nightingale, then looked over to the other side of his audience. ‘I’m seeing a woman with grey hair,’ he said. ‘She’s wearing reading glasses.’ Three men in the audience raised their hands tentatively. ‘I’m getting the name Alice. Or Anne. Does that mean anything to anyone? Anne? Or Alice? Or Amy, perhaps. She’s very faint.’

One of the men lowered his hand and bit down on his lower lip.

‘She says she has a message for David.’

‘That’s me,’ said one of the men, waving his hand in the air. ‘I’m David. Alice was my wife. She died last year.’

‘She died unexpectedly?’ said the medium.

The man frowned. ‘It was cancer,’ she said. ‘She had chemo and radiation therapy. She fought.’

‘But the end, when it came, was quick?’

The man forced a smile. ‘Yes. She was taken quickly.’

‘And you haven’t thrown out her clothes, have you?’

The man shook his head.

‘Alice has a message for you, David. She says it’s time for you to clear out her things. It’s time for you to let go. Do you understand?’

The man nodded and forced a smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I understand.’

‘Alice is happy and she wants you to be happy. You have to move on with your life and part of that process is to get rid of her things. In the wardrobe. Does that make sense to you?’

The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes were welling up with tears. ‘Yes,’ he said, and sniffed.

‘You know that was nonsense, don’t you?’ Nightingale whispered to Jenny.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He was reading you. Picking up on the cues you were giving him.’

The woman in the fur coat turned around in her seat and flashed Nightingale a withering look. He smiled apologetically.

The medium was pointing at a middle-aged woman in a cheap cloth coat and asking her if she knew a man called George. She took out a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and then said that yes, George was her husband. The medium rubbed his chest. ‘I feel something here,’ he said. ‘A dull ache.’

‘His heart,’ she said.

‘Yes, his heart wasn’t good,’ said the medium. ‘But he is feeling no pain and says that he is waiting for you. He says you’re not to worry about him.’

The medium continued for another thirty minutes, throwing out names and initials and offering comfort and advice. It was, Nightingale realised, a sham. He’d seen magicians do a far better job of cold reading without any pretence of talking to the dead. Eventually Morgan complained that he was tired and the woman in the fur coat joined him at the lectern. She thanked him, announced that the medium would be available for private consult-ations when he returned from the States, and then led the audience in another prayer.

The two men in suits escorted Morgan out of the room, followed by the woman in the fur coat.

Nightingale stood up and stretched. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Jenny.

Jenny stood up. ‘For what?’

‘For bringing you here,’ he said.

‘It was fascinating,’ she said.

‘You don’t believe it, do you?’

‘That Lachie was trying to contact me?’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Jenny, he didn’t say Lachie. You did. Morgan said it was Larry.’

‘That’s pretty close, don’t you think? And he got the beard right.’

‘He was taking cues from you. He picked up from you that I was there when Lachie died. He was good, but he was still conning you.’

‘How can it be a con? He didn’t want anything from us.’

‘Maybe he just likes to play God. Maybe he hopes you’ll pay him for a private consultation. Who knows? But I know one thing for sure and that’s that he wasn’t talking to spirits.’

Nightingale jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. He looked round and saw a short man standing behind him; he had dark curly hair and was wearing a green anorak. Nightingale recognised him from the audience.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ the man said. ‘But you came to contact somebody, didn’t you?’

‘Isn’t that why people come to a meeting like this?’ said Nightingale. The last members of the audience filed out of the room, leaving the three of them alone.

The man laughed softly. ‘I suppose that’s so,’ he said. ‘Though some are curious to know what if anything lies beyond this life. Sorry, you are.?.?.?’ He waited expectantly for Nightingale’s name.

‘We’re just on our way home,’ said Nightingale. He started to walk to the door.

‘Is your name Jack?’

Nightingale stopped and slowly turned to look at the man.

He held up his hands as if he feared that Nightingale was going to get aggressive. ‘I’m just interested, that’s all. Are you Jack?’

‘Yes,’ said Nightingale. He frowned. ‘Do you know me?’

‘Did you come to see a girl? A young girl?’

‘Who are you?’ asked Nightingale, taking a step towards him.

The man reached inside his jacket. Nightingale grabbed him by his lapels and threw him up against the wall.

‘Jack!’ shouted Jenny.

The man’s hand was still inside his jacket and Nightingale groped for whatever it was that he was reaching for.

‘My wallet,’ gasped the man. ‘I just want to give you my card.’

Jenny put a hand on Jack’s arm. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she hissed.

Nightingale released his grip on the man’s jacket and stepped back. The man opened his wallet with trembling hands and took out a business card. He held it out to Nightingale. ‘My name’s Graham Lord,’ he said.

Nightingale looked at the simple white card. Underneath the man’s name were the words ‘Spiritual Connections — Private Readings Available’ and a mobile phone number.

‘What do you want from me?’ said Nightingale. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘You came to contact a young girl. With blonde hair? Long blonde hair?’

‘What’s your game?’ asked Nightingale.

‘She was standing behind you,’ said Lord. ‘I couldn’t hear her but I could see her mouth moving and I thought she was saying “Jack”.’

Nightingale frowned. ‘You could see her?’

‘That’s what I do. I talk to spirits.’

‘Like the guy we came to see tonight? The medium?’

Lord sneered. ‘Neil Morgan? He’s a charlatan. Cold reading, that’s what he does. Picks up on physical and verbal cues and plays the percentages.’ He looked across at Jenny. ‘Larry, Lachie. Father, friend of father. Then you effectively told him that Lachie had killed himself.’

Nightingale looked at Jenny. ‘Told you,’ he said.

‘There are very few genuine mediums around and they don’t tend to go to places like this. The real ones don’t bother with shows like we’ve just seen.’

‘What about you, then, Graham? Why were you here?’

‘Lordy,’ said Lord. ‘Everyone calls me Lordy.’

‘So answer my question, Lordy. Why were you here?’

Lord sighed. ‘Because, unlike Morgan, I’m the real thing. I come to places like this because I can see the spirits. There were spirits here tonight trying to communicate, but Morgan can’t see them. He’s too busy playing his games. Remember the young couple with the baby?’

‘The woman whose mum had died? Sure.’

‘Her mum was standing next to Morgan. She was so angry at him because she knew that he was lying.’

‘You really saw her?’ said Jenny.

‘I see spirits all the time,’ said Lord. ‘It’s harder for me to talk to them. To hear what they say. I do that best at home. But tonight I saw the little girl standing behind you. Holding a doll.’

Nightingale felt his head spin.

‘I think she was saying your name,’ said Lord. ‘“Jack” she said.’

‘And what was her name?’ said Nightingale. ‘Do you know?’

Lord nodded earnestly. ‘Sophie,’ he said. ‘She said her name was Sophie.’

Nightingale pressed Lord for more information but the man insisted that he could only help them at a private meeting.

Nightingale and Jenny left Lord in the community centre and walked to where she’d parked her car. As Jenny took out her keys, Nightingale patted her on the shoulder. ‘Give me a minute. I need to call Joshua back.’

‘Joshua?’

‘The American. The guy who keeps buying my books. That was him who phoned back there.’

Jenny unlocked the Audi and climbed in and Nightingale fumbled in his pocket for his mobile. He returned Wainwright’s call and the American answered.

‘Where are you, Jack?’ he asked.

‘London,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m not a world traveller like you. I’m rarely outside the M25.’

‘The M25? What’s that?’

‘The motorway that runs around London, a.k.a. the highway to Hell. I guess you’d call it a freeway. What about you? Where are you?’

‘About two hours away from Stansted Airport,’ said the American. ‘I was calling to see if I could have a look at your father’s book collection tomorrow.’

‘Sure,’ said Nightingale.

‘Ten o’clock in the morning?’

‘Perfect,’ said Nightingale. He looked over at Jenny and flashed her a thumbs up.